the most damage.
But she'd never had one come in the house before. The back door was ajar, as if the goat had nudged it open with its nose. The mesh on the screen door had been ripped. Maybe the goat had put one sharp hoof on the wire and sliced it down the middle. Goats weren't that smart, even if they smelled something good in the kitchen. In this case, the only thing going was the sweet potato pie. No doubt the goat had smelled that and come in for a closer look, though Betsy had no idea how in the world the creature had worked the doorknob. Why hadn't Digger run the goat off, or at least raised the alarm with his deep barks?
'Shoo,' she said waving her apron at it. 'Get on back the way you come.'
The goat stared at her as if she were a carrot with a spinach top.
'Arvel,' Betsy called trying not to raise her voice too much. Arvel didn't like her hollering from the kitchen. He thought that amounted to pestering and henpecking. Arvel always said a wife should come up to the man where he was sitting and talk to him like a human being instead of woofing at him like an old bitch hound.
Arvel must not have heard her over the television. The goat's nostrils wiggled as they sniffed the air. The oven was a Kenmore Hotpoint, the second of the marriage. In the red glow of the heat ing element, she could see the pie through the glass window in the oven door. It had bubbled a little and the tan filling was oozing over the crust in one spot
The goat lowered its head and took two steps toward the oven. It had small stumps of horns and was probably a yearling. Sometimes goats would get ornery and butt you, but in general they avoided interaction with humans, except when food was at stake. It seemed this goat had its heart set on that sweet potato pie.
Betsy shooed with her apron again, then moved so that she was standing between the oven and the goat. She didn't think the goat could figure out how to work the oven door, but some sense of pro priety had overtaken her. After all, this was
The goat regarded her, eyes cold and strange. She didn't like the look of them. They had the usual hunger that was bred into the goat all the way back to Eden, but behind that was something sinister. Like the goat had a mean streak and was waiting for the right ex cuse.
'Arvel!' By now Betsy didn't care if her husband thought she was henpecking or not. You don't have a goat walk into your kitchen and expect to take it in stride. She'd gone through three miscarriages, the drought of 1989, the blizzard of 1960, and the floods of 2004. She knew hard times, and she knew how to keep a clear head. But those things were different. Those were natural dis asters, and this one seemed a little un-natural. Like maybe the goat had something more in mind than just ruining a decent homemade pie.
Betsy put her hands out, hoping to calm the animal, but its cloven hooves thundered across the vinyl flooring as it closed the ten feet separating them. Betsy saw twin images of herself reflected in the goat's oddly shaped pupils. Her mouth was open, and she may have been screaming, and her hair hung in wild, slick ropes around her face. She didn't have time to step away even if she could have made her legs move.
The goat hit her low, its head just above her womanly region, driving into her abdomen. The nubs of the horns pierced her like fat, dull nails, not sharp enough to penetrate but packing plenty of hurt. The unexpected force of the assault threw her off-balance, and she felt herself falling backward. The kitchen ceiling spun crazily for half a heartbeat, and she saw the flickering fluorescent light, the copper bottoms of pans arranged on pegs over the sink, the swirling patterns in the gypsum finish above.
Then she was falling and the world exploded in sparks, and she thought maybe the pie filling had leaked onto the element. As she slid into the inky, charred darkness, the smell of warm sweet potatoes settled around her like the breath of a well-fed baby.
'Tie's done,' she said. Her eyelids fluttered and then fell still.
'Honey, what are you doing?'
Katy turned away from the squash casserole she was making. Her hands stank of onions. Little jars and bags of spices were strewn across the counter: basil, pepper, dill weed, cumin. Eggshells lay in the bottom of the sink, slick and jagged. The clock on the wall read ten after six.
'I'm making dinner,' she said.
'I hate casseroles.' Gordon took off his tweed jacket and folded it over his arm.
'I found the recipe in the cabinet. I thought...' Katy brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Her face was flushed.
'Where did you get that dress?'
She looked down and found herself in a dress she'd never seen before. It had an autumnal print and was a little more frilly and feminine than the austere styles Katy preferred. The dress was dusty but it fit her body as if it had been tailored. Why was she wearing it to cook?
'It was in the closet, I think. Must have been something I packed years ago and came across while I was cleaning.'
'You look nice.' Gordon went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Merlot. He didn't stop to kiss her as he passed. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the butcher block table that stood in one corner and served as a stand for several houseplants.
'About this morning,' Katy said. She focused on slicing a red onion. Any excuse for tears was welcome.
'Let's not talk about it.'
'We
'I lost control. It won't happen again.'
Katy slammed down the knife. 'I
If only Gordon would stand up and come to her, take her in his arms, nuzzle her neck, and make stupid promises, she would have accepted his earlier behavior. She even would have defended it. After all, Katy had her own problems. She wasn't exactly coming into the marriage as a virgin.
'Where's Jett?' Gordon asked.
'Jett?' Katy looked down at the raw food and spices. Jett was probably in her room studying. She had walked through the front door hours ago. Katy should have checked on her, or at least called up the stairs to make sure her daughter knew she was around. That was Katy's part of the deal. She would be an involved parent while trusting Jett to stay away from drugs and giving her daughter some breathing room.
'She's in her room,' Katy said.
'I have a job for her.'
'About the eggs,' Katy said.
'Forget it I'll have Odus do the farm chores from now on. It wasn't fair for me to expect you to take on extra work. You have enough to do here in the house.'
In this house that seemed more like a prison. Katy had to think back to remember the last time she'd left the house. Grocery shop ping, three days ago. Most of her time in the house was spent in the kitchen, and she'd never liked cooking before. Now she was mak ing casseroles.
'How was your day at the college?' It was the kind of thing a normal wife would ask, and she wanted very much to be a normal wife.
'Long,' he said, then finished his glass of wine. 'Try telling that idiot Graybeal that Methodists weren't the only denomination to use circuit-riding preachers.'
'Graybeal? He's the dean, isn't he?'
'Yes, but you would think he's lord of the fiefdom to see him swagger around, whipping out his shriveled intellectual dingus.'
'He's probably just jealous because of your book.'
'No, he thinks foot washing belongs to the realm of human sac rifice and snake handling. Anything that's not Hindu, Buddhist, or Taoist is all lumped together under 'God worship.' '
Katy stared down at the yellow grue of the casserole. Should she add an extra quarter of a stick of butter? 'I thought 'God wor ship' was the point.'
'Graybeal thinks Christianity is a cult. A popular one, to be sure, but a cult nonetheless.' He was falling into lecture mode. His voice rose slightly in pitch, the words carefully enunciated.
Katy was pleased that he was spending time with her instead of hiding away in the study, but she wanted to move the subject over to something a little closer to home. 'What job did you have for Jett?'
'I want her to feed the goats.'
