The Jesus Cow

by Michael Perry

  “MOVE IT ALONG!” blared Constable Benson, and the man shuffled on, but kept casting his eyes back at Harley, who felt a jab of guilt.

  By now Tina Turner had settled into placidly chewing her cud, apparently undisturbed by the people passing by outside the Plexiglas. The Jesus calf was resting beside her, positioned in such a way that the Christ image was easily visible. Leaving Billy and Mindy to babysit, Harley went outside to see how things were going.

  He was unprepared. Cars were backed clear up and out of sight beyond the overpass, snaking around and waiting for their chance to pass through the ticket gates. Clots of people were standing in the Kwik Pump parking lot and walking down the shoulder of the road. The parking area in the hay field was nearly full and someone was working with the village loader and snowblower to clear even more space. Here and there pilgrims were clambering over snowbanks to circumvent the ticket booths. There were people at his house looking in the windows.

  Chief Knutson spotted him and—phaser deployed—came tooling over in the Expedition. “Word’s gettin’ out,” said the chief. Carlene Hestekin was in the passenger seat beside him, flicking at her smartphone, and the chief nodded toward her. “My communications officer here has been monitoring social media, and all them people going through the line are posting photos and messages and it’s only bringing more and more people. We’re makin’ a killing at the ticket booths. Coupla days a’this and we’ll be able to buy two thermal imagers. Or maybe, maybe, an Argo!” The chief had long dreamed of purchasing an Argo—an eight-wheeled amphibious firefighting and rescue vehicle—but so far had failed to sell the fire board on the idea.

  “Hey!” hollered the chief, punching his phaser and four-wheeling off to intercept someone trying to sneak through the snow around the ticket booths. Harley could see other people doing the same thing—there was really no way to seal the entire perimeter of the place using only the volunteer fire department. Furthermore, each person left a trail in the snow for the next, so sneaking in was becoming easier and easier.

  Harley looked toward the house again. Those people staring into his windows: That had to stop. He walked over and asked them to leave. They looked at him silently and did as they were asked. There are advantages, Harley thought, to dealing with people who are gentle in their obsessions. He stepped through the front door and found the silence of the kitchen oddly foreign. The house of his entire childhood and most of his adult life suddenly felt like an island afloat in a sea of unfamiliarity. Nothing in here but the sound of the refrigerator, and everything so still, and yet he felt the vibration of all the oddness swirling around him.

  A face appeared at the window. A woman, tapping the glass with one knuckle.

  Harley recognized the woman who had produced the sickly child from behind her skirt. Her eyes were bagged and dark. Her expression was flat and weary. She stared at Harley.

  Harley turned his back and opened the refrigerator, looking for something to eat. He hadn’t eaten anything but fire department doughnuts and he was of a mind to scramble some sausage and eggs for Billy and Mindy. He pulled out the eggs, but as he faced the stove he could feel the woman’s gaze upon him. He placed the pan on the burner and lit the gas, but still couldn’t shake the idea of the woman at the window. He snapped the gas off and looked again. She was still there, unmoving, her gaze steady.

  He stepped outside.

  “My daughter,” said the lady, once again producing the child from within the folds of her skirt. The child looked cold beneath her stocking cap. A clear rivulet of snot ran from one nostril. Harley found this more moving than tears.

  “Please,” said the woman. “Just let her touch Him.”

  “I . . .”

  “Please.”

  “I don’t think that will . . .”

  “I am trusting in my faith,” said the woman, her voice suddenly firm. “Not yours.”

  Harley looked at the child. She was nearly translucent in her afflictions, but beautiful. So beautiful.

  “Okay,” said Harley.

  He led the mother and child up the path beneath the yard light and out to the barn. Nodding at the firefighter guarding the door, he led them inside. Mindy looked up from where she was sitting on a camp chair but seeing the mother and child said nothing. One more reason I like her, thought Harley. She simply accepts things. Goes with them.

  Without words, Billy drew open the gate to the viewing pen and ushered the woman and child within. Tina Turner laid her ears back and sidled off a quarter turn.

  “Move slowly,” said Harley. “We don’t want to spook ’em.”

  But as the child spotted the calf she let out the softest oh and dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around its neck, and rather than startling, the calf, seeming to sense the child’s fragility, simply allowed itself to be held. The mother had gone to her knees and was praying, eyes closed and hands clasped.

  The child—the child. Harley felt his throat clench, and tears came to his eyes. Mindy and Billy were in the same state. There was no sound save Tina Turner ruminating and the mother’s whispered prayers.

  Outside the Plexiglas, there was a muffled kerfuffle. The line of people had stopped moving. They were pointing and waving their hands, and despite the constable’s nonstop megaphoning, they were beginning to clump up. Harley told Billy to remove his bandoliers and store them in the silo room with his shotgun—“Last thing we need is somebody getting shot”—then sent him out to help the constable.

  “We can’t see!” one of the people hollered, loudly enough so that Harley could hear it through the Plexiglas. “That girl! Tell her to move!” Harley turned and saw that the sick child had now lain herself against the calf’s side and was nestled cheek to cheek with the face of Christ. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was in a half smile, and Harley swore her cheeks had taken on fresh color. The mother had stopped praying and was now gazing at her child through tears that gathered and dropped to the straw.

  “We can’t see!” The shouting grew louder. Several people were waving their torn tickets. “We paid our money, and now we can’t see!” Billy, trying to intervene, was being crowded back toward the Plexiglas. The constable was nowhere to be seen. Someone began pounding on the Plexiglas. Harley hustled up the haymow ladder and opened the door he used for throwing bales down to the beefers. From here, he could see long-term trouble building far beyond the viewing area. The people entering the viewing line from the parking lot were still flowing forward, while at the front of the line below him, things were at a dead stop and swelling, like some aneurysm about to burst. There was pushing and crowding, and it was only growing worse.

  “HEY!” hollered Harley. “Hold it! Calm down! We’ll have things moving again soon!”

  “We PAID!” yelled a man holding his cell phone high in the air, trying to snap a shot over the heads before him.

  “We can’t see the holy image!” cried another.

  “RIP-OFF!” screamed a woman jostling for position.

  “HEY!” hollered Harley again, surprised at the anger rising in him. “There’s a child in there! A dying child! Give her five minutes and we’ll get things moving again!”

  The line continued to surge forward, and now halfway back people were stumbling and pressing into each other. Billy was being pushed even farther back. He was nearly against the Plexiglas now. Over by the gates, Harley could see Chief Knutson in his Expedition, a Slim Jim clamped in his jaws, happily scribbling on his Wheel Commander Incident Command System and moving name tags around the board like he was on a magnetic poetry binge. Too late, Harley realized that he should have asked for a radio of his own.

  A man fought his way through the line. Reverend Gary, Bible and cross high in the air. Now and then he tapped someone on the shoulder with the cross and they took one look at the razor-sharp filigree and stepped aside.

  “HARLEY!” hollered Reverend Gary. “MANY ARE DYING!”

  “Well, Reverend, that’s stretching it some,” said Billy.

&nb
sp; Reverend Gary pushed forward again. “NOT IN THE BODY, BUT IN THE SOUL!”

  “Back off, bud,” said Billy, putting a hand to the reverend’s chest.

  “O, COME ALL YE SINNERS!” preached Reverend Gary.

  The sinners took him at his word. The crowd surged, and Harley saw Billy stumble backward. As Harley spun around to hustle back down the ladder, he heard a snap! and a crack! It was the Plexiglas, giving way. Harley dropped to the manger just in time to see Billy tumble backward and the pilgrims pour through, led by Reverend Gary. The praying mother looked up in fear and snatched her wide-eyed child from the calf as Reverend Gary, pushed by the tide of people behind him, tripped, and fell headlong toward the calf, throwing his hands out to break his fall, and as he did so the stainless steel filigree raked across the calf’s hide, and the last thing Harley saw as the people closed in was blood welling from the furry face of Christ.

  Harley fought his way to the calf, elbowing and pulling at the bodies that were in his way, his ears filled with the cacophony of maniacal prayer and praises, of weeping, and, here and there, of cussing.

  And then there came a thunderous sound.

  BLAM!

  Everyone froze.

  Mindy was standing upon a straw bale, holding her smoking .44. A bit of chaff floated down from a ragged hole in the ceiling above her.

  Everyone turned and ran.

  Except for Reverend Gary. He was lying across the bleeding calf, clutching his bloody cross and speaking in tongues.

  Harley grabbed Reverend Gary by the shoulders, trying to drag him off the calf. Reverend Gary paused in his babbling and switched to plain English.

  “Let us pray! Through Christ shall this calf be healed!” He broke away from Harley and threw himself again on the trembling animal, laying his hands on the split face of Christ and unleashing another torrent of babble.

  Harley grabbed the pitchfork.

  He pressed the tines to Reverend Gary’s neck.

  Reverend Gary fell silent.

  “Get the HELL off my calf,” said Harley.

  Reverend Gary blinked, then crawled away over the shards of Plexiglas, taking his Bible and cross with him. Mindy kicked the remnants of the viewing frame out of the way, then slid the door closed and hooked it.

  Billy reappeared from the dark end of the barn. He was strapped into his bandoliers again, shotgun at the ready. “They’ll be back, and soon,” he said. “Mindy, throw a bunch of hay bales down the chute.” Mindy scuttled up the ladder. “Stack ’em against the door,” he said to Harley. “I’ll hold ’em off from above.” And before Harley could ask, Billy disappeared into the silo room.

  As Mindy and Harley blocked the door, people were already banging on it. Harley heard the sound of smashing glass amidst keening and praying.

  The mother and sick child were nowhere to be seen.

  The Jesus calf lay trembling in the straw, Tina Turner licking gently at its wound.

  “That cross . . .,” said Mindy. For the first time, she looked shaken.

  CHIEF KNUTSON COULDN’T scribble and move his magnets fast enough; everything had come undone. The radio chatter was unintelligible, everyone yammering over everyone else. The viewing line had deteriorated into a boiling knot of people, some angry, some confused. There arose a babble of voices.

  He was out of Slim Jims.

  Giving up on the radio, the chief heaved himself out of the Expedition and ran over to the ticket booths. “SHUT ’ER DOWN!” A baying howl of disapproval arose from the pedestrians awaiting admission, and then as word spread, there came a chorus of horn honking. The chief jumped back into the Expedition and phased his way to Harley’s barn door, where he clicked over to the PA.

  “HARLEY!”

  A moment later Harley appeared in the haymow door.

  Now the chief rolled down his window and hollered.

  “I don’t think we can hold ’er anymore, son! You’ll have to shut it down!”

  “We’re done anyway,” said Harley. “The calf—”

  He was interrupted by the sound of a thin, piercing note, followed by a series of beeps.

  Harley’s heart sank. The tones were coming from the fire department pager on his hip. Next came the disembodied voice of the 911 dispatcher, echoing from the hip of every firefighter on the property.

  Barn fire. At the old Klostermann place. Five miles outside of town.

  “That’s ours!” said the chief, turning on his heel.

  “But you can’t—we—all those people . . .” Harley felt sick. In the rush to set up the fund-raiser overnight, no one had considered this contingency. At least for Jamboree Days the Boomler department served on standby.

  “Protect and serve!” said the chief as he fired up the phaser yet again and backed madly down the driveway, scattering spectators every which way, steering with one arm, and using the sleeve of his other arm to wipe his Wheel Commander Incident Command System clear in preparation for this new assignment. Every firefighter on the place followed him.

  And the crowd closed in.

  CHAPTER 23

  It is difficult to know what might have transpired had Billy not climbed to the top of the silo with his laser-sighted shotgun. Once the ticket booths were abandoned, cars poured in willy-nilly and the lot was now a gridlocked snarl. People were milling all over Harley’s property.

  Billy fired only once, and that in the air and mostly to let Harley know he was up there. In truth, the shotgun wasn’t much good at such a distance, but Billy found the laser sight to be indispensable. Just the sight of the ruby dot crossing a person’s toes was enough to send him or her scurrying backward. In this manner he was able to establish and maintain a clear perimeter around the barn.

  Inside the barn, Harley held the calf, and Mindy held Harley. Tina Turner sniffed at her wounded baby. I have to call a vet, thought Harley. But he knew full well: no vet would work on that calf.

  At first he didn’t notice the man standing in the manure spreader. He attributed this to the bad light and his preoccupation, but really, it’s not the sort of place you’d look for someone.

  “I told you it would come to this,” said the man. His tone was firm, but not accusatory.

  “I don’t know who you are, bud,” said Harley, bringing his pitchfork to bear, “but I’m in no mood.”

  Keeping his hands in view, the man dismounted from the manure spreader to stand beneath the lightbulb. He was wearing a long coat, a pale yellow scarf, snug black gloves, and ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

  “Sloan Knight,” he said. “International Talent Management.”

  “You’re the agent . . . ,” said Harley, recalling now the man who had told him things would go wrong.

  Sloan nodded.

  “Um,” said Harley, looking the man over and trying to imagine what it might cost to dress like that, “you know that’s a manure spreader, right?”

  “I’m an agent. I don’t mind a little shit on my boots.”

  Harley looked back at the calf, and the bloody, matted gash crossing Christ’s face. He shook his head.

  “We can fix this,” said Sloan.

  “But it’s . . .” Harley waved his hand over the bloodied hide.

  “Oh that?” said Sloan, pointing at the wound. “That’s nothing. I mean we can fix this whole thing. The whole operation.”

  Harley heard a sound. Billy reappeared from the dark end of the barn.

  “Billy!” said Harley. “Shouldn’t you be up there in the silo? Guarding the perimeter? The doors?”

  “Ain’t nobody coming through any doors,” said Billy. “And as for the perimeter, it’s sealed up tighter’n a gnat’s ass over a rain barrel. Nobody getting within a hundred yards of this barn.”

  “But how—”

  “I’ll get to that,” said Sloan before Billy could answer.

  “It’s the agent,” said Harley to Billy, nodding toward Sloan. “The one who called before.”

  Billy stepped around the manure spreader and leaned a
gainst the wall, looking Sloan up and down but saying nothing.

  “Pitch time,” said Sloan.

  “But I don’t—,” said Harley.

  “Five minutes,” said Sloan. “Five minutes, and then if you say no I’m on my way back to L.A. and you never hear from me again.”

  Harley, Billy, and Mindy said nothing. Sloan took this as permission to proceed.

  “The key is to strike fast and on all fronts. To operate as if tomorrow that calf gets snatched straight to heaven. A comprehensive plan. Market and monetize. Multilevel, multipronged, multimulti.”

  “Specifics,” said Billy.

  “Fine,” said Sloan. “There are the obvious things—T-shirts, cups, mugs, can cozies, key fobs, stickers and decals, posters—but you’re also going to want to consider the less obvious: official novena candles, holy hair lockets, rosaries, snow globes. Beyond the realm of souvenirs, we’ll handle book rights and film development, sponsorship and naming rights, product placement, et cetera.

  “Then, as long as you’ve got them coming in droves, give them something to do. Rides. Food stands. Booth rental for festival peddlers.”

  “But . . . we’d need pilgrims in the tens of thousands to support that kind of thing,” said Harley, shaking his head.

  Sloan shook his head. “You truly have no idea what you’ve got, do you?” Reaching inside his coat he produced a slim neoprene sleeve, from which he drew an electronic tablet. “Let me show you something.” Two taps and a swipe and then he knelt beside Harley so they could both view the screen, upon which glowed a black-and-white photo of a big-boned woman in a cotton print dress and sturdy shoes. Behind her, in plaster atop an elevated plinth, stood the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  “Mary Ann Van Hoof,” said Sloan. “Rural Necedah, Wisconsin. Claimed she saw visions of the Blessed Virgin Mary in her bedroom. And in a blue mist in the trees. And upon a glowing crucifix.”