“Outta sight!” Catman exclaimed, staring at the cookie lumps that might have been cat-shaped.
“And he did them all by himself!” Lizzy winked at me.
I took a closer look. Every cookie had M&M’s forming the number 4 in blue or brown. “They look great, Catman. But how come they all say four?”
“I dig the number 4,” he answered, as if I were the crazy one for asking.
I plopped at the kitchen table and let Lizzy and Catman wait on me. The oven heat felt great, and my fingers tingled as they thawed out. I took a sip of what looked like orange juice but tasted like lemon and cranberry.
Dad strode up the hall, past the kitchen, and straight to the phone. He frowned at it, huffed, then started to go out.
“How’s it going, Dad?” I asked.
Dad stopped, as if shocked to see us. “Hi, Winnie. Catman. Lizzy. Didn’t see you there.”
Catman had a mouthful of sticky number-4 cookie, but he grinned hello.
The phone rang.
“I got it!” Dad shouted, running for the phone. “Hello?”
There was a pause.
Then Dad shouted into the phone, “No, you may not speak with the lady of the house!” He slammed the receiver, then walked off, muttering to himself, “Of course, the phone isn’t for me.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and came out with two charcoal-covered golf balls. “Why would anyone call me? Who would care enough to call, much less come over and . . . ?” His voice trailed off down the hall.
Poor Dad. And poor Madeline, when she finally did call.
Lizzy poured Catman another glass of lemon-cranberry juice and changed the subject. “Everything tastes better in shapes, don’t you think?”
After two more cookies, Catman stood to go. “See you cats on the flip side.”
After Catman left, I helped Lizzy with dishes. Then I heated goat’s milk and headed back to the barn.
Inside, a steady stream of cats was flowing toward the stalls. And from the barn came a series of squeaky, scrappy, unidentifiable squeals.
I dashed into the barn, almost tripping over the white-haired Rice. The screeches came together into words and echoed off the barn walls: “And I’ll be-e-e there-ere-ere. You got a friend, baby. You got a friend, darling. Don’t you know that you got a frie-e-end!”
“Catman?” I called, following the sound of his voice, which led right to Nickers’ stall.
I stopped. There was Catman, holding Annie Goat’s halter. The goat was standing perfectly still on a hay bale. And beneath her, Friendly Foal was nursing as if she couldn’t get enough.
“You did it!” I cried. “You got the foal to drink from that ornery goat.”
I slipped into the stall and hoisted myself onto Nickers’ bare back for a better view. Nickers and I watched as the foal drank, and the Catman kept singing, working his spell on Annie Goat.
Even Amigo sneaked closer to peer into the stall.
When it looked like Friendly had had her fill, Catman let go of Annie. The goat hopped off the bale of hay and took a bite out of it. Nickers strolled over and nuzzled the foal.
It was too great a moment to let go.
“Catman, can you stay and help me imprint Friendly?”
“I’m hip,” he said. I took it as a yes.
I slid off Nickers and sat beside Friendly. Catman squatted down and lifted the foal into his arms. Friendly was so full and content, she barely struggled.
I laughed. “For the rest of her life, Friendly will believe you can pick her up off the ground whenever you want to.” Mom had a friend who lifted her Clydesdale foals for just that reason.
Catman stretched the foal on her side, with her head in my lap.
I went over everything we’d already covered. Friendly didn’t mind when I touched her neck, head, mouth, or ears. Then I moved down her neck to her mane, then her shoulders, then her rib cage. Getting her to relax when I stroked her chest was the toughest.
“If we get her used to having her chest rubbed,” I explained, “she won’t mind when people fasten the girth and saddle her up.”
Finally I shifted around so I could stroke the foal’s upper legs. I must have done it over 100 times before she stopped jerking her front legs away. Her hind legs were even tougher. But we kept at it, not giving up on her.
Sometime during the session Catman started singing softly: “‘Wild Thing. You make my heart sing.’”
I grinned up at him. People used to call Nickers Wild Thing. That was before I had her. A picture flashed into my mind—a good one this time. The amazing white Arabian the first time I saw her, racing up the lane toward Lizzy and me. That’s a picture I don’t mind replaying.
I flexed Friendly’s elbows, then massaged her hock and stifle, moving down the hind legs again. Then I went back to her front legs to tackle hooves. When I touched her front hoof, she struck out at me.
“Cool it, little horse,” Catman said, slipping it into the tune of “Wild Thing.”
I didn’t let up. I rubbed the bottom of the hoof, patted it, then tapped 50 taps. “So many horses throw fits when the farrier tries to trim their hooves or shoe them for the first time. None of the horses Mom raised ever did, though.”
Catman had a way of listening, even when he was singing.
Finally Friendly stayed relaxed, even when I tapped the bottom of her hooves.
“Now we need to roll her over and work her right side. Horses have two sides of the brain and fewer connections, like nerve fibers and stuff,” I explained. “So it’s almost like two brains. You have to train skills on both sides of a horse. Mom said people who don’t know that get really frustrated because they think the horse is used to something, like laundry flapping on a line when they’re riding up a road. Then they turn around and come back, and the horse acts like he’s never seen laundry before.”
Catman lifted the foal and rolled her over so Friendly was partway on both of us.
“This side could be tougher. The left side of the brain controls thinking and reasoning. The right side is all instinct, with survival reactions, like flight. It’s the side of the brain that tells the horse to get out of there when there’s trouble.”
Nickers moved in closer. She leaned down and licked Friendly’s neck and jaw. Instantly the foal quit struggling.
I started over, taking my time, enjoying every second, feeling myself relax with Friendly.
I’d just moved to the nostrils and lips when I heard a van door slam. The last thing we needed was to be interrupted.
“Catman, tell whoever it is to go away!”
He started to get up, but the foal didn’t like that.
“No. Don’t get up!” I cried.
Madeline and Mason breezed into the barn. Madeline was singing, “‘Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!’” in some key that hadn’t been invented yet.
The foal squirmed, and I couldn’t blame her.
“Hi!” I whispered, hoping they’d get the hint.
Madeline stopped singing. “Here we are! Better late than never!” But her voice always sounds like a cartoon jingle. It was all I could do to hold on to the foal.
Mason tiptoed inside the stall and stared at the foal. He looked so much like a little angel that it hurt when I remembered how I’d yelled at him.
“Is she sick?” Mason asked.
“No!” But no wonder he thought that, with the foal lying on my lap, like Gracie had. I wondered if even Madeline knew how smart that kid was. “She’s great, Mason. I’m getting her used to people so she’ll be a good friend for you.”
“Come on over, little man!” Catman called.
Mason tiptoed behind us and slid into Catman’s lap.
Madeline moved closer and watched, while I helped Mason stroke the foal’s head and neck. Friendly was so good. Mason grinned until his dimple showed.
“I need to go in and help Jack,” Madeline said. “Mason, do you want to come with me or stay here?”
“Stay!” Mason answered.
>
“Then I’ll leave you kids to your fun.”
She really was in a good mood. Her invention must have been going great.
I thought about Dad and how the last time I’d seen him he’d yelled at a telemarketer, something I’d never seen him do. Especially since he sometimes did phone sales himself and knew how it felt to get hung up on.
I listened to Madeline as she strolled off, whistling an off-key verse of “Winter Wonderland.”
I had a feeling her good mood was about to change.
After Madeline left the barn, Catman scooted closer so Mason could reach the foal better.
“How about giving your horse a name, Mason?” I suggested.
Mason stayed quiet so long I was afraid he’d left us again. Then he wrinkled his pixie nose. “Mason?”
“Far out!” Catman said.
But it was a bad idea. I, for one, couldn’t take the confusion. “Well, that name’s taken, Mason. Let’s keep thinking, okay?”
He nodded and looked relieved. I couldn’t force him to hurry any more than I could force the foal. I needed both of them to trust me.
We continued to rub the foal’s head. Then we moved to her lips and mouth. “Get ready,” I whispered. “We’re going to feel her tongue. She’ll probably suck our fingers, but that’s just fine.”
She did too. Mason shuddered, then giggled.
“Far out,” Catman muttered. “Cool, little dude. This is so happening!”
We kept going, imprinting, stroking Friendly’s mane and rib cage. “Mason, you’re great at this!” I said. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t have a hand free.
Suddenly the barn door banged open, and we all jumped. I lost my grip on the foal, and she squirmed away. I couldn’t let her get up. But I couldn’t hold her either.
“Catman!” I pleaded.
But he was blocked by Mason, who was clinging to his neck.
The foal struggled to her feet and escaped to Nickers, who looked ready to fight off the enemy, whatever it was.
Madeline Edison stormed up to the stall, not even aware that she’d just ruined everything. “Mason, come here!”
Mason wouldn’t let go of Catman.
The foal scurried to the far wall, with Nickers snorting beside her.
I got to my feet. “Madeline!” I shouted, until I remembered I’m not supposed to shout at adults. I bit my lip and made the words come through my teeth so they wouldn’t sound so loud. “We were doing so great. You scared us.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Winnie. I really am. But don’t blame me. You can blame your father for being such a rude host.”
When she said father, she made it sound like FAH-ther. She ventured into the stall, as if dodging land mines, reached down, and pulled Mason away from Catman.
Mason buried his head in her shoulder when she turned to leave.
“Wait! We weren’t finished!” I shouted.
She kept going.
“When can he come back?” I hollered.
“You’ll have to ask your fah-ther!” she shouted back as she raced out of the barn and stomped off toward her van.
I’d always hated it when Madeline called my dad “Jack.” That’s what my mom used to call him. But the way she was saying “your father” gave me goose bumps.
I turned back to Catman, who was already moving toward the paddock, probably to take up his watch for the North Star. “I better go see if Dad’s okay.”
Catman made the peace sign and disappeared behind the barn.
Peace. It felt as far away as the North Star.
I hurried to the house. “Lizzy?”
Lizzy came out of our room. “Boy, did you miss it, Winnie. Madeline finally showed.”
“I know. What happened?”
Lizzy lowered her voice. “It was awful. Dad said Madeline didn’t think of anyone but herself, that she thought her inventions were important, but that she wasn’t even interested in his. Madeline denied it and said Dad wasn’t understanding, that he should know how it is when you’re on the verge of invention and you lose track of time, and she thought they knew each other well enough to—”
“Where is he?” I asked, interrupting.
“In the workshop. I feel terrible for both of them, Winnie. Dad ran straight out there. I’m making him broccoli lasagna. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”
I doubted it. Dad and I had to work at talking to each other, even when everything was going fine. But I had to try.
I found Dad hovered over his workbench, surrounded by golf balls in various stages of disaster. Some were charcoal black, others spotted brown, others cut open. The roar of the space heater made it hard to hear. Dad had on his orange work suit that’s only in fashion on death row.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”
Dad swung around as if I’d surprised him. “Great! Never better.”
I’ve never been good at making conversation with any human, especially with Dad. “So . . .” I tried hard to think of something safe to say. “That golf-ball thing sounds like a really great invention.”
“That’s what I thought, Winnie. Until I phoned the local golf course and was informed about Ohio golf courses’ no-smoking policy. No more smoking golf buddy. It would have been helpful if a certain inventor could have brainstormed with me. But since I’m not important enough to waste a certain inventor’s valuable time . . .”
“Um . . . Dad, you want to brainstorm with me?” I suggested, worrying about the veins popping out on the sides of his forehead.
Dad glanced down at me, then took a deep breath. “Well, Winnie, as it happens, your dad didn’t need anybody. No, sir. I solved this little glitch all on my own.”
“That’s great, Dad!” He hadn’t needed Madeline after all. I figured this might be a good time to make my exit. “I guess I’ll be going back to the barn then.”
“Wait a minute, Winnie! Let me show you the new and improved golf buzzer buddy!” He sorted through the balls on his worktable and came up with a regular-looking golf ball, except for the wires. In one hand Dad held the ball and what looked like a remote control.
“Of course, I’ll make the real golf buddy wireless. But this should give you the idea.” He made a tiny golf club out of his finger and thumb and pretended to swing at the ball in his hand. “I tee off with a long drive that hooks deep into the rough off the fairway.”
Dad tossed the ball with the others on the worktable. “Now, where is that ball? I know! I’ll ask the golf buzzer buddy.” He pressed the remote, and a horrible buzzer sounded.
I had to cover my ears. It was 10 times worse than the basketball buzzer at school. “Turn it off, Dad!” I begged. When he did, I uncovered my ears. “I thought golf was this big, quiet game with everybody shushing everybody else.”
Dad stared at the remote in his palm. His face looked like all the bones had slipped down to his chin. “Golf is a quiet game with everybody shushing everybody,” he admitted weakly.
I felt horrible. “Dad, what do I know? I can’t tell a golf club from a tennis club!” I faked a laugh, but he didn’t.
I backed toward the shop door, wishing I’d never even tried to cheer Dad up.
Note to self: Stick with horses.
Catman was right where I thought he’d be when I got back to the barn. He’d taken up his spot in the paddock where he could see straight through the V of the oak tree to the North Star.
I sat beside him and stared at it too.
“How’s Mr. W.?” he asked.
“Worse since I talked to him.”
I thought about Madeline standing Dad up, and Sal standing me up, and Brian standing Sal up, and Geri standing Lizzy up. “Why can’t people keep their word, Catman?”
Catman didn’t answer, but I guess it wasn’t a real question. Instead he pointed to another part of the sky. “M.”
I didn’t get it. “What?”
“M’s favorite constellation, Cassiopeia. Looks like a squashed M.”
I actually saw it, and it di
d look like someone had sat on an M.
The stars had poked through moving gray clouds, making the sky look layered.
“What time is it?” I asked. “Never mind. I forgot you never wear a watch.”
“Don’t need one,” he said, surveying the sky. “The North Star is the center of the clock. It doesn’t move. Earth does. Picture this, man! A line out through Dubhe and Merak, the pointers on the Dipper.” He pointed them out. “That’s your hour hand. Far out, huh?”
I tried to imagine a giant clock in the sky, with the North Star a dot in the middle. It wasn’t that hard. “But isn’t the hand between six and seven?”
“Right-on!” Catman exclaimed.
“But it can’t be six-thirty.”
“At midnight on March 1,” he explained, “the hour hand points straight up. It moves backward. But each hour is two hours past midnight. So you have to subtract two hours for each month past March. You read it . . . about 6:30 A.M. Subtract two hours for each month past March 1 . . . let’s say 10. Must be about 8:30 P.M.”
“That was easy,” I muttered. No wonder Catman got straight A’s in math.
When Catman left for Barker’s, I went back to the house. I was hoping Hawk would call. I wanted to tell her how well Friendly and Amigo had done today. And I wanted to know when she’d be home. Besides, it was fun to hear her talk about the party.
I’d finished my peanut-butter-and-cheese sandwich and was on my second cup of Lizzy’s peanut-butter hot chocolate when Hawk called.
Right away I launched into an instant replay of the day. When I was done, I realized that Hawk hadn’t said anything. “Sorry, Hawk. Tell me more about your party. Anything I can do? Maybe Lizzy can bake something? When will you be home, anyway?”
“That is actually why I am calling. I will not be home Sunday.”
“Hawk! New Year’s Eve is Monday night! What if your plane’s late Monday? You can’t show up late to your own New Year’s Eve party!”
Friendly Foal Page 7
