T. Boyle - San Miguel

His smile died and then fluttered back into place. “Listen,” he said, “let me get you a chair and you can sit over there, just outside the corner of the corral, and see what we’re about. This is all new to me too, you know.”

And so he found her a chair and she sat there, out of range of the mud the animals kicked up when they were flipped over on their backs and their legs pinioned so that the shearers, one man to a sheep, could transform them from squat comfortable-looking things to puny bleating sacks of skin that careened off to huddle in the next pen as if they were embarrassed by their own nakedness. Will waded right in, and it lifted her to see his enthusiasm, the way he snatched up an animal the minute Jimmie or Adolph, whose job it was to go on horseback and round them all up, released one through the gate. And Mills, Mills too. Mills and her husband were working in concert, making sure the shearers were fed a new animal the moment they finished with the previous one, then taking the fleeces and stuffing them into the huge canvas sacks that bloated out like sausages as the morning went on.

The sun was pleasant — heat, for a change, real heat — and she stayed there perched on the chair long after she’d grown bored with the process unfolding before her, the sheep bleating out their terror and broadcasting their hard black pellets of excrement even as the men fought to hold them until they went lax and submitted, then the fleece lying there in the dirt and the naked animal scurrying away to hide itself amongst the naked others. Across the yard, in their pen, the pigs were silent, as if contemplating what lay in store for them. Even the chickens and turkeys, usually so active around the barnyard, were keeping out of sight. She was thinking about that, about how the animals seemed to know what was going on though they weren’t conscious in any rational way, or at least that’s what she’d always believed, when Nichols emerged from the house and came strolling across the yard to her.

He held himself stiffly, as if he were uncomfortable in his clothes, but his voice was pleasant enough as he called out a greeting to her. “Good morning, Mrs. Waters,” he intoned, coming up to stand beside her so that his shadow momentarily took away the sun. “Are you enjoying the shearing? The process, I mean?”

She studied him a moment, a tall man, nearly as tall as Will, and dressed impeccably, as if he were on his way to a gentlemen’s club instead of coming out to peer into a muddy pen full of terrified sheep on an island stuck fast in its own solitary sphere. “Yes,” she said, smiling up at him, and she was glad she’d powdered her face and put on a bit of rouge, though most mornings she didn’t bother, not anymore, not out here. “Or no, truthfully. For the first couple, it’s interesting, I suppose, to see how it’s done, but I feel sympathy for the poor animals. They seem so terrified.”

He made as if to prop one elbow on the rail of the pen — or corral, as it was called here — but then seemed to think better of it. “But they’re not actually hurt in any way, are they?”

“No,” she had to admit. “Aside from the odd nick and scratch, I suppose. I’m told that the shears get dull quickly here because there’s so much sand caught in the wool. Sand,” she said, letting her eyes drift beyond the rail and the commotion of bodies there to the distant rising slopes. “It’s the curse of the place. It’s in everything — your clothes, the bedding. Set the table half an hour before dinner and you’ve got to wipe the plates clean again before you can sit down to eat.”

There was a shout from one of the men, something in Spanish, a curse, and she saw that one of the sheep had managed to kick the shears from the man’s hand and break free. It came toward them, trembling, wild-eyed, until her husband, his face reddened with the exertion, managed to seize it from behind and drag it back to the dark little man who was still cursing in his own hermetic language. Puta, he spat. Puta. La reputa que lo parió .

“You see?” she said. “And the lambs must have their tails docked, of course. I couldn’t watch that. It seems so cruel.”

“So why do it at all?”

“Something to do with the meat.” She glanced up at him then. It came to her that he didn’t know the first thing about this, knew even less than she did. Either that or he was testing her. And if he was, she was destined to fail. “It would grow into the tail instead of on the body itself, where—”

“Where you want your lamb chops to be.” He gave her his thin smile. “You seem quite well versed.”

“Oh, no, not really. I’ve only been listening to what Will tells me, that’s all.” She let out a laugh. “I’m hardly a farmwife, or not yet, anyway. In fact, until now, I’ve never really been outside a city in my life.”

“I’d never have guessed,” he said, and it took a moment to realize he was making a joke. But was it a joke? Or a criticism?

More shouting from the pen, another animal breaking free to rush pell-mell from one side to the other, giving up its terror in a ragged choking cry of despair.

“All right,” he said, turning back to her, and again he made as if to prop an elbow on the rail and again thought better of it, “I concede your point. But each of these animals will live on for years, whereas with cattle or hogs the whole animal has to be sacrificed in order to get any value out of it. And there’s very little loss out here, or so I’m told. No wolves or dogs or bears or anything like that. No catamounts. And the only fences you need are to guide the animals in for shearing and keep them out of the pasture until the hay is mowed, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” And then it came to her that she should be praising the place, trying to sell him on it so that he would come in as partner and she could go back to town and her things and live like a human being and either get well or not. She wouldn’t want to die out here, that much she knew. It was already like being a soul in limbo. She was bored. She was afraid. She wanted release, only that. “It’s a remarkable place,” she said. “Truly remarkable.” And she almost added, A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but caught herself.

He was studying her out of eyes that were too close-set, too small, as if his face had been pinched in the womb. His heavy mustache masked the expression of his mouth, but he might have been smiling, or at least she thought he was. “Seems like you’re trying to sell me on the place,” he said.

She wanted to deny it, but she gave him a smile instead, if only to cover herself. “I suppose I am. But it’s worth it, worth everything we’ve invested — the opportunity. I couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t.”

And now he was grinning, the mustache levitating above a set of stained lower teeth. “I’m flattered,” he said, “but there’s really no need. Hiram, Will and I signed the transfer papers last night.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes,” and she didn’t know what she was assenting to, her heart pounding, the blood rushing to her face. He shifted again and the full glare of the sun struck her so that she had to raise a hand to her eyes. There was a long expiring gasp from the pen as one of the sheep was released to clatter away on unsteady legs. “When—?” she asked, but couldn’t finish the question.

“Your husband hasn’t told you?”

“Well, I — he was up especially early this morning, because of the shearing, that is, and I must have overslept…”

“Everything’s fine,” he said, and he held out a hand to her as if to conclude a bargain, but she merely stared at it in bewilderment. “I’m pleased to be your new partner, yours and your husband’s. I’m sure we’ll all prosper together.”