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Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry.
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“HAVE YOU SEEN GINNY?”
I should never have answered the phone. I knew when Murray Anderson’s name popped up on my phone that it couldn’t be anything I was interested in speaking about. Still, it’s better to know what’s going on than to get caught with your britches down.
“No, why?” I cover a slab of Virginia’s arm in barbecue sauce, hoping Rancher won’t mind me grilling tonight. If he weren’t so tired from today’s useless appointment two states away, I’d take the phone off speaker mode. But there’s no point.
“She didn’t go to work last night, and Sue thought maybe ya’ll had seen her.”
“No. Have you checked with the boyfriend?”
“Naw. Don’t know his name.”
“She’s probably with him. He’s been coming around more often.”
“Yeah. That’s what I said too. But you know Sue. She worries. Anyway, give us a ring if you hear anything. I’ll keep checking around.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, and how have you been? How are you guys making out?”
I’m not sure if he’s asking about the sanctuary or my husband’s health. Word’s been getting around that something’s wrong. Of course, I’ve played it off. I refuse to make Rancher’s health fodder for the local gossip chain until the boys know exactly what’s going on with their Poppa. In six weeks’ time, they’ll both be home for the holidays. We’ll tell then and not a moment sooner.
“We’re great. Looking for grants, that kind of thing.”
I don’t mention that the garden is too small to keep up with our nutritional demands or that our last and even next meal won’t exactly be the kind made of a usual rancher’s herd.
He laughs, causing the hair on my arms to stand up like soldiers during the national anthem. I grit my teeth listening to what comes next.
“You two are darn near crazy. Can’t say I’d ever consider such a thing myself. Suzie either. No way, no how.”
“No. You wouldn’t.”
“I still don’t get it.”
Jesus Christ. Who asked you, anyway? “And that’s okay. It’s just something we felt we needed to do.”
He doesn’t ask why, and I have no interest in telling him about Lucy. It doesn’t matter that we’re on our last dime and living on credit. He wouldn’t care if he knew. Hell, he’d tell us it served us right for giving up our only true means of income.
“Yeah. I guess. I just don’t get it.”
“Well, you don’t have to.”
“No. I guess not. You guys coming to bingo?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. We’ve got a lot going on around here, getting the sanctuary up and running. We have two lame heifers being delivered tomorrow.”
“More to feed.”
“More to love.”
“Maybe if you didn’t name them.”
“Maybe. But we’re happy this way, Murray. Don’t let it worry you.”
“I’m not worried. That’s Sue.”
“Sure.”
“Okay then, have a great day and hopefully we’ll see ya’ll at bingo on Friday. People been asking about you.”
“Well, you tell them not to worry, either. We’re just fine out here. And thank you. See you soon.”
“If you hear about Ginny, let us know.”
“Will do. Have a nice evening, Murray.”
“Yeah. You, too.”
I hang up the phone with a shaky pointer finger. The last thing I need is noisy neighbors judging us for every move we make. It’s been a hell of a day—hearing the words terminal and three years. I refuse to believe it. Doctors aren’t God. There’s only one of those. And even then, it’s a maybe. I’m not so certain about that anymore. Either way, I’m doomed. I refuse to think more than I need to about a situation that can only be lose-lose.
I return to the meal I know I’ll have to force-feed my husband who, on our way home, asked me to put him out of his misery. I’m not sure if he was serious and there’s a part of me that thinks he knows. “I’ll do no such thing,” I said. “We’ll fight this to the very end. Besides, who are they to tell us how to live?” He hadn’t agreed—only shook his head.
But I refuse to give up. There’s still life in him. Ten minutes after we got home, he asked me to get him a new leather belt. He told me that if we are back to eating meat, there’s really no harm in it. On that, I told him no. It’s no wonder he thinks I’m crazy—everyone does.
I hunger for the old days back. I shoot an evil eye at Blueberry and instantly regret it. It’s not his fault. A parakeet certainly can’t control the rate a tumor grows or ailing kidneys. A bird caged can’t do anything about nosey neighbors with endless questions. A caged bird.
I walk into the living room, opening his cage. He flies out, circling the still ceiling fan. Eventually, he perches on a picture frame from Abraham’s graduation. Wiping a tear from my eye, I move to the window beside it. I open it first, then the screen; I wave goodbye to my silly bird and walk back to the kitchen. Fly free.
Vegan