Sour Milk
Tom pulled out of Madras, just feeling about half past dead. Seemed only yesterday, they had first pulled in—his wife Cindy and him, moved out there from the Midwest, so full of promise with what now felt like penitence. Tom hit it big on a few investments and with a small inheritance from Cindy’s grandparents, the sale of their houses and some land in Indianapolis, they purchased an organic dairy near Madras, in the high desert of central Oregon. A shared dream of organic farming and opportunity to move back and be near family, convinced them to take the risk. Back for Cindy at least, who grew up in Portland and graduated from the University of Oregon with a degree in Women’s Studies. They met in Portland but Tom was from the Midwest, born and bred, learned about cows from working on farms as a kid. Swore he’d never move to Oregon… until his mom followed Tom’s sister Teri and her kids to Portland, after Teri’s husband, Jim got transferred there by Freightliner. A dark day in Tom’s mind.
Tom and Cindy saw less of family after the move than when they lived in Indianapolis. A mountain range and vast cultural differences, between them and Portland, people were supportive but seldom visited, did not want to work if they did visit and that was all Tom and Cindy ever did. Portlanders seemed to Tom narcissistic, wanted everywhere they went to be like where they lived. Would drive into Madras for coffee and breakfast, then complain how bad it is—so few choices, nothing for vegans. Tom had food and coffee at the farm, good coffee and fresh cream. Got Starbucks pick of the month mailed to him and made a fresh pot every day. Visits, in general, were counter-productive and strained, as they could not stop work and others for the most part wanted to avoid the slop they were always in. Even holidays, the best they could manage were brief visits with whomever could assemble on short notice.
Far as Cindy was concerned, he was going to help Teri and the kids settle in, build some shelves for them and would sleep in his mom’s basement. Teri, recently separated from Jim, husband number two (father of third kid), caught him screwing his secretary one day, on a tip from somebody at the office—enough said. Tom was not interested in Teri’s drama traumas. Last time Teri visited the farm with mom and kids, all she did was complain what a rotten soulless person Jim is, how much the world sucks, their farm stunk and her kids got covered in muck. All the while, their mother, Constance, mixed support with gentle chastisement, knowing better than anyone how hard to live with Teri is and times ten with kids. Traumatized by Teri throwing fits, anytime, anywhere, knock down drag-outs with whoever stumbled into it, Tom in part blamed her for their miserable family life and knew enough not to have kids with a family like his. Teri, unfortunately, didn’t.
Tom booked a room at the Jupiter Hotel, planned to see a local band he’d seen years before, on a trip to visit Cindy’s family—Trigger Alert! in the Doug Fir Lounge. Cindy would not be pleased if she knew. Left to manage alone and doubling up on chores, she would resent him taking time for himself. Unless Maya, her friend from Eugene came, who often offered and did come once but was more distraction than help and Tom did double chores himself, as they wandered off, sultry silhouettes, hand in hand, backlit by Mt. Jefferson at sunset, flaming red. He would remind her of that weekend, if she questioned his.
Feeling a lot better by the time he hit Portland, pangs of guilt and thoughts of farm lost in the urban onslaught, Tom parked his truck and all but skipped across the Jupiter lot to check in, as images of turbojet hot tub danced in his head and cable television with ESPN. Once through the double doors and
Like tipping the lid on a boiling pot before it overflows all over the stove,
ten feet or so from the front desk, Tom let go with, “Hey Mister! Can you tell me where a man might find a bed?” To the clerk, who only grinned and shook his head. Tom stepped to and hands on the counter said, “I’m here to check in? I have a reservation—Tom Brown?” The man looked right past him, put up a halting hand, nodded, burst out laughing and smacked the counter with his fist, “Right? Dude! Welcome to my life! Takes all kinds! Hey bro, gotta go, someone needs checked in,” he’d been listening on a tiny headset hidden by a mop-top of dreadlocks, all swaddled in a yellow bandana.
Tom resented this. The clerk embarrassed him, violated a sacred trust—don’t put your personal business in the customer’s face! He paid a lot for this room and had a short amount of time he did not want wasted waiting for a front desk clerk to finish up his chatter, which seemed to Tom, for the most part, a bunch of stupid nonsense, should never have found its way into existence in the first place. But this was Portland and probably the norm… get used to it. He bit his tongue and checked in, found his room, ran a tub and called Cindy.
Their talk predictable… she complained about all there was to do, how exhausted she felt, described every ache and pain, wherefrom they came and confessed she’d gone to bed without dinner. Said she missed him a lot, wanted snuggles. Tom told her he was in the backyard, grilling out, escaping hysterical Teri and the crazy kids, assured her he’d return by evening chores the next day, do them all himself, so she could have a break, “Sweet dreams my love,” they said in unison and, “All in!” Affirmed their shared commitment and vision of ultimate success.
Tom took a jet bath, watched some ESPN, got dressed, went down to the lounge and immersed himself in alcohol, song and dance for the next three hours. When the band quit, Tom exited through the lobby to the parking lot, a beautiful and unsteady young woman on his arm, with whom he’d traded shots of tequila and several dirty dances. At the car, she pressed against him hard, pawed at his face for a kiss but Tom gave her the slip, opened the car door instead and with gentle hands guided her down and into the driver’s seat, lifted her feet and slid them in. Giving him a harsh look, she pulled a pack of Indian Spirits from her purse, lit one and, after a deep drag, offered it to Tom. Crouched at her side, Tom declined. She nodded a few times like she couldn’t quite believe it and finally said, “Okay then! Really? That’s it?” Tom stood and backed away, pushed closed the door and waved. The car started, pulled out and left. Turning onto Burnside, she tossed the cigarette and Tom watched it arc, land, shower sparks and fade to black… felt bad at not inviting her to stay… she was so drunk. Tom knew better and in the morning would not be drunk anymore. He went to his room and passed out.
The next morning, he planned to visit his Aunt Eleanor at Castle Manor—an assisted living facility, NE 21st and Weidler. Tom’s mom said she was losing her wits and to be not surprised if she didn’t know him. Tom liked Eleanor and as a kid had been fascinated by the way she moved—like a wave gathering to break… he read somewhere once and thought it fit. Recalled a visit to her house, back when she taught dance at Grinnell College, how strange it had been. There were books and art and musical instruments hanging everywhere. Paintings and sculptures displayed like at a museum, with special lights and inset wall space, “She hates furniture, never sits down,” Tom’s mom explained as they drove away, “That’s how she gets so much done.” Tom’s father called her weird and an eccentric widow, which Tom heard as window and did not know what it meant but always liked how it sounded and tried to see her that way. Later, he was pleased to find out his dad had it wrong. At their wedding Eleanor told Cindy she had never been married, had never been asked, had never gone looking and had never been sorry.
Excited to get out and about, Tom deposited key and comment card (downgraded the desk clerk) in their respective slots, drove to Lloyd Center Mall parking garage and parked his truck in the top lot, hoping it was safe. A short walk from there to Castle Manor, he’d find coffee on the way. Under video surveillance and with regular patrols, Tom figured car thieves would prefer the shortest possible path for escape and not risk a high-speed chase through tight turns and multiple levels going down, cars pulling in and out in unpredictable ways, had a thirty-aught-six behind the seat, he did not want ending up in the hands of some punk thug or sold cheap for drugs. Tom found a place called Peet’s Coffee and Teas and paid three dollars for house coffee! He could not believe it… felt the sting of every cent that left his hands, decided to forego a Danish, with prices like that.
Sitting there, sipping coffee, Tom took in the busy scene… Cindy, Britney the dog and cows had for so long been his only companions, he’d forgotten how interesting other people could be. Cindy had few stories, most boring, stock things to say in turn at parties, fun facts about her family, a famous relative. The past held little to no interest for her and this was an issue between them. Some of his best memories of them together, she didn’t even remember! Tom remembered everything. It was a problem. As a kid, his parents would ask what he did at school and he’d start with the opening bell and go on, until his dad would bark, “Enough Tom! You just go on and on and on!” Angered, by Tom never knew what and dared not ask, “Your dad’s tired,” his mom would say and shoo them away, “Had a hard day at work,” make excuses and get them on to other things. Tom, from his earliest memories, felt contempt and thought his father hated him but knew not why.
Tom eavesdropped on several conversations. The first—two plumbers at a sidebar, in matching Carharts with D&F Plumbing patch and their names sewn on the front pockets. Bill, looked to be in his late thirties and balding. Dan, fifty plus, wore a D&F ball cap he took off and/or readjusted every few minutes, smoothed what was left of his hair. Both heavyset, forty plus pounds overweight, Tom guessed, telling stories about some guy they worked with called Epic, who tried to cut the lid off his glue can with a Sawzall and spilled it all over the carpet in some guy’s finished basement.
“Boy’s a retard. Why’s he on my crew? You take him back and babysit,” Bill concluded.
“Hey now,” Dan, pulled his cap down, feigned a frantic look around, caught Tom’s eye and smiled big, “Epic? Bite your tongue! Boy’s higher up the food chain than us—boss’s son.”
“Epic!” They exclaimed in unison, laughed and slapped each other’s backs, finished their coffees, said, “Epic!” Again in a funny voice, shook their heads and laughed some more, as they threw away trash, waddled out the door and off down Broadway.
Once they were gone, Tom listened in on a young couple nearby, caught his eye coming in. Huddled, heads together, across a table, they held hands, all but lifted from their seat, seemed flushed and near breathless. Tom heard the young man say, “When you pushed it… all the way in… it hurt… bad at first. But when you reached around and took me in your hand…”
Okay! Tom thought and got up, I don’t need to hear this! Walked out into the sun and fresh air, took a look around… absence of fatigue on so little sleep, somewhat surprising. How deep and strange his dreams, alone in bed… first time since, when? He could not remember… sadness washed over him… just missing Cindy, he told himself, and the old familiar routines… but he knew he was lying. Tom felt stuck and strolled up Broadway, lost in thought, as if retracing his steps back to before the farm, before marriage and investments, before youthful vigor and sense of adventure gave way to fatigue and isolation. He watched his reflection contract and expand, fragment and reconstitute again, in the storefront glass, as he passed. Back… before he met Cindy and lost track of what his meant and life became a long list of stuff that needs done, deadlines, endurance, aches, pains and… for what? Debt? Perseverance? Sensing his destination was near, Tom looked up. Across the street stood Castle Manor. It occupied a whole block.
Tom crossed and entered through automatic double doors, which opened onto a large nurse’s station, swarmed with old people—old people bent, standing and walking; old people with canes, walkers, scooters; old people in wheelchairs and electric wheelchairs, even beds rolled by. Nurses dispensed medication, helped people take it and kept the mass in motion.
“Tom? Tom Brown?” Tom turned towards his name called, and there, in the reception area, sat Aunt Eleanor, cross-legged on a plush leather sofa, reading to a blind man. Who, in a white suit, short and fat, perched on the sofa’s edge, legs spread. With white hair, mustache and a long goatee, he looked like Colonel Sanders, of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame. Fat hands folded over a black lacquered cane, his open eyes stared blank into space. Tom shuddered and hoped he never had to live like this. His pulse quickened when Eleanor jumped up and crossed the room to where he stood… Like a wave gathering to break, he said to himself and gave her a hug. She took his arm, returned to the couch and sat him down between her and the blind man, who stuck out a fat hand and introduced himself as, “Franklin Tibbs, most pleased to make your acquaintance,” He thanked Eleanor for reading to him, used Tom’s knee and his cane to stand and shuffled off, book in hand—Harry Potter: Prisoner of Azkaban.
“Tom Brown, what a surprise!” She scooted out, turned sidewise on the couch and poked him several times, “Farm life agrees with you… I’d say. It’s in your blood. I should know,” she ran a hand down his big arm and smiled.
At first Tom could not speak. Eleanor’s spark and youthful manner, directness and touch, unsettled him. Her radiance and obvious difference from most everyone else around, prompted him to ask, “You live here?” She seemed young beyond her years. Tom would not have guessed she was much over sixty and had he heard her voice only, would guess much younger than that.
“Oh… thrift Horatio, thrift!” She tossed a dramatic hand, “I spend a lot of time, visiting friends and volunteering. Space opened up and, well… the older I get, the simpler makes sense.”
“The funeral meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables,” Tom finished the line from Hamlet, to her obvious amazement, “would I had met my dearest foe in heaven, or ever I had seen this day,” he continued. Eleanor impressed, Tom confessed he played Hamlet in college, because the director wanted his Hamlet to be an imposing figure—equal in physical stature to his dead father or greater. He asked a number of bigger athletes to try out but Tom was the only one with any theater experience who could memorize so many lines. The part about a dead ghost father, he was big as or bigger, only added fuel to his fire. Learning lines came easy, he actually memorized the whole play and still remembered most of it, entertained himself sometimes reciting entire scenes. Tom felt like Eleanor saw something in him, no one else did and his sadness lifted, “It’s a nice day. You want to walk outside? Go to a park, maybe?”
“Oh, that sounds lovely Tom, but my feet are a bit sore from dance. I got some of those glove shoes, you know? And they felt so good… I wore them too much, I’m afraid. I’d best minimize my time upright, if I hope to dance this weekend. Old people problems… if you really want to go out… uh, I can manage a block or two but there’s no parks close. We could sit in the courtyard, or go to Applebee’s? It’s just around the corner.”
“No, no,” Tom waved her off, “I’m fine. This is nice. Can I get you anything?”
“Tell you what. It is busy up here, this time of day. Let’s go down to the lounge. There won’t be anyone there. We can have some tea. Yes? You have to run off? No?”
“Sounds great,” Tom stood, held out a hand and helped her up, “needs a be back for evening chores is all. Dance, you say?”
On the way down the steps, Eleanor explained, “Dance, yes… love of my life. I taught, you know, many years?” Tom nodded, shared his memory of her house and their visit, “Now I dance ecstatic mostly, some contact, quite extraordinary, a practice really. Pdxecstaticdance, all one word, dot com. Lots of choices… check it out! Fantastic community of people.”
“Oh no you don’t!” A very large male nurse, with pink hair, came trundling down the stairs and interrupted them, waving a fat finger at Eleanor, “You go, go, go girl! Hmmm…very nice,” He stopped and ogled Tom a second, then addressing Eleanor, “Not without your meds, Hun! Come now, down the hatch, no time for chit chat!” She took the small metal cup, swallowed its contents and handed it back. He gave her some water, “Well! No rest for the wicked! Enjoy!” Spun in dramatic fashion and departed.
Tom wanted to punch him… felt angry and unable to focus for a moment, thought about chasing him up the steps, asking for his name and supervisor; could hear heavy breathing echo back and his disgusting laugh… Ogle him like that? This encounter seemed rude, invasive, disrespectful… was all of Portland like this? They settled onto a plush leather sofa. Eleanor confused and deflated by the encounter… Tom thought, perhaps she needs to be here more than she wants to admit? Medication… losing her wits? He remembered his mom saying and his heart beat hard. Thought of the farm and felt guilty, like he should get back right away, should not have come in the first place, “You should come out to the farm sometime,” Tom said and immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Yes. That sounds nice. Maybe a group of us?”
He nodded, not wanting a group… Cindy’s reaction to that would be… not good. Tom wanted back the luster of their previous encounter… Dance! Flashed in his head, “Tell me more about flash dance. Sounds interesting.”
“Flash dance? You mean… ecstatic dance?”
“Yes,” Tom nodded, “Sorry, made me think of that movie, I guess.”
She looked him over, as if sizing up an adversary and decided to tell a story, “Late eighties, early nineties, at Grinnell, a lively dance scene emerged and as a consequence, we hosted in ‘91, I think it was, a Midwest regional modern dance performance festival and conference. Big names came, student interest shot up, a once in a lifetime chance for many. I facilitated, chose not to teach or present, took in all I could of panel, papers, jams and master classes, over a long weekend—very high energy event. Right off the bat, I noticed a common thread in papers presented and what people said about their performance experience and the jams we had in the gym—Audience dead… audience as passive witness… separation between audience and performers unsustainable… Audience involvement was on everyone’s lips—How to engage the audience, break down the wall? People played with improvisation, spread witnesses around the dance space and variously engaged members of the audience in some aspect of the performance. But even the most progressive Iowans had a hard time being pulled in with no notice. Things tended to fall flat and uncomfortable situations led to upset and angry people. You still awake? Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”
Tom had the coffee yawns, wondered what this story had to do with him? Hard telling where she was going with it, or why? “No, I’m fine. Sounds real interesting! Audience involvement, participation?”
“Yes, anyway… that preoccupation passed. Everything got cut, had to do with dance: theaters, companies, teaching positions. Everyone had a million other things to do instead, with cable TV and the internet. Conferences became about how to market yourself, get exposure, keep your job, how not to offend sensitive students. About the time I left Grinnell, I discovered ecstatic dance. Came to a workshop in Portland based on Gabrielle Roth’s Five Rhythm Wave, in the Conduit space. That is why I moved. The presenter told me Portland had the most vibrant and loving scene she’d ever seen, took me to Sweat Your Prayers, Sunday morning and I was hooked, felt like dancing with a hundred best friends. I went home, sold my house and,” she forgot for a moment where she was headed, “Why was I talking about that?”
“The audience thing? Participation, involvement?”
“Oh yes! I realized the other night at dance, the answer was right in front of me—I am the audience watching others, influenced by their choices, participating. I am performing, with others watching me, reflexive influence. All linked by the music. No privileged perspective, centers everywhere, vibe collective! Everyone participates at their own comfort level. I couldn’t believe it, was thunderstruck, amazed! I felt the open space as free and receptive to the degree one released patterned projections and preconceptions about what dance/movement is and isn’t.”
“I don’t like to dance,” Tom recalled the night before and realized that’s not exactly true, depends on how drunk he gets and with whom? Felt guilty for having squashed the conversation.
“You might want to change that narrative… just say’n.”
He shrugged, crossed his arms and slumped, hated clichés like—Change that narrative or Just say’n, the way Portlanders relish pet phrases and tend to overuse and mispronounce things with enthusiasm. Tom refused to talk with Teri on the phone when she first moved, as she’d launch into her litany of hip clichés, made Tom want to puke and hold the phone away or pretend he lost reception. So proud of her new ways to say things, reminded him what a blessing—two-thousand miles between him and Portland was.
“Tom, I’d think you of all people…” Eleanor attacked his indifference, “Hey, I watched you play basketball, when Knox came to Grinnell. I remember thinking how your movements were like improvisational dance. The ball moves and everyone moves with it… full speed one way, stop and full speed back the next, fast as you can, spin, fall, roll, get up and run back the other way, race someone else, jump… all very much like improvised dance—unscripted response to changing conditions out of one’s control, follow the bouncing ball, so to speak.”
“The ball, your man and the basket,” Tom recalled the triangle they were taught to observe at all times on defense, “A triangle or sometimes a line, or point when it gets to the basket, I guess,” Tom never thought of it like that, your triangle of man, ball and basket collapsed to a point at the rim. This seemed strange to him—point, line and plane, so direct. The women in his family were sharp like that, always drawing attention where you least expected.
“Dance can express loss, joy or… just itself. Promise me you’ll try? We can go together. I have a feeling you’ll like it. Bring Cindy,” she laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed.
Tom never promised anyone anything and that’s why he didn’t want kids. That’s what his dad did—made promises… catch later, or one-on-one after dinner, “It’s too dark now, Tom,” or, “I ate too much and need to digest. This weekend for sure! We’ll go to the park and hit fly balls all day!” When he moved out, more of the same, “Come over and we’ll… (fill in the blank with your favorite thing).” Tom stopped going to his father’s house, shortly after he refused to join their church, with no warning, on the Sunday morning it was scheduled. Father threatened violence and his mother intervened, tried at first to insist he follow through and they’d work something out later but faced with Tom’s steadfast refusal, flipped and backed him, which triggered their eventual divorce. Teri wouldn’t go to his house either, if Tom didn’t, threw fits and resisted. Had the audacity to blame Tom, later in life, for the nonexistent relationship with her father. Tom hadn’t thought about stuff like that in a month of Sundays, “We’re over that, right?” Cindy would say, “Water under the bridge?” If he ever brought up troubling things about his past. Like she couldn’t be bothered.
“Cindy loves to dance… so… yeah, maybe.”
“How is your lovely wife? Does she enjoy farming?”
“Crusty wife, by now for sure. She’s hold’n the fort. In fact… I better get back.”
“Oh… okay, I will let you go then. So nice of you to visit, Tom. Delightful! You must come again soon, eh? Hug?” She opened her arms wide and pressed hard against him. He reciprocated and she led them through a few awkward dance steps before he caught himself and feared crushing her bare foot under his size 14 boots. Tom liked that she was tall and assertive however, and for a moment, wished he could dance better and do her justice.
“My pleasure, Aunt Eleanor. You are an inspiration! I will check out dance, I promise,” They retraced their steps to the lobby, where she kissed him on the cheek and trotted off.
Tom watched her move down the hall like a gathering wave, ready to break, lamenting the promise, he doubted he’d keep. Ecstatic dance for Tom? Unlikely… On the way out, he stopped at the nurses’ station and asked the nurse if she knew what days Eleanor danced? And where?
“Eleanor?” The nurse said, “ I don’t know that she dances.”
“Eleanor?” Tom held his hand up to indicate tall, turned to where they’d sat on the couch and pointed, “You saw us there together? She’s tall and thin? White hair, pulled back in a ponytail? Was reading to the blind guy…”
The nurse raised her eyebrows, impatient with him now, “Yeah, I know Eleanor and I don’t know nothing about dance. What is it you need, sir? Are you a family member? Friend of hers?”
Tom felt something catch in his throat and chest. He nodded, bowed his head and left, sad and upset at being misled by someone he loved. Did she make all that up? And for what? Did not seem to be losing her wits… Why encourage Tom, invite him to dance? What were those medications? Maybe she was manic depressive… Was her affection for him genuine? These were Tom’s thoughts, on the way out of town, east on 84 to Wood’s Hole exit, through Sandy—gas stop at Pilot, where it’s always cheapest, and on up the west slope of Mt. Hood to Government Camp. By the other side of the mountain, his attention had returned to what needs doing and what happens if you don’t do it. Their must-do list was long and no doubt lengthened in his absence. They needed to step it up a notch, take their game to the next level. He hoped Cindy had a gear greater than what she’d shown thus far.
Feeling refreshed and optimistic, Tom parked, ran into the house and put on coveralls. Found Cindy at the main barn, mucking out, grinding gears on the Deere. His jaw clenched at the sound, neck tightened. So hard on equipment, she should know better by now! They could not afford to replace another clutch. But that’s not what made him mad. The barn needed mucking out before he left and she said she’d do it first thing. Tom offered even, before leaving but she said, “Go on, I got this…” They already had one case of mastitis and a contaminated batch of milk. He took a deep breath and practiced techniques from their relationship workshop—let his shoulders drop, smiled and waved, thought, Don’t sweat the small stuff. Went into the barn and set up to deep clean the teat dips and pump, saw not much had got done at all and fought back another surge of anger. They needed now to check every udder, sanitize the whole operation!
Cindy came in, coveralls zipped to her chin, shoulders hunched, short of breath, gloves in hand, tucking hair behind her ears, looking down and to the left, like she did when upset, scraping one boot with the other, getting off mud. What does she have to be upset about? Tom thought, “Hi Darlin’!” He got up off the five gallon bucket he’d been sitting on, moved towards her with open arms for a hug.
“I can’t do this anymore, Tom,” she said and held up a hand to halt his advance. Their eyes met. She’d been crying, had a withdrawn and defiant look that terrified him, circles under her eyes.
“I told you… I’ll do all the chores, if you’ll just muck out the barn.”
“No… I’m leaving… truck’s packed, I’m taking the Ford, going to Maya’s. Meeting in town.”
Tom froze, “What?”
“I want a divorce. Teri called last night… right after we talked. Where were you Tom?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. Tom’s throat constricted to the point he could not breathe, thought he would choke, heaviness in his chest. He took hold of a section of cow fence, moved his jaw around and shook his head, in attempts to loosen up his throat and catch a breath.
“I didn’t… I needed…” he could not talk. Thoughts of dancing the night before, filled his head.
“No!” She threw her gloves at him, “I don’t want to hear it! I’ve heard too much already! You lie to me and we’re finished. I told you that—day one! Don’t trust you anymore Tom. I have trust issues! You know that! I can’t live like this!” She stormed out of the barn, Tom followed.
“You can’t just leave. What about the farm?” He grabbed hold of her arm. She spun around, jerked it free, pointed a finger in his face and said, “Don’t touch me! You should have thought about that before you started lying to me!” She spun away again.
“Cindy… manifest!” Tom used the agreed upon word from their relationship workshop, meant to invoke a cease-fire and cooling off period before any action or further conversations take place. She had used it before, on him, when things blew up.
This gave her pause and she stopped but, after brief consideration, without looking at him, she said “No… nothing works when trust is broken. A lawyer will be in touch about my half.”
Lawyer? The word hit him like a punch to the gut. Tom fought back the urge to grab her, make her listen but Cindy had a thing about being touched without permission, “If you leave, there won’t be a farm. I can’t do all this alone!” He pleaded but she only picked up her pace and soon ran away like he might give chase, flung open the door and whistled for Britney, who promptly appeared and jumped in. Cindy slammed the door, started the truck, threw it in gear and spun gravel, fishtailing out to the road, bed loaded with stuff—Tom hadn’t noticed coming in. How Dramatic! He thought and watched tarps flap off the back as she grew small in the distance, listened to the sound of the engine until nothing… but the wash of traffic from 26, the moos of dairy cows, hungry and sick, a distant dog barking… wind.
The next few months were the most difficult of Tom’s life. A massive outbreak of mastitis from contaminated teat cups, meant they lost $5200 in milk and paid a veterinarian $2000 to come out and shoot up all the cows with heavy doses of antibiotics, tainting many more gallons that could not be sold organic. Tom turned to the rainy day fund—cash they kept in a safe for emergencies and discovered it was gone. Did not know how much exactly but knew it was a lot. Cindy kept the books and paid bills in exchange for Tom doing repair and maintenance on equipment and buildings. Tom hated ledgers and meticulous record keeping. Even looking at a ledger sometimes made him sick. After finding the money missing, Tom went to Cindy’s desk and looked at the books, found a stack of unpaid bills, shut off notices for both gas and electric!? He could not believe it. That’s why she left! She was lying to him! Cindy had written a dozen checks over the last few months to herself, totaling over $3,000! Stunned, Tom called and got a message—We’re sorry the number you have reached is no longer in service. Please hang up or try your call again…
The next year, Tom began to not remember, started learning to forget. Memory had been a positive in Tom’s life till then, something to be proud of and by his mother much encouraged, who loved games where you had to remember what came before and keep in mind many variables to play later. Even memories of his dad’s contempt and empty promises, Tom found a way to use as motivation, like Michael Jordan, who got cut from his high school team. The next year cured Tom of that naïveté. Whether from extreme fatigue and lack of sleep, the visitation of some supra-conscious will, or just the excruciatingly painful and utterly repugnant nature of dealing with bankers and lawyers, is hard to say. All of the above and more, probably poisoned his memory banks.
The two years Tom spent going through divorce and losing the farm, he summed up one night, after getting high and watching a movie called, The Passion of Christ, someone had left there. He made a highlight list, based on the Stations of the Cross.
1. Tom is Condemned to Death: Cindy tells Tom she wants a divorce. Tom finds out about her monetary indiscretions and apparent attempts to deceive him.
2. Tom Carries the Cross: Tom believes if he saves the farm Cindy will come to her senses, works 12 to 20 hours a day, seven days a week for almost a year.
3. Tom Falls the First Time: Tom falls asleep behind the wheel returning from town one night, runs off the road, flips and totals his truck, breaks an arm. Tries at first to carry on with the big flatbed (manual transmission, broken window, no heat) but gets pneumonia, must have the arm reset and a long convalescence.
4. Tom Meets His Mother: Tom’s mom, Constance Brown, comes and cares for Tom who, in a fever, realizes she shielded him from most of his father’s negative influence, seems to have superhuman stamina and ability to care for others.
5. Simon of Cyrene Helps Tom Carry the Cross: Constance suggests Teri look online for farm help. Teri finds, Cyril Bender, a ‘woofer’ from Eugene (derived from WWOOF, Worldwide Opportunities On Organic Farms). Cyril works hard and nearly gets them out of the red by selling unpasteurized organic milk from the farm direct (delivers large amounts to a yoga studio in Portland of milk, cottage cheese and kefir he makes in the kitchen (illegally) and carries a huge load, asking only room and board, until Tom gets back to full speed.
6. Veronica Wipes the Face of Tom: Cyril takes a position overseas and Tom with Teri’s help, throws a going away party for him at the farm. Cyril invites a few friends and Tom sleeps with Veronica, a dreadlocked young woofer from New Zealand, who’d recently finished a stint on Geercrest Farm near Silverton. Tom overwhelmed by the experience, cries and cries and feels for the first time like he is free and clear of Cindy. Veronica holds him against her silk tank top, between her breasts and they sleep cuddled up in that position. She draws a picture on the tank top in the morning, outlines his tear stains, essentially and leaves it on his pillow, thick with her scent. Is gone before he returns from chores at 8 a.m.
7. Tom Falls the Second Time: Tom wakes up a week later with herpes. Veronica does not return his calls. Checking to see if Teri has a contact number, Teri tells him she slept with Cyril that night. Tom hangs up, burns the tank top on his gas grill and drinks a lot of tequila, smokes the joint Cyril left for ‘a special occasion’ and prays for this to not have happened. His prayers are not answered.
8. Tom Meets the Women of Jerusalem: Tom joins a dating service for people with herpes, thinking it will get his mind off Cindy, hoping to repeat the Veronica experience. His post gets a big response. Tom goes on two dates he has no time for and are not fun.
9. Tom Falls the Third Time: Tom receives divorce papers from Cindy’s lawyer and can’t believe it! She wants bought out for half the value of the farm or plans to force a sale and split the profits. Tom responds that the value is negative and if they sell now, there will be no profit, refers them to a third party audit, commissioned by them, suggesting they sell in ten years after the value gets built back up. Cindy won’t talk with him but the lawyer says she wants out, needs a clean break, doesn’t trust him to look after her interests, believes he seeks revenge. He can’t sleep for days, drinks a lot of whiskey, almost drives to Eugene to confront her, but passes out in the truck and gets pneumonia again but is able to keep working.
10. Tom is Stripped of His Garments: Tom finds out from Teri that Cindy now identifies as a lesbian, that she and Maya planned the split for months before she left and were at the farm having sex the night Tom was gone. Teri thinks Tom needs this information to not get screwed in the divorce. Tom doesn’t know whether to believe her or not, is devastated either way, feels stripped of all hope and hates Teri for telling him.
11. Crucifixion, Tom is Nailed to the Cross: Tom’s mom and sister convince him to talk with Teri’s lawyer. Tom agrees and asks her to represent him. She contacts Cindy’s lawyer and informs Tom right off the bat that Cindy has a witness, the front desk clerk from the Jupiter Hotel, who says he saw Tom leave with a woman after the show and saved security video of the two of them staggering through the lobby that night. Says he was worried enough to follow them out to the parking lot, afraid they might drive drunk, says he saw them enter Tom’s room. Tom tells the truth, how he pushed her into the car and she left, there was not even one kiss… remembers being very critical of the desk clerk on his comment card. The lawyer points out neither version sounds very good. Tom suggests bringing up the Maya affair? Too hard to prove, she says, unless he has a witness.
12. Tom Dies on the Cross: Tom gives up. The Dairy is foreclosed, all the equipment sold and $244,000 in debt is left to split between them—plus what they owe their lawyers. Tom tried to tell her… but she wanted a clean break.
13. Tom is Taken Down from the Cross (Deposition or Lamentation): Tom declares bankruptcy and moves in with his mother, Teri and her kids.
14. Tom is Laid in the Tomb: Tom sleeps the first night in his mother’s basement, smelling of mildew and sour milk.