Underworld Party (with Goats)

The handmade sign for Tartaros Valley Farms hugs the side of the highway. As Dan turns the minivan onto the dirt road tucked in its shadow, I snicker.

“What?” He contorts in the driver’s seat to recheck the painted wood monstrosity.

“The abyss for the souls of the damned.”

“Raina, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Gravel crunches beneath the tires and pings our undercarriage. “Where did you find this place?”

“You didn’t help plan, you don’t get to judge.” Dan moves his hands to a firmer ten-and-two as the driveway pitches downward, presumably to deliver us to the underworld.

Following a divorce, friends and family need reasons why. A tidy list helps them believe it’s possible to inoculate their own marriages from similar flaws. Here’s one from Dan’s and my former union: the part of his brain that processes situational details atrophied, if it ever existed at all. For example, he handled our grocery shopping and he would buy whatever I put on the list, but always the sugar-free version, or the spicy kind, or the wrong brand. Say I was making a cucumber salad; he’d return with a pile of zucchinis. And since he can’t pay attention to detail, he falls for every internet and marketing scam out there. We spent half our marriage waiting at customer service counters or standing in line at the bank for new credit cards and account numbers.

From the back of the van, our ten-year-old Melody and her friends squeal at something Jasmine has shown them on her phone. Jasmine and her shockingly irresponsible parents are the reason we’re on this excursion. On one front, Dan and I remain united—no cell phones until middle school. We explained our position to Melody at her birthday dinner a few weeks ago, right after she failed to hide her disappointment at the present she thought was a phone, but was in fact a necklace Dan had picked out.

“But Jasmine has a phone already.”

“Every family does things differently.”

“What if I want to talk to you when I’m staying at Dad’s?” Then, puppy dog eyes. A sniffle. “I can use it to look at pictures of the three of us when I get sad you two aren’t together anymore.”

I dabbed my eyes with a napkin and Dan cleared the lump I could hear in his throat with beer. Did fourth-grade health class come with a “How to Work Your Divorced Parents” unit? We settled on a compromise. No cell phone, but she could have a birthday party, a big one, just like she always wanted. By the time Melody’s chicken fingers arrived she was back to giggling about the boy who threw up in music class, while the thought of her scrolling through pictures of our broken family kept me awake for the next three nights.

The problem was, on such short notice the skating rink was already booked. So was the trampoline park. With only nine days until the date on the handmade invitations Melody had given to five of her closest friends, Dan texted me.

I found a place. Do you want to see?

I trust you, I replied, which was the same mistake I’d made all thirteen years we were together.

I clutch the armrest as Dan eases the brake around a switchback corner carved out of the pine forest. “Did someone recommend this place?”

“I saw an ad on Facebook.”

“So no one you know has actually had a party here?”

“Technically.”

“What about food? Cake?”

“I emailed with the woman. She said she’d take care of everything.”

Dan had delivered his sales pitch to Melody when he picked her up from the house last Friday. Tartaros Valley is a goat farm that makes hand soap. A petting zoo and arts and crafts! What fourth grader wouldn’t love that? My hope that he has stumbled upon a unique and creative party option survives until the gravel driveway delivers us onto a vast dirt lot. Facing us is a squat farmhouse without any siding. A pole shed clad in a mosaic of corrugated metal sheets. A row of vehicles along the back of the property, saplings escaping from where the windshields used to be. Dozens of goats, which rush our van like the Pope’s in back, ready to pet some livestock and sing “Happy Birthday.” And standing in the middle of all this, our host: an old-ish woman in bright orange overalls with her hands on her hips and a gaze like a Middle Earth troll. She starts towards our car by kicking the goat that had wandered into her path.

Dan puts the van in park. “This’ll be fun.”

Here’s another one for everyone’s “Why Raina and Dan Failed” list: he’s incapable of acknowledging that sometimes things go wrong. During our second year of marriage, we took a trip to Mexico. He wanted to walk to the beach instead of taking the hotel’s shuttle, even though it was 101 degrees. Then we got lost. Then the police picked us up and we spent a few hours in a jail cell. I did my best to use my Spanish minor to negotiate our release while Dan laid on the concrete bench, breathing through the heat stroke. On our way out, instead of apologizing or thanking me for saving us, he said, “What a great story. I can’t wait to tell everyone.”

The kids pile out of the van, arms clutched to their chests to protect their fingers from curious goat nibbles.

“What’s that smell?” asks one of Melody’s friends.

Jasmine holds her phone in the air. “There’s no signal out here.”

“Only girls, huh?” The proprietor of Tartaros Valley circles Melody’s crew like she’s considering adding them to her herd. “We’ll make it work. Half of you come with me, the other half go wait by the shed.”

Absent any instruction on how to pick teams, the girls stare at each other. I meet Dan in front of the van. “This place is unique. And stinky.”

“A little.”

“You understand we’re going to get murdered, right?”

“Raina,” he says, but before he can tell me I’m overreacting, I march to the woman in orange overalls.

“Hello,” I say. “My name is Raina. You emailed with my husband?” (Ex-husband, whatever, I’ll get it right someday.)

The woman stares at me.

“He’s not great with details,” I continue. “May I ask what our itinerary is?”

A brown and white ram stares me down from the woman’s flank. “Milk goats, make soap,” she says.

“Have you hosted many birthday parties?”

I swear the ram squints at me as if I’m wearing on his patience. “One other time,” the woman says. “Kids had fun, made lots of soap.”

“Interesting.” I remind myself to grab my purse (with the pepper spray in the front pocket) before we depart the van. “What would you like my husband and I to do?”

The woman rests her hand on the horned goat’s head, but he won’t break eye contact with me. “You go with the shed group. He comes with me. We need someone strong for milking in case they get feisty.”

I laugh. “Do you mean the kids or the goats?”

“Either way.”

I’m stronger than Dan is. I work out five days a week. Doesn’t matter.

I dodge a white goat with gray spots to stand in front of the girls, who haven’t made any progress in dividing themselves. “I’ll take this half,” I say, chopping the group down the middle with my arm. “The rest of you go with Melody’s dad and…” Did the orange woman say her name? “…goat lady.”

By now the girls have grown more comfortable with the animals. They pet noses, ruffle ears. Melody and two friends follow Dan. Jasmine and the remaining two partygoers fall in line behind me.

“I hope you don’t mind your new nickname,” I shout as our host follows Dan’s group.

“No matter,” she shouts back. “‘Goat lady’ is fine.”

I’ve never wished harder for cell coverage than when Jasmine gives up on her signal-less phone and, absent any other stimulus, turns to me to ask, “What’s it like being divorced?”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” I respond.

As instructed, the four of us wait in front of the shed. A raspberry-lavender-patchouli smell seeps from the cracks in the piecemeal metal wall, and a dozen goats surround us in a half-circle like it’s our prison yard time. The ram with the curved horns nods towards Jasmine. “Answer her,” he says with his eyes.

“Sometimes it’s a relief. Other times it feels like I’ve lost a part of who I am.”

“When my mom and dad fight, I tell them they should just get divorced, but they never listen.” Jasmine rolls her eyes, and the ram must read the malice I feel towards her on my face. He shakes his head with his feathery eyebrows raised, and his message is clear. “You know you can’t be mean to her.”

“Maybe we should wait inside,” I say, but as soon as I lay a hand on the giant shed door, the bleating starts. The half-circle of goats collapses towards us. “Or we can stay here,” I say.

“You all relax.” Goat Lady appears as if out of nowhere, waving away the livestock. “They can’t hurt nothing.” The animals part to let her through, and I steal a glance at the ram. “You’re lucky she’s here,” he seems to say.

“How long have you kept goats?” I ask as the woman jimmies the door.

“A few years.”

“I’ve never seen so many. Normally people only have a handful.”

“They keep showing up, I keep giving them homes.”

The door shrieks open, revealing a slapdash workspace: dirt floor, mismatched tables, huge stainless-steel pots sitting on little four-legged propane burners. Everything is dripping with black grime. Goat Lady flicks a switch, and a smattering of naked bulbs flicker on. The girls huddle tighter behind me. At least it smells nice.

We follow Goat Lady to the back of the room. “Before we get started,” I say, “I wanted to apologize for my husband.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure the milking operation was a challenge for him.”

“He jumped right in.”

“He usually struggles with new situations.”

“Goats loved him, as far as I could tell.”

My dad, both of my sisters, my whole team at work—basically everyone—keeps telling me I should see a therapist, but I already know my problem: instead of focusing on the faults of my relationship with Dan, I should heal and move on. And I will, eventually. But before I do, here’s one more for your lists: he’s this competent, confident guy, around everyone except me. I ask him to paint the dining room, he whines about paint fumes and his bad shoulder and the unreliability of painters’ tape. But his nephew invites him over for the weekend to help build a patio, and three YouTube videos later they’ve crafted this oasis, complete with pergola, hot tub, and brick pizza oven.

How’s this for therapy? In a marriage, the moment you worry more about impressing other people instead of your spouse, it’s over. Only a matter of time.

Goat Lady shows us how to make the soap, and the process is actually ingenious. She’s pre-mixed the goat milk with a lye solution, which she adds to the vats. Then the girls visit the back of the shed, which is lined with repurposed library card catalogs that hold every variety of dried flower and fruit and essential oil imaginable. “Go nuts, have fun,” she instructs the girls. “Pick whatever ingredients you want.” They add their selections to the vats, stir, sniff, and when they’re done, Goat Lady pours the mixture into molds. “Make as many batches as you want,” Goat Lady says. “You can keep a bar from each.”

“What happens to the rest?” I ask.

“I sell them.”

I laugh. “So we’re free labor then?” and I swear I’m trying to be funny, but Goat Lady stares at me like I’ve just accused her of murder. After a moment, she shrugs. “Keep two bars, if you want.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m deep into what is likely the greatest recipe ever to come out of Tartaros Valley: pumpkin puree, cinnamon, vanilla, honey, and to simulate the crust smell, butter extract. Pumpkin pie! The brown and white ram wanders the shed while we work, and he pauses in front of my station while I sniff a ladleful. The nod he offers says, “Not bad.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” I respond, out loud, and Jasmine shoots me a funny look.

Soon my soap smell mixes with the floral and fruit aromas wafting from the girls’ pots to give me a headache. “I need some air,” I announce to the room. No one looks up, except for the ram. He follows me outside and stares as I pace. “You okay?” I imagine him asking.

“What do you care?” I respond, this time quiet enough that no one can hear.

“Tell me.”

I can see Dan, Melody, and the rest of the party approaching from the other end of the lot, carrying metal pails sloshing with bright white milk. “I don’t know how to spend time with him,” I explain. “What exactly should I be feeling?”

“I am incapable of feeling anything,” says the ram.

“Must be nice,” I say.

However much I wish this day would end, it’s still my only daughter’s birthday. When she reaches the shed, I muster as much motherly excitement as I can. “How was it?”

“I couldn’t figure out the motion,” Melody says, “but Dad is a teat master.”

Dan catches my eye and smiles, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “That’s not a very appropriate way to put it,” I say to Melody.

“Sorry, Mom.”

Melody leads her friends inside and Dan steps forward. He knows better than to acknowledge Melody’s unintentional joke. Instead he asks, “How’s it going in there?”

“This whole place is a scam. The kids make the soap, and then she sells it.”

“But they get to keep some, right?”

“One whole bar.”

“Do you know what one whole bar sells for?”

“How would I know that?”

“I asked if you wanted to see the website.” I can see I’m getting on his nerves. He breathes slowly through his mouth. “Tartaros Valley Soap retails for sixty dollars a bar.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Apparently the goat milk and her secret ingredients have a drastic anti-aging effect.” He sets the pail down and flexes his hand. “A bunch of big social media celebrities swear by it.” The ram sidles up to Dan, and he scratches the animal’s head. “You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you?” The ram nods in agreement, and Dan picks up the bucket again. “You coming?”

“I need a few more minutes.”

After Dan enters the shed, I look down to find the ram staring at me once again. “He seems like a good dude,” the goat says.

“Fuck off,” I reply.

I scan the panorama of Tartaros Valley, and there’s a chance I was mistaken. The house doesn’t have siding, but upon closer inspection, it appears to be in the middle of a remodel, with construction supplies stacked off to the side. The decrepit vehicles that line the back of the lot appear more curated than the average backcountry collection of junk. There’s an old Model T, a classic pickup truck. The plants separating them are too complementary to be happenstance, and the big swaths of dirt that make up the yard? It’s all peppered with grass seed. The ram watches the slow realization of my error spread across my face, but this time he doesn’t say anything.

A cry sounds from inside the shed. It’s Melody, I can tell in an instant. I run inside, and Dan and Melody’s friends have already gathered around her. She’s cut her finger with the knife she was using to mince dried mandarin oranges. Dan keeps blotting the blood away with a paper towel, but more keeps pouring from the wound, covering her finger, and dripping onto the dirt floor.

“It’s bad,” says Dan.

“How far is the closest hospital?” I ask.

Goat Lady arrives and glances over the heads of the ten-year-olds. “That doesn’t need stitches.”

I straighten up. “Is that your professional medical opinion?”

“Yes,” Goat Lady replies.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Goat Lady shrugs. “I’ve got some idea. I was head of surgery at Fairview in Minneapolis, before I retired.” She leans closer to Melody. “Keep constant pressure on it,” she says to Dan. “No need to keep checking.”

The ram stays behind as Dr. Goat Lady departs to find the necessary bandage, but I avoid eye contact with him. I’m already embarrassed enough without imagining what some dumb animal would say about my error. Absent the intrigue of more blood, the rest of the girls wander back to their soap stations, leaving space for me to crouch next to my daughter.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“A little,” she says. Dan still clutches her finger wrapped in the paper towel. “Can I have your phone to take a picture of it?”

“You can use mine,” Dan says as he slips his out of his pocket with his free hand. Melody taps the screen, then holds it up to her father’s face to unlock it. After six selfies and another half-dozen close-ups of the wound itself, the device dings with a new text message. “It’s Katie,” Melody announces. “She wants to know what you want for dinner.”

Dan groans. My blood freezes. My headache triples in strength. The ram takes a step back and says, “Oh shit.”

“She should’ve come today,” Melody says as she hands the phone back to her father. “She would’ve had fun.”

“I’m so sorry,” Dan whispers to me, and finally we arrive at number one on the Dan and Raina list. He feels bad for me. Not so much when he dated the four-foot-eleven dental hygienist for almost a year while we were still married, and definitely not when he proposed to her three days after we signed the divorce papers. But now, months later, when all is said and done, he won’t say her name around me. For all those years after we met he would look at me like I was someone special. Now he looks at me like I’m an old dog on her last ride to the vet.

“Melody’s right,” I say. “Why didn’t you invite her?”

“Raina…”

Goat Lady returns with a butterfly bandage in one hand and a cake in the other. It’s a gorgeous fondant monstrosity in the shape of a goat with candles stuck in its back. She places it on one of the work tables and we all sing “Happy Birthday.” After everyone gets a slice, the goats mob the girls and steal bites from their paper plates. I wander over to stand next to our host.

“I bet you made that cake yourself,” I say.

“Sure did.”

“It’s beautiful.” I cross my arms and look at the ground. “I should apologize. I’ve been pretty rude to you today.”

“You’re fine.”

“What’s your actual name?”

“Nadine.”

“Pleased to meet you, Nadine. You’ve got a beautiful place here.”

In the middle of the shed, the ram sneaks up behind Dan, butts him in the leg, then steals his entire plateful of cake. “What the hell?” Dan shouts.

“And just to clarify,” I explain to Nadine, “he’s actually my ex-husband.”

She nods. “That makes a lot more sense.”

I know what she means, and I deserve it.

“Do you have a bathroom?” I ask.

“Inside the house, down the hall.” Nadine takes a final bite of her slice, then lowers the plate so the goats surrounding her can finish it. “Excuse the mess.”

I grab my purse and cross the yard. The interior of the house is gorgeous, even though it’s unfinished. Dark wood floors, walls covered in something that looks like cork. Red brick bathroom, gold fixtures. From my bag I pull one of the eleven bars of soap I snuck before I realized how much they cost. It’s a swirl of brown and white, and it smells like coffee and coconut. With water it creates a lather smoother than silk.

I have lots to do when I get back outside. Check Melody’s wound, make sure all her friends (including Jasmine) are having a good time. I kind of want a picture of the ram, and I definitely need to figure out how to replace all the soap I stole without being seen. I will make a point of thanking Dan for arranging the party, but before any of that, there’s something I desperately need to do first. I wash my face. The moment the lather touches my skin I can feel it working. It’s magic. Sixty dollars a bar is nothing. I’d pay seventy.