Read Online The Empress Chronicles by Suzy Vitello - Free Book Online

away with humming, but since the frequent flyers were experienced in horking while humming, a savvy attendant would bang on the door unless she could really make out the song. “I can’t name that tune in six notes, missy,” the nurse might say. “Let’s hear it!”
    Here in the tiny bathroom, my little zippered pouch of toiletries sits behind a crock that holds The Girlfriend’s menstrual sponges. I knew they sold these tampon alternatives, but I never imagined anyone actually used them.
    I hold my hands under the hot water as long as I can stand it. Count to a hundred. The water is so hot it makes them go numb. When I reach the end, my hands are salmon-colored and my punctured finger stings. The pain of it all moves up my arm, up the back of my neck. My head tingles. Schubert’s trio winds down—the sad moan of a cello dribbling out the tiny eardrum speakers that hang like a skinny scarf around my neck.
    “Do they bite?” I ask once I get to the goat pen, my finger bandaged in gauze and protected by a double glove.
    Dad chuckles. “No, Princess, but they have been known to suck.”
    I’m not sure if Dad is being funny. Like, funny ha-ha, or funny inappropriate, or what. Ever since hooking up with The Girlfriend, there has been a tinge of lust to everything that he says. It gives me the creeps.
    “Dad, really,” I say, folding my arms tight as a goat with floppy ears ambles toward me and inches its fat, black lips up my stomach.
    I back up all squeamish, grossed out, ready to bolt, and Dad pulls the goat off of me by its collar. “Settle, Shamrock,” he mumbles. He scratches it behind the ears, and the goat pushes against his hand; its eyes go all bliss. “Shamrock’s my favorite,” he says. “The best producer we have, but she’s a little feisty.”
    I’m still backed away, my arms folded in tight. The animal odors pierce my brain. I try not to breathe. The last time I was around farm animals was a vacation with Dad to San Diego. The petting part of that zoo was carved into a hill and shaded by ginormous eucalyptus trees, sort of the way you’d imagine Heaven, if Heaven had a petting zoo. For two quarters you could buy a bag of cracked corn and when you walked around with it, it was like you were a rock star and all the sheep and goats were your adoring fans. Dad and I sprinkled the dusty kernel bits in little arcs around our feet, and lo and behold, adorable as Bambi, the creatures appeared, stilt-walking on their spindly legs, and touching us lightly with their velvet noses.
    And when one of them crapped, discreet workers in white uniforms sidled up with stiff brooms and dustpans, and all was whisked away, practically before the little dung balls hit the dirt. It was a Disneyland sort of experience. But here, in the dilapidated goat shed made of warped, splintery boards, the animals were seasoned and smelly. Breadcrumbs of turds dotted the enclosure. The goats had swaybacks and big stomachs and udders, and their hip bones jutted out under stiff, stained fur.
    I hold up my injured hand and shake my head when Dad says, “Want to milk her?”
    The bag of milk under the goat is disturbing. It’s as if someone has blown up one of my rubber gloves and taped it to the goat’s underside. The ridiculous udder nearly reaches its knees, or whatever the knobby middle section of its legs is called.
    “Where are the babies?” I want to know.
    Dad smiles. “Well, Liz, that’s sort of the bummer about raising goats for cheese. You have to offload the kids pretty quick, keep the butterfat high. Babies stress the doe out.”
    I pull my arms in tighter. “You mean they’re less stressed when the kids just disappear? Don’t they go nuts?”
    “Oh, for a day or two. Then they sort of forget they ever had them.”
    I imagine Mom, now on a cruise ship in the ocean, probably dancing up a storm with a handsome stranger. Mom, forgetting about me. A small prickle of a tear tries to form in the corner of my eye. I