The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  The yard was dark except for the golden glow the light from the barn windows left on the snowy ground. Inside the barn, Dad was taking care of the nighttime chores with Frannie's assistance. She had given the barn cats winter names like Snowbell, Icy, and Blizzard. Never mind that they were all black and gray.

  As we headed toward the lights of Nowhere, Mom filled me in on her latest listing. A doctor's house on North Oak Lane with four bathrooms and an inground swimming pool. She was really pumped up about this one because a house with a high price tag meant a high commission for Mom. I flipped through the radio stations looking for something I would like and Mom would tolerate while she went on about the hardwood floors and the chandelier in the entry.

  “This just may be my biggest sale yet, Lib.”

  She sounded so excited. I knew each sale made her feel a little better about going to work. Mom hadn't always been a career woman. She stayed home and helped on the farm when Ronnie and I were young. But not long after Frannie was born, she got her real estate license. She loved her job, and she often mentioned how good it felt to be helping with the family finances. But she also felt guilty about having less time to spend with us and about leaving Frannie in day care. I honestly couldn't see why. Frannie was one of the brightest, happiest four-year-olds I knew.

  “That sale will sure help the farm out this year,” she added.

  I felt a money talk coming and wished we lived seven and a half miles from Nowhere. Money was not a huge deal in the Ryan house. Mom and Dad both worked hard and we never wondered where our next meal would come from. We weren't rich, but we had all we needed and a little left for some of the things we wanted. But, like that of all farmers and cattle growers, Dad's income was unpredictable. Cattle prices went up and down, weather dictated what kind of crop year it would be. And now Ronnie was in college, and that was expensive.

  “Kiddo,” Mom started.

  I hated being called that, but I guess there are worse pet names a parent can use.

  “You know how it is. Even though we have several years to save for your education, we still have Frannie's college fund to think about.”

  We both laughed at the thought of Frannie in college. She'd run the place. I could just see it.

  “As president of the Student Senate, I, Frances Ryan, declare today and each day henceforth to be Macaroni and Cheese Day….”

  “Every little bit helps,” Mom continued. “Your savings account will get a little boost this year with the sale of your fair steer. Ronnie was able to add something to his college savings each year he showed.”

  She was right. Every exhibitor sold their fair animal at the livestock auction, which meant receiving a nice premium over market price. That thought should have excited me, but for some reason, the idea of profiting from the sale of Piggy made me uncomfortable.

  “And, you know, I was thinking …”

  Uh-oh. Caution sign ahead. Not on the road. In the conversation.

  “Why don't you participate in the Beef Princess pageant this year? The winners get savings bonds, you know, and think what a great experience it would be, and …”

  Mom kept glancing from the snow-covered road to me to judge my reaction to her suggestion. I stared out the dark window so she couldn't see my face.

  The Beef Princess pageant? She had to be joking. That was for chirpy girls like the Darlings.

  As much as I wanted to avoid talking about money, I wanted even more to avoid anything that had to do with the Beef Princess pageant. There definitely could not be a rea-son good enough to get me up on a stage under a red striped tent on a sweltering July afternoon standing beside the Dar-ling divas plus Ohma and answering questions like, “If you could create any dish in the world with a rolled rump roast, what would it be and why?”

  “Libby, are you listening?”

  Finally, I turned from the window to look at her. Now Mom would see my disbelief.

  But she chose not to look. She kept her eyes on the road and continued to state her case.

  “It would be such a fun girl thing for us. We just haven't done much together since you got your calves. Do you know how much fun it would be to try on dresses? We could go to Fort Wayne to shop, and …”

  She didn't stop. She went on about Mrs. Somebody's daughter from work who could put my hair up in a French twist. Dresses? I hated dresses. Mom knew that. And what was a French twist anyway? It sounded like a doughnut.

  Mom was sitting stiffly, grasping the steering wheel with both hands, and not looking anywhere but straight ahead. Was she being careful because of the snow, or was she avoiding the you've-got-to-be-kidding look on my face? She had to know it was there.

  “Oh, look, we're at Carol Ann's house already!” she said cheerfully. “My, that was a quick trip.”

  At last she looked in my direction, smiling. If she could read my expression, she gave no indication whatsoever.

  “Aren't you going to the door to get Carol Ann, kiddo?”

  It was a day I replayed in my mind a thousand times. It was a Saturday morning, and I had slept late. I never got chores done very early on Saturdays. The vet said a couple of hours probably wouldn't have made much difference anyway. But I wondered if she just said that to make me feel better.

  Early spring in Indiana was the weirdest time of year. One day it was sunny and the daffodils were six inches out of the ground, and then the next day the wind was blowing and there was freezing rain falling, covering those daffodils with ice. You just never knew what you were going to wake up to.

  On this particular Saturday, the rain hitting my bedroom window sounded more like sleet. And my bed, my warm, wonderful bed, felt so good. I knew Dad would call when he thought I'd slept long enough. So I stayed toasty and dreamy long after Frannie had popped out of her bed, gathered her grandchildren, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Libby.”

  I opened my eyes slowly. It was Dad's voice. It didn't sound right. The clock read 10:28. By 9:00, Dad would usually be half disgusted that chores weren't done, but his voice was quiet. And close. He wasn't calling from the bottom of the stairs.

  Turning, I saw him standing in the doorway, damp with rain and looking serious.

  “Lib, you need to get dressed. The vet's on the way.”

  “The vet….”

  What? I wasn't awake yet. Maybe if I closed my eyes again Frannie would be standing there, rambling on with one of her stories. But as soon as they were closed, it was Dad who called again.

  “Libby!”

  The sharpness in his tone wasn't something I heard often. Suddenly, I was wide awake.

  “Your calf is hurt. He got his leg caught between two metal gates—”

  “In the barn?” I asked. I was out of bed now, digging through the clothes on my floor for a pair of jeans.

  “No, in the feedlot. He spent the night outside lying on the ground with his front leg wedged between the gates. He fought to get loose, so he's cut up pretty bad.”

  It just figured that Mule would do something like that. Stubborn thing. I found jeans and grabbed a sweatshirt.

  “I'm coming,” I told Dad.

  “I'll be outside.” He turned and was halfway down the stairs when I asked:

  “Is Mule going to be okay, Daddy?”

  “We'll know more when the vet gets here. And it's not Mule, Lib. It's Piggy.”

  Did I hear him right? Piggy was the one who was hurt? Sweet, gentle Piggy?

  “I think I hear the vet's truck. Meet us outside.”

  My fair calf. I hurried to dress and passed Mom in the hallway with the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear and a basket of folded laundry in her hands.

  “Mom…”

  I knew better than to interrupt her conversation. She gave me the not-now look followed by the I-know-all-about-it-and-it'll-be-okay look.

  Ugh! Why couldn't my family communicate with real words like most others did? I flew through the kitchen where Frannie was standing before two rows of empty chairs wi
th a Bible open in one hand.

  “Shhh!” she warned sternly. “We're having church.”

  Ugh! Why couldn't my family communicate with real people like most others did?

  I found Dad and Susan Hansen, one of three vets at the local practice, in the feedlot behind the barn. My heart sank when I saw that Piggy was down. Susan had put a blanket on him right where he lay as the rain-sleet mixture continued to fall.

  “Can't he be inside?” I shivered.

  At the sound of my voice, Piggy bent his head back to see me, his big black eyes wide and anxious-looking.

  Susan stood up, wiping her wet hands on her dark blue coveralls. She was nearly as tall as Dad and thin as thin could be. She looked like she'd snap in two like a twig if she bent over the wrong way, but I'd seen her wrestle a steer into a treatment chute. And I had been there when Susan helped a cow drop twins right in Granddad's pasture. I was glad she was there that morning. I trusted her as much as anyone to help Piggy.

  “Hello, Libby.” She smiled, pushing a stray curl away from her face with the back of her hand. “Your dad tells me this guy might be headed to the county fair next summer.”

  I wanted to answer but couldn't, so I nodded. Piggy, who was usually so spirited, lay almost motionless. I knelt beside him, staring in disbelief as Susan's voice continued.

  “He needs to stay put until he can get up on his own. He'll be warm enough under the blanket. And the temperature out here is rising, so I'd say he's been through the worst of it.”

  Through the worst of it. Her words echoed in my head. The worst of it had been in the night. For hours, Piggy lay outside, trying to free himself from the gate. And all morning, too. This freezing, miserable, wet morning while I was cozy in my bed, Piggy was out here. The tears wouldn't hold any longer.

  Dad came over and squeezed my shoulder.

  “Susan says he's going to be okay, Libby.”

  “Your dad's right. I don't think this leg is broken. There may be some muscle damage to his shoulder. Time will tell. But that leg is banged up pretty good, and I could use some assistance cleaning it up. Want to help?”

  Of course. Wasn't it the least I could do?

  Susan opened her bag and began to clean and wrap Piggy's wounds. With trembling hands, I cut the gauze and tape and stroked his damp neck while she worked. His skin was usually so warm, but now his body temperature seemed dangerously low.

  Inside the barn, Mule bellowed, unhappy about being separated and displeased that Dad had blocked the doorway out to the feedlot.

  You be quiet, I thought. You're the one who should be out here. You're the troublemaker, not Piggy. Mule bellowed again.

  “There we go. You'll be just fine.” Susan patted Piggy and wrapped the remaining bandages into a ball.

  Piggy let out a long, low, pathetic moo. He didn't sound fine, he didn't look fine, and I was sure he felt awful.

  “Libby, I really mean it when I say that I think your calf is going to be okay. But he needs to get up on his own and I'd really like to see that happen in the next few hours. If it doesn't”—she shifted her gaze from me to Dad—“call me right away.”

  Dad walked with Susan around the barn to her truck. I sat with Piggy until Dad returned.

  “I think he's looking better already,” he said cheerfully, but it sounded forced to me.

  “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think Piggy's going to get up soon?”

  “You bet I do. It's downright nasty out here! Wouldn't you get up and go inside if you were Piggy?”

  He chuckled, and I smiled. I knew how hard he was trying to make me feel better.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think that Piggy will be able to walk the same after he gets up?” I dared to ask.

  I knew Dad wouldn't lie to me. I also knew he knew what I was really asking.

  “I don't know, Lib. I don't know if he'll be good enough to show after this. If he is crippled, he won't feed out well. We'll just have to wait and see.” He drew a deep breath. “Right now, I need to rewire these two gates so that something like this can't happen again.”

  I turned back to Piggy. His mouth was opened slightly, his tongue lay loosely to the side. I was terrified he might die right then and there. I laid a shaking hand on his flank. It quivered at my touch, but then I felt the rise and fall of his breathing. It was fast, matching the pounding of my own heart. I smoothed his wet black hair, matted from his overnight struggle to free his leg.

  I wanted him to be standing in the warm barn with me brushing his smooth, sleek body. Instead, he looked half frozen and totally exhausted. I promised I would stay with him until he got up, no matter how cold I got.

  I owed him as much.

  * * *

  That night, Mom and I discussed Piggy's misfortune while we did the supper dishes. Granddad had eaten with us, as he did most nights.

  “Not because I can't rustle up some good eating all by myself,” he would say, his eyes twinkling. “But because better dinner companions can't be found this side of Nowhere.”

  I had hardly eaten, still devastated over Piggy's accident, and Granddad had tried to cheer me up with some ridiculous stories.

  “I had a steer once that broke all four legs at the same time.”

  Dad groaned. He'd obviously heard this one before.

  “Really?” a wide-eyed Frannie asked.

  “You bet. Couldn't walk at all. Just sat there in the dirt in the middle of the pasture.”

  “Really?” Frannie repeated.

  “Yep. Know what I called that steer?”

  Granddad was asking me.

  “No, Granddad,” I said, humoring him. “What did you call him?”

  “Ground beef,” he roared. “Get it? Ground beef.”

  He slapped his knee, and I couldn't help but crack the smallest smile. Granddad was so ornery. I knew he would do anything to make me feel better.

  Mom handed me a damp dinner plate and I rubbed the pear-green dish towel absentmindedly over it so many times that Mom finally took it out of my hands.

  “I think it's dry now, Libby.”

  “Oh, Mom, I wish I hadn't slept so late this morning,” I cried. “If I had found Piggy earlier, maybe he wouldn't be so hurt now.”

  Piggy had gotten up on his own about an hour after Susan left the farm. He had hobbled into the barn and col-lapsed on the warm, dry straw. That was where he stayed, not willing to try again to stand up.

  “It's okay, kiddo,” Mom tried to tell me. “It wasn't your fault. Sometimes things just happen.”

  There really wasn't anything she could say that would make me feel any better. And I think Mom knew it, too, because she took the first opportunity she had to change the subject.

  “Hey, how about you and I do a little shopping tomorrow after church?”

  Shopping. Shopping was okay. I needed new work boots. Mine were getting kind of tight in the toes. And if I had a new pair of jeans for school, I could use one of my older ones for barn jeans. Maybe shopping would be fun.

  “Okay.” I shrugged.

  “We could go to Warsaw …”

  Warsaw? Why go all the way to Warsaw? I could get jeans and boots at the Wal-Mart in Nowhere.

  Oh no.

  “… to that cute boutique where they sell fancy dresses and—”

  “No!” I heard myself shout.

  Mom looked surprised.

  “Libby…”

  How could she think that buying a silly dress for the stupid Beef Princess pageant would make me feel better?

  “I'm not doing it, Mom. I'm not going to buy a dress, and I'm not going to be in that stupid, lame pageant.”

  I threw the dish towel on the kitchen counter and ran for the barn. Behind me I could hear Mom's voice, but I didn't slow down to listen.

  The warmth of the barn was welcoming. In my rush to get away from Mom and her shopping suggestion, I hadn't even stopped to grab a coat. The freezing rain
of morning had turned into plain rain, making everything feel and smell damp. I flipped on the lights, and three barn cats came running.

  As expected, Mule was up and Piggy was down. I felt a little better when I saw that Piggy was sitting, his head high, and that the feed pan I'd placed in front of him was mostly empty.

  Swinging my legs over the gate, I jumped into the pen and took out the feed pan.

  “You doing better now, little guy?”

  Piggy's shiny black head bounced up and down slowly a couple of times, as if he were nodding. It made me smile and feel good for the first time since I'd gotten out of bed that morning.

  I stroked his sleek side, while Mule stood silently watching near the gate.

  “You had a rough day there, fella. But you're going to be just fine. Aren't you, boy? You're going to be just fine.”

  Again his head moved up and down, slowly.

  “Yes, you are. You have to be okay. I'll help you get better, okay, Pig?”

  I got a rice brush from the nail on the wall and stroked him while I talked. Mule stepped a little closer, as if he might want to hear what I had to say, too.

  “You don't know much about the Practical County Fair, but it's just the most magical, wonderful place there ever was. And this summer, I can take you there with me. And you can wear a fancy leather halter and walk around in front of the judge. It'll be so cool, Piggy, but you gotta be able to walk real good, see?”

  Piggy didn't respond, but behind me, Mule mooed softly. I changed the subject.

  “Do you want to hear about my mom's crazy idea?”

  Piggy let out a deep, long breath.

  “My mom thinks I should be in the Beef Princess pageant at the Practical County Fair. Now, isn't that the dumbest thing you've ever heard? Me? In a pageant?”

  Piggy sat very still.

  “Come on, Pig. You've been very agreeable so far. I mean, really. Think about it. The Darlings are the princesses of pot roast, not me.”

  I looked at Piggy.

  “What do the Darlings really know about beef, anyway? I'll bet that they don't brush their calves every day. I am sure Precious can't tell a Shorthorn from a Hereford. And that Lil, she's so ditzy I bet she'd have to study her steer long and hard to figure out which end to put the halter on.”