Megan Bergman - Birds of a Lesser Paradise - Stories

I’ll pay you, he said, when I get out. I’ll make it up to you, take care of the bills, the feed. I will.

And you get out when? Lila asked.

The calf stretched its front legs and rested its nose on a pair of mud-caked hooves.

I don’t know, Romulus said softly.

Lila knew what would happen to the farm. The land would be sold, the animals put on the open market. Romulus’s calf would die on its own within the month.

I have my professional credibility left, she said to herself. That is how I walk into goddamn places like this with my head held up. I can’t compromise.

Lila left Romulus on the ground with the calf. The calf sucked at Rom’s thumb while he brushed the mud from her coat. She went outside, bent over to touch her toes, and raised her arms to the sun, exhaling loudly. She tried to calm herself, her body still electrified from Romulus forcing her into the shed. She hated looking at the calf, hated the way her profession thrust her into ethical dilemmas on a daily basis.

This is not a difficult decision, she reminded herself. The calf is suffering.

One of the hardest parts of her job was learning to trust her rational self, taming the compassion that had led her to become a veterinarian in the first place.

Part of her hated the thing she was about to do, the same way part of her hated getting up in the morning, brushing her teeth and washing her face, spending time with her reflection, looking at Clay’s letters, wondering what life would be like if she’d only given the wolf-hybrid more anesthetic. But life in Raeford was like that. Washed-out. Full of regret. People in old shoes, tough jobs. Lila reached in her bag for a syringe. Everyone was sorry about things. They were sorry about the tinsel fading on the lampposts. They were sorry about the empty tables at Brodie’s downtown. They were sorry about her face. People were sorry. And they’d keep on being sorry and watching lives fall apart at close range.

Lila walked back into the shed. Romulus peeled himself from the calf’s body, where he’d draped himself like a shroud.

I’m sorry, she said, her voice cold and practical. We need to do what’s right for the calf. She’s in pain.

I’m afraid I can’t let you, Romulus said.

He stood up. He held something in his hand. Her knife.

She felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her head. She began to back up but was disoriented.

Stay right there, he said evenly. She stopped moving. Her heart raced. She made a mental note of all the doors and windows in the shed, looked around for something she could use to defend herself.

His black eyes studied hers. He was breathing hard, but there was a calmness about him. He was sure of himself.

Lila imagined another scar on her face, imagined the tip of the knife cutting into her patchwork skin. Did it matter? It did. There was always more to lose.

Romulus stepped toward her. A swath of light landed on his orange jumpsuit.

I don’t want to fight you on this, Lila said, trying hard to project a sense of authority she did not feel. I just want to do the right thing.

I never loved anything this way, Romulus said.

He brought the knife in front of his body. Lila felt a surge of energy and anticipation.

I’m serious, he said.

Lila did not doubt him. She listened for other inmates, the sound of the warden coming back. Nothing. She’d have to reason with him; she had no choice.

The calf looked up at them with big eyes.

Romulus ran a hand over his hair and took a deep breath.

Here’s what I’m going to do, Lila said evenly. I’m going to fill this syringe and leave it for you.

No, Romulus said.

There’s nothing else I can do here, Lila said. You have to trust me.

Tears began to well in Romulus’s black eyes.

She placed the syringe on an overturned milk crate.

Put it in her neck, she said, pointing to a spot on her own.

Romulus dropped the knife into the hay. His body sagged. He picked up the syringe.

For a moment, Lila wondered if she should watch, make sure Romulus did the job. But she turned around and ran as fast as she could back to the farmhouse, pausing a moment to grab her bag. She decided that she wouldn’t speak of the incident, that she was tired of people worrying, feeling sorry for her.

Lila thought of Romulus in the shed with the calf. He’ll do the right thing, she told herself. People almost always do.

Lila pulled out of the prison gates, her body still humming with adrenaline. She didn’t have enough time to go home before meeting Clay at the wine bar in town, so she pulled the truck over on the side of the road near the old Edgerton place. The road was empty and she couldn’t see anyone around, so she got out of the car and opened the passenger-side door, which faced the tree line.

Lila stepped out of her boots and work pants and for a second exposed the naked body she was still proud of. She slipped the black dress over her head, the soft fabric sliding down her back and falling into place.

She used the passenger-side mirror to do her lipstick, careful to cover the pink, tattooed lines where the swollen flesh of her lip used to end.

To her right, wild turkeys ran through barren fields, fields that once grew cotton and tobacco, fields that someone was too poor or too old to tend. She wiped the lipstick from her teeth.

Maybe tonight would be different. Maybe Clay would take her hand and she’d let him. Maybe, after wine, they’d eat a big meal at Brodie’s, tip like movie stars.

But what kind of woman found a happy ending in Raeford? Lila drove the deserted country road toward the dying town she called home. She imagined Clay’s strong hands on her body again and wished she was more beautiful than proud.

I’ve been told self-righteous people always have it coming, that when you profess to understand the universe, the universe conspires against you. It gathers and strengthens and thunders down upon you like a biblical storm. It buries your face in humble pie and licks the cream from your nose because when the universe hates you, it really hates you.

What? Malachi shouted through the door in a panicked voice. That’s impossible.

I burst out of the bathroom and wagged the positive pregnancy test wand in front of his face.

Immaculate conception is out, I said. God and I aren’t on good enough terms.

My heart was pounding and my voice was too loud. What I wanted to do was sleep and talk about this another time, a time when I had a better idea of how I felt, how I would handle the news. Though I suspected we were both looking for our moral footing, we jumped into the conversation, eyes afire.

This is a really big deal, Malachi said, sitting down on the bench we kept in the kitchen. He put his face in his hands, then peeked out like a sheepish toddler. This is just—

What? I said. You think that because you’re the East Coast’s predominant voluntary extermination proponent that we’re magically infertile? Because you tell other people they shouldn’t have children you—

There’s a clinic downtown, he said, nodding his head as if he was agreeing with himself. I know the guy that runs it. Sam Wise. He was at last week’s conference. I’ll call—

We’re not even going to talk about it? I said, moving closer to him. We’re not even going to give it the weight we give a decision about what we’re going to have for dinner? We just spent fifteen minutes in front of the produce section at the market. We just tested our peaches for bruises. We debated what type of olives—

I have strong beliefs, he said. You have strong beliefs. Your decisions are hormone-driven right now, and I understand—