Patsy stopped a few minutes later — almost as if on cue — and pulled a long strip of pine bark off a skinny tree that had fallen onto the trail. It flapped out of her mouth like a giant piece of taffy while she chewed. Loretta, who did everything her mother did, went second, as usual, and the rest had some, too, except Tammy. She nibbled on leaves.
Littleberry and I shivered in our coats, cold once we stopped moving.
“They’re like people,” he said after a while.
“You mean the way people are always eating pine bark?”
Littleberry laughed. “Yeah. There’s that. But you know what I mean. Like Patsy there is the leader and everybody else is the follower, only there’s the one over there, Tammy — she’s like the rebel. She wants to do her own thing and not be like everybody else. The black sheep of the herd.”
“Black goat,” I corrected him. “So which one would you be? If you were a goat.”
He grinned. “A Tammy. Definitely a Tammy.”
“And what about me?” I asked.
Littleberry took a step away and crossed his arms. He looked at me, then nodded a serious nod. “You’d be a Patsy. I’m pretty sure.”
I liked hearing that but couldn’t imagine what he’d seen in me to make him say it.
Patsy got tired of the pine bark after a while, and so we went farther down the trail until we came to a giant honeysuckle bush, which everybody attacked, even Tammy.
I looked around to make sure there wasn’t any laurel or rhododendron, which were poisonous to goats, then sat on a log next to Littleberry.
“So this is what you do besides milk them and let them butt you?” he said. “Just hang out with them in the woods?”
“What’s wrong with that?” I asked. “They’re a lot better than most of the people I know.”
“You mean like me?”
I smiled. “I’ll let you know. I’m still figuring you out.”
“Nothing much to figure out,” Littleberry said. “I’m a professional goat-cheese merchant.”
“And I’m your boss.”
The goats had practically flattened the honeysuckle in their feeding frenzy. When the girls jerked hard on one side, Huey and Louie pulled back as hard as they could on the other.
I elbowed Littleberry. “So there is one thing I wanted to ask you about.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. That essay you wrote. About the head wounds.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “What about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was just curious about why you wrote it.”
He shook his head, as if he was trying to get something out. “It was just something. Nothing. I had to come up with a topic. That’s all.”
“But wasn’t it about your dad?” I asked. “That’s what your friends told me.”
“It wasn’t exactly about my dad,” he said softly, looking down. “Just his head wound. And anyway, I don’t like talking about it.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think? Because his brain is messed up from what happened. Because it won’t heal up. Because he thinks my sister is my mom, and my mom is my sister. Because my mom has to tie his shoes to get him dressed. Or sometimes I have to do it. Because he just sits there and watches TV all day. Or else he spends half the time down at the VA hospital watching TV there. But you probably already heard all about that from my so-called friends.”
He spat on the ground, but at least it wasn’t tobacco juice. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him chew tobacco.
“So why did you write about it?”
“I don’t know,” Littleberry said. “Why did you write about your dad and the pet crematorium?”
My feet were cold. I stood up and stamped the ground some more and wrapped my arms around myself. “Because I miss him.”
Littleberry stood up next to me and shrugged his backpack over his shoulder. “Well, I guess that’s it,” he said. “We both miss our dads.”
Neither of us knew what to say after that, so we stood there, quiet in the fading afternoon and the deepening cold, waiting for the goats to finish up with the honeysuckle.
We finally had to pull them away from what was left of the bush and coax them down the trail back toward Aunt Sue’s farm.
Halfway to the farm, I felt the back of Littleberry’s hand brush against mine. Then his fingers found my fingers, and the next thing I knew, we were holding hands for the second time.
I almost asked him what he thought he was doing, but since I wasn’t sure what I was doing — letting him, holding his hand, too — I kept quiet. I liked the feel of his hand. I liked his warm touch. I liked walking with him there in the woods.
The goats followed along dutifully, tired from the walk and full of honeysuckle, ready for milking and the warmth of the barn.
Gnarly ran ahead of us, and a minute later I heard him barking wildly. Something wasn’t right.
I saw it as soon as we got close enough to see the farm. There was a black low-rider Chevy parked next to my truck, and familiar voices coming from inside the barn.
It was Drunk Dennis and Donny. They had wooden kitchen matches and were taking turns flicking them off the side of the box, trying to start a fire.
“Well, hello,” Drunk Dennis said when he saw me and Littleberry and the goats, standing together in the barn door. “Check this out.”
He flicked a match and sent it sailing into one of the stalls. I ran past him and stomped out the fire. It was the stall where Jo Dee had delivered her stillborn kid.
“What the hell are you doing?” My heart was racing.
Drunk Dennis turned to Donny. “We must have been aiming at the wrong hay before. That other stuff wouldn’t catch.” Donny took the matches and flicked one right at me. I swatted it down and stomped it out, too.
“That’s enough,” I said. “Just quit it.”
Littleberry stepped toward Drunk Dennis. The goats inched forward with him. “Y’all knock it off,” he said. “This isn’t cool at all.”
Drunk Dennis took the matches back from Donny and flicked one at me, too. “Shut it, Dingleberry,” he said. “We got business with this one, not you.”
Donny grabbed a pitchfork and aimed it at Littleberry, poking lightly at his chest and backing him up against the milking stand. Donny pressed the pitchfork a little harder so the tips cut into Littleberry’s jacket.
Littleberry cursed. “Damn, Donny. Fucking stop it, man.”
I closed the stall door between them and me. “What do you want?”
Drunk Dennis stuck the wooden end of a match in his mouth and chewed on it. He seemed genuinely perplexed by the question. He turned to Donny.
“What do we want?” he said. “I forgot.”
Donny shrugged, still pressing the pitchfork into Littleberry’s jacket. “Burn it down, maybe?”
“I don’t know,” Drunk Dennis said. He plucked the match out of his mouth, struck it on the side of the box, and threw it at me. It burned out before it landed. “There’s probably a law against burning down a barn or something. And you know this little bitch would tell on us.”
Littleberry tried to reach for the pitchfork handle, but Donny jabbed him. Littleberry was leaning so far back, I was afraid he would fall over the milking stand.
“Leave him alone!” I yelled. “You’re going to hurt him. Leave him alone.”
They ignored me. “What do we want?” Drunk Dennis said again, rubbing his chin and looking up at the rafters. “What do we want?”
He looked back at me.
“I think we’ll just take a goat,” he said. “Maybe the one that came to school that day. We’ll have a cookout with the little dude. A barbecue. They got barbecues up North?” He tossed another lit match at me. I swatted it away, but it caught dry hay and I had to stomp it out, too.
Drunk Dennis hooked his thumb at Donny. “Me and him, we’re members of PETA. I bet you didn’t know that. You know what it stands for — PETA?”
“No, you don’t,” Drunk Dennis said. “It stands for People Eating Tasty Animals.” He laughed at his own joke. Donny did, too.
“We’ll even pay you for it. We’re honest gentlemen. How much you want?” he asked me. “How about a dollar? One dollar for a goat. I know you love them goats. God knows what you do with them all the way out here, all by yourself. That’s why I’m offering so much money. One whole entire dollar. Come on out here and get it.”
I didn’t move or speak. I had to think of something, fast.
“What’s it gonna be?” Drunk Dennis said. “You selling us a goat, or are we just taking us a goat?”
Littleberry cursed at him and struggled to stand up again, but Donny pressed the pitchfork harder, shoving him farther into the milking stand. I was afraid Littleberry was going to get hurt.
“Fine,” I said finally, opening the stall door and stepping out. “You can have one.”
Drunk Dennis seemed surprised at first, but then laughed and pulled out a wrinkled dollar bill. He lifted his hand toward me.
“Leave her alone, Dennis!” Littleberry yelled, but Dennis ignored him.
He tucked the dollar into my jeans, sliding his hand in my pocket and keeping it there. He pulled me toward him while feeling my leg at the same time.
I stepped back out of his reach, and seized on the only idea I could come up with.
“I’ll need a knife,” I said.
Drunk Dennis snorted. “Yeah. Right. Like I’m going to let you have a knife.”
“How are you going to get the goat home?” I said. “Put him in the trunk of your car?”
“No way,” said Donny. “I just got that car. No way.”
“You want him for your barbecue, fine,” I said, struggling to look as calm as I sounded. “Let me get a knife from the house and I’ll slaughter the goat. I’ll butcher him and bag up the meat. But then you have to leave us alone.”
“I thought you loved him,” Drunk Dennis said.
“I do,” I said back. “Which is why there’s no way I’m letting you be the one to kill him.”
Drunk Dennis looked back and forth between Donny and me. I suspected that this had gone further than he had intended it to. He probably hadn’t had any idea what he wanted to do when he showed up here, except to scare me.
“Keep Dingleberry out here, Donny,” Drunk Dennis said. “I’ll go in the house with this one to get the butcher knife.”
“Get two,” Donny said. “You keep one. In case she tries something.”
“Yeah,” Drunk Dennis said. “Right. Good idea.”
Patsy and the other goats were still crowded together just inside the barn door and wouldn’t let us go past. Drunk Dennis kicked at Patsy, but she lowered her head and he backed off.
“It’s OK,” I said. I rubbed Patsy’s head and scratched under her chin. “You guys go graze. Go play. I’ll do the milking in a little while. I just have to take care of this first.” I didn’t look at Huey.
They let us through, but then it was Gnarly’s turn. He stood guard on the back steps to the house and started barking wildly and trembling, until I shushed him and told him to go. He bared his teeth at Drunk Dennis but then went to the corner of the house and stood watching as we went inside.
Drunk Dennis told me to sit at the kitchen table while he went through the drawers for some knives.
I didn’t sit. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.
“Bullshit,” Drunk Dennis said. “You’re going to try to call somebody.”
“The only phone is right there,” I said, pointing to the wall.
“You got a cell phone?” he said.
“No,” I said. I turned my coat pockets inside out to show him.
He looked me over, to see if I might have any other place to hide a cell phone, and decided I didn’t. “All right, go. But I’ll be standing right here in case you’re up to something.”
“I just have to pee,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Whatever.”
I walked down the hall, but instead of going into the bathroom, I opened the closet and pulled out the .22. It wasn’t loaded, but Drunk Dennis didn’t know that.
I held my breath as I turned back toward the kitchen and nervously approached Drunk Dennis. It took him a second to realize what was going on. I stopped five feet away and pointed the .22 straight at his chest. His eyes widened so much they practically took over the rest of his face. His mouth moved, but he couldn’t seem to say anything. I took a step toward him, and he turned and raced out of the kitchen and through the back door.
Gnarly took off after him, snapping at his heels. Drunk Dennis vaulted over the fence into the goat pen, and Patsy and the others attacked him immediately. Gnarly squeezed through the fence and joined the goats chasing Drunk Dennis into the barn.
I heard Dennis screaming at Donny — “Haul ass! She’s got a gun!” — and then they both ran out of the barn. The goats and Gnarly chased them twice around the field, then through the gate. Donny stopped to open it, but Dennis just vaulted over the fence again. The chase continued over to Donny’s car, where Gnarly tore off one of Donny’s tennis shoes and the goats slammed their heads into Donny and Drunk Dennis as they jerked open the doors and wrestled their way inside. Huey and Louie kept butting the doors even after Dennis and Donny locked themselves in.
I stood on the back steps with the gun, trembling hard from adrenaline, or fear, or both. I had to sit down.
Littleberry stood in the doorway of the barn, shaking his head. He looked dazed.
Drunk Dennis and Donny drove off, spitting gravel out from under their tires, nearly losing the road at the first curve in the long driveway before the car righted itself and they disappeared into the trees.
The pitchfork had torn holes in Littleberry’s jacket and shirt, and raked a two-inch cut across his chest. I had to coax him into the house to let me clean it. He didn’t say anything the whole time, except “OK” and “Thanks.” I felt vulnerable — and angry that Drunk Dennis and Donny had made me feel that way. Neither of us could talk about it just yet.
I loaded the .22 and brought it with me to the barn. I gave it to Littleberry, and he held it while I milked the goats and fed Gnarly and the chickens. Then we went back over to the house, where I hid it under the porch steps.
We were both silent on the drive back into town, except when Littleberry gave me directions to his house. He’d left his scooter at school, but he said he’d get a ride the next day with his mom. So much had happened that afternoon, I thought it should be midnight by now, but dusk was just settling in. I worried about leaving the goats and Gnarly out at the farm, but didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t stay there with them — not overnight, anyway.
I pulled into Littleberry’s driveway. I saw the shapes of people in the living room. There was a warm orange glow to the house. It had a red door, blue shutters, and a white fence around the small front yard.
I grabbed Littleberry’s arm before he could climb out of the truck.
“You OK?” I asked.
He nodded. “You OK?”
I nodded, too.
He looked at me then for the first time since the barn. His eyes were watery. He swallowed and blinked. I put my hand on his cheek and kept it there.
Mr. Tuten wasn’t back from work yet when I got home. Mrs. Tuten was cooking dinner. I walked into the kitchen and gave her a hug — my arm over her shoulder.
She smiled. The only other time we’d hugged was the day I found out Book and Aunt Sue had confessed and I wouldn’t have to go to court.
“Well, Iris,” she said. And that was all. But she was still smiling after I pulled my arm away.
“Anything I can do to help?” I asked.
She waggled a spoon toward the laundry room. “We’re a little past due cleaning the litter box and putting down some fresh litter. And Hob and Jill need their walk.”
Mrs. Tuten followed me into the laundry room. I scooped
up some ferret pellets so she could do her inspection. She sniffed them, sifted through them with a toothpick, stabbed the toothpick through a pellet as if it were a cocktail wiener, examined it through her glasses, and then nodded her approval.
Hob kept trying to chase cats during the walk, but Jill didn’t want any part of that business, so they pulled hard in opposite directions. I needed some time away to think, though, so we did a couple of laps around the block. I couldn’t tell the Tutens about what had happened with Drunk Dennis and Donny. I couldn’t tell anyone, not even Mr. DiDio, who didn’t know I’d gotten permission to take care of the goats. But how was I going to protect the goats and Gnarly? And how long could I keep up this secret life, anyway? The Tutens were nice people; they would be so hurt to find out I’d been deceiving them — no matter what my reasons, no matter how desperately I needed to save the animals. I had almost enough money to give to Aunt Sue on Thanksgiving to cover the December bills, but what about after that? It was getting colder. Fewer people would be going to the farmers’ market. One bad weekend, one rainy Saturday, one snowstorm, one power outage on the farm — a thousand things could go wrong.
Littleberry found Drunk Dennis the next day at school and hit him in the face. Drunk Dennis was a lot bigger. Littleberry got a black eye and a bruised jaw. People who saw it said that Littleberry would have kept fighting if a couple of teachers hadn’t broken it up.
I heard all about it during fourth period and rushed to find him as soon as the bell rang for lunch. He was waiting for me under the stairs.
“Are you all right?” I touched his bruised face, and he flinched.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine. They’re probably going to suspend me, though. They called my mom. She’s coming once she gets off work. I’m supposed to be going to the bathroom right now, but I wanted to see you before I go back to the office.”
I sat down next to him on the dirty floor and leaned against the wall. “I wish you hadn’t done it.”
Littleberry rubbed the back of his right hand. “I had to do something.”
What Comes After Page 20
