by Chuck Redman
As you might imagine, a sacrificial lamb that finds itself spared at the last second will pert’ner always scamper off without no formal leave nor polite chitchat. And keep a anxious lookout for hands that instinct says are bent on needless bloodshed. Well, whether foolhardy or fearless, this little lamb don’t scamper so much as ten modest paces. In fact, while that scaffold gets took apart log by log and Red Moon lets himself topple under a maple tree, this little lamb diligently tends to the feller’s ailments both old and new and tidies up his impressive inventory of bandages, dressings, and splints. Bold and meteoric but a short while ago, the young farmer does his darnedest to avoid eye contact and any subject other than the many varieties of eagle corn and their proper fertilization. Though, when that racy topic gets exhausted, he does attempt a piteous smile and tries an old joke out on her, the one about the Kiowa priest who turned his first wife into a flying squirrel and, well you know how it is, unless you’re born and raised Pawnee you ain’t gonna quite get the subtle innuendo of such high-brow humor.
When the last remnants of the scaffold is gone, the stately cottonwood and elm are unburdened and them arrow markers is stomped deep in the ground, they find themselves left alone in the clearing. Lark hands Red his crutch and they creep back to the path they come by. Bein a planter and all, Red can’t skirt the pumpkin field and not stop to yank out at least a dozen or so thirsty weeds, but each weed seems harder and harder to pull and needs closer and longer study until the last weed just sits in Red’s palm like he ain’t ever seen one before. Or, like he’s sorry he pulled the sucker out. Lark, arms slung at her side kinda like a yanked-out weed herself, can’t do nothin but watch. Wait. And deeply shiver. “You is pain feel?”
His is one a them faces that don’t hide much, so no matter how the lad rallies his battered body to stand straight and make motion look easy, before he’s back upon the path his face has betrayed him outright. The path itself is narrow. Two folks face to face don’t leave much room to breathe. Nor evade. “I’ll come back later and spread some buffalo—”
“If no you danger jump, I be die! Why you do this danger? Why you tell chiefs must no kill Lark? Maybe they is kill you!”
“I doubt it.” With but one shoulder can Red Moon shrug. “We need to get you home, Princess, you’re probably—”
“I no princess.”
“I no prince.”
Ah, the sight of that there smile. I don’t know when we’ve seen the likes of it since she run off in the first place. And we don’t see it for long now neither because all too soon it’s smothered with a shy hand. “In village my people,” and a moment’s pause has brung a distant look to Lark’s eyes, “I think man who save life girl, they is marry! Great Spirit say truly they is marry.”
“Oh,” says Red. I don’t believe, and I’ve seen a lot of folks, but I don’t believe I have ever seen a head take that long to complete a single nod. “Sounds vaguely—. In the vaguest sense it—. I, I think we have the same tradition. Heh.”
“Tradition! Yes, good tradition.”
Why, by golly it is a pretty sound and reasonable tradition, the young feller agrees wholehearted, and demands of the listening bluejays and poplars to know how anyone can expect folks to break too many traditions in one day. Heck, if they’re married, they’re married. That’s how Red tries to condense it, and bright-eyed and nodding she seems to savvy that concept pretty good. He puts out a hand. Hers ain’t overly coy. And I’ll be danged if they ain’t a pretty swell fit. Wrote on their faces is the question where do we go next. While that riddle percolates, she aims to make sure that the fella’s fully acquainted with the genuine name that she’s called by in her tongue and what it means and how it happened that the day she was born they saw this bird in a nest and—
“I know, Lark. I get it.” Not much doubt that he also knows he’s got himself a real corker.
“Granny say name by you Moon Red.”
“Red Moon.”
“Same. Name sound sweet to me. Lark sing for Moon Red in sky. Moon Red smile on Lark for happy sing.” A real corker.
Anyways, to be on the safe side, Red lopes into the village and rounds up Granny and Secret Pipe for a hasty blessing upon their two callow heads. And then by golly, on a day of frisky windblown clouds playin hide-the-ball with the Sun, them two young folks take the path that winds down toward the river.
Well, naturally, Lark and Red have a pretty nice time of it down by the river. And this very evening, a wispy cottonwood seed embedded in Lark’s thick hair since the night she run off comes free and floats away. And catches in just the right cranny of riverbank. Where it takes root. And where three hundred fifty years later we know her as Old Grateful.
Say, I guess I might mention while I’m at it: another tiny seed gets planted this mild evening. She will be known as Silver Leaf, the great-great great-great—uh, I believe you’re gonna need to tack on another twelve greats—grandmother of Tanya Portillo. Yessir.
Gilligan’s wire pen sits under a tall sycamore. The old tree helps shade the back of the bandstand that’s smack in the middle of the park. Pawnee Park is shady, green and flat, but only because a hundred forty years ago the collapsed earth lodges was leveled out and planted over. Once plentiful, Pawnee artifacts is rare to find these days and most folks has stopped looking. Just E.M. Tinker, mostly, and he’s got a pretty groovy collection at the Historical Society.
Gilligan ain’t eat or slept, all the big fella wants to do is stand there snuffing air out his snout, and now and then jab his great horns at the air and kick those sharp hooves into the warm afternoon grass. Them eyes of his is big as a fifty cent piece and them nostrils like two trumpets. Just like they get anytime he would hear the word “steer” pop up in conversation around the farm. Or anything that sounds like steer: stair, stir, star. If you was a bull, you wouldn’t much relish the implication of that there word, either.
The Bensons decided they better skip the Euphemion company barbeque. Only Gilligan has RSVP’d to this one.
“Horsie, horsie,” says Lorna pointing a tiny finger upwards from the Smold’s double stroller.
“No, Lornie,” says Allie Smold, “that’s a cow.”
“That’s a cow, Mommy,” says Liza. From his pen Gilligan looks at the twins like maybe they’re a new kind of Jessica and maybe he don’t need to shiver with fear quite so much as he’s been ever since they come and loaded him in that truck yesterday when Jessica was at swimming lessons.
“Girls, what do you think of the cow? Is he big?” Two curly heads gape and barely nod.
“Bull,” says Kenny, as he winks and walks over to the wide tent where the Euphemion folks is camped out.
“Bull,” says Lorna as her mama smiles at her daddy’s narrow shoulders growing narrower.
“Fascinatin-rhythm-you’ve-got-me-on-the-go,” wails the Cottonwood High Jazz Band. “Fascinatin-rhythm-I’m-all-aquiver.” Bang, boom, clash and thunk goes Nickano III on drums. Somewhere back in the tent where coffee and sweets is being served, Nickano Jr. adds his own cookware percussion.
“What you see is what you get, my dear,” says Milt sipping his coffee, as he splits his funnel cake and gives Estelle the smaller half.
“You’re mean,” says Estelle, who’s been trying to lose twenty pounds for nineteen years. “And Flip Wilson you’re not.”
“Milt, my man,” says Galen Nicolette of the Cat, taking a giant step forward but leaving one foot in the line for roasted corn-on-the-cob, “I’ve got some great ideas for fall ads I wanna show ya.”
“Let’s get through our summer clearance first,” says Milt. “Check with me after the Fourth.”
“The fifth it is,” says Galen, retracting his step and glancing at the open mouth of the little Camp Fire Girl behind him in line.
“I’m glad she’s over there and not here,” says Brent Portillo while he mustards and onions a hot dog and burger from the Grouse Club’s smoky braziers. “She’d see all this meat and start griping and pouting.�
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“I wish she’d just have stayed home,” says Mrs. Portillo looking toward the west end of the park, where sounds of protest echo through the treetops from the parking lot of James Fenimore Cooper Elementary School.
“No cutting in Cottonwood,” hollers Tanya Portillo with a waving sign that says Euphemion Keep Out.
“No cutting in Cottonwood,” holler the local chapters of the Arbor Lodge Society. The Anti-Cruelty League. The WHADUI’s, which is the We Hate DUI’s. The members of the Holy Day Church which is strict vegetarians. The punk rockers from the High School. And any members of the PTA who ain’t got a personal financial interest contrariwise.
“No cutting in Cottonwood,” hollers Dr. Chowdhury in a squeaky timbre and proudly rattling his sign which says Cottonwood, Not Cottonwouldn’t.
“Trees, Not Tenderloins,” says the T-shirts of all these protesters, with a picture of a cow tied to a cottonwood and a chain saw aimed at its neck.
“Pete, any thoughts on what effects a meatpacking plant would have on Cottonwood?” says Peg Rossiter for the Cat to a fella wearing an Astros cap and shelling peanuts.
“It’s about time,” says Pete. “We need more jobs. And the next thing we need is a nuclear reactor to run it with and cut our electric bills.”
“You have a good day,” says Peg pretending to write those thoughts down in her notebook and raising her eyebrows at her boyfriend Lance who installs solar.
“Do you have Tahiti water?” says Deputy Gillespie where bottled drinks are being handed out.
“No,” says the Euphemion worker who processes Edible Byproducts at the Concord plant and eyes the little patrolman kinda suspicious, “but I have Target.”
“With thprinklth,” says Cory Gillespie, the hawkeyed deputy’s little boy, at the ice crème booth. “Thankth.”
“Lord, help her see the light,” says Deputy Banacek shaking a wide moist brow at the sight of his boss and his least favorite wide receiver sharing a lemonade. Same straw.
“How’s the Crusade going, Banacek?” says Deputy Anderson walking by much amused. “The infidels winning?”
“With you as their Grand Potentate, Anderson, God only knows,” says the large blond knight.
“No problem,” says Reeves Palmer when Ray and Babette Stidwell ask him to please send some Chamber of Commerce water bottles to the hot protesters, which include their daughter who teaches yoga over at Hastings.
“No Water...No Slaughter. No Water...No Slaughter,” chant the protesters when they refuse to accept any handout from meatpacking sympathizers.
“I’ll take one,” says Keith O’Conner, who’s on probation and daresn’t get closer than curbside to the protest itself but opens the bottle and pours it out with dramatic flourish while his mom looks on horrified.
“Sorry, Mr. Palmer,” says Brandon Sorenson with a cringe when his frisbee conks the chamber chairman and knocks his Event Staff cap into a recycling bin.
“Huh?” says old Sid Haabert who’s busy looting the bin of cans and bottles for his own personal recycling program.
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” says Reeves. “Just move your game over to the baseball field, huh guys?”
“Nice move, Brandon,” yell Brandon’s friends. “Hey Brandon, how about writing a poem about your killer frisbee. They’ll put it in Sports Illustrated.”
“How about trying to catch a frisbee for the first time in your life, Schellmeyer,” yells Brandon with a deep flush and a Herculean heave over all their snickering heads.
“Let me just—” says Kelly Waligorski after Sid comes up to her information table and stares at her can of Dr. Pop until she guzzles what she can and surrenders the five cent article with a deep hiccup and even deeper dimples.
“Loooooove-for-sale,” warbles the lead trombone doing a standup solo with eyes closed and nearly parting the spiky hair of the lead saxophone with her slide. “Appetising-young-loooove-for-sale.”
Nary a word says Bill McCarmady, away from the crowd behind Gilligan’s pen as he tenders three personal checks of five digits each, made out to K.N.I.M.P.A.C.
Nary a word say his two big rancher clients standing alongside looking like they just figured out a way to rustle cattle without leaving no tracks.
Nary a word says Steve Cosetti as he grins and sticks the checks in the lining of his fancy cowboy hat.
Nary a word says Gilligan, who’s so dang fascinated by these cowpoke fellers on the other side of the wire that his tail forgets about swatting away them tenacious flies that came for the greasy food but like cattle on the hoof almost as well.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” says Steve Cosetti on his way to the bandstand.
“Is there anything you want to state for the record?” says Janet, fumbling with her wallet. “Here, you wanna see my press credentials?”
“Not necessary,” says Steve, putting up his hands. “You have a right to be here. And I know you think I’m scum. Hey, I’ve never been called PAC-man before.”
“So you’re ready to confess to political extortion?” says Janet but her two eyes don’t quite hold their own against his one. “I didn’t think so,” says she, and walks away.
“Can you move over that way a little?” says the Riverside TV reporter to the KOTT radio newsman as they wrap up coverage of the protest and set up in front of the bandstand.
“This far enough?” says the KOTT newsman, moving two centimeters and flashing a devilish smile and eyebrow lift at his buddy the Cat photographer.
“Cameras are setting up,” says Cosetti’s blonder intern tossing her long hair down then back, like them models do under them bright lights when they know their photographers is shooting about eighty shots a minute.
“Cool,” says her chum with braces sparkling clean in the sun since timing is everything and the warm hot dog she just stuck in her fanny pack was almost but not quite bit into yet.
“Good people of Cottonwood,” says Steve Cosetti from the bandstand microphone as he starts his welcome speech a shade too homespun and says how proud he is, how optimistic he is and all the other things he is about being here in the beautiful City of Cottonwood and how his company has growed from pert’ner nothing to one of the major players of the meatpacking industry which is a almost $200 billion a year industry and the largest agricultural sector and how Euphemion got where it is by innovations such as continuous-flow overhead conveyors that can hoist a live steer at the plant entrance and have choice cuts of beef in the freezer in the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee.
“No,” says Beverly the Cat receptionist, sipping a Diet Peppy Cola and not paying no heed to the speeches, “that can’t be. Look at him holding hands with his wife right this second.”
“It’s true, honey,” says Florene with a face that could clinch the annual poker title, “Ellen Ackerman is his dental hygienist. She was in this morning for a pair of beige open-toed pumps.”
“What makes her so sure?” says Beverly.
“Nitrous,” says Florene, picking her restless grandson off his chair and sitting him on her lap.
“And he spilled the beans, just like that?” says Beverly. “That he’s in love with his twenty-eight year old niece?”
“Mmm-hhh,” says Florene with nods of pure calm, smoothing the little feller’s hair.
“That’s crazy,” says Beverly. “The girl lives in Phoenix.”
“Uuuuh,” says Florene, as her head leaves off moving in any direction whatsoever.
“Our success,” says Steve Cosetti, “will be your success. Our growth will be your growth. That’s our platform. We want to partner up with all you folks and make the kind of future we all hope for for our kids and grandkids. I promise you this: We’re not going anywhere, we’re here to stay. At Euphemion we don’t just invest in the community. We get involved in the community.”
“That’s code,” says Peg Rossiter to Lance her boyfriend, “for ‘we give large campaign contributions to local politicians who vote our way’.”<
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“More thprinklth thith time,” says little Cory Gillespie.
“Hey, Kirby,” says Florene, on her way to the food tents, “how’re those sandals treatin you? Where’s Glenda hiding out at? Candace, that trip to Yellowstone must of agreed with you, you dropped at least a dress size, sweetie. Better keep an eye on her, Lou. This is my little grandson from Holdrege. Isn’t he a doll? I’ve gotta find cotton candy pretty soon or I’m in deep doo-doo. Janet?”
“Thank you all for coming out,” says Steve Cosetti. “Now let’s get this party started!”
“You bet! Let’s do this! Right on! Hell yes!” says the crowd aclapping, whooping, whistling.
“What’s the deal with you, honey? You look like mush warmed over,” says Florene.
“I’m great, totally great,” says Janet.
“Uh-huh,” says Florene.
“He-ain’t-much-to-look-at,” twangs the songstress of the country band with knees that bounce this way and that and make a short skirt and tall boots do the same, “nor-to-listen-to-nor-smell. He-ain’t-the-brightest-penny, in-a-shallow-wishing-well.”
“That’s their smash hit,” says Wendy Healy through cupped hands. “It’s called ‘Guess I Could Do Worse At That’.”
“Catchy,” says Laertes with about as much tease as Sheriff Wendy’s got in her hairdo.
“Hey you big sissy,” says Sean Blake, crouched and full of monkey business under the sycamore tree.
“Stupid ox,” says Jordan Clayfield full of attitude and rattling the wire frame.
“Snort”, “snuff” and “rumble” says Gilligan, craning his broad neck to try and see what’s going on back there.
“How do you like that?” says Sean poking the pointy end of his empty cotton candy holder through the wires.
“What’s the matter, you dumb piece of lard?” says Jordan ramming a fallen branch at the big feller’s most private and sensitive spot. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”
“You boys get away from that bull!” says Steve Cosetti walking fast.
