Little Joe

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  “Grandpa says we got enough caring to go around for everyone. Animals, too.”

  “Your pa’s a good farmer, Eli.”

  “Then how come he likes pumpkins over cows?”

  “I guess pumpkins don’t hurt.” Ma opened the old Frigidaire and laid her dozen on the stack labeled EXTRA LARGE. “How ’bout some buttermilk pancakes to go with that gigantic egg?”

  “With peach maple syrup on top?”

  “I think we still have some left.” Ma smiled. She handed Eli his giant egg and they walked out of the old milk house toward the kitchen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cow Tipping

  Eli lay on his bed not knowing what to do. He stared at the soldiers on the papered walls that had been there since Grandpa was a boy. But Eli was too angry to concentrate on which clusters of military men carried swords and which ones had bayonets slung over their shoulders. He was mad about the rain.

  “You sure they canceled the fireworks, Pa?” Eli yelled. He leaned forward, clasped his arms around his knees and looked outside. It hadn’t even sprinkled yet.

  Pa came into the room, tucked his hands into his jean pockets and peered through the window. “Sure looks like rain,” Pa said.

  The clouds hung low, gathering strength near the barn. They were stained blueberry, the edges a deep watermelon, same as a bruise.

  “They’re tryin’ to figure out what to do,” Pa said. “If hot or cold’s gonna win out.”

  Eli figured hot would. It had been the hottest Fourth of July he could remember. His rocket Popsicle had melted before he’d gotten to the white part, watching the parade that afternoon. Even now, Eli was waiting for the fan to blow in his direction and keep his bangs from sticking to his forehead.

  “You check the fields?” Pa asked, angling his chin to catch a glimpse of the pastures. “Lupine’s in season. Lobelia, too.” Pa’d skimmed his cheek toward the window so close it was almost touching. “The stems’ll be sapping up now. If they’ve grown at all.”

  Eli had already checked Little Joe’s pasture. He’d scoured the rocks for any spiky flowers blooming cone-like that might be lupine, careful not to step into a steaming mound of cow manure the damp heat refused to harden. He’d examined each flowering plant growing wild in tufts along the hillside. It didn’t matter if they weren’t white or pink or blue. Eli checked them anyhow, until beads of sweat collected on his nose and the sun made his head ache. But it was always the same. Nothing was ever lupine. Lobelia, either.

  Pa’d showed him all the poisonous plants a cow could get sick on in the seed catalog so many times, Eli wondered if that was the only place they’d ever bloomed. And this afternoon, his legs were just too tired to walk down to Fancy’s field, where all the pregnant cows grazed. Eli’d seen them high up by the pines, standing in the shade. They hadn’t even chewed the cud yet. It was so hot, they rubbed their necks and chins against each other to scratch away the face flies. Besides, he’d just combed the field last week for any purple flowers. There were none.

  “Still time before it rains.” Pa cleared his throat. “And gets too dark.” He headed out the door.

  It was almost dusk when Eli walked toward Fancy’s field, but it hadn’t cooled down yet. He took his wrist and wiped the beads of sweat lining his brow. The trees had gone dark before the sky did, sticking out their inky branches against the purple smudge of clouds. Encouraged by the heat, the katydids kept calling, scraping their wings together so loudly Eli had to remind himself the insects weren’t any bigger than his pinky finger.

  “You a cow yet?”

  Eli swiveled toward the voice and spotted Keller on the creek path, wet from a swim.

  “Figured you must’ve become part of the herd, since I never see you around.” Keller smiled. He yanked the T-shirt hanging from the back of his jeans and swatted a knee. “Horsefly,” he said. “Bite straight through anything.” Keller pulled the T-shirt over his head, which had been shaved.

  “What happened to your head?” Eli pointed at Keller’s shiny skull. He could see a whole bunch of nick marks forming lines smudged red.

  “Too hot to have hair on it,” Keller said. “Got in the way of the sweat, so I shaved it.”

  It was almost dark by now and impossible to make out colors on anything blooming.

  “That’s where you were going, wasn’t it?” Keller asked. “To see if the cows were fartin’ the right way?”

  “No.” Eli scowled. It was bad enough that Keller had swum in his creek. “I was gonna check for lupine or anything poisonous they could get into,” he told Keller.

  “Lupine?” Keller bulged out his eyes and laughed. “The only thing growing through these rocks is weeds. Don’t matter if it rains or not.”

  They both looked up at the sky and felt nothing but hot air.

  “There’s other Fourth of July traditions besides fireworks,” Keller said, rubbing a palm against his skull. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” Eli jogged to keep up.

  “Cow tipping.” Keller threw Eli a picket fence smile before hopping over the barbed wire to the pasture where Little Joe grazed.

  Eli froze.

  “Aw, come on,” Keller said. “Everybody does it. I bet your pa did it when he was young, too.”

  Not Pa, Eli thought. Pa never spent more time with his cattle than he needed, but he’d named his first calf Shamrock. Bought her a green halter and everything. And Eli couldn’t imagine tipping anything, let alone Little Joe. You tipped on a Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair or leaning over to pick up a stray bale of hay off Grandpa’s tractor. You tipped over a rain barrel if the mosquitoes got to it. You tipped over when you needed to, not because you wanted to.

  “They’re just a bunch of stupid cows.” Keller stuck out his arms like he was sleepwalking or a robot. Then he knelt on all fours and began to moo.

  “They … they ain’t stupid,” Eli stammered, climbing through the fence real gentle. He didn’t want to go startling them. And he didn’t want Keller running loose with their cows. Keller had tipped over plenty of things—burn barrels and beehives—kicked them, too. Feed buckets and oil cans, hay wagons and outhouses. Just for fun. Eli knew Keller would tip over Little Joe and not think twice about it.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with them.” Keller grinned. “Betcha give ’em a good-night kiss, too. Kissy, kissy!” Keller puckered up his lips and inched closer to Eli’s face.

  Eli pushed Keller away and focused on the shadows. The cows looked different at night. Whenever the moon cut through the muddy sky, it cast a shimmer over the cattle. Their hides gleamed like dragonfly wings. Eli heard belching and burping and munching. Most of the crossbreds were resting on the ground, chewing their cud, eyes glassy and dark as marbles staring back at him. Good, Eli thought. If they’re all lying down, they can’t get tipped over.

  “No need to worry, lover boy. It don’t hurt them.” Keller was whispering now and crouching low. “It’s funny. You give one a push and boom! Down they go. Just like dominoes. Or a punching bag. Only they don’t pop back up. It takes a while for them to get to their feet again, but they do.”

  Eli spotted a gray muzzle grasping the bottom branch of an oak tree with a tongue to get at the leaves. He thought it was Little Joe. But then Eli caught a flash of white, jagged as a puzzle piece in the middle of the hide.

  “Ain’t that your calf over there?” Keller asked, pointing past the tree.

  Eli knew the topline straightaway. It was Little Joe. He’d trimmed the calf’s rump hairs that morning. Now the perfectly groomed tailhead was facing them, straight as an arrow. He was standing next to Old Gert and they both looked awful quiet. As if they might be sleeping.

  “Whatcha gonna do when he goes and gets sold on you at the fair? Cry like a baby? Boo hoo!” Keller fisted up his hands and rubbed both eyes. “Wouldn’t the judges love that. Take away your ribbon, I bet.”

  Move! Eli thought, watching Keller creep closer to Little Joe. Instead,
a firefly snapped, bursting light into the air before becoming invisible again.

  Keller craned his neck and looked behind his shoulder. “I’ll show you how it’s done,” he mouthed, reaching over to tap Little Joe’s hip.

  Eli tackled Keller and Little Joe bucked up. The two boys tumbled down the pasture in a tangle until a rock jutting out of the hillside stopped them. A corn snake getting warmed by the heat of the stone slithered across Keller’s waist. Keller bolted upright and let out a scream—high-pitched—just like a girl’s. Just like Hannah, Eli thought.

  “It’s just a corn snake!” Eli laughed.

  The herd galloped down the hill in a circle, then came back to look at Eli, surrounding them both. Little Joe edged closer and sniffed Eli’s head.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of snakes, Keller. Ain’t that something?”

  “Am not!” Keller brushed off his belly to make sure the snake hadn’t left anything on it. “I didn’t see it coming, that’s all.”

  Old Gert had settled down, her legs tucked under. She was making a crunching sound, moving her lips sideways in opposite directions, chewing her cud. Keller knelt and leaned against her, then looked down at the grass and decided to stand.

  “How you gonna cow tip if you’re afraid of snakes?” Eli teased.

  Fireworks exploded into the sky, peppering the darkness with streaks of orange and blue and white. The herd did another loop around the pasture, waiting for Old Gert to catch up before stopping.

  “Guess they’re doing the fireworks anyway,” Keller hollered, looking up at the globes of cascading color. “Maybe we’ll cow tip another night. When it’s not the Fourth of July.”

  “Nah.” Eli shook his head. “You wouldn’t want me messing with your Sour Patch pigs, would you?”

  Keller stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders and spit.

  Then they both eyed the shadowy outlines of the cattle as they galloped farther down the hillside.

  Eli was heading for the house when he heard splashing in the creek. He went down and saw Pa and Hannah swimming.

  “Where you been?” Pa asked, stroking toward the bank.

  “Checking on the cattle.”

  “It’s dark, son.” Pa stopped swimming and wiped the water from his eyes. “Has Keller been gettin’ you to cow tip?”

  “Nah.” Eli shook his head. How did Pa know about that?

  Pa came up on the bank and swatted a mosquito above Eli’s head. “The Tibbets do that every Fourth. Never saw much point in it. A calf could get hurt. Bruise its flesh.”

  A few fat raindrops fell on their shoulders. Pa looked up at the sky.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you for a while, son.” Pa held back a few dripping bangs. “And I better hurry. Now it’s something big.” Pa smirked, walking backward. “So you better stand clear.” Then he turned around, sprinted toward the creek and pitched into the air.

  “Cannonball!” Hannah shouted, watching Pa grab hold of his knees.

  Pa shattered the surface of the swimming hole with a big fat cannonball.

  “You try it, Eli!” Hannah laughed.

  “The only way to get the mosquitoes off ya is to go under,” Pa said.

  “I got my clothes on.”

  “But you’re already wet,” Hannah pointed out.

  It was raining harder now. Warm drops dribbled down Eli’s nose.

  Eli took off his sneakers and socks. The ground was just softening. When he looked up, Pa and Hannah had cleared the way, bobbing in the water ten feet apart.

  Eli’s heart beat faster and he began to run. As he jumped, he could see Pa laughing and Hannah clapping. He hit the water with his shins hard and it smarted. But he was having too much fun to care. He went under the water and grinned.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the Show Ring

  Little Joe didn’t like to step over anything, especially not the garden hose obstacle Grandpa had coiled round, its shiny nozzle poking up like a copperhead snake in front of the silo. Eli clenched hard on the calf’s halter. He pulled left, leading Little Joe around it and into the imaginary ring.

  “Good. Now set him up,” Grandpa commanded, pressing a finger against his nose and looking serious under his straw hat. “And pretend like I’m the judge,” he added, fanning his face with the other hand. “You’re in the show ring now, remember. The fair’s not even two months away.”

  The three of them were already sweating. Smatterings of filmy cobwebs the outdoor spiders had spun overnight still hung like dew blankets over the lawn, and the daisies were just opening up. It was going to be another scorching August day. Eli wished he had a hat on, too, but you couldn’t compete if you wore one.

  Eli waited until the calf’s front legs were straight before tugging on the lead strap to get him to stop. All he could hear was the soft tinkling of the chain on the leather strap. And crickets. They didn’t even bother keeping quiet during the day anymore; it was just as hot at night.

  “Hindquarters,” Grandpa pointed out. “Calf posture’s real important.” He knelt down and leaned closer, examining the space between Little Joe’s feet as if he could measure the distance in his head. “Get ’em wide to form a rectangle with them other legs.”

  Eli poked the tip of the show stick in the fleshy fold between Little Joe’s toes to get him to move. Little Joe stepped a bit wider. Eli smiled.

  “Seems he likes being shown off,” Grandpa said, impressed by Little Joe’s stance. “He’s not fightin’ it. And he’s not fightin’ you.”

  The first time Eli tried the show stick a few months ago, Little Joe kicked at it, thinking it might be a fly or some other kind of biter. But Eli worked with the calf every day, prodding his toes and dewclaws lightly with the stick, then pulling it away real quick whenever Little Joe lashed out. Once the calf saw there was nothing to be afraid of, he stopped kicking and started listening to Eli.

  “A little too wide, Eli. Bring him back,” Grandpa said. “Remember—the halter tells him where to go. The stick tells him which foot to move.”

  Eli took the hook of the stick and jabbed Little Joe’s callused dewclaws with it. Perfect, he thought, keeping his gaze on the calf’s poll as he obeyed. Eli stroked Little Joe’s black belly. He’d gotten him perfectly lined up when Little Joe lunged forward, showing Eli the whites of his eyes as he stepped out of line. Eli looked around to spot the trouble. It was Tater. He’d found relief from the heat in a tractor divot the wheels had made in the muck.

  “No fair, Grandpa,” Eli moaned. “Tater spooked him!”

  Tater rolled around in the murky water. He splashed his tail and showed his black gums until he sneezed from being upside down too long.

  “That’s good,” Grandpa said. “Just like in a show ring.” He grinned. “Animals doing what they want, when they want. Getting into trouble. Behaving as they please.”

  Eli pulled the currycomb from his back pocket and brushed the drool off Little Joe’s neck. Then he scratched the calf s belly with the show stick to get him settled.

  “It don’t concern you,” Grandpa told Eli, folding his arms and walking in a semicircle around Eli and Little Joe. “It’s just the judge, you and Little Joe in that ring, far as you’re concerned. Now tap him on the nose with the butt of the stick. That’ll get him listenin’.”

  Spider walked under Little Joe while Eli was leading him around the ring. It didn’t seem to bother Little Joe. Expertly, the two moved together, Spider weaving in between the calf’s feet as he stepped a front hoof, then a back hoof, forward.

  “Keep half a cow’s length between you and them,” Grandpa ordered, pointing at Spider. “And if you go past the water tub, you’re out of the ring.”

  Eli held Little Joe back, waiting for Spider to trot away, careful to keep half a cow’s length behind her. She lay low instead, stalking a pair of gingerbread-striped kittens with her yellow eyes. Eli turned Little Joe around near the tub before Spider chased the kittens down the hi
ll.

  “Good instincts, son. Always turn away from the trouble.” Grandpa clasped his hands. “I’d say you’re ready.”

  Eli wished he could show in his class right now.

  Grandpa got out the soft strip of girth tape and wrapped it around Little Joe. “Forty-six inches,” he called out, reading the tape measure. “Nice and meaty. I figure he’s seven hundred pounds, and that’s being modest.”

  Grandpa rolled up the tape, put it back in his pocket and smiled. “That’s what good breeding and green pasture can do to a calf. Looks like you’re both ready.” Grandpa hauled the tub of water and fed it to Little Joe. “There’s just one more thing I need to show you.”

  Eli couldn’t imagine what else he needed to learn about posing.

  “Get your bull calf back into the barn first. He’s been out long enough. You don’t want his hide getting red from too much sun.”

  Eli led the calf into his show stall and turned on the fan he and Pa’d hung from the ceiling. He hoped it would keep Little Joe cool enough to get his hair growing. He clawed at Little Joe’s underbelly with his fingernails where the red patches were, forcing them to shed. Blue ribbon Anguses always had black hair that was thick and glossy. He’d have to keep Little Joe inside more during the day and let him out to graze at night so the sun wouldn’t color more clumps red.

  Eli turned on the radio dangling from the manger with binder twine so Little Joe could get used to other people’s voices. He’d hear thousands of them at the fair.

  “Come on out, son,” Grandpa called.

  Eli squinted to block out the sunlight and nearly tripped over the box in front of him.

  “Can’t show without a show box,” Grandpa said.

  Eli looked down and saw a shiny square box the size of a newborn calf. It was painted bright red. Even though the gold letters were upside down from where he stood, Eli knew they spelled STEGNER.

  “Figured your birthday’s comin’ up after the fair and it’s a long ways before Christmas, so it makes sense to give you this early.”