Page 49 of Salty Pickle

I meant the cargo bay, but I’m not going to argue. I open the rear door, and Lucy pats the seat. The goat jumps up, and Lucy follows. I pile her bags into the front seat and make sure plenty of air is flowing to her.

“This is better,” she says.

I get behind the wheel, and for the first time since she called me, I realize I have no idea what I’m going to do with her.

This is a dilemma. As I signal and merge back onto the road, I try to figure out a solution. We have to vet any goat farms, or farms in general, before we choose another place.

I glance in the rear-view mirror. Lucy rests her head on her goat, weeping into her fur.

“Have you eaten lunch?” I ask her.

“I don’t think I could.”

“Let’s at least stop and pick something up.”

She doesn’t respond.

At the next light, I search my phone for something suitable with a drive-thru. I find a sandwich shop with an extensive vegetarian menu and smoothies. I want something cold and caloric in her. She looks both pink and pale at the same time, wisps of hair curling around her temples.

When we pull up to the microphone to order, she says, “Can you ask for loose lettuce or carrots for Matilda?”

This will be fun. “Sure. What do you want?”

“Maybe a strawberry smoothie.”

Perfect.

A woman’s voice comes over the speaker. “May I take your order?”

“Yes, I need a large strawberry smoothie.” I’ll get some food, anyway. She might eat it later. “And a hummus and avocado on wheat. A cream cheese with sprouts on sourdough. And can I get a pile of lettuce on the side?”

There’s silence for a minute, then the woman says, “What was that?”

“A pile of loose lettuce.”

“Just lettuce? Nothing else.”

“It’s for a goat.”

Silence.

“Did you get that?” I work to control the anger in my voice as heat rises from my gut.

“Oh, I got it. Strawberry smoothie. Hummus and avocado on wheat. Cream cheese and sprouts on sourdough. And lettuce for your goat.”

“That’s right.” I catch Lucy watching out the window as if she can see the woman taking the order.

“Clarice, what do I charge for random lettuce?” the woman calls.

Another voice says, “What do you mean, random lettuce?”

She must realize her mic is on, because the speaker goes quiet.

“You’d think I asked for poop on a platter,” Lucy says.

I force myself to hold back my laugh. “You’d think.”

Finally, the speaker squawks again, “Twenty-three seventy-five. Pull up.”

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