Page 9 of Salty Pickle

“Who’s Matilda?”

“My goat.”

Fuck. That’ll be a tall order. “Let me get Devin in here.”

She nods, then frowns at the floor by her feet. “Do you have a towel?”

Now I really do jump out of my chair. “Did your water break? Are you bleeding?”

She laughs. Actually laughs. Like any of this is funny. “No. Matilda is too full. I need to milk her. Do you have a bucket? Or a big jar?”

Jesus Christ. I’ve fucked up this time.

3

LUCY

He’s worse than I remember.

Court’s big, fancy office has a private bathroom, so I lock myself inside it with Matilda. He’s being condescending, and he and his assistant Devin are deciding my life for me, looking up Airbnbs and pet friendly hotels.

When they discussed the possibility of pretending Matilda is a dog on the reservations, I left them to come in here. Who do they think Matilda is, Scooby-Do? Are they going to dress her like a baby and stick her in a carriage?

That’s not a bad idea, actually.

I’m glad to have a moment alone. It’s been a long journey on the road, with heat and dirt and days and nights in trucks.

I’m grateful for every helpful person who got me to New York, but I’m so so tired. It’s as though all my energy got used up, and now I’m sitting on a rug in a black-tiled bathroom with nothing left to run on.

There is much to do. I lift an empty soap dish by the faucet, inspect it for cleanliness, wash and dry it anyway, then fill it with feed for Matilda.

While she’s busy with that, I remove the diaper, flush the contents, and swiftly wash it out with my goat milk soap. I clean up Matilda with it, rinse the cloth again, and hang it alongside the bamboo fleece diaper liner on a towel rack.

Everything in here is pristine. Before Matilda can do anything on the expensive-looking rug, I quickly pull out my spare diaper and liner and cover her again.

She’s finished the feed. I don’t dare let her drink from the toilet. I’m sure all manner of horrible chemicals are used to clean it.

I search under the sink and find the best thing, an industrial-sized bucket.

It’s probably also been used with chemicals, so I set to scrubbing it with scalding water and my natural soap. My hands turn red, but I can’t compromise with Matilda.

When it seems safe, I fill the bucket with fresh, cool water and let her drink as long as she wants. Then I wash it again and kneel next to her.

“Time to get that milk out of you, sweet girl.”

She’s filled to bursting, so once the smooth, creamy milk starts flowing, it’s an easy job. She closes her eyes, no doubt relieved to be clean and fed and emptied.

At last, it’s done.

The bucket is half full, but I don’t know what to do with the milk. I set it on the counter by the sink.

I’m so tired. So tired. Matilda is, too. Goats don’t need as much sleep as humans, but it’s been a long haul for both of us. She stays standing, which tells me she’s nervous, even in our private space, but her eyes drift closed.

I sit cross-legged next to her. I should go out to the office again. See what they’ve figured out for me. I hate being at their mercy, but I’m at the end of my rope.

Court seems to think he’ll be rid of me after the birth, but I know my history. He was one noteworthy night in a long, uneventful period of my life.

Matilda must decide that this place is okay, as she kneels to lie on the rug.

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