9
What’s the point?
One morning, Louie’s mother, standing at the top of the cellar stairs, announced visitors.
“Hey, Louie, we’ve come to see the sickly donkey!” It was Mack, clomping down the stairs, followed by Claudine and Nora.
Claudine rushed to Winslow. “Awww.”
Nora stood a few steps back, staring at Winslow.
“May I touch it?” Claudine asked. “I could die from its cuteness.”
Everything about Claudine was soft and elegant: her voice, her hair, her clothes. Even the way she stood was soft and loose.
Nora, however, did not appear soft. She looked as if she had crawled out of a shed, in dirty jeans and an oversized black coat and rather large black rubber boots. Her hands and feet seemed too big for the rest of her.
Nora did not say “Awww” when she saw Winslow. She said, “Ick.” She looked around the basement, at the stone walls and concrete floor, at the buckets and hoses and rakes stacked in one corner, at the narrow cot, at Winslow’s pile of hay, and then at Winslow. “Whatcha got that thing in here for? You sure it’s a donkey? Doesn’t look like a donkey. Looks like a possum-goat.”
“A possum-goat? What’s that?” Louie asked.
“A thing that looks like a possum married a goat and had a baby that came out like that.”
“Don’t mind Nora,” Claudine said in her soft, soft voice. “That’s just the way she talks.”
“Don’t mind Claudine,” Nora added. “That’s just the way she talks.”
Mack lifted Winslow from Louie’s arms and studied him. “Gaining a little weight since I first saw him, isn’t he? Still pretty spindly. Eyes are better though. Brighter. Maybe he’s going to make it.”
“Of course he’s going to make it,” Louie said, even though he was not sure from one day to the next. He felt it would be betraying Winslow, though, if he did not believe Winslow would make it.
“Little thing like that?” Nora said. “Doesn’t seem half alive to me.”
“He’s still new,” Louie said. He didn’t know why he said that. It sounded dumb to him the minute it came out of his mouth. “Some newborns struggle to get going.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” Nora said.
“You do?”
“Sure. Our brother—”
Claudine interrupted her. “Oh, shush, Nora, your jabbering is bothering this poor little donkey. He’s quivering.”
“I am not jabbering, and I am not bothering that poor possum-goat.” Nora looked Louie in the eye. “Our brother was born two months early—”
“So was I!” Louie said. “I was a pitiful, scrawny, struggling thing.”
Nora touched Louie’s arm with one finger. “But you made it.”
“Oh.” It was surprising, Louie thought, how much one simple sentence could affect your opinion of someone.
“Do you want to hold Winslow?” he asked Nora.
“Nope. What’s the point?”
Claudine nudged her sister. “Cut it out, Nora. Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean. I don’t see the point of holding that thing if it’s going to die anyway.”
10
Freeze that scene
One time in the middle of summer a year or two earlier, Louie was walking down the road on his way into town. He stopped near a batch of tall sunflowers blooming beside a white fence. It seemed like a painting to him: those bold golden sunflowers against that white fence and overhead a pure blue sky with white, white clouds drifting along.
Louie wished he could freeze that scene. Then, as he stood there perfectly still, a bird floated down and landed on one stalk. The bird was a deeper blue than the sky. What shade was that? Instantly the name indigo bunting came to his mind. He must have seen a bird by that name in a book, but he couldn’t think when or where that might have been.
And now the scene appeared even more perfect to him: an indigo bunting atop a golden sunflower beside a white fence beneath a blue sky with drifting white clouds.
He felt supremely happy standing there.
On he went into town, to buy bread and milk. Before he reached the store, he passed the small park, and on one bench near the walkway lay a disheveled, thin man in a tattered army jacket. He appeared to be asleep. One arm was across his chest and the other hung low to the ground. The man was unshaven, his hair long and straggly, his clothes filthy.
Would I want to freeze this scene, Louie wondered, this scene of the unkempt thin man in a tattered army jacket on the brown wooden bench on the green grass near the gray walkway? As Louie moved on, he thought he didn’t have a choice. The scene, for whatever reason, was already frozen in his mind.
On his way back home, Louie slid a small brown bag next to the bench. In the bag were two rolls and a candy bar.
It was odd, Louie thought now—as he held Winslow trembling in his arms, the smell of milk formula on his face—it was odd that what floated into his mind were both scenes: the indigo bunting atop a golden sunflower beneath a blue sky and the thin man on a park bench.
Winslow’s ears brushed against Louie’s cheek. This scene, Louie thought, will stay in my mind: little gray donkey in my arms, trying to stay alive.
11
What’s a Winslow?
One morning, when the snow lay deep and white on the ground and the sun shone overhead, Louie wrapped Winslow in a blanket and took him outside, settling on the front porch. Winslow became alert, turning his small head this way and that, eyes blinking against the bright light. He put his narrow face up to Louie’s and nibbled at his scarf.
Beh-heh, beh-heh, he murmured. Beh, beh, beh.
It made Louie laugh. It was the first time the donkey had managed that sound. Up until then, his whimpers had always sounded like plea, please.
“Do you think you’re a lamb, Winslow? Are you going to baa like one? You’re supposed to say hee-haw.”
Winslow chomped on Louie’s scarf, pulling strands loose.
Louie was rubbing his face against Winslow’s when someone said, “Hey.” Nora was standing on the sidewalk in her large black coat and her clunky black boots. On her head was a bright yellow knitted hat pulled low over her ears. Nora had big black eyes and black hair that poked out beneath the hat at peculiar angles. She looked rather like a bumblebee, Louie thought.
“What’re you doing with that thing?” Nora asked.
“What thing? You mean Winslow?”
“What’s a Winslow?”
“That’s his name: Winslow. He’s a donkey and his name is Winslow.”
“The one that’s gonna die?”
“He’s not going to die.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Nora took a couple of steps toward the porch, tentative steps, as if she expected something to jump out at her or scold her and send her away.
“Want to hold him?”
“Naw. Why would I want to do that?”
“’Cause he’s really soft.”
“Naw.”
Beh-beh-beh.
“Oh!” Nora said. “It makes a noise!” She had smiled automatically but then caught herself and removed her smile.
Winslow raised his nose in the air, smelling the air around this visitor. Within the blanket, his legs pedaled.
“He’s squiggling,” Nora observed.
“I think he wants to get down on the ground, but I don’t know—it might be too cold for him.”
Nora was now standing at the bottom of the porch steps. “You could try it. Maybe. You could set him down on this shoveled part and see what happens. Maybe. If you want. Or not.”
Louie unwrapped the blanket and set spindly Winslow down. He wobbled, his long legs bending this way and that until he managed to stand upright. Winslow turned toward Nora and took two steps, stopped, tottered, and then stumbled the rest of the way. He leaned against her, nudging her boots until Nora leaned down and patted Winslow’s head.
“I think he likes you,” Louie said.
�
��Naw. Naw.” She patted Winslow again. “You think? Naw. Donkeys just do that, I bet, stumble at anybody.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I gotta go. Here, you better wrap him up again. You know what I bet?”
“What?”
“I bet you could let him run around inside the house—I mean like upstairs instead of the basement—if you put diapers on him.”
Louie winced. “Diapers?”
“Yeah, I heard about some lady who did that with a lamb, you know, so it doesn’t stink up your house and make a mess.”
“Diapers?”
“Yeah, diapers. I gotta go.”
Louie watched her leave, in her big black coat and boots and that bright yellow hat.
12
Here comes trouble
The rumble of Uncle Pete’s old blue truck announced his arrival. Uncle Pete was a large man, tall and stout, with mammoth hands and feet. His normal greeting was a booming “Hey, there!” followed by a pat on the shoulder, but the pat was so forceful it usually knocked Louie off-balance.
“Hey, there, Louie! Whoa, careful there, don’t fall over. You need some meat on those bones, boy.”
Uncle Pete was a childhood friend of Louie’s father, not really an uncle, but that’s how Louie’s parents had always referred to him.
“Here comes trouble,” Louie’s mother said. That’s what she usually said when she saw Uncle Pete.
“Ha ha! That’s me, Trouble is my middle name.” His cheeks were red from the cold. “Wicked out there today. How’s that poor donkey doing? Did it croak on ya?”
“It was doing good until this morning,” Louie said. “Come and see.”
Louie had fed Winslow late the night before and the two of them had settled down to sleep, Winslow in his small pen and Louie on the nearby cot. Usually the donkey woke him up around four a.m. for another feeding, but Louie had slept soundly through the night without hearing Winslow.
When Louie did wake, it was almost seven o’clock, and he felt relieved. Now maybe Winslow would continue to sleep through the night. For the past week, Louie had been groggy all day long, never feeling fully awake, always feeling as if he could fall asleep sitting up.
When he opened the pen, Winslow did not scramble to his feet or turn his head toward Louie as he usually did. He made no sound, no pleases, no behs. He was lying on his side, his breathing shallow. When Louie lifted him, Winslow slumped in his arms, still not waking.
Louie rubbed his sides with the blanket and dipped a cool cloth against his face. “Aw, Winslow, c’mon. What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Louie tried to recall if he had done anything wrong, if he had mixed the formula incorrectly, or if the bottle had not been clean. But he could not think of anything he had done differently the night before.
He summoned his parents and ran next door to get Mack’s father, who was not a vet, but he knew about animals.
Mack’s father said, “Some kind of infection probably. Need to have a vet check him. Get some antibiotics in him.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Louie asked. He hugged Winslow to his chest, stroking his head.
“Newborns are fragile,” Mack’s father said. “They can catch any old thing drifting through the air. It’s a wonder any of them make it.”
Mack’s father called a good friend of his, a retired veterinarian, who came over right away. After examining Winslow, the vet gave him two shots and left a prescription for additional medicines.
“It’s okay, boy,” the vet said to Louie. “He might make it, but if he doesn’t you’re doing as much as you can. These things happen. You can do everything right and yet—”
His unfinished sentence hung in the air.
Before leaving, the vet said, “You’ll have to give him one of these shots each day for at least ten days.”
“What? Who? Me?” Louie said.
“I’ll show you how. My grandson can do it, and he’s only nine.”
“Give a shot? You want me to give a shot?”
“Watch.” He showed Louie how to fill the syringe, check the level, tap it to release air bubbles, insert the needle, and release the medication. “Practice on an orange. You’ll be fine.”
“But—but—”
“You can do it.”
By the time Uncle Pete arrived later that day, Winslow was a little more alert. He had taken a few ounces of milk and had opened his eyes, but he still had not stood and was still breathing shallowly.
Uncle Pete touched Winslow gently, his huge hand enveloping the donkey’s body. “Yep,” he said. “He’s a sick one. Too bad. Kind of amazing you got him to live this long, though.”
“But he’s going to make it,” Louie said.
“Well—his mother didn’t make it. My LGD died yesterday. That birth must have been harder on her than I thought.”
“But Winslow will make it,” Louie insisted. “He will. He will.”
Later that day, Louie remembered that Gus had once told him that LGD meant Little Gray Donkey.
“Winslow, you are my LGD, and you’re going to make it. Right?”
13
What’s the matter with him?
“Louie? You awake? That girl is out front,” his mother said. Louie was lying on the couch with Winslow wrapped in a blanket on his chest.
“Which girl?”
“You know, the one you call the bumblebee girl.”
“Oh. Nora. What’s she doing?”
“Walking back and forth. I think maybe she wants to come in or something. You’d better see for yourself. I’d probably scare her off.”
Louie carried Winslow to the door. Sure enough, there was Nora walking back and forth on the sidewalk in front of his house.
“Hey,” he called to her. “Did you come to see Winslow?”
“I was just nearby,” she said.
“Well, do you want to see him?”
“Not really. No. Maybe. You got him there in that blanket?”
“Come on in,” Louie said. “I can’t bring him out today, but you can come in if you want.”
Nora glanced up the street and down the street and kicked the snowbank with her boot. She was wearing her usual outfit and Louie realized he did not have a very good idea what she really looked like because she was always swallowed up in that big coat, and her hat was squashed all the way down on her head. He didn’t know if she was plump or skinny or if she had long hair or short.
She came slowly up the walk, as if making up her mind whether she was going to come in or not. Louie opened the door wider.
“C’mon,” he said. “Can’t leave the door open. Might get Winslow cold.”
“Okay, then,” Nora said, stepping inside. She stomped the snow off her boots and casually tried to peer over the edge of the blanket-wrapped bundle in Louie’s arms. “What’s the matter with him? Something’s the matter, isn’t it? I can tell. He’s all saggy.”
“He’s been sick.”
“I knew it.”
“What?”
“I just knew it.” Nora stomped one foot hard on the floor. “It makes me so mad! I don’t want to see it. I knew it.”
“Wait—”
“I gotta go. I gotta. I knew it.”
And with that, Nora left, stomping her boots all the way down the walk and down the street.
14
See that light?
One time when Louie was young—maybe three or four—he woke in the middle of the night and saw that the sky outside his window was silvery white, so bright. Through the window streamed a rectangle of light, a wide beam across the room. It fell across the foot of his bed and onto the floor.
He thought he was in a different world, maybe one where the sun shone silver. Maybe it was day and not night.
Louie went to the window and saw that the silvery light spread across the whole sky. The trees cast long, dark shadows across the lawn.
He walked through the house, peering out other windows, and everywhere was the silver sky, and everywhere the d
ark shadows.
He woke Gus. “Something is happening. See that light?”
“It’s only moonlight,” Gus said. “There’s a full moon tonight.”
Gus led Louie to the other side of the house, and there, from a bathroom window, above the roof of the neighbor’s house, a full moon was suspended in the sky.
“See?” Gus said. “Nothing to worry about. Nothing unusual.”
When he returned to his bed, Louie thought, Nothing unusual? That silver light is not unusual? Then why had he never seen it before? Why did the light wake him?
15
Shots
The first time Louie gave Winslow a shot, he almost fainted. He kept telling himself, I can do this, I can do this, but he didn’t truly believe it. He was afraid of getting it wrong and hurting Winslow. He could hardly bear it that Winslow was sick, but it would be even worse if he hurt him more.
His father held Winslow while Louie prepared the syringe. For a moment, Louie felt dizzy and queasy. He thought he might vomit as he injected the needle and released the medication. Winslow briefly twitched, but he made no sound.
“Did I do it?” Louie asked his father. “I did it, didn’t I?” He gently massaged the area around the injection site and held Winslow close.
“You sound surprised,” his father said.
“Well, I am. Surprised and relieved.”
“Me, too,” his father said. “Surprised and relieved.”
“I thought I was going to throw up.”
“Me, too. I thought we both were going to throw up.”
The next time he had to give Winslow a shot, he tried to convince his father to do it, but his father said, “No, you’re taking care of him. You can do it.”
That time, when Louie inserted the needle into the pinch of skin as he’d been directed, the needle went through to the other side and the medicine shot into the air.
Louie wanted to throw the syringe on the ground and shout, “I can’t do this! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” but one look at pitiful Winslow made him try again.
Saving Winslow Page 2
