Moral Disorder - Margaret Atwood [58]
There was nobody around. Maybe they should honk the horn to announce their presence, Nell thought. That way they wouldn’t have to go in.
Tig was at the back of the car, trying to get the trunk open.
“It’s jammed or something,” he said. “Or maybe it’s locked.” From inside the trunk the lamb bleated.
“I’ll go in,” said Nell. “There must be someone. The doors are open. They’ll have a crowbar.” Or something, she thought. They’ll have all kinds of things. Bludgeons. Sharp-edged tools. Knives for the throat-slitting.
She went into the building. A row of naked light bulbs hung from the ceiling. Beside the door were two more barrels, the tops off. She looked in: they were filled with skinned cows’ heads, in brine. She assumed it was brine. There was a sweet, heavy, clotted smell, a menstrual smell. The cement floor was strewn with sawdust. At least the weather is cool, she thought. At least there aren’t a lot of flies.
Farther on was a sort of corral, and some high-sided pens or cubicles.
“Hello?” she called. “Anybody here?” As if she’d come to borrow a cup of sugar.
From around the corner of one of the pens came a tall, heavy man. On top he was wearing nothing but an undershirt; his thick arms were bare. As in some old comic book about torturers in the Middle Ages, he was bald. He had an apron on, or maybe it was just a piece of grey canvas tied around his middle. There were brown smears on it that must have been blood. In one hand he was holding an implement of some kind. Nell did not look closely at it.
“Help you?” he said.
“Our lamb is stuck in the trunk,” she said. “Of our car. It’s jammed shut. We thought maybe you had a crowbar or something.” Her voice sounded tinny and frivolous.
“Won’t be hard,” the man said. He strode forward.
On the way back to the farm, Nell began to cry. She couldn’t stop. She cried and cried, without restraint, in gasps and sobs.
Tig pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car, and took her in his arms. “I feel sad too,” he said. “The poor little fellow. But what else could we do?”
“It isn’t just the lamb,” said Nell, hiccupping, wiping her nose.
“What is it then? What?”
“It’s everything,” said Nell. “You didn’t see what was in there. Everything’s gone wrong!”
“No, it hasn’t,” said Tig, hugging her tightly. “It’s all right. I love you. It’ll be fine.”
“It won’t, it won’t,” said Nell. She began to cry again.
“Tell me what it is.”
“I can’t!”
“Just tell me.”
“You don’t want me to have any babies,” said Nell.
The lamb came back in a white oblong cardboard box, like a dress box. Neatly arranged in waxed paper were the tender pink chops, the two legs, the shanks and neck for stewing. There were two little kidneys, and a delicate heart.
Tig cooked the lamb chops with dried rosemary from Nell’s garden. Despite her sorrow – for she still felt sorrow – Nell had to admit they were delicious.
I am a cannibal, she thought with odd detachment.
Maybe she would grow cunning, up here on the farm. Maybe she would absorb some of the darkness, which might not be darkness at all but only knowledge. She would turn into a woman others came to for advice. She would be called in emergencies. She would roll up her sleeves and dispense with sentimentality, and do whatever blood-soaked, bad-smelling thing had to be done. She would become adept with axes.
White Horse
In their second year at the farm, Nell and Tig acquired a white horse. They didn’t buy this horse, or even seek her out. But suddenly, there she was.
In those days they picked up animals the way they picked up burrs. Creatures adhered to them. In addition to the sheep, cows, chickens, and ducks, they’d gathered in a dog they called Howl – a blue tick hound, possibly even a purebred: he’d been wearing an expensive collar, though no name tag. He’d wandered in off the side road – dumped there by whoever had mistreated him so badly that he rolled over on his back and peed if anyone spoke a harsh word to him. There was no point in trying to train him, said Tig: he was too easily frightened.
Howl slept in the kitchen, sometimes,