Three Things I Know Are True

by Betty Culley

The “something” is a baby organic cow,

  lying on straw in a pen in the barn.

  Its head and body are splotched black and white,

  its ears are black and its nose is pink.

  It’s so cute!

  I gush.

  And it’s true.

  Its legs are tucked

  underneath itself,

  and it watches me with its

  big dark eyes.

  The very old man looks at the baby cow

  like it never occurred to him

  that it could be

  cute.

  She’s a week old tomorrow,

  weighs just about seventy pounds,

  and drinks two quarts of milk

  twice a day.

  I can’t help it—

  the laughter makes its way

  out of my mouth.

  Mr. Brann has just played

  Three Things with us,

  and he doesn’t even know it.

  Clay is smiling

  and holds up three fingers.

  The very old farmer

  seems pleased with himself

  that he’s made me happy

  with his facts about the calf.

  And for a second,

  I feel Jonah in the barn with us,

  flashing past,

  like a bright comet heading out of the

  solar system.

  Does she have a name?

  I ask the farmer.

  A name?

  He repeats my question.

  Not that I know of.

  The corners of his mouth turn up

  just a little,

  and I realize he’s making a joke,

  and I laugh again.

  Trailer

  Clay takes me to see

  where he is living.

  The boys at school

  are right,

  that it’s a trailer

  behind the barn.

  I’ve never been in

  such a very old trailer.

  It’s rounded at the ends

  where the wall and ceiling meet,

  and everything in the kitchen

  is miniature—

  a tiny sink next to a tiny stove—

  and the windows are so high

  I can’t see out of them

  unless I jump.

  There’s a little wooden table

  with two chairs,

  almost big enough for two people

  to eat at.

  Half the table is covered with books.

  I read the titles:

  Organic Dairy Production

  Grass-Fed Cattle

  Essential Guide to Calving

  It looks to me like Clay

  is also doing his own

  independent study project.

  Where do you sleep?

  I ask him.

  Clay points to a long, brown-colored couch.

  There’s a bedroom down the hall,

  but it doesn’t heat very well,

  so I sleep here.

  It’s pretty comfortable.

  Clay opens a tiny refrigerator.

  Would you like something to drink?

  I have milk and orange juice.

  Is the milk from the organic cows?

  Yes, it is.

  Then I’ll have some.

  Clay pours milk from a big glass jar

  into a mug and hands it to me.

  The milk is thick and creamy,

  and it doesn’t taste like any milk

  I’ve had before.

  I drink it slowly and

  watch Clay walk around

  the dollhouse trailer.

  He looks different.

  His face and the back of his neck

  are sunburned.

  He is looking more like a farmer

  than a bug killer.

  Clay comes and sits on the couch

  next to me,

  and takes my hand.

  He brings it to his mouth

  and kisses it.

  I lean against him.

  Do you want to talk about Jonah?

  he asks me.

  No, not now,

  I say.

  So we don’t.

  Moo

  I want to say goodbye

  to the baby organic cow

  before Clay takes me back,

  so we stop to see her

  in the barn.

  This time she’s standing up

  and comes over to the fence—

  close enough that I can pet

  the white part of her forehead

  between her ears.

  Her baby cow skin

  feels both tough and soft.

  Then she goes over to the corner

  of the pen and drinks water

  from a black rubber bucket.

  I don’t ask Clay why

  she isn’t with her mother,

  or why her mother

  isn’t with her.

  I don’t really want to know.

  I just like watching

  water drip from her mouth

  when she lifts her face up

  from the bucket.

  I look back at her

  with my human eyes

  that are next to each other

  rather than on either side

  of my head.

  MOOOOO. MOOOOOOO,

  she cries.

  It’s true, I learn—

  cows, even baby organic cows,

  really do say moo.

  I don’t ask him to,

  but Clay drives very slowly

  along the turns of the river,

  back to DEAD END.

  Look in the glove compartment,

  he says.

  I open the glove compartment,

  and there’s a cell phone.

  Is that yours?

  I ask.

  Yes, I forgot your number,

  so enter it if you want.

  And put mine in your phone.

  Why now?

  I ask him.

  I guess it was time,

  he says.

  I think of joking with him,

  saying “welcome to the

  twenty-first century”

  or “do you still know

  how to use one?”

  but I don’t.

  Instead, I put my name

  in his contacts,

  all in capitals

  LIV

  like the letters on my canoe.

  When we pull up in front of

  Number 23,

  there are no cans

  on the lawn,

  and all the medical equipment

  is gone.

  The strange thing

  about Number 24

  is that nothing has changed

  since we left—

  the Bugz Away van hasn’t moved

  from the spot it was in,

  Gwen’s car is in the same place,

  and the lights are still on

  in the house.

  Clay’s parents have to have seen

  the black hearse

  that came for Jonah,

  and maybe they’re afraid of what Mom

  will throw

  if they step outside.

  I can see Clay, like Gwen,

  trying to decide

  where the line is,

  and what side

  he’s on.

  I can come in with you,

  Clay offers.

  I think about Mom screaming,

  and Gwen

  watching Jonah’s body

  wheeled out of the house.

  You should probably check

  on your mother,

  I say.

  Call me later.

  You have the number now

  in your phone.

  For Sale

  Just like I wanted

  when I first made the deal

  with Gwen,

  a wee
k after Jonah dies,

  a moving van pulls up

  to Number 24,

  and loads beds, dressers,

  boxes, chairs, and even,

  I suppose,

  the gun safe.

  I don’t see Gwen

  before they leave.

  I don’t get

  one more hug.

  I check the mailbox,

  and it’s empty.

  I was hoping there might be

  a last square

  of fudge.

  For the first time,

  I wish I had something

  to give Gwen,

  but she is gone.

  A week after that,

  a FOR SALE sign

  is on their lawn.

  Clay tells me his parents

  moved to Land O’ Lakes, Florida.

  There is actually a town

  with that name.

  Why Florida?

  I ask Clay.

  Are there more bugz there

  than in Maine?

  Actually,

  Clay says,

  I don’t know if there’s more,

  but a lot of them are bigger.

  For instance,

  there are huge mosquitoes there

  called gallinippers,

  twenty times larger

  than most mosquitoes.

  Also, Florida has the palmetto bug,

  a large species of cockroach

  that is about an inch and a half long.

  Clay holds up his thumb and forefinger

  to show me how big that is.

  Since Jonah died,

  we stopped playing the

  Three Things game—

  maybe because that was something

  we did with Jonah—

  so I don’t ask Clay

  if he knows the name

  of a third giant bug

  that lives in Florida.

  It’s just me and Mom now

  in Number 23.

  Jonah’s hospital bed is gone

  from the living room,

  the schedule is gone from the

  refrigerator,

  but we still spend

  most of our time

  in the kitchen.

  Mom asks me if I mind

  if she stays in my old room upstairs.

  I could have her and Dad’s big room

  facing the street.

  I tell her I like my

  little cubbyhole of a room

  downstairs.

  I leave a light on

  in the kitchen

  at night,

  and a fan whirring

  in my room.

  I guess I got used to

  falling asleep to the sound of O,

  and the nurses doing their quiet work

  at the sink.

  I miss them all,

  especially Johnny, Vivian, and Phoebe.

  They weren’t only on Jonah’s side,

  they were on my side, too.

  At the Great Water Place

  You know,

  Mom says to me one evening

  a few weeks later

  while we eat pizza she picked up

  after work,

  your counselor says you turned in a very impressive—

  those were his words—independent project report.

  So you will be able to continue on

  to your junior year.

  Oooh, lucky me!

  I make a little circle in the air

  with one finger.

  Sometime, maybe you could show it to me,

  your report.

  He said it was about the Kennebec River,

  and the old mills around here.

  Sure, if you want to see it,

  I say.

  How does it start?

  Mom asks me.

  You mean, the beginning?

  I ask her.

  Yes, the beginning.

  If you really want to know,

  it starts:

  “The name ‘Kennebec’

  comes from the Abenaki

  and one translation means

  ‘at the great water place.’”

  Very nice. I’d like to read it.

  Also,

  Mom is on a roll,

  I’m aware that you go out on the river.

  I can see the canoe from upstairs.

  It’s good that you wear a life jacket.

  You’re telling me this because . . . ?

  I ask her.

  The pizza has mushrooms and olives,

  and I start in on my second piece.

  And, she says,

  not answering my question,

  whenever you want,

  you should invite Clay

  into the house.

  He doesn’t always have to wait for you

  outside, in his truck.

  When Mom says that,

  I realize

  I thought I was protecting Mom

  from having Clay

  in the house,

  but it’s me

  who’s not ready—yet—

  to have Clay see

  what it’s like now.

  How empty the house feels

  without Jonah.

  Okay, I get it,

  I say,

  and thanks for getting

  my favorite toppings.

  Tornado

  Sweet Sunflower/Audrey

  is back from the hospital,

  all recovered from her asthma attack,

  and Hunter invites me over.

  I can’t,

  I say to Hunter.

  Maybe another time.

  I have no reason

  to say no,

  and I don’t

  give him an excuse.

  I still wear the

  stone of the heart

  Sara and Rainie gave me,

  and I’m glad his sister is better,

  that she came home

  to run around with all her

  brothers and sisters.

  Even, one day,

  with the new one.

  Sara is pregnant,

  Rainie told me,

  and Hunter will have a new hippie sib

  in the fall.

  Our family is cut in half,

  and Hunter’s family is growing.

  I’ve read about tornadoes

  that hit one house

  with such force

  that it’s flattened,

  while the house next to it

  comes through the storm

  unscathed.

  I’m afraid if I went

  to Hunter’s house,

  I’d say what no one

  wants to hear.

  You are lucky

  the bad thing

  didn’t happen to you.

  It doesn’t make you

  better than everyone else.

  And it doesn’t mean

  it won’t get you

  next time.

  Yes, for now,

  it’s better

  for everyone

  if I stay

  away.

  Then I hear the quiet

  on Hunter’s end of the phone,

  him wondering if he said something wrong,

  why I’m pushing him away,

  if I’m mad because his sister is fine

  and my brother is not.

  When you get a chance, though, Hunter,

  I could use some help,

  I say.

  Sure, anything.

  I can hear how relieved he is.

  I found envelopes with seeds

  my father saved,

  tomato and cucumber seeds,

  from the garden

  he kept in the backyard.

  Only tomatoes and cucumbers,

  that’s what he grew every year.

  I want to grow them myself,

  but I don’t know what to do.

  You should start t
he tomatoes

  indoors,

  Hunter says.

  Yes, that’s what Dad did.

  In all these containers

  by the window.

  I’ll come over

  and help you get them started.

  It’ll be fun,

  Hunter says.

  Thanks, Hunter,

  and if they grow,

  I’ll invite you over this summer for

  tomato and cucumber sandwiches,

  you and all your

  brothers and sisters.

  Once the tornado passes,

  one neighbor

  picks up the pieces,

  looks for what’s left

  of their possessions

  under the rubble,

  finding room

  in their heart

  to accept their neighbor’s help.

  Verdict

  I don’t know why it is,

  that you can wait and wait

  your hardest for something,

  and it always comes

  when you’ve finally

  given up hope.

  What do we all think

  the verdict will do?

  Turn back time?

  Make right what went wrong

  in the attic?

  Punish Clay’s father?

  All of those things?

  The verdict is mailed

  to Birchell,

  who comes to the house

  with it.

  He reads the judge’s words out loud:

  “A revolver is a lethal weapon

  whose sole function is to kill human beings

  and animals of comparative size.

  A person owning a weapon of this kind

  has a duty to exercise reasonable care

  under the circumstances,

  to see no harm would be visited upon

  others as a consequence of his conduct.

  A majority of other jurisdictions have

  considered it actionable negligent entrustment

  for a person to leave a firearm in a place

  where he should foresee it might fall

  into the hands of a minor.

  Under the circumstances, reasonable care

  requires the owner of a firearm either

  to keep ammunition in a separate location

  or, if the firearm is loaded, to keep it secured

  in a place where minors cannot access

  the firearm.

  In this case the evidence demonstrates

  that the defendant’s conduct in leaving

  a loaded weapon on a windowsill

  created a reasonably foreseeable

  catastrophic injury.”

  Basically,

  Birchell says,

  the judge is saying that the owner of the gun

  has a responsibility to keep it out of the hands

  of minors.

  I get that,

  Mom says.

  He continues reading:

  “Comparative negligence allows the plaintiff

  to recover from the defendant even if partially

  at fault, but only for the percentage

  the defendant was at fault.

  Maine is a modified comparative fault

  jurisdiction, meaning that the plaintiff

  can recover damages only if he is less than

  fifty percent responsible for his own injuries.