The Meadow 169 he’d asked, trying to keep the anger he felt out of his voice. “It’s just that I’d feel bad knowing I’m driving those animals to their deaths,” Jimmy said. Jim felt as if his son had punched him in the gut. Jim’s own father had told Jim how to vote, what jobs were acceptable, what union to join, and Jim rarely questioned him. He did what his father suggested out of respect for him. What Jim was offering Jimmy wasn’t hard, or permanent even. He wasn’t asking him to become a truck driver. He was asking him to spend a little time with his old man, and the rejection felt personal. “Those animals are what pays for your video games and college applications,” he’d said hotly. “And it’s what they are raised to do.” “I know, Dad.” He’d said nothing else, and neither did Jim. Jim hadn’t called to argue with his son. He never meant to argue with him, but their conversations just naturally flowed in that direction, like a force of gravity. The next time Jim was home, Karen served a meatloaf for dinner that was so unexpectedly awful, Jim spat his bite back out onto his plate. “What’s wrong with this?” “It’s vegan, Jim. I made it with soy. Jimmy doesn’t eat meat anymore. Besides, it’s better for us. I’ve lowered my cholesterol 30 points. God knows what yours is like.” Karen glanced at Jim’s belly. There was a word for this, Jim thought. The fact that beef is what paid to put God-awful tofu on the table. Irony. That was the word. Jim pulled into the slaughterhouse around four, where a guy directed him to a pen on the left of the main building, and he backed the truck into position, then got out and lowered the ramp. “End of the line, boys,” he yelled into the truck. The animals shifted and turned and lumbered down the ramp single file.
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