Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [92]
“Goats,” he said.
“Yes.”
“May I ask where you are located? That would be the first consideration.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot my manners. This is Lusa Landowski, I live on the old Widener place, my husband was Cole Widener.”
“Oh, Mrs. Widener. I was awfully sorry to hear about your husband. I would have been at the funeral, but there were…there are some considerations between our families. I expect you’ve heard all about that.”
She was silent for a few seconds. “You’re related to us somehow, aren’t you?”
“By marriage,” he said. “Distantly.”
“I’m sorry; my nephew mentioned it, but I’d forgotten. That’s right, one of my sisters-in-law is a Walker. I think.” She laughed, sounding rather jolly for a new widow. “I’m still learning what it’s like to live among six hundred relatives. I’m new to all this—I’m from Lexington.”
“And that would be where you plan on raising the goats?”
“Oh no, here. I’m trying to keep this farm solvent, which would be the point of this goat business, if I can do it. I’m not at all sure I can, or whether it’s crazy to try.”
“Oh? Now, don’t you have beef cattle up there on the Widener place?”
She sighed, now sounding not jolly at all. “Cattle just seem to be a losing proposition for me, with all you have to put into them. The Ivermec and everything, and I know I’m also supposed to check the cows to see if they’re pregnant, but a cow pelvic examination I know from nothing. I’m scared to get close to them. I’m a small woman, and they’re so huge.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I guess I’m not much of a farmer yet. I can’t even get my hay baler working. Two of my brothers-in-law have this leased-out cattle empire, so I could sell them my cattle, I’m thinking. Get into a smaller breed.” She paused. “I was thinking I could handle goats.”
“Well. You seem to have a plan, at least.”
“It’s a lot to go into; I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get into personal business, but listen, maybe this isn’t a good time for you to talk. I’m sorry to be bothering you.”
“Oh, it’s no bother at all,” he said, shifting from one bare foot to the other, feeling a draft, and no wonder: under the skimpy towel he was naked as a jaybird. He thought he heard someone rapping at his front door. Oh, dear, was it a delivery? He wasn’t expecting a delivery.
“Oh, well, that’s good,” she said, laughing a little. “At least you haven’t said flat out that I’m crazy—yet. I was hoping to kind of pick your brain. If I could.”
“Well, pick away,” said Garnett, miserably. He heard the knock again, more insistent.
“First of all, do you think it’s realistic for me to try to get free goats? How would I go about that?”
“I’d suggest you run an ad in the newspaper. You’re liable to find yourself with more goats than you know what to do with.”
“Really? You agree that people are dying to get rid of them, then. Which I guess ought to tell me there’s no money in it, if I had any sense.”
“I can’t really encourage you, Mrs. Widener. There’s not a man in this county who’s made a dollar off a goat, in my recollection.”
“That’s what my nephew said. But it seems to me the problem is marketing. Like everything else in farming, so I’m starting to learn. Nobody here knows what to do with a goat, they won’t even eat them, and we’re oversupplied. My nephew said we’d had kind of a goat plague on Zebulon County a while back. Why is that?”
Garnett closed his eyes. Was all this really happening? Some mysterious intruder was banging down his front door, a strange woman from Lexington was attempting to uncover his most embarrassing secret, his back ached like the dickens, and his bare buttocks were hanging out in the breeze. He did not wish he were dead, exactly, just maybe peacefully asleep in his bed, with all the lights out.
“Mr. Walker? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Is this…are you just thinking I’m some nut?”
“Oh, no, not at all. Your question about the surplus goats isn’t an easy one to answer. Six or seven years ago, they started out as a whole slew of Four-H projects that kind of