24
JUST BEING in public, especially in church, felt like a bold statement to Norm. Doin’ just fine, thank you very much, was what it amounted to. A hard patch, no doubt about it, but we’re makin’ it.
It was easy to pinpoint the source of his newfound optimism. One of Pearl’s most productive offspring had delivered a perfect calf, and bottle-feeding a stunning new Jersey—maybe the next Pearl—cast a hopeful light on everything, even if the mastitis hadn’t completely stabilized yet and the feds were monitoring his property from aircraft and his wife was having a run of bad days. A healthy new calf was a healthy new calf.
The pews were unusually packed, as if church were needed more now than ever. Even Sophie Winslow was singing hymns she’d clearly memorized despite the fact that she drove a Subaru with a Darwin insignia. Still, Norm’s mood soured, as usual, when people lined up for the stale wafer and cheap wine, hands clasped over their genitals like soccer defenders. Doc Stremler, of course, stood right at the front, another showy display of his superiority. Dirk Hoffman was close behind in cowboy boots, tight Wranglers and his signature red, white and blue shirt. Chas Landers was there too, looking as benevolent as a monk. But Cleve Erickson? Out on bail, apparently. Patera told Norm that he hadn’t put up any argument at all and even offered the agents coffee. While everybody knew his sons were punks, Cleve was one of the last true dairymen and Norm had never questioned his word. Now he was just a name and a mug shot next to “Conspiracy to Aid in Smuggling Contraband.” Norm had nodded earnestly when Roony insisted Cleve was innocent. How could he know what his hooligan boys were doing with those smugglers cutting through his farm? Well, Norm knew, and others, no doubt, did too. Nobody seemed astonished when Gil Honcoop got busted on the same charge, not after he’d made such a stink about the Minutemen. And June and Cleo Schifferli, caught three days prior with twenty-eight pounds beneath fertilizer sacks, weren’t missing communion either. Posting bail apparently wasn’t that big a deal. Then Norm noticed Dr. Dawson, dressed even more vainly than usual, a silk handkerchief flashing from his breast pocket, as if he were hoping to dress his way out of his son’s disgrace for smuggling Chinese women into the country beneath a fish truck. Well, good for him, Norm thought, right up until the dentist threw him a look that suggested he should be embarrassed about his own son.
Going to church had been Jeanette’s idea. “You’re done moping,” she’d told him. “Get dressed.” Once again, it looked like they were the only two not lining up in the parade of hypocrites, but on a more sweeping glance Norm noticed that plenty of others were staying put. Didn’t the Sterks and Moffats always take communion? His mind raced with implications. Looking behind him to see who else wasn’t partaking, his eyes settled on a familiar young man who nodded so confidently that Norm returned the courtesy before realizing it was that hustler who’d visited his milking parlor. Michael lifted his eyebrows and nodded again, more dramatically, then looked away.
Wait! Had Norm just agreed to something? The audacity! The kid was even working the church? His outrage gave way to arithmetic—eleven days until the next potential jackpot in his mailbox.
As the flock bunched near the exit, he forced himself to get it over with and go ask Ray Lankhaar how he was faring. He excused himself from Jeanette, then set out across the worn carpet toward where he’d last seen the gored dairyman, but he didn’t get far.
“Norman!”
Dale “Shit-to-Power” Mesick called everyone by his formal name and loved to chat, but Norm was in no mood for small talk and couldn’t bring himself to congratulate him on getting free money from rich fools. Plus, the thought of paying Dale to haul his manure away and turn it into electricity and cash was too much to contemplate, even if it would help with the goddamn stream monitoring.
“You shoot out that camera, Norman?”
He flinched, as if slapped.
“Easy, now.” Dale shifted into a French accent. “Everyone knows Monsieur Rousseau did it.”
He nodded vacantly and was straining to overhear a scrum of Lyn-den ladies behind him discussing Brandon when Tom Dunbar waddled up from the other side and bumped him off balance.
This hulking bastard, who routinely proved he could knock you onto one foot with just a nudge, watched Norm wince. “Didn’t know you were so gimpy there. My older brother just got his knee replaced—better than new. But maybe you’re a little squeamish about surgery, huh, Norm?”
He shook his head and missed the follow-up question, his entire being focused on the raging tissues inside his knee. Once that subsided, he found Jeanette in the corner of his vision, looking perplexed, listening to Alexandra Cole and Katrina Montfort like she’d just met them. Behind her, Sophie was chatting, eavesdropping, pollinating.
He excused himself from Big Tom and had started back to rescue Jeanette when one of the raspberry millionaires cut him off.
“How’s that boat coming along, captain?”
Norm scrambled to recall the man’s name—Arnold, Ronald, Roland? “Slowly,” he said.
“Yeah? Well, slow can be good. How ’bout the dairy biz?”
“Lucrative as ever.”
“You must love cows, Norm. That’s all I can say.”
He grunted and scowled but had no escape route. Behind him, he heard more banter about Brandon, and beyond that a crescendo of whispers that could have been about anybody.
“Seriously, Norm. None of you like to admit it, but why else would you spend so much time with ’em? I mean every day! It’s not for the money, so what other motive is there? Seriously, Norm. There’s nothin’ wrong with it. You just love cows.”
“Not the way you would if you ever got alone with one,” he growled, the rich farmer leaning in with his good ear, then horse-laughing as Norm hobbled off toward Jeanette, distracted again, this time by Ray Lankhaar’s profile. He scrambled for the appropriate words before clumsily grabbing his shoulder. Ray reared back and gave him the once-over.
“Been meaning to see how you’re farin’,” Norm began, realizing anything he said now was too late so he left it at that. Even after getting skewered by his own bull, Ray still looked a good ten years younger than he did. His face wore time well, with plenty of lines but all working in his favor. He’d once heard him attribute his youthfulness to the quart of raw milk he drank every morning to wash down a thick slice of his homemade cheddar, which he humbly speculated could cure stomach cancer.
Norm was spared from his stand-off with Ray when an Everson farmer he vaguely recognized leaned in to ask whether they were interested in cheap feed.
“Possibly,” Ray said. “Whatcha got?”
The farmer told them what all he’d grown, then rambled on about how everyone was sick and tired of paying to haul alfalfa over the mountains. Norm nodded along, his feed bill having jumped to $7,000 a month even with a lame herd.
“Count me in,” Ray said, after the farmer laid out his mixtures and prices, and they both looked at Norm.
“I’m good for at least one load,” he muttered.
“Hear your boy’s quite the arteest,” Ray said once the Everson fellow pushed on. “A regular Michelangelo.”
“He was on his dinner break,” Norm said mildly, though he could feel himself heating up. “You can do whatever you want on your breaks.” Then he navigated the crowd again, trying to ignore the smug glances. Was he limping? How had all these people suspended aging, and what did that cost? Jeanette, he saw, was chattering away at Sophie. He couldn’t get there fast enough, a compulsion rising to bust up the conversation.
His eyes suddenly locked with Michael’s. Halfway across the room, the kid nodded slowly like he was confirming something. Norm bit down and looked away, enjoying the ambiguity of it. What was the risk? Nobody got hanged for a yawn or a nod. He beelined it toward Jeanette, but Alexandra Cole blocked his path and leaned close. “Have you tried Aricept?” she whispered.
“Come again,” he said, irritated, trying not to lose sight of Jeanette.
“Slows the deterioration, especially in the early stages. My aunt’s got it too.”
Norm pursed his lips, blinked slowly and excused himself, arriving breathless and sweaty next to the two women in his life. Either the church was getting hotter or he had a fever. Sophie smiled, bowed and stepped away from Jeanette, who looked lost and off balance until he casually braced his palm against the shoulder she was listing toward.