Chapter 12 from the R.M. Dolin novel, “What Is to Be Done“
Darkness peers through the kitchen window casting dawn in suffocating layers of stillness. A cold light hovers over the oval table casting a forlorn aura that stands in stark contrast to free form shadows forgetting to blend in. Jake stoically nurses the day’s first quiet coffee as he seriously considers what happens next, or whether he can be counted on to step up. He learned coffee etiquette as a ranch hand in the Black Hills when he was twelve and got into serious trouble. Back then in rural South Dakota, folks didn’t appreciate the need to keep exceptional minds occupied, so the judge decreed it would either be work or reform school, but left the decision to Jake’s parents even while urging them to consider the structured discipline reform school offered. The ranch’s foreman was a surly cuss keenly hard on young Jake. He liked to taunt him with stuff like, “real men do this,” or “real men do that,” while glaring with crisp cutting eyes, “you want to be a real man, don’t you?”
As Jake inescapably does when wrestling with particularly vexing problems, he finds allegories in his past. Today he’s revisiting a particular morning at the ranch when he watched a heifer die giving birth despite the Foreman’s best efforts to save her. With the heifer lost, the pressing task was ensuring her calf survived. As fate unfolded, an hour earlier a reliable cow’s calf was stillborn, which created a situation requiring immediate, dramatic, and as young Jake was about to discover, horrific action.
“That calf needs to nurse,” the Foreman snorts in disgust while dragging the dead heifer from the stall all the way outside leaving the still limp carcass on the cold uncaring ground. “Problem is his Mom’s dead.” He walks to the tool room returning with a rolled up canvas cloth filled with long wooden-handle knives that he unceremoniously unrolls. While the handles are worn and splotched with dried blood and matted fur, the blades are surgically clean and razor sharp. After cutting the dead heifer’s jugular so she bleeds out, the Foreman slits open her belly and scoops out the vitals with effortless precision. “No point letting her meat go to waste,” he tells Jake while wiping bloodstained hands in his button fly jeans. With ominous foreboding, the field-tested Foreman and his uninitiated protégé saunter back inside to the stall where the live Mom mournfully stands over her dead calf bellowing in anguish. The Foreman unapologetically reaches around the cow’s ballooning udder to drag her dead calf outside beside the heifer. “I’m gonna hobble that cow so the orphan can nurse,” he tells Jake devoid of empathy. “She ain’t gonna like it none, but we can’t risk her getting mastitis.”
As young Jake is about to learn, babies are eager to nurse on any available teat because they’ve yet to receive the imprinting that later forms the prejudices guiding adult behavior. Mom’s on the other hand, only allow their babies to suckle. Darwin might surmise it’s an instinctual thing devised to ensure her baby’s survival, while others may assert it’s situational, wherein a Mom cannot conjure the compassion needed to help another baby. It could even contain a narcissistic component preventing a Mom from hearing the hungry cry of a baby other than her own. Whatever the reason, a Mom who loses her baby will not allow another baby to suckle; even when it’s in her best interest.
It’s clear from the emotionally empty way the Foreman goes about doing what needs to be done that this is not the first time he’s played matchmaker. With the same determined detachment he demonstrates when shoeing a horse, de-horning a steer, or castrating a calf, he instructs Jake, “skin the dead calf while I work on Mom.” Jake stares at his orders with sudden horror, he’s never even touched a dead animal let alone removed it’s hide, and as disgusting as it might be to skin a cleanly killed carcass, this task’s gruesomeness is compounded but the fact the Mom didn’t lick the afterbirth off, which left the hide covered in a gooey bluish elastic glob that is itself covered in birthing blood. It’s only after significant prodding, cajoling, and dry heaving that young Jake manages to complete his chore. He stands in the barn’s doorway, hands covered in goo and blood, too much in shock to feel anything. The Foreman though, is not yet ready to release his young assistant. He hands Jake a long curved needle with waxed thread attached. “Use this to stitch the cape around the orphan, when Mom smells her dead calf on the orphan, she’ll allow him to suckle.” The Foreman smiles with twisted irony. “She’ll likely need some persuasion though.”
After further prodding and cajoling, young Jake manages to secure the freshly skinned hide around the orphan. Meanwhile, the Foreman finishes cinching the Mom’s head to a post in the center of the barn and hobbling her legs so she can’t kick. “Bring the orphan,” he shouts. With unspeakable apprehension, young Jake does as instructed and leads the wobbling calf with the freshly skinned hide draped over him like an illegitimate king’s deceit-filled robe into the stall. The calf approaches his new Mom without hesitation devoid of any potential for rejection and hungry for the milk she holds. The Mom bellows in grief-stricken sorrow and only after prolonged unsuccessful efforts to kick the unwelcome calf away and break free of her binds does she accept her fate and permit the hungry calf to nurse. “In a couple of days the bonding will be complete,” the Foreman says while wiping blood and goo in his jeans. “Then you can remove the cape.”
Young Jake washes up and immediately goes to his room but can’t sleep. He’s way too deep in shock to understand what to do or even how to feel. Instead he slides down the wall beside his bed until gravity comes to rest on the floor. Gingerly he pulls his legs to his chest, wraps his arms around his shins, buries his face in his knees, and only then, safely away from the Foreman’s condescension, young Jake quietly cries. What he’s done is the most horrific thing anyone ever could, and while the nightmares last for weeks, the morality of his actions and utter cruelty he now knows he’s capable of inflicting is something he wrestles with for years, struggling to reconcile the dichotomy of good in the face of evil and the fine line between being heroic and being a monster.
“What you did needed doing,” the Foreman tells his despondent apprentice the next day. “Both the cow and calf are better for it.”
“At what cost?” young Jake wants to know but is afraid to ask. “At what point can anyone say with clarity that the end justifies the means?” This is a question that haunts him as a young cowboy as much as it does a PhD weaponeer – as much as it haunts him now as the leader of his subversive cohort.
The Foreman drank to deal with the harsh dilemmas of being a cowboy, but at twelve young Jake doesn’t have that option. It changes a boy though, being a part of something like that. The nightmares only stop once Jake accepts a hard truth that serves him the rest of his life; as brutal and horrific as all that was, both the orphan calf and grieving cow would have died slow painful deaths had he done nothing. That in turn teaches young Jake an important lesson on the harsh absoluteness of life and the necessity of doing what needs to be done.
As a man moves through encounters and adventures, different voices linger. Sometimes they’re helpful, other times not so much. Two voices always emerge whenever Jake grapples with pointedly tough dilemmas: Emelia’s and the Foreman’s. Jake considers a situation from both perspectives, which are usually as diametrically different as logic allows, then analyzes what they’d do and what his course of action should be. This morning, the Foreman’s voice is particularly poignant.
The Foreman taught Jake to drink coffee straight, “man up” he’d taunt as Jake worked to swallow past his gag reflex. The Foreman could be so damn politically incorrect, he would always add, “if coffee don’t float a turd, it’s sissy shit.” Jake wonders if there’s a place left in the modern world for men like him and if not, does that make the world better or worse? If the Foreman can’t be counted in the pantheon of modern man, the lingering question is both why not and who is?
“Pretty much mute,” Jake whispers to the solemn freedom of predawn quiet and the unencumbered way it allows him to chase thoughts while brewing over today’s issue, which sadly is the same as yesterday’s. Namely, what the hell to do with the woman sleeping in his guest bed? After two days and a dozen failed plans one thing’s painfully clear, he’s as clueless now as when he started. It doesn’t help that the sudden rattling of cans and bottles emanating from down the hall, fills him with a melodic mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Most mornings rattling cans routinely emanated from the Foreman’s room. To this day Jake can distinguish the sound of empty Blue Ribbon’s being kicked against the wall by a hung-over cowboy stumbling toward another day of trying to contain catastrophes he can’t control.
Jake’s intrepid guest enters the kitchen still wearing Emelia’s white dress from yesterday. He wonders if she slept on the bed or curled in the corner but when she returns his carving knife to the wooden rack, he has his answer. The woman sits across from Jake not saying a word or betraying any expression. He smiles warmly, pleased to detect a sort-of-smile. It’s not until he enjoys his next sip that he remembers his manners. “Let me get you coffee.” He pushes back his chair, but before he can stand, the woman pops up with silken agility and slips silently to the cupboard for a cup. “There’s milk in the fridge and sugar in the cabinet,” Jake tells her without turning to watch. It doesn’t occur to him that she speaks Spanish and he gave her directions in English. If he were paying attention, he’d associate the fact she goes to the fridge for milk and the cabinet for sugar with the fact that she may understand him.
After an excessively long time, the woman returns to the table clasping a coffee cup. Jake is so lost in thought he doesn’t notice the process employed to prepare her brew, which began by mixing a small amount of milk along with a teaspoon of sugar into her cup. After tasting the mixture, she immediately spits it in the sink and dumps out half the cup, which she replenishes with milk and two additional teaspoons of sugar and tastes the concoction again. It’s still too bitter, so she repeats the process of adding milk and sugar two more times until finally the coffee is tolerable.
Together they sit several minutes enjoying the quiet until Jake’s unable to hold the serenity. “It occurs to me, I don’t know your name.” He continues when the woman doesn’t respond. “If you don’t want me to that’s fine, I do however have to call you something.” While waiting for her answer, he considers all that’s happened; the still surreal events on Cinco de Mayo, the details he assumes about her journey from wherever she’s from to his breakfast table, from whomever she was to the person she’ll re-become. He replays Dario’s unwavering chivalry and Miguel’s utter evil. He considers Padre’s dog while re-evaluating his decision to take his guest to mass. Slowly, a soft smile betrays his seriousness as he rewinds the gentle way she whispered prayers at mass with the same serenity she whispered ‘thank-you’ in his ear.
“Sympatico,” Jake simply states to himself as much as to her while looking at his undocumented guest, “if I had to distill the last few days into a name for you, it would be Sympatico.” He flops back in his chair with satisfaction. “I have to tell you, it’s good to finally know your name.” He points to himself, “soy Jake,” then at her, “usted es Sympatico.”
Sympatico keeps her head down to conceal the fact that for the first time, in a very long time, she’s allowing herself to smile. The simple act of naming her would probably seem silly to most but for her, it’s deeply profound. Being named is tantamount to getting a new lease on life and it momentarily pierces her quasi-comatose condition. Deep within her damaged psyche, far below the barriers she’s erected, one cascading layer on top of the other to protect her from dealing with the trauma and abuses she’s endured, below memories and emotions, to that subatomic remnant of the person she was, a synapses fires; a tiny spark in a desperately dark, distressingly drained place. And with it, a timid voice calls from the abyss of her infinite despair, “he is good.” The voice speaks without words, but is nevertheless as profound as the gasping breath of a surfacing diver.
“I have to run to town,” Jake says not realizing they’re sharing a moment. “I need a part for my pump.” He points to a note pad on the table. “I’ll be back in an hour, in case I’m not, this note is for, Theresa. She works for me and starts at noon so don’t be alarmed when she lets herself in.” He walks to the pocket door separating the kitchen from the tasting room and lifts a key with a red tag from the rack. “I have to get my pump part from the shed,” he says before walking out the tasting room door. As he passes through the courtyard a motion sensor turns on security lamps that illuminates the kitchen with light pouring in from the large window looking into the courtyard and the smaller window that looks across the parking area to the distillery.
Sympatico scurries to the smaller window to watch Jake cross the parking lot. When he reaches the narrow metal shed nestled between two large stucco buildings, he fumbles in the dim light to open the padlocked door. She waits in nervous apprehension as he disappears into the shed, relieved when after what seems like forever, he re-emerges with his pump. She watches in unsettled anxiety as Jake methodically locks the shed then places the key back on its hook when he returns. “Okay,” he announces while filling his travel mug with coffee. He looks at Sympatico in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay to leave. “I wish I didn’t have to go, it’s just my Still’s had cooked mash sitting since Saturday. It’ll only take an hour.”
He studies Sympatico but can’t read whether she’s okay being left alone, even though he knows she’s not. “It’s a quick run into Española and I’ll come straight back.” Sympatico nervously offers a strained smile that barely cracks her swollen lips. Jake realizes it’s one of acknowledgment and nothing more, which only serves to feed his rising trepidation. “I left a note, for Theresa, you know, in case I’m not back by noon. Stay in the house, watch TV or something; I’m pretty sure I get the Spanish channels.”
After an awkward silence, Jake backs into the tasting room on his way to the parking lot. Sympatico again dashes to the smaller window to imprint the truck’s subtle sounds. As taillights disappear down the long driveway only to teasingly re-appear before again escaping, she feels the safety this awkward man provides dissipate like driveway dust settling on senseless sand. Only after compelling herself to acknowledge he’s really gone does she abandon her vigil and slowly walk to the counter to retrieve the chef’s knife. Then begrudgingly, she makes her way down the hallway where once inside her room, she re-stacks the intruder alert. With previously practiced fear, she retreats to her corner and slowly slides down the wall curling her knees against her chest as manic anxiety rises inversely to gravity settling her onto the cold floor. She grips the knife almost certain she believes he will return.
“How the hell can you cruise at seven in the freaking morning,” Jake screams through his truck’s sand-pitted windshield. The driver of the slow-moving low-rider with highly stylized metal-chipped paint watches Jake’s wild gestures in his rear view mirror and with a nonchalantness reserved for the cruiser class, he rolls down his window, sticks out his arm, and flips Jake off. “So mature,” Jake shouts, “how about you get a job, vato? Then at least you’ll have someplace to be.”
It’s only ten minutes from the distillery to the outskirts of Española but at certain times of the day, the additional three miles across town to the plumbing supply store can easily tack half an hour to the journey. Normally Jake doesn’t get worked up over slow rolling cruisers, because in the land of mañana, one learns to take their parade pace in stride. But today’s different, the slower he’s compelled to drive, the faster he’s convinced he never should have left Sympatico alone. “The freaking problem with life, is pumps and house guests have opposing needs.”
Jake arrives at the plumbing supply store at exactly seven-thirty proud to have precisely timed the drive given all the uncontrolled parameters. He hops out of his scratched and deeply dented truck only to have his happiness crash on the parking lot pavement discovering the store manager’s yet to arrive. Jake paces anxiously back and forth glaring at the door sign’s clearly posted store hours. “How the hell do you not care?” He rechecks his watch, seven forty-five; “Damn-it.” When the store manager slowly rolls up, Jake does not hide his agitation. “You’re late.”
The unapologetic store manager’s in no particular hurry. “Breakfast burrito took longer than usual.” As soon as the door opens Jake bolts inside, heading straight for the back wall. The clerk knows from previous interactions that offers to help are only met with condescending sarcasm. That’s how, as anyone in the valley can attest, Labies are, they know everything about everything and get annoyed should anyone dare offer advice. Before the clerk’s two bites into breakfast, Jake returns, curtly shoving a broken pump part onto the counter. “I need this part. You don’t have it.”
The clerk sets his burrito down to examine the part. “You sure it ain’t back there?” He knows it’s not but enjoys the chance to screw with a Laby.
“Wanna come back with me to look?”
“No!” The clerk says dismissing the fact he got countered in his game. He examines the part closer. “I could probably have it by Thursday.” They both know that means this Thursday, perhaps next Thursday, possibly the Thursday after that.
“I need it today.”
“Have Vince machine it, shouldn’t take more than an hour.”
“Vince can’t crap in under an hour.”
“Only cause he’s a slow reader.”
Vince Maestas has machined parts for each of Jake’s handcrafted Stills. Between boilers, doublers, chillers, and pumps, there’s no end of work for a skilled machinist at a distillery. Jake and Vince have had their issues over the years; as any craftsman who deals with a detailed perfectionist can attest, but all in all, they have a solid relationship built on mutual respect; not the go have beers kind, but one where each appreciates what the other provides a finished product.
The store managers hands Jake back his part. “Bring him a breakfast burrito and you’re gold, just be sure its bacon green.”
Jake storms out without comment, conceding Vince is his only option. When you take into account his arriving on the manager being late to open and not having his part, Jake’s two losses on the day against one win, but even more aggravating is he’s falling behind schedule. Then again, it does mean he can stop for guilt-free huevos while Vince cuts his part. That could, from a proper perspective, count as a win.
Vince agrees to machine the part in an hour, but it ends up taking three, even though Jake brings him a grande bacon green burrito. This moves Jake solidly back into the loss column, but then again, the red chili huevos were extra good, so one could still argue the day’s trending neutral. “A tie’s a win,” Jake declares exiting town with no one on the road. “No Cholos, that’s gotta count as a win.”
It’s nearly noon when Jake tops his driveway where he’s met by Quando, the effervescent distillery dog with puppy-like enthusiasm, who trots beside the truck barking and jumping unable to contain his utter happiness. When Jake rolls to a stop at the back of the house, Quando dashes into the juniper and piñon trees protecting the yard like a frontier fort quickly returning with a well-aged tennis ball that long ago lost its color. In Quando’s hierarchy of needs, chasing tennis balls is better than eating or sleeping, and that’s really saying something for a Lab.
After a couple playful tosses replete with their established ball throwing ceremony, Jake can delay no longer. “Where’s Sympatico?” he enthusiastically asks while stepping onto the brick patio. Quando swirls around Jake not yet accepting that game-time’s over; if it were up to him, ball tossing would never be over. Quando aggressively squeezes past Jake as soon as the patio door opens knocking Jake off balance. He bolts through the living room toward the kitchen only to decide too late that the tasting room’s where he really wants to be. This requires a sharp left turn but unfortunately, he’s moving forward so hard the turn causes his body to become an unstable mass of entropy with his momentum moving in one direction but his body vectoring in another causing him to lose footing on the smooth tile floor resulting in a perfectly executed belly-flop. Before friction kicks in, Quando crashes into a kitchen chair like a bowling ball smacking the head pin. Without pause, he frantically restarts but finds no traction for his fast scratching paws. After a somewhat comical series of acrobatics he manages to reset and bolt toward the tasting room.
“Sympatico?” Jake shouts, glancing toward the tasting room where Quando’s retrieved one of his indoor balls. Jake calls again as he heads down the hallway. “Are you here?” He stops in front of Sympatico’s slightly open door and pokes his head inside. “Hola?” he gently calls as the bottles and cans spewed randomly around the floor indicate something’s up. Jake hurriedly returns to the kitchen and pushes into the tasting room on waves of worry. He opens the laptop and frantically enters a string of commands that cause the large monitor hanging behind the bar to flash. A play-back of his security log shows a black Jeep pulling up outside with the time stamp reading eleven-sixteen. The surveillance video jumps to the Jeep leaving at eleven forty-three, a mere five minutes ago.
It’s not uncommon to have Distillery visitors roaming around outside of operating hours. They usually amble up the driveway; see the courtyard gate locked and leave. Round trip is typically less than a minute. Occasionally visitors linger to make a phone call, look at a map, or just get out and stretch. Even then, it’s rarely more than five minutes. Since the Jeep’s no longer here, they weren’t waiting for the tasting room to open. Jake quickly calculates the correlation between a missing Sympatico and a black Jeep that overstayed lamenting his decision to leave. “What the hell was I thinking?”
