by Sam Torode
After Hoppy was safely behind bars, Sarah tossed some fresh hay to the goats. I grabbed some straw and fed a couple kids out of my hand. “Do you have names for all the animals?” I asked.
“No—just Hoppy. I call him that cause he’s always hopping over the fence.” She pitched another armful of hay over the fence. “Then there’s Old Squeal, the hog. But I don’t have to deal with him, thank God. Mister Henry feeds him all the scraps and leftovers.”
Next, we walked to the chicken pen and Sarah gave me some corn to feed them. As soon as the kernels hit the ground, a large, redheaded chicken pushed all the others out of the way and snatched them up. “Wow—I’ll bet you get some big eggs out of that one,” I said.
Sarah laughed. “Don’t you know the difference between a hen and a rooster?” My cheeks flushed—I didn’t even know about sex in the animal world.
She pointed to a smaller, black chicken in the corner. “He’s the only other male. All the rest are girls.”
“What happened to his tail?”
“The big one pecked all his feathers off, just to show him who’s boss.” She sighed. “Boys—they’re all alike.”
Sarah ducked inside the hen house for a minute and collected a basketful of eggs. Then we headed back to the goat pen. “Milking time,” she said.
“Don’t ask me to help—I can’t tell the girls from the boys.”
Sarah led a mama goat with a heavy, swinging udder out of the pen and over to the milking bench. “Sure you don’t want to try? It’s easy—just watch.” She grabbed two nipples and pulled them back and forth; soon, her pail was half-filled with frothing milk.
She stood up and pointed to the bench. “Your turn.” When it became clear that she wasn’t going to take no for an answer, I squatted down on the bench and gingerly wrapped my fingers around warm goat flesh. I couldn’t help but wonder: if she kicked me in the head, would I see Jesus like my father had?
I didn’t want to tell Sarah, but it was the first time I’d ever touched anyone’s nipples. They were soft as suede leather and stretchy as rubber. Did girls’ nipples feel like that, too?
I gave a tug, but nothing came out. “I think this one’s empty.”
“There’s plenty left,” Sarah said. “You’ve just got to pull harder.”
So I tugged again. And again. Finally, the goat bleated—“Maaaa!”—reared back, and gave a mighty kick. The pail went flying and I tumbled over backwards.
I didn’t see Jesus, but I did get a good soaking. Milk streamed down my shirt and pants, and I knew there was no way was I going to get a hug from Sarah now. When I turned to face her, she was bent over laughing. Her collar hung low enough that I could glimpse her breasts jiggling like two apples on a wind-tossed branch—and that lovely sight made all my humiliation worthwhile.
I got out of the way while Sarah finished the job. I couldn’t blame the goat for not wanting me to pull her nipples—even an animal could tell that I didn’t understand the first thing about breasts.
I was obsessed with breasts, but I had no idea why. I still am, and still don’t. What are they, anyway? Built-in baby bottles. So why are they so attractive? Is it their roundness and softness? If women had only one breast and several nipples, like a goat, would breasts lose their charm? If women had udders on their bellies that swayed as they walked, would men still watch and whistle?
All I know is that a woman’s breasts are the centerpiece of all that’s beautiful, intriguing, and delightful about her. It’s true even of small-chested girls like Sarah.
+ + +
After Sarah filled two pails (or, rather, the goat filled them), we carried the milk and eggs back to the cooling shed. Wilburn and Millie didn’t have an electric freezer, so they kept a small shed packed with ice blocks buried in straw to make them last. Sarah put one pail of milk and most of the eggs inside, but kept the rest out. “I have to take these back to Mama,” she said.
It was a long walk down to the houses where the hired help live, but I volunteered to go along. Being Sunday, there wasn’t any work that I needed to be doing; and besides, there wasn’t anything else on the farm as interesting as Sarah.
As she gathered up the eggs in the front of her dress, I picked up the pail. “I’ll carry the milk.”
“All right,” she said. “Just see that you don’t spill it again.”
“I’m not the one who kicked over the bucket—your goat did.”
“But you provoked her.”
It was no use trying to get the last word in.
As we started towards Sarah’s house, the sun was low in the sky and the orchards shrouded in fog. This was about the time of morning I was usually just rolling out of bed; no wonder Craw and I hadn’t run into her before.
“What sort of work does your father do on the farm?” I asked.
Sarah kept walking, staring straight ahead into the mist. I thought she hadn’t heard. Then she looked down at the path. “My daddy died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.” We were both quiet for a while, but my mind was racing. Was that why Wilburn and Millie hadn’t mentioned her family? Had she worn black every day since then?
“I don’t remember much about Daddy,” Sarah said, “Just the way he looked in the field that last summer, bent over hoeing cotton. And how tired he was.”
“Was—was it an accident?”
Sarah shook her head. “One day, he just collapsed. His heart gave out on him.”
I felt sick. “Did my uncle work him too hard?”
“No—Mister Henry was the only fair employer Daddy ever had. But by the time we got here, it was too late. After he was gone, Mister Henry let my mama and me stay on and do odd jobs. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where we’d be. ”
I wished I could give her a hug. “Where did you live before here?”
Sarah gave a short laugh. “Where didn’t we live? Daddy went wherever there was work, and Mama and I went with him. Georgia, Arizona, California. We lived in tents, boxcars, labor camps. Never had a home, really.”
“I’ve lived in the same place my whole life—Remus, Michigan.”
“You’re lucky.”
“Obviously you haven’t been to Remus.” I looked over at Sarah, but she didn’t smile.
“There’s nothing glamorous about life on the road,” she said. “Daddy saw things that drained all the joy out of life.”
“Like what?”
“Men killing each other over a watch or a key chain. Babies starving cause their mothers’ milk went dry. He once saw a man selling his wife—a penny for ten minutes. He kept her in a boxcar, and men were lined up around the trainyard waiting their turn.”
“That’s awful.” I thought about the things I’d seen in just a week on the road: the girl in St. Louis, Red’s empty eye socket, the boxcar fire.
“Sometimes,” Sarah said, “life on the farm isn’t any easier. I’ve seen some things, too. That’s the problem with life—no matter where you go, you can’t escape death.”
For the first time since we’d started walking, she looked at me. Her eyes seemed even larger than usual, and I saw my silhouette reflected on their watery sheen. Looking at those eyes was like glimpsing the surface of a dark pool—I had no idea how deep it ran, or what lurked inside. And I knew that if I fell in, I might never come back up.
“Watch it,” she said. “You’re spilling.”
“Hold on.” I set down the pail and brushed off my pant leg. “It was only a drop. You just worry about your eggs.”
Her fingers gripped the front of her dress, cradling the eggs inside. A single, clear drop fell onto her wrist and trickled down her hand. Then another tear melted into her dress. I reached out and put my trembling hand on her shoulder. Sarah fell against me and nestled her head under my chin. Her tears fell hot against my neck and soaked into my shirt. She sobbed until her whole body was shaking—the same way I’d seen her cry at the river—and I had no idea what to do about it. Was I supposed to cheer her up? Or try to
help somehow?
The next thing I knew, my own eyes started watering. I wrapped my arms around Sarah’s back, pressed my face into her hair, and tried to choke back the tears. But everything I’d been holding inside for the past month came bursting out.
Or, at least, half of me cried. The other half floated above, taking note of the sensations—blurry vision, burning nose, the taste of saltwater—and thinking, So this is what it feels like. How strange—and girls do this all the time?
Then I felt something wet against my crotch. Dear God, did I wet my pants, too?
Sarah pushed away, catching her breath between sniffles. “Oh, shit—the eggs.”
We both stared down at the mess of clear goo, yellow yolk, and cracked shells oozing down the front of her dress. But I wasn’t about to let that interrupt my hug. I pulled Sarah back into a salty, snotty, squashed-egg embrace, and kissed the top of her head.
CHAPTER 22
EVERY morning for the rest of the week, I woke up early to help Sarah with her chores—not that she needed the help. We didn’t talk about what had happened on Sunday. We didn’t talk about much of anything. But I felt a connection with her, and I thought she felt it, too. Maybe it was that neither of us had any brothers or sisters; it gets lonely being an only child.
I didn’t breathe a word about her to anyone, but it didn’t take long for Craw to get curious. I always met him at his shed with a plate of Millie’s ham and eggs before heading out to work, but on Tuesday and Wednesday, I was a few minutes later than usual. Thursday, I missed him altogether. When I arrived at the work site an hour late, Craw was sitting on his usual stump hacking away at a post. He tipped his cowboy hat and grinned. “Must be something awful important keeping you these days.”
I brushed past him, post-hole digger in hand. “Nope—just slept in.”
“Now that’s funny,” Craw said. “Wilburn said you left the house at six.”
I kept my back to him. “I had to feed the chickens, too.”
“I’ll bet it ain’t just chickens you’re spending time with.”
“You’re right,” I said, jamming the digger into the ground. “It’s the goats, too. You know—I’ve developed a new fondness for goats.”
He chuckled. “Son, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You may be inexperienced, but you’ll learn quick.”
I kept quiet, frustrated that I couldn’t keep a secret for one damn week. Besides—I liked being around Sarah, but that didn’t mean that I was in love with her. She intrigued me, but she scared the hell out of me sometimes, too. You can never feel entirely at ease around a girl once you’ve seen her fire a shotgun, especially if it was aimed between your legs.
“Ask me anything,” Craw said. “There’s nothing worth knowing about women that old Craw don’t know.”
I leaned on the digger handle. “All right—why do they cry so much?”
“Damned if I know.”
“And what’s a man supposed to do when a woman cries?”
“Go out and get a beer.”
I shook my head and took another stab at the ground. “Maybe we should stick to making fences.”
“Nah—too damn complicated.”
+ + +
Every time I talked to Sarah, I looked for a chance to slip in the question—“Do you know of any dry wells around here?”—but it never seemed to fit. I knew what would happen: she’d ask why I wanted to know, and it wouldn’t take a minute for her to squeeze the whole truth out of me.
Time was short—my parents would be evicted in only three weeks. But as the days wore on, I thought less and less about the money. After work, instead of searching for the well during the two free hours before dinner, I started visiting Sarah’s home on the far edge of the farm. It was a three-room, tin-roofed house painted bright canary yellow. “That was Mama’s idea,” Sarah said.
Sarah’s mother, Rosalind Hawthorn, had long, deep red hair streaked with silver, which she kept braided and coiled on top of her head like a snake. The first time I met her, Rosalind was at the kitchen table rolling dough with an empty Doctor Pepper bottle. “Sarah’s always had a special way with animals,” she said. “She gets along better with critters than people. Land’s sakes, the things she’s brought home for pets—lizards, horned toads, snapping turtles, even scorpions. Once, when she was just a baby, I found her playing in the dirt with a black widow spider. She had it on a stick, hanging by a thread. She said, ‘Look Mama, doesn’t this spider have the prettiest red spot on her bottom?’ I about died.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “But you didn’t. And neither did I.”
“Only because of the spirit watching over you,” Rosalind said.
Sarah frowned. “That’s enough, Mama.”
Rosalind took the lid from a Mason jar and started cutting circles out of the dough. “I hope you can stay for biscuits, Toby.”
As much as I hated being called Toby, I could always stay for biscuits. While they baked, I asked how it was that Sarah had black hair when Rosalind had red.
“I’m Irish,” Rosalind said. “But John—Sarah’s father—was part Spanish and a quarter Indian. His grandmother was a full-blooded Commanche princess. She was the most amazing lady I’ve ever met, and she lived to be a hundred and one. The day Sarah was born, she—”
Sarah grabbed her mother’s arm. “Not that story, Mama. Please.”
Rosalind got up to check the biscuits in the oven. “Folks in Glen Rose gave us a hard time when we first moved here,” she said when she sat back down. “Some of the old men fought the Commanches fifty years ago, and they weren’t ready to give up just yet. Thank God, most of them have died off now.”
The only decoration on the wall was a cardboard print of a girl dressed all in black, holding a bundle of roses. When Rosalind went outside to draw some water, I asked Sarah who it was.
“That’s Mama’s favorite saint. Therese—the Little Flower.”
“She’s young,” I said.
“Yeah. She coughed up a bunch of blood and died when she was twenty.”
“How . . . saintly.”
Saint Therese smiled out from her frame, but Sarah gazed back with sad eyes. “Sometimes, I think it would be nice to go that way,” she said. “Maybe they’d paint pictures of me, too.”
I glanced at the rosary beads around Sarah’s neck. My father would have been horrified. According to him, Catholics were hell-bound idolaters. Even worse, they were cannibals. When they took communion, they actually believed they were gnawing on Jesus—every wafer was supposed to be a chunk of his thigh or forearm.
It didn’t make any difference to me, but I asked just to be sure. “So you’re Catholic?”
Sarah hesitated. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
I laughed. “You’re not sure?”
“Mama goes to mass a couple times a year. I used to go with her, but not lately. We don’t have a car, and the nearest parish—San Juan Baptist’s—is half an hour’s walk.”
San Juan Baptist. Why did that sound familiar? “Wait a minute,” I said. “Does that mean John the Baptist?”
“Sure—Saint John the Baptist.”
I started laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“John the Baptist wasn’t Catholic. He was the very first Baptist—everybody knows that.”
Sarah shook her head. “They called him ‘the Baptist’ because he baptized people, silly.”
I tapped my fingers on the table. “He swore off women, refused decent food and clothing, and was always yelling at people to repent. If that isn’t Baptist, I don’t know what is.”
“He lived in the desert because he was a monk,” Sarah said, putting her hand on top of mine. “Baptists don’t even have monks.”
The moment she touched me, I lost my train of thought. All I could do was smile and say, “Maybe you’re right.”
Baptist Catholics in Texas—who knew? Maybe my father would have approved after all.
CHAPTER 23
THAT Sunday
, June 7th, was the Henry Family Reunion. Uncle Will described it as the highlight of the whole year—“There’ll be music, square dancing, a hog roast, and buckets of beer”— and he and Millie spent the whole week getting ready. This was my chance to meet a slew of relatives I hadn’t seen since I was a baby—including my grandmother.
Granny left the farm after Grandpa died; now she lived in Dallas with Aunt Ellabelle. “Ma likes to be close to the action,” Uncle Will said. “She loves the shows, the taverns, the salons. She’s practically bald, but Lord knows, every hair she’s got left gets dyed and curled every week.”
The day before the reunion, Old Squeal the hog met his demise. Saturday morning, Craw and I carried buckets of water to fill a huge cast-iron pot, and Millie lit a fire underneath. Once the water was boiling, Wilburn led Old Squeal to the oak tree, lassoed him to a sturdy branch, shot him twice, and hoisted up his body. Then he cut the hog’s belly from top to bottom, spilling all the entrails onto the ground. I was glad Sarah wasn’t there—as much as she disliked Old Squeal, she wouldn’t have wanted to see what was left after his spirit flew up to hog heaven.
I glanced at Craw. “You going to salvage any of that? You know, for medicinal purposes?”
He looked as pale as a black man can get. “Don’t make me lose my lunch.”
“Why’s it any different from catfish guts?”
“A fish is a clean animal. It doesn’t wallow in its own shit all day, eating slop and getting fat. There’s a reason why God told the Jews to lay off pork.”
