Little Spokes

Mathilde was tired. Down to the bone weary and sore. Her back was an ancient tree grown tough with knots. Dinner was not made. Not even started. Gerard would be back from the auction in less than an hour. She needed to get moving but damned if she felt like washing and stringing beans, frying meat and chopping potatoes after the bitch of a day she’d had. The cow had given birth. Early. And breech. She’d seen the skinny little butt poking out, known there was trouble. But the vet hadn’t answered the phone. She’d had to do it all herself. Not that she minded usually but with the breech it was whole different matter. Arms sheathed in rubber gloves right up to the elbows, poking and pulling in the slippery mess. She knew what birth was. Had experienced it enough herself. It was part of the natural cycle. But the hot squirming pile of weak limbs had made her sick. She couldn’t get a grip on anything and the mother cow kept trying to kick her. She couldn’t blame it. Who wanted someone pulling at you from the inside, tearing at your most private parts, even if it was in the name of life? And after it all, the calf had come out blue. After all her hard work, the stupid thing hadn’t been strong enough to fight too, to survive the ugliness of the world. Gerard was of course blame her. Her incompetence. Her weakness. But she was like the mother cow, strong enough to withstand all the pain and still keep kicking. She could still smell the blood and afterbirth on her hands though she had scoured them and soaked them in vinegar. She had buried the calf up the hill, by a rock, breaking the hard earth with a shovel and later her bare hands. The calf was heavy in hear arms. By the time she reached the top the hill, her blouse was soaked in sweat but she wanted to make sure to bury the calf where nobody would disturb its remains and vice versa. It was a safe place. So far nobody had found the other remains, the eight infants she had buried here over the years, eight tiny spokes in the natural cycle. Mathilde began to scrub the potatoes with such force her knuckles bled under the scrubber’s bristles. Gerard would be back in less than an hour and he would expect dinner to be ready.