The Wish and the Peacock

by Wendy S. Swore

  “I’d love some.” Mr. Ferro steps up beside her and takes a glass. “Thank you.”

  Scotty slips out the screen door behind them, and I raise my eyebrows and give him the look, but he hops down the steps and doesn’t meet my eyes. I keep watching while Mom, Dolly, and Mr. Ferro make small talk.

  The truck seems the same as always. Window partway down. No jar anywhere. Maybe Scotty did, or maybe he didn’t. I can’t tell. I bite my lip and watch.

  Next time, we’ll have some kinda plan to really get them good.

  “Thank you for the water, but we really need to get back.” Dolly leans her head toward the truck. “Well, I need to anyway. Meetings, you know.”

  “Well, it was nice to meet you anyway.” Mom takes the empty glasses from Mr. Ferro and Dolly. “Please come back and visit anytime.”

  “I believe I’ll take you up on that,” Mr. Ferro says. “I think sometimes I get a better feel for a story if I can work alongside my subjects and get my hands dirty, so to speak.” The spy smiles with that smolder thing again, and I scowl at him.

  “Oh, we’ll be back.” Miss Dolly presses a hand to her chest. “I’m making you my top priority.”

  They step off the porch and walk to the truck, and my heart skips worse than a zippy baby goat kicking its heels.

  Scotty’s focused on petting T-Rex and giving no hints at what he’s done, or not.

  Mr. Ferro opens the door for Miss Dolly, who waves at Mom like some kinda beauty queen, and a tiny bit of guilt worms its way inside my head. I try to squash it flat, but it niggles at me. Somehow I didn’t expect her to sit in the truck first, and she’s all done up pretty . . .

  Dolly calls, “Don’t you worry. I’ll have this place sold in no time! I’ve found several charming houses and a duplex in town that would suit your family size and budget. I’ll show you pictures next time I come by.”

  Sold in no time? Duplex? Well, consider that guilt smushed. I narrow my eyes. I gotta remember: this is war.

  Mr. Ferro slams the passenger door shut . . . and the screaming begins.

  A blur of tiny bodies and wings ricochets everywhere inside the truck. Papers fly across the cab, smack the steering wheel, and fall out of sight as Dolly flails her arms and beats her scarf, a crazed whirlwind in a one-sided cat fight.

  Scotty’s eyes go wide, and he claps his hands over both ears as Dolly’s squeals become high-pitched screeches.

  Mr. Ferro, who had been halfway around to the other side of the truck, dashes back. “What is it? Are there bees in there?”

  “Bees in the truck? Heavens!” Mom rushes to help as a white-faced Mr. Ferro wrenches the door open and reaches for Dolly—but she’s already tumbling out, falling to one knee as she howls, rips the scarf off her neck, and slaps at her hair.

  Like a miniature, flying stampede, the insect horde launches in a hundred different directions.

  “Attack of the arthropods!” Scotty giggles, and I cover his mouth.

  Like a blizzard of antennae and tiny legs, grasshoppers bounce off the windshield, smack into the doorframe, and whir overhead with wings of bright red, orange, and green.

  “Where did they all come from?” Mom ducks as a grasshopper launches off Dolly’s head.

  A big one creeps along the brim of Mr. Ferro’s little hat, and he brushes away another one snuggling up to his shirt collar.

  “Get them off!” Dolly screams, then clamps her mouth shut as a grasshopper bounces off her lips.

  Grandpa shuffles over quick as Dolly smashes her clipboard against the ground, whips it through the air, and beats it against the truck.

  His grease-stained hands catch the board mid-swing before it hits Mr. Ferro’s leg. Grandpa drops the clipboard to the ground and helps Miss Dolly to her feet. The frilly scarf lies forgotten on the ground, and her hair sticks dang near straight up like one of those heavy metal guys on Dad’s old CDs.

  Mom and Mr. Ferro gather close, and everyone stands in the yard, watching the last of the grasshoppers crawl, hop, and fly away.

  Scotty and I take big breaths, trying to avoid the giggles. If Mom catches us smiling, we’ll be dead meat.

  Grandpa clears his throat, or at least tries to. “Scotty, how about you and Paige give this fella’s truck a once-over—get rid of any leftover hoppers.”

  “Sure thing, Grandpa.” Scotty snatches a paper bag from the porch, sidesteps Miss Dolly, and skips to the truck like there was ice cream inside. I hold the bag for him while he crawls all over inside the cab, searching every nook and cranny.

  Inside the truck, grasshoppers crawl under seats, sunbathe on the dashboard, and skitter across the headrests. He finds them under the pedals, on top of the steering wheel, and—somehow—inside the center console. Each time he hands me one, I shake the bag so the others fall down inside and I can stuff the new one in.

  On the lawn, Mr. Ferro soothes Miss Dolly. “Maybe it’s like those butterfly migrations you see on the internet.”

  “Where are they migrating to?” she shrills. “The glove box?”

  Grandpa eyes the bug-filled bag. “Could be you got a female stuck in the truck when you pulled in and all those males followed her in.”

  “Oh! Moths can do that.” Scotty shifts from one foot to the other. “Female lepidoptera secrete hormones that tell potential mates how to find them.”

  “These aren’t moths.” Dolly runs a hand over her hair. “I feel like they’re still on me. Are they on me?”

  “No, I think you got them all off.” Mom pats her on the back. “Would you like to go inside and freshen up? The bathroom’s right down the hall.”

  “I would. Thank you.” Dolly sniffs and limps toward the house, mumbling under her breath. “Never in all my life . . . Grasshoppers attacked me. My dress! I need a dry cleaner.”

  The screen door slams behind her, and Grandpa drawls, “I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, but trained attack-­grasshoppers ain’t one of them.”

  “Attack of the grasshoppers—modern plague or biowarfare?” Mr. Ferro muses. “Sounds like an excellent tabloid headline.”

  Mom shakes her head and smiles. “I’d pay to read that story.”

  “It’d fit right in with all those aliens making crop circles and abducting cows.” Grandpa winks at Mom. “Pesky aliens.”

  Mom laughs—really laughs—and it’s like when the sun breaks after days of endless fog. Fits of laughter bubble up inside her, and just when she pulls it back in, she looks at Grandpa and it starts all over again.

  It’s the first I’ve seen a lick of Mom—the real Mom—in months. Maybe Kimana is right, and all we really need is time.

  Something inside me throbs like the first shovel of fill-dirt smacking the bottom of a great empty hole.

  She laughs again.

  Basking in the warmth of that beautiful sound, Scotty and I watch her, and we laugh too.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Miss Dolly took forever to come out of the bathroom, but seeing Mom smile again was worth the wait. Course, then Mr. Ferro got to talking with Mom and Grandpa about all sorts of things, like the countries he’s been to and places he’s lived. Seems like he spends so much time gone, he only owns an apartment for fun. His kids are plenty busy too, always on the go, and never without their phones. I suppose he might be a reporter like he says he is, but I still think he’s got more of a spy sneak going on. I mean, he says he used to own a plane. Why would anyone need one of their own when there’s perfectly good airplanes flying overhead all the time? Unless they wanted to sneak stuff around right past security with no one the wiser. I left when he asked Mom about where she thought we might move.

  Finally, he left and Dolly left and everything was better, until Miss Dolly’s workers came and put up a new sign—this time with metal posts.

  I admit I might have thought about putting a dead fish in their
truck when the sign guys pulled in, but no amount of bug hormones could explain that away. Besides, they drove off too quick for me to do anything except think about it.

  The next morning, Mom got up before chores and made us hash browns out of the baked potatoes I left in the fridge. She must’ve been feeling pretty good after all that laughing yesterday.

  Sure does make choring better to start the day with real food. We got everyone fed in no time at all—I even filled the watering can again for Mateo’s basket. All in all, it’s a great morning. I’m not even that tired.

  With the mower deck on the red ol’ Massey Ferguson, the engine rumbling underneath me, and the tractor wheel in my hands, I’m mowing down the rest of last year’s sweet corn. It’s one of my favorite jobs, ’cause running things over with a tractor is just plain cool. Sometimes, I imagine the cornstalks trying to flee.

  No! The tractor is coming. Run! Aaaah!

  But I mow them all anyway like I’m Godzilla of the corn.

  It’s fun, and way less boring.

  Don’t judge.

  After a few hours of me running the Massey and Grandpa discing the next field over in the Deere, Grandpa heads back to the house, and I finish my field and follow.

  Scotty and T-Rex are waiting beside Mom when I hop down off the tractor.

  “Good timing, hon,” Mom says. “Grandpa and I are running errands after we meet with Miss Dolly. We’ll be back around four. Can you think of anything we need from town?”

  “Milk?” I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm. “And we’re out of apples.”

  “Pizza,” Scotty says. “We’re definitely out of pizza.”

  “We’ll see,” Mom says as she walks to Patches and opens the door. “Be good.”

  After Mom and Grandpa head out, Scotty and I make the rounds and check the animals. The pigs are fed already, but they keep nosing the fence by us instead of digging into the mash like they should.

  “I think they want strawberries.” Scotty rubs his fingers against his thumbs, then squats down to give T-Rex a good rub. “Do you think we should give them some? I could get a few jars of Mom’s homemade jelly.”

  “Only if we want Mom to kill us.” He’s not wrong though; the pigs would love strawberry jelly.

  “Miss Dolly didn’t like the grasshoppers.”

  “I think you’re right.” I grin.

  “You think she hates us?”

  I chew on that as we near the front yard. “I don’t think so.”

  Scotty’s already halfway up the stairs when we hear a low moan from the barn. Deep and low, laced with pain, a moan like that could only come from one place.

  “Milkshake!” And I’m running.

  “Wait!” Scotty calls, but I’m already across the yard, my feet flying over the dust to the barn. I skid to a stop at Milkshake’s stall, and my already thundering heart lurches at the sight of her. A lot has changed since last night.

  Her sides are slick with sweat, her head hangs down as she sways from side to side, and her tail is stuck straight out behind her. This calf is coming right now, and it’s coming fast.

  “Is she calving?” Scotty runs in with T-Rex as I round the side of the stall to get a better look at Milkshake’s tail.

  “Yeah.” I duck under the rail.

  Milkshake’s water sack hangs out the back under her tail like a giant pink bubble about the size of a basketball. A low moan rolls out of her throat as another contraction hits, and her spine arches, her straight tail quivering as her whole belly lifts, flexing hard.

  I hold my breath as she strains, and I sag against the rail when the contraction finally ends.

  With panting breaths, Milkshake shudders, her sweating legs and head shaking from stress and pain. She’s had calves before without any trouble, but I don’t remember her ever shivering like this.

  “Is she okay?”

  I try to ignore the quaver in Scotty’s voice and choke down my own panic. “I don’t know. Sometimes it takes a while. She might be alright.”

  But after just a few minutes, I’m sure something’s not right. “I’m gonna check her. We can winch the calf out if we need to. I’ve helped Dad do it loads of times. This is no different.”

  Except everything is different. Helping Dad at calving time was always exciting and wonderful—one of the best times of the year. Even when we lost one, we knew we’d done our best because Dad said so. And when we brought one back from the brink of death, it was better than winning a million trophies.

  Without him, life and death is all on me—and the whole thing is terrifying.

  “Easy, Milkshake. I won’t hurt you,” I murmur, rubbing her side gently as I ease around to her shivering tail. Still encased in a pink bubble, a single pale hoof hangs out the back.

  I bite my lip. There should be two hooves, not one. I prod, trying to see if maybe it’s just hung up on the side, and jump back when the water sack bursts, drenching my whole arm. Where there should be two hooves coming out together with the calf’s nose resting on top—sort of like the calf is diving into a pool—there’s only one hoof, with no head in sight.

  “It’s not coming out right.” I try to think. Maybe it’s just folded over. I’d helped pull other hooves down before, right? Right. I can do this.

  Milkshake moans and pants, and I wait for the contraction to pass before I reach to feel inside her. Up to my elbow, I feel what might be a hoof, but then she sidesteps and the leg slips out further—and I see what I should have noticed before. This isn’t a front hoof. It’s the back leg.

  The calf is breach.

  “Oh no,” Scotty whispers.

  My lungs pinch like I’m caught between cogs and a chain, but I chant inside my head: We’ve done this. I can do this.

  I feel around, trying to find the other leg, but Milkshake backs up, and I barely have time to get out of the way before she slams into the side of the stall so hard that dust falls from the rafters.

  Her moans rise in volume, and she bellows so loud that Scotty covers his ears. “Get out, Paige! She’s gonna stomp you!”

  I climb the rail and sit with one leg on either side as Milkshake turns in the stall, hunching and straining, sweat running down her sides in rivers.

  I start to hop off the rail, but Scotty grabs my pant leg with both fists. “Don’t go back in. Please. Don’t go.”

  “It’s fine, Scotty. That was my fault. I forgot to tie her halter up. I’ll get the lead, tie her up, and everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

  “No. If she hits you, you’ll die. Crushed people die. We need Grandpa.”

  “Grandpa’s gone to town, and Milkshake’s not going to crush me.”

  Another contraction hits and Milkshake kicks out, her hoof hammering into the stall wall as she bawls.

  Scotty clamps his hands over his ears and bares his teeth. “You don’t know that. Nobody knows that. Nobody gets dead on purpose!”

  T-Rex whines and nudges his boy’s side, but Scotty’s too wound up to notice.

  I swing my other leg inside the stall. “Dad already showed me what to do. He said it’s my job to take care of things.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he said,” Scotty wails. “Dad couldn’t save himself from getting dead either!”

  I grip the rail as the world rocks beneath me, and I blink like my life depends on it, because it does. What happened to Dad was not his fault. And it sure as heck doesn’t make what he taught me any less real. My world stands on the building blocks he taught me, and I will not let anyone—not even Scotty—take that from me. “I said I’ve got this. You don’t have to be scared of every little thing!” I don’t mean to yell, but I do.

  Scotty goes still. “Dad also said we gotta do what we think is right.”

  “Then I guess we’ll both do what we have to do.” I pretend not to care as
Scotty runs out of the barn, T-Rex behind him.

  I slide off the stall, grab the lead rope, and clip it to her halter before tying it to the rail. “C’mon, girl. Let’s get this done.”

  It takes me a minute to grab the calf-puller off its hooks on a beam, hoist the curved part over my shoulder, and drag it to the side of Milkshake’s stall. Straw bunches up as I shove it under the bottom rail and then climb over to pull it the rest of the way in.

  With a gentle voice, I coo to her, “It’s okay, Milkshake. Just let me find that other leg and we’ll get this calf right out. You don’t need to be scared.”

  As I ease over to her rump to try for that other leg, I tell myself I’m not scared, but my heart keeps trying to jump straight out of my chest.

  The tiny, new hoof is more whitish-gray than black, and the wet leg hangs out past the first joint, almost to the hock. I slide my hand up the dark red fur to the flank inside, but before I can grab the other hoof, Milkshake swivels again and kicks out from the pain.

  The wallboard beside my foot cracks in two.

  She shudders so hard, I’m scared she’ll fall, but she keeps her feet and lets out a whine that ends in a grunt of pain as another contraction takes her.

  This time, I go around front and look her straight in the eye, talking to her all the while and stroking her head. “C’mon, girl. Let me help. You can’t do this on your own. Dad taught me what to do. Don’t be scared. I’m here. Okay?”

  Her beautiful brown eyes blink slowly, and she takes a big breath as if to say, “Let’s do this.”

  Letting my hand trail over her damp hide so she knows where I am, I walk alongside and behind her again. With my arm up almost to my shoulder, I catch the other hoof and pull it through, careful not to tear her.

  Milkshake strains, but the calf won’t budge.

  Right. Time for the calf-puller.

  The whole thing is shaped like a giant slingshot. I push the Y part up against her thighs and strap the rubber band part over the top of her hips to keep it all from falling down. This part is so familiar, I can almost hear Dad’s voice guiding me.