Moo

by Sharon Creech

  Don’t you touch me! Luke said.

  Mrs. Falala snapped at his thumb again. Horse teeth!

  Luke was quivering, his elbow vibrating against my side, his chin wobbling.

  Horse teeth!

  Stop it! I said. Leave him alone!

  Oh, Mrs. Falala did not like that, not one little bit. She flicked that long braid clear around her head like a whip and glared at me.

  You rude! she accused. Out, out! Go! She flung herself against the door, pushing it open. Go! Out! Go!

  WE WENT

  We did not wait.

  We jumped on our bikes and pedaled across the lawn and down the walk and into the road and round the bend. Luke was leaning so far forward he looked like a turtle splayed out on his bike. We sailed down the hill, and only then, at the bottom, did Luke wave his arm to the side and we pulled over and stopped by the iron bear.

  That lady is a kookoo head! Luke said. That lady is a nutto!

  His chin trembled and his shoulders shook.

  It’s okay, Lukey, it’s okay. She is a nutto! She is a kookoo head!

  We sat by the side of the road until he calmed down.

  Stupid nutto kookoo, he said. And I do not have horse teeth!

  Of course you don’t.

  DISRESPECT

  News of our adventure made it home before we did. Both Mom and Dad were sitting on the front steps waiting for us. Luke dropped his bike and raced to Mom and buried his head against her shoulder.

  Hm, Dad said, seems like you’ve had an adventure, you two.

  That lady’s a nutto! A kookoo head! Luke said, before hiding his head again.

  Dad patted the step beside him. Reena? Have a seat.

  And so I told him what had happened, and when I finished he said, Mrs. Falala phoned here already. Her version is a little different from yours—

  What? What’d she say? What was different? Honest, that’s what happened.

  Her version is that you were disrespectful.

  Disrespectful.

  This was not a good word in our family.

  But she was so mean to Luke! She was flicking at him and insulting him and—

  Luke sobbed against Mom’s shoulder. We didn’t do anything! We were good kids. She said I had

  horse teeth!

  She flicked at him. She insulted him.

  Dad nodded. And you? What did you do then?

  I told her to stop it. I told her to leave him alone.

  Your tone of voice—?

  My tone of voice? I said it like this: I said, ‘Stop it! Leave him alone!’

  Hm.

  I was disrespectful?

  Hm.

  Well, maybe I was, but she was rude, rude, rude.

  PRICKLY

  Mom said, Not a good way to start, with Mrs. Falala. My fault, probably, but I didn’t realize she could be so prickly.

  You go next time, I said. You’ll see.

  Good idea, Reena.

  And Mom? I added. Watch out for the hog—

  Luke jumped in. And the mad cat—

  And the snake—

  Oh, Mom said. Oh, my.

  The next day, Mom went to Mrs. Falala’s

  by herself.

  No Dad, no me, no Luke

  by herself.

  While she was gone, Dad and I unpacked boxes

  and Luke drew intense drawings

  of frightening creatures

  with hog bodies and snake arms

  crawling over housetops and dripping from trees

  and one tall, lean, wicked-looking woman

  with snake hair and

  ENORMOUS

  TEETH.

  Horse teeth, I guess.

  CHARMING

  Two hours Mom was gone. When she returned, she said, Well! Mrs. Falala was perfectly charming!

  Charming? Mrs. Falala?

  And, Mom continued, I think we’ve sorted out that little misunderstanding and I think we can really be helpful to Mrs. Falala now.

  Luke gripped my arm. I’m pretty sure we were both thinking the same thing:

  Helpful?

  We?

  And at the same time, Mom added, Mrs. Falala will be able to see that you two are not normally disrespectful. You’ll start tomorrow.

  Start tomorrow?

  Start what tomorrow?

  Helping.

  Helping?

  MELTDOWNS

  Luke: No, no, no, no, not going to kookoo lady’s house anymore, no, no, no.

  Mom: Now, now—

  Me: Do we have to?

  Mom: You might actually—

  Luke: No, no, no, not going, not helping, no, no, no.

  Mom: Let’s see what—

  Me: Did you see the snake? The hog? Did Mrs. Falala snap at you?

  Luke: Awful, horrible, nutto lady—

  Mom: All right, Luke, Reena. That’s enough.

  E n o u g h.

  And when Mom says

  E n o u g h

  in that way, in that tone, that’s pretty much the end of the discussion.

  Over and out. Finito!

  THE NEXT DAY

  The next day, we all returned to Mrs. Falala’s: Mom, Dad, Luke, me.

  Luke, who had been attached to my arm since he woke up, was not speaking. Pancakes and bacon—usually his favorites at breakfast—did not interest him. Mom’s and Dad’s attempts to nudge him into good humor did not faze him.

  I was not in my best form either. I hate it when my parents volunteer me for something without asking me.

  Of course Reena would be happy to watch Mikey for you, my mother promised a friend in our old city more than once. Of course she would.

  No, I would not. Not after the time Mikey handcuffed me to his front porch railing, dumped a bucket of blue paint on me and the porch floor, and screamed bloody murder for a solid hour.

  Of course Reena will help you clear out your garage, Mr. Conklin, my father promised our old neighbor. She’d be happy to!

  No, I would not. Nests of mice in the corners. Roaches on the shelves. Moldy boards and spiders and wasps.

  Do Ben’s paper route while he’s on vacation? Reena could do that. She’d be happy to, my father promised his boss.

  No, I would not, especially since Ben left terrible instructions and I couldn’t read the addresses and there were three terrifying dogs on the route and one exceedingly creepy man with no teeth and orange hair and I tripped on a rock and gashed my head and knees and it poured rain and the papers got wet and the people were mad.

  But here we were now: me, Luke, Mom, and Dad back at Mrs. Falala’s because my mother had volunteered me and Luke to help.

  To help with what we did not know.

  THE BARN

  Oh, that sneaky Mrs. Falala, how she

  s m i l e d

  at my parents

  such a sweet, sweet

  s m i l e

  and how she put her gnarly fingers together in

  a little prayer pose beneath her chin

  and how she pouted at me and at Luke

  as if we had hurt her feelings—

  oh, that sneaky Mrs. Falala.

  When Luke and I apologized for our recent “disrespectful” behavior—an apology my parents made us rehearse on our way over to Mrs. Falala’s house—Mrs. Falala stared at us for

  one

  two

  three

  eternities

  or so it seemed

  and she said not a word

  until finally my mother said

  Now is there something that Reena and Luke can help you with?

  Yes! said Mrs. Falala so suddenly and loudly that Luke skittered back against the door and I reached for my father’s arm. Yes! There eez barn first! Come! Mrs. Falala lunged through the side door, swirling her bony arm like a windmill, ordering us to follow across the scrabbly yard to a small, old, gray barn and into its dark interior and down the aisle that smelled of sawdust and out the other side and around the back to a fenced area tha
t bordered one of the barn stalls.

  There! said Mrs. Falala, pointing to a dank sawdusty courtyard splotted with smelly cow dung and flies. To scoop! To shovel!

  Ah, Dad said, you’d like the kids to help you, erm, clean the pen?

  Yes! To scoop! To shovel!

  I was trying not to gag from the smell. Luke’s lower lip was quivering. Mom’s hand covered her nose and mouth.

  Well, Dad said, that doesn’t sound too hard, does it, kids? I’m sure they could help you out, Mrs. Falala. Right, kids? Reena? Luke? Right?

  Right? Mom echoed.

  Luke pinched my arm and buried his face against my back.

  Right? Dad said.

  I stood up straight. I looked Mrs. Falala in the eye. She blinked innocently and tilted her head daintily to one side, waiting for my answer.

  Right, I said.

  SCOOP AND SHOVEL

  We scooped

  piles

  i

  l

  e

  s

  of

  COW

  DUNG

  we shoveled

  we gagged

  we swatted fliesflies

  flies fliesflies

  Scoop and shovel and

  P L O P

  into the wheelbarrow

  piles and piles and piles

  i

  l

  e

  s

  While my parents and Mrs. Falala

  returned to the kitchen

  to drink lemonade

  in the cool, dry

  non-stinky

  non-smelly

  non-fly-filled

  kitchen

  and

  when Luke and I were finished

  we had to wait for Mom and Dad

  outside the house

  because we were too smelly.

  Did Mrs. Falala thank me and Luke

  for the scooping and shoveling

  of the smelly dung?

  Did she?

  Noop.

  What she said as we were leaving was, Tomorrow!

  Mom and Dad looked up at the sky, taking a sudden interest in the clouds above. Luke grabbed ahold of my shirt, tugging at the hem.

  ‘Tomorrow’? I said.

  Mrs. Falala’s bony fingers danced in the air. She tossed her ropy braid from one side to the other. Tomorrow: cow! And with that, she backed into her house and closed the door while up on the porch rail the parrot eyed us.

  Apparently Luke and I had been volunteered by our parents to “help for a while.”

  What does that mean, ‘a while’? I asked. A couple days? A week? Two weeks? A month?

  Hmm, Dad said.

  Hmm, Mom said.

  And what does Mrs. Falala mean about ‘cow!’? What do we know about cows?

  Luke, who had not spoken since we began scooping the cow dung, now said, We know ZERO about cows.

  ZERO, I agreed.

  Perfect opportunity to learn then! Dad said, with a strained attempt at upbeat optimism. Right? It sounds like a great Maine-y thing to do. Right, Reena? Right, Lukey?

  COW!

  The next day, we were back at Mrs. Falala’s, just me and Luke.

  Surely you don’t need us along, right? Dad had said. Surely you and Lukey can handle this on your own, right? And remember, be respectful. Right?

  Right, right, right.

  All the way over, Luke said, Don’t let her poke me, Reena. Don’t let her scold me. Don’t let her be mean to me.

  I will try my best, I said, but I was wishing that my parents were along so I could say, Don’t let her poke me; don’t let her scold me; don’t let her be mean to me. And then I thought, Come on, Reena, you are old enough to handle one little old lady.

  Mrs. Falala was waiting for us by the barn, sitting on a hay bale. First: water!

  So much for pleasantries.

  From her hay bale throne, Mrs. Falala barked orders: Empty bucket! Over there! Fill with water! See hose? Not too much. Not too little. Put it over there. There! Get feed bucket. Not that one! The other one! Take to feed bin. Over there! Fill it up! No, not full-full! Half-full! Put it over there. There! See? There!

  Luke was moving carefully, almost in slow motion, and after we’d filled up the water and feed buckets, he stopped and stood still, his arms straight at his sides. He turned toward Mrs. Falala and said, Where is the cow?

  Cow? she said. You think there eez a cow?

  Yes, Luke said. Yesterday you said, ‘Tomorrow! Cow!’ and today is tomorrow and where is the cow?

  You are wanting to see cow?

  He’s not being disrespectful, Mrs. Falala, I said. He’s just asking—

  —About cow.

  Yes.

  You are wanting to see cow?

  Yes.

  Why didn’t you say so? Cow over there—see? Mrs. Falala snaked her arm toward the pasture beyond.

  We saw only grass and weeds and fence.

  There—you are not seeing? By bushes.

  In one corner lying beside sprawling bushes was a black lump.

  That lumpy thing? Luke said.

  Eez not lumpy! Mrs. Falala replied. Go see.

  Neither of us moved.

  What? You eez afraid? Of cow?

  We are not afraid, I said. We are—just—cautious.

  Pah! Afraid! Afraid of cow! Mrs. Falala tossed her braid from one side to the other. Afraid of cow!

  Come on, Luke, I said. Come with me. I opened the pasture gate. Let’s go see this lumpy cow.

  Eez not lumpy! Mrs. Falala said.

  Halfway across the field, Luke whispered to me: Is too. Lumpy!

  The lump, we could now see, was definitely a cow, and it wasn’t all black. It was one of the Belted Galloways—black on its front and hindquarters and white in the middle—or at least white where it wasn’t splattered with mud. It stared at us as we approached, making no movement except an occasional flick of its tail.

  Lumpy old lazy cow, Luke said.

  And then came the sound, the low rumbling from deep inside and the long, drawn-out Mooooooooo. Its eyes were as big as apples and its nostrils gaping black caves. Mooooooooo.

  Touch it, Luke said.

  What? Me? When you have a little brother, you don’t want to look weak. I stepped closer to the cow.

  On its head, Luke said. Pat its head, Reena.

  Oh, that was one mighty large head. I bet the head alone weighed a hundred pounds.

  It’s not used to us, Luke. I don’t want to scare the poor thing.

  Go on, pat its head so it will know we’re friendly.

  I leaned closer and quickly patted the top of its head. There, there, cow. Hi, there, cow. The fur was softer than I expected.

  Abruptly, the cow tossed its head and let out another lone, low, Mooooooooo.

  We headed back to the gate, maybe a little faster than we had come. I could see Mrs. Falala watching us, but she said nothing about our encounter with the cow.

  We did a few more chores for her before it was time for us to leave.

  Not so bad, Mrs. Falala said. Tomorrow, you meet Zora for official.

  Zora? Who’s Zora? Tomorrow? I’m not sure we can come back—

  Yes, yes, your papa says eez fine. Three mornings a week.

  But—

  Watch out for Paulie—

  The squealing hog that we’d seen on our first visit came barreling around the side of the barn, chased once again by the fat, golden cat. We plastered ourselves against the barn and let them pass.

  Paulie is—the hog or the cat?

  Paulie eez fat pig hog. Cat eez China. You come back tomorrow. They’ll be here. Zora, too.

  Zora?

  Zora eez cow.

  At the bottom of the drive, we stopped and stared back at the house, waiting to hear the flute music. It wasn’t long, only a few minutes, before the gentle melody drifted out of the attic window.

  ZORA

  (As I said, way back at the beginning . . .)

&nbs
p; The truth is

  Zora was ornery and stubborn

  wouldn’t listen to a n y b o d y

  and was selfish beyond selfish

  and filthy

  caked with mud

  and dust

  and moody:

  you’d better watch it

  or

  she’d knock you

  f l a t

  s p l a t . . .

  That’s Zora I’m talking about.

  Zora

  that

  cow.

  We found this out, me and Luke,

  on our next visit to Mrs. Falala’s.

  Bring her in, commanded Mrs. Falala.

  Erm. How—

  Get her. Bring her.

  Mrs. Falala tossed a halter in my direction.

  Come on, Lukey, we are going to do this.

  Surely I could imitate what I’d seen the kids do at the nearby Birchmere Farm. Surely I could just toss the loop over Zora’s head and pull her on in. Right?

  Lukey’s eyes were open so wide. He stayed well behind me.

  Zora was standing in a mud puddle when we approached her. When I tossed the loop at her head, she dodged it.

  Mooooo. Mooooooooo.

  Talk to her, Reena. Tell her you’re not going to hurt her.

  I talked to her. I told her I wouldn’t hurt her.

  I tossed the loop again.

  She dodged it.

  Mooooo. Mooooooooo.

  Zora turned and walked farther away.

  I tossed the rope from behind. Missed.

  I tossed it again.

  Zora stomped in the mud

  s p l a t t e r i n g

  me from head

  to

  foot.

  Talk to her, Reena. Tell her not to be afraid.

  Tell her—

  Look, Luke, why don’t YOU talk to her?

  Why don’t YOU try to get this halter on her?

  Watch out, Reena—

  Zora had turned and was coming toward us.

  She was picking up speed.

  Run, Luke—

  Zora was chasing us.

  Mooooooooo. Mooooooooo.

  When we reached the gate

  Luke scrambled up and over it

  instead of through it

  and I was trying to follow

  when Zora’s

  E N O R M O U SH E A D

  loomed up below me and

  ump