Steering Toward Normal

by Rebecca Petruck

  Sometimes Diggy just wanted to thump his head on the table. Repeatedly.

  When Wayne came into the kitchen, Diggy ignored him, per the usual, but the guy didn’t get a glass of milk or whatever—he stood in the doorway until Diggy finally looked up. “What?”

  “I didn’t think Pop went out anymore.”

  “You mean like how he’s not out now at Ole Jib’s?” Weirdo. “Who was on the phone?”

  “A guy calling about meeting at Otto’s later. He said if Pop changed his mind, it looked like they’d have a decent group for a pool tournament.”

  “So?” Wayne acted like the message was a big deal, but it sounded to Diggy like it didn’t even matter—Pop had turned down the invite.

  “Does Pop go out? He doesn’t even go anywhere for work.”

  “He just works from home, Wayne. Jeez. He has friends and stuff.”

  “Does he go out with women?”

  Diggy shrugged, but suddenly he got why Wayne seemed spooked. Diggy wasn’t comfortable thinking about Pop and women, either, especially after the talk they had just had. Some nights when Pop went out, he came home pretty early. Other nights he was very, very late. He went out so rarely, it didn’t seem fair to think anything bad about it. But Diggy did wonder. He wondered what Pop had been like when he knew Diggy’s mom. What it was about Pop that Diggy’s mom had liked for a few nights—and maybe hated by the time she left Diggy on the doorstep.

  “How’d he meet your mom?” Wayne asked.

  Now the guy was spooking Diggy. It was almost like he had read Diggy’s thoughts. “How should I know?”

  “Well, why don’t you? Where is she?”

  “Not here.” Which explained everything, as far as Diggy was concerned.

  “But she’s not—” Wayne looked out the window. “But she’s still alive, so you could look for her.”

  No, he couldn’t. Because if he looked for her, she could never choose to come back—he’d have decided for her that she should. Not that he ever thought about it in the first place.

  “Have you looked for her?”

  “What do you care?” Diggy had had enough of Wayne and enough of the entire conversation. “She was my mom and she left. I’ve got homework to do.”

  “She still is your mom—that’s the whole point.”

  Exactly. She still was his mom, and she still was somewhere else. That was the whole point for Diggy, and he certainly didn’t need Wayne thinking he knew anything about it.

  He was wishing for anything to stop Wayne from saying whatever he was about to say next, when he heard something.

  Diggy sat up straight, one ear cocked toward the kitchen door. “Did you hear that?”

  “I don’t care if Pop hears us talking about—”

  “Shh.” Diggy listened, then heard it again. A moo—no, more like a cry but brief. No, cut off—that was it. He stumbled to the kitchen window and cupped his hands to cut the reflection. He couldn’t see the steers. It was too dark, and the sound had been far away.

  “Is there really something, or are you just—”

  “Something’s wrong with the steers.”

  Diggy half fell out the back door, then finally got his feet organized beneath him and started running. He reached for the gate and caught barbed wire. “Crap.”

  Wayne got the gate open, but Diggy charged through first. Then he heard it.

  Three sharp barks.

  “Get!” he hollered into the dark. He ran faster, spurred by a snarl, a thud, a short yelp. One of the steers had gotten a kick in.

  Diggy could see them now, darker black forms outlined against the tree line. He ran faster than he ever had in his life and was still too far away.

  The dog leapt. He got hold of a calf, near the shoulder point, under the neck.

  The steer screamed. He tried to kick at the dog with his front legs but couldn’t reach, and the dog wasn’t coming loose.

  Diggy slammed into the two of them. His momentum tore the dog away, and both tumbled across the ground. Diggy was at the dog’s back, so when the animal snapped its teeth and tried to scratch itself free, it couldn’t quite reach. Diggy felt the roll ending and pushed the dog away. The dog righted itself fast and turned back, barking.

  “Get!” Diggy shouted, stumbling to his feet.

  A rock whizzed past his ear. “Get out of here!” Wayne yelled, too. He threw another rock, advancing on the dog. “Go on!”

  The dog growled, but Diggy and Wayne kept advancing, then Wayne scored with his next throw.

  The dog yelped, then ran away.

  The boys waited. They strained to see into the darkness.

  “I don’t think he’s coming back,” Diggy said.

  Wayne punched Diggy’s arm. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!” he yelled. “What if he’d been rabid? He could have torn you to pieces.”

  Diggy knew it. His head felt funny, like it might float away from him, and he thumped to a seat on the ground.

  “Did he bite you?” Wayne said, still yelling.

  Diggy thought about his body. His back and legs and arms hurt from the rough roll. “I think I’m okay,” he said.

  The calf bawled.

  “Check on him,” Diggy said.

  Wayne shook his head at Diggy but went to check on the steer.

  Diggy stood carefully. Achy but not too bad.

  “It’s too dark to see,” Wayne said. “His neck’s sticky, though.”

  “Let’s get them to the barn.”

  Diggy went to the other calf. The smell and feel of the unhurt steer was entirely familiar. Joker had been spared.

  They didn’t have leads, but the steers were well trained and spooked enough to be easily led—they wanted to go back to the safety of the barn.

  Once there, Diggy turned on one of the clip-on lights. It was way too bright—everybody flinched, including the steers.

  Diggy blinked until the brightness didn’t hurt, then checked out Wayne’s steer. There was blood. His hide was punctured in a perfectly shaped dog bite. “I’ll go call Pop.”

  He ran to the house and prepared to punch numbers into the phone, then realized he didn’t know the number at Ole Jib’s. Diggy cursed Pop’s stubbornness about cell phones. He thought for a second and dialed a number. It rang twice, and then Mr. Johnston said, “Yup.”

  “A dog attacked Wayne’s steer.”

  “Diggy?”

  “Yes, sir. Is July there?”

  “Hang on.”

  Diggy noticed his hands. He checked the phone. He’d gotten blood on the numbers.

  “Where’s Pop?” July asked.

  “Ole Jib’s.” He wished Pop were home, too.

  “Hang up,” she said. “I’ll call the vet and drive over. Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” He hung up as instructed.

  He grabbed a couple of towels and wrapped them around his hands as he went back outside. “July’s coming. She’s getting the vet.”

  Wayne looked at the towels bundling Diggy’s hands. “You didn’t know it wasn’t your steer.”

  Diggy’s hands hurt, and now he was ticked off. “You think I would have stood there and watched if I had known it was yours?”

  Wayne kept his eyes focused on his calf. “I appreciate it, is all.”

  Diggy shuffled his feet. “Yeah, well. No big deal.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You would have done the same.”

  “I don’t know.” The steer bawled again. Wayne scratched its rump. “I was scared,” he mumbled. “I didn’t know what was happening.”

  “You found the rocks pretty fast. And in the dark.”

  Wayne nodded.

  “You can’t throw for crap,” Diggy added, “but you found them okay.”

  Wayne squinted at him. “Yeah. I was aiming for you.”

  Diggy spurted a laugh through his nose. “Good one.” He eyed Wayne’s steer. “Now you can finally name him.”

  Wayne cocked an eyebrow.


  “Fang. ’Cause those are like vampire marks on his neck.”

  Wayne considered the name. He shrugged. “Works for me.”

  A truck skidded into the drive. July left the door open in her rush to get out. “You’re both okay?”

  She wore a white parka that looked like a marshmallow and blue pajama pants dotted with winged cows and clouds. Her feet clopped in big rubber boots.

  “Nice outfit,” Diggy said.

  She frowned at him. “So, you’re fine.” She looked at Wayne.

  “Me, too,” he said.

  She examined the calf briefly, then grabbed a brush off a nail and started working Fang’s hide down the back, away from his wound. “It’ll help him calm down,” she explained.

  And, Diggy thought, help her calm down, too. Her hands were a little shaky. She had really been afraid for them. He couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “What?” she said.

  He blushed but still smiled. “Your braid’s falling out.”

  Her hand went to her hair. She shrugged and went back to brushing and scratching.

  They told her what had happened, the details pretty confused, with Wayne adding and Diggy correcting and back and forth until another truck pulled into the drive. Fast. Pop jumped out.

  “You boys okay?” He ran to join them.

  “How’d you hear?” Diggy asked.

  “Mr. Johnston.” He grabbed Diggy’s shoulders and spun him around to look him up and down. “What happened to your hands?”

  July made a sound. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she exclaimed, and she rushed to his side, too.

  Diggy had kind of forgotten his injuries. Or maybe he had let Joker’s body block July’s view of his hands. They looked stupid wrapped in kitchen towels, and he didn’t want her to think he was a wimp.

  Pop unwrapped the towels and carefully cupped Diggy’s hands in his palms. “Son,” he said softly. “That steer going to be okay for a while?” he asked July.

  “I’ll stay with him until the vet comes. They should both sit down.” Her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry I didn’t send them into the house right away.”

  “You did good, girl. Thanks for coming so fast.”

  She nodded but didn’t look convinced.

  Diggy wanted to say something, but Pop got him moving toward the house. Inside, Pop ran warm water at the sink. Diggy winced pretty good when the soap and water first hit, but no way was he going to cry with July right outside. She could see him through the window if she wanted. Pop hugged Diggy’s head against his chest, and Diggy let him.

  While the water ran, Pop looked back at Wayne, who had taken a seat at the kitchen table. “You okay?”

  Wayne nodded.

  Pop waited.

  “Really,” Wayne said. He showed his hands and that he could move everything the way it was supposed to move.

  Pop nodded. “So, what happened?”

  Wayne told the story again.

  Diggy didn’t interrupt this time. He was too tired. Another truck came up the drive. “The vet should have gotten here before you—it’s an emergency.”

  “He’s coming from the other side of town,” Pop reminded him.

  Diggy turned off the water and headed for the door.

  Pop stopped him. “July can handle it.” He draped fresh towels over Diggy’s hands and directed him to a chair. He studied them again. “A pretty deep scratch on the side here and a puncture in your palm. Doesn’t look like teeth marks, though. I don’t think they’re bad enough for stitches.”

  Diggy looked, too. Most of the injuries were shallow scrapes, like you got when you fell on asphalt and caught yourself with your hands. Except for where he’d grabbed the barbed wire, the scrapes were mostly on the backs of his hands. The one deep cut was along the outside, under his pinky. The dog must have gotten a claw in after all.

  “Must have been one of Kubat’s,” Diggy said. The dogs were wild but not mean. At least, Diggy hadn’t thought they were.

  “I’ll call him tomorrow,” Pop said. “He can pay the vet’s bill.”

  Diggy yawned. He blinked fast to wake up again. He wanted to hear what the vet had to say.

  Pop mussed Diggy’s hair. “Stay awake a little longer, kid. I want to cover those hands with some gauze.”

  He went upstairs to get the first-aid kit.

  “Go out and see how Fang’s doing,” Diggy said to Wayne.

  “The vet will come in when he’s done, won’t he?”

  Diggy squinted. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “I know,” Wayne said. And stayed anyway.

  Diggy sighed.

  Pop came back, applied some antiseptic, and wrapped Diggy’s hands loosely with gauze.

  Diggy studied his mummy hands. “How do I pee?”

  “You’re on your own with that one, kid.” Pop grinned.

  “Don’t look at me,” Wayne protested.

  “Thanks a lot.” Diggy stood. “Now, can we please go see what’s happening?”

  They went outside. The vet stitched three of the bigger holes in Fang’s neck, probably caused when Diggy’s momentum ripped the dog away. The other wounds would heal on their own, the vet said, and he gave them an ointment to apply several times a day to keep infection from setting in. After he left, Diggy finally realized what he was looking at.

  “He shaved the hair!”

  July winced. “It will have plenty of time to grow back.”

  Diggy glanced at Wayne. Back at Fang. “Will he be scarred?”

  “A little.” July nodded, also glancing at Wayne. She put an arm around his shoulders. “It’s low on the neck, so the judge won’t be as likely to notice it. We’ll be really creative with the clipping, too. Your steer will show fine.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that,” Wayne said.

  Diggy believed him. But Wayne was thinking about it now, and he wasn’t thinking very positive thoughts. It sucked that this had happened to Fang. But Diggy was glad that it hadn’t happened to Joker. Really glad. Really, really glad.

  Later, Diggy was exhausted but wide awake, and he busied his restless mind with how to say he was sorry about Fang.

  The next day Diggy tricked Wayne with the mousetrap-in-an-egg-carton prank—no easy feat, considering how stiff and sore his hands were. When Wayne opened the carton to get some eggs, the plastic bottle cap loaded with flour popped out on cue, covering the front of his shirt with white powder. He jumped about a mile, then laughed and made Diggy show him how to rig the mousetrap again. They tried to get Pop to open the carton, but he knew better than to take the bait. When Wayne asked him how to do another trick, Diggy showed Wayne how to blow a hard-boiled egg out of its shell by peeling a dime-sized hole on one end and the bottom from the other. They had to blow hard to get the eggs out, and quite a few of them ended up on the floor, but, as they explained to Pop, that’s what water was for. They practiced until the whole dozen was “peeled.”

  CRYSTAL COULDN’T GET OVER THE FACT THAT A DOG HAD ATTACKED A COW, BUT Jason said that it had happened to one of his Uncle Rick’s calves before, too. Even a mean dog wasn’t stupid enough to mess with a mama, but when the calves were being weaned, they were vulnerable.

  Diggy’s injuries scored him an extension on a paper and a complete pass on a take-home Spanish test. He suspected his teacher was simply using the excuse of his “brave act” to spare herself his terrible translations, but a pity pass was better than a C he had to sweat over.

  When they got a dusting of snow, Diggy’s mood improved again. The colder the weather, the better Joker’s hair growth.

  There wasn’t enough powder to shovel, but Pop figured it was time to get the plow attachment hooked up to the tractor. Diggy had already broken open his scabs twice doing stuff with Joker, so Wayne had to help, since Pop said no kid of his was getting septicemia because said kid was stubborn as a goat. Diggy figured Pop just liked saying “septicemia,” because who the heck knew what that was? Of course, it turned out that Wayne d
id—one of his aunts was a nurse. When Wayne and Pop got the giggles at Diggy’s expense, pondering what would happen if he got blood poisoning from dog germs or cow germs and maybe turned into a zombie, Diggy figured now was as good a time as any to take a crack at that paper he’d put off—and maybe set up the juice-carton prank for Wayne.

  He cracked another scab putting the water balloon into the juice carton he’d cut the bottom out of, but he decided it was worth it when he heard the tractor start up and saw Pop teaching Wayne how to drive it.

  Diggy loved driving that tractor. The story about his mom didn’t bother him when he was the one driving. It was driving. And he was an absolute master of the clutch.

  Wayne bounced around out there and laughed so hard, Diggy could hear him over the motor and from inside the house.

  It set Diggy’s teeth on edge.

  Pop shouldn’t encourage the guy like that. Driving was something dads taught their sons, and Wayne was already getting too cozy with Pop. It wasn’t right.

  Wayne’s dad had been in AA for almost a whole month now, and he made a point of calling a couple of times a week. He had even driven out as soon as he heard about the dog attack, to make sure Wayne was okay. The man was trying.

  Wayne should have been thinking about moving back home. Instead, he was out there joyriding with Pop.

  The fool was still laughing when he came inside, went for orange juice, and had a water bomb land on his feet. “I saw this on YouTube!” Wayne said. “That Russian guy is so funny.”

  Diggy went to his room to finish his paper.

  Thanksgiving Day, Pop started cooking by setting up a wind barrier for the turkey fryer. The rest of the meal would consist of frozen corn, boxed stuffing, carrots microwaved soft, rolls from those cans that popped when you twisted them, and a pumpkin pie from the store. None of that took any time. Heck, even Diggy helped cook that stuff. The turkey was the reason for the season and made Diggy proud to be an American. Americans could figure out how to deep-fat fry anything.

  When Pop asked Wayne if he wanted to invite his dad to dinner, Diggy was relieved and not. He wanted Wayne to remember he was going home someday soon, but he wasn’t sure he wanted Graf around all day, either.