The Wish and the Peacock

by Wendy S. Swore

  I take a step back. “I better go help with the open house.”

  “You knew I was looking for a peacock, but you didn’t tell me he was here. Why would you lie?”

  “He came to us for help. And I didn’t lie, not technically. He was hurt, like he escaped from something. He ran away, and we were protecting him.”

  Laughter gone, his gaze becomes sharper, like he could peel back my brain and peek right inside. “That’s quite the loophole you’ve painted for yourself. Lying by not lying. Keeping it all a secret.”

  I want to say he’s got it all wrong, that we were helping Royal, but I know what Dad would say, “What’s done is done; all that’s left is to move on,” and my protests die on my lips.

  “It seems you’ve spun yourself a very long tail of not-lies,” Mr. Ferro says. “Be careful not to trip on it.”

  “Paige!” Scotty runs to the barn, a jar under each arm and another one hugged to his chest. “Did you see Royal? He flew! Our Royal can fly!”

  “I saw.” I wave a hand down low at him. “Go back. Go!”

  “Wait.” Mr. Ferro walks past me and plucks a jar from Scotty’s arms. Beetles cling by the dozens to little sticks propped up inside the jar. The bottom is a wash of churning black bodies. “I see.”

  Scotty’s eyes are wide, and he steps back quick as Mr. Ferro plucks the other jar from his arms and lifts it to the light.

  Spiders crawl over each other and scale the sides on webs.

  “Scotty? Paige? Are you alright? What was that noise?” In a pale-yellow sundress, Mom hurries to us. “I heard an engine revving and then some kind of animal.”

  Her steps slow as she sees Mr. Ferro with the jars of beetles and spiders.

  He passes them to her. “I think we found our grasshopper problem.”

  “Scotty? What is this?” The beetles tumble from their sticks as she tilts the jar one way and then the other. “Can you explain?”

  Fingers twisting in his collar, he looks to me.

  “Paige?” Mom turns to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Ha! Ha! Heyo! Heyo!”

  “Is that a peacock? What in the world?” She presses the jars into Scotty’s hands. “Get rid of these. Right now.”

  Rocking from foot to foot, he whispers to me, “Where should I put them? For you-know-what.” Except his whisper isn’t very quiet, and Mom hears every word.

  “What? Give them to the girls. They’ll eat them.” She jabs a thumb at the chicken barn, then points a finger at me. “Paige Elizabeth McBride, he didn’t think of that on his own. You will tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

  Scotty disappears into the barn, but I’m too mixed up to say anything at all. If I tell her, what’s to stop the open house people from walking all over the farm? But Dad would never let me disobey my mom.

  She clucks her tongue and takes my hand, dragging me along. “Come with me.”

  Our march slows as we near the calf corral, where dozens of calves lick and slurp at blue pieces of twine tied to the fence rail.

  “What is this?” She touches a string, and a long drooping bow of slobber clings to her fingers. “Was something on these?”

  “Looks like honey and some oats, I think.” Mr. Ferro examines the top of a twine without touching it.

  Mom folds her arms. “Out with it. You’re trying to ruin the open house, aren’t you?”

  I sigh. “It doesn’t count as ruining if it saves the farm.”

  “What else did you do?” Mr. Ferro asks.

  “What else?” Mom squeaks. “There’s more?”

  “Why stop with some string and some bugs when you’ve got a whole farm to protect? Am I right?” He leans closer. “What did that devious little mind of yours dream up?”

  “Show me,” Mom orders.

  Slowly, I walk toward the cow corral, where several cows munch happily on hay, their cheeks, ears, and necks dripping with Vaseline.

  “Wow.” Mr. Ferro raises a brow. “Were you going for sickly?”

  I nod.

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “Is this all?” Mom asks.

  I shake my head and walk on.

  In the horse barn, Queenie and the others knicker with joy at seeing my Mom, but thick foam drips from their lips and puddles on the floor.

  “Queenie!” Rushing to cradle Queenie’s jaw in her hands, Mom examines her eyes and nostrils before smoothing her hand down Queenie’s neck. “What did you do? Feed them all sugar cubes?”

  “Sugared carrots,” I admit.

  “Will that hurt them?” Mr. Ferro asks.

  “Not unless she gave them a lot of them. Did you?” She eyes the chunks of half-chewed carrots on the floor.

  “They each got two.”

  “Okay, okay.” She rubs Queenie’s forehead and spears me with a look. “What else?”

  We walk past the flock of roosters Mateo let out, then past the mess of farm cats rolling and yowling by the toolshed, where Kimana hid the catnip.

  Scuzbag races toward us at full steam, then flops over and rolls from side to side, purring.

  “Catnip?” Mom asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Paige . . .”

  “I know.”

  Halfway to the pigs, I spy Mateo’s bucket and put out a hand to stop Mom from walking on straw piles scattered across the road. “I don’t think you should step on those.”

  “My gosh, you didn’t set actual traps, did you?” Mom scans the road and all the new piles of straw.

  “Just land mines . . . of poop.”

  “You really went all out.” Was that approval in Mr. Ferro’s voice?

  “Is this all of it?” Mom asks.

  “One more.” I lead the way to the pigs.

  A red handprint stains the fence rail, then trails down into the pigpens. Other, more hurried prints glisten on the wood, the red drops leading to a churned-up section of deep crimson soil, where torn jeans surround a large soup bone jutting up from the mud. Two sows play tug-of-war with what’s left of a blotchy red T-shirt. It tears into long strips as the pigs shake their heads.

  “What did you do?” Mom gasps. “Their mouths! My gosh, look at their faces!”

  The pigs grunt, squeal, and nose the fence, thrusting their red-stained snouts through the rails, toothy mouths open.

  “Ha! That’s brilliant.” Mr. Ferro laughs. “What’s the red stuff?”

  “Strawberry jam,” I say quietly.

  He squats beside the pen. “What were the spiders and beetles for?”

  “Well, we thought maybe when people walked into the barn, under the loft . . .”

  “Paige, how horrible.” Mom touches the paint, still fresh enough to come away wet on her fingers.

  I give up. “Well, I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t listen. I’m supposed to look after the farm, but you’re selling everything! How am I supposed to do my job if all you want to do is get rid of it?”

  “Is that what you were doing with the peacock?” Mr. Ferro asks. “Looking after it?”

  “Scotty found it hiding in our barn. Our barn. On our farm. Because it needed help. And we couldn’t ask Mom for help because she keeps listening to Dolly about getting rid of the animals.”

  “We’re selling them because we have to,” Mom says.

  I fold my arms. “No, we don’t! You don’t have to listen to her.”

  Cars pull up the driveway, and Mom runs a hand over her face. “What do we do? We can’t show them the farm.” She points at the pigs ripping Mateo’s T-shirt to bits. “There’s a murder scene, for heaven’s sake.” She strides toward the house, murmuring under her breath. “For the life of me—I can’t believe . . .”

  When we reach the yard, Miss Dolly is on the porch in front of a small crowd of men and women in business suits. �
�Ladies and gentleman, I’m pleased to welcome you to this golden opportunity. The new Siphon I-15 on-ramp and Northgate Project—combined with the construction of housing developments, a children’s museum, and dozens of new businesses—has this city ready to explode in growth to the north, right where we are now! A new interstate exchange means new gas stations, shopping malls, and offices—all of which need somewhere to build . . . and developers to seize the opportunity.” She spreads her hands. “That’s where you come in.”

  The suits scan the farm and the surrounding fields, but their eyes don’t linger on the buildings. It’s like our house and barns are invisible.

  Grandpa clears his throat. “There’s no reason they couldn’t buy it and keep farming the land, is there?” His sun-squinted eyes shift from face to face, though no one seems inclined to listen. “It’s right good ground. Rich soil. Good moisture. We always cut a good crop of hay.”

  “What can you tell us about water rights?” a burly man asks.

  “They’re excellent—both ground water and canal rights through the Fort Hall irrigation project. I’ve printed up growth projections and figures for you.” Dolly passes out fliers from her clipboard.

  I scowl at all of them. They don’t even care about the rest of the farm. They just want to pave the whole thing over.

  “If you’ve got kids, the neighbors are wonderful. You couldn’t ask for better . . .” They all ignore Mom’s soft voice, and she trails off.

  We stand to the side while Dolly chats with the suits, shakes a bunch of hands, then waves them a cheery goodbye as they pile into their fancy cars and drive off.

  “They didn’t even see the farm,” I mumble. “What was the point of cleaning at all?”

  Miss Dolly shines her bright smile on us, her face flushed. “I think that went really well!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mr. Rivas’s diesel truck pulls up the lane with a livestock trailer behind it, and Mateo appears behind me. “My dad’s here for the pigs. I need to help load. You okay?”

  He glances from me to my mom and back, and I know what he means. Are you in big trouble? Did anything help at all?

  I shrug, not really sure how much trouble I’m in yet.

  The porch door swings open, and Scotty and Kimana step out onto the porch and walk down the steps.

  Mr. Rivas pulls in beside the pigs, and Mom turns to Mr. Ferro. “Asher, can you help Mr. Rivas? He’ll probably need extra hands.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Ferro touches that tiny hat brim of his and follows Mateo toward the pigpens, while Mom, Dolly, and Grandpa visit on the far side of the yard. Before Mr. Ferro clears the fence, his phone rings. He taps the screen and stays on the lawn. “Hey, Vanessa. I was hoping you’d call back today.”

  “S’up, Dad? What did you need?” A girl with dark eye shadow and big, shiny earphones peers up from the screen. “How’s Idaho?”

  “Good, good.” Mr. Ferro holds the phone up so the girl can see the fields behind him. “I thought since next weekend was mine, I could fly you out to see your great-grandparents’ place before it sells. What do you say?”

  “Oh, I would but, um . . .” She wrinkles her nose. “I promised my friends I’d go to a concert with them this weekend. And Mom’s going to Paris again for a shoot in a couple weeks for some new clients, so we’ll probably go there instead.”

  He walks to his truck. “What about the week after? No? Next month . . . ?”

  “Why does he keep coming around?” I whisper to Scotty. “Why not just write his report and leave? What more does he want from us?”

  Scotty scratches T-Rex’s ears. “Humans require neural mirroring.”

  “Mirror what?”

  “Texting and talking on the phone can’t stimulate human brains like face-to-face talking does—the endorphins don’t release.”

  Kimana glances from Scotty to Mr. Ferro, who is now leaning against his truck. “So people can talk on the phone all day and still be lonely?”

  “Yep.”

  “Video chats don’t count?” I ask.

  “Two-dimensional images—even moving ones—are not the same. And you can’t trick your brain into thinking the person is really there. His brain is missing connection.”

  Well, if texting doesn’t count as talking, why does it matter if I text or not? At least when I talk to people, I know it counts.

  “Your Mr. Rivas is here to sell the whole herd of pigs?” Miss Dolly says, walking toward the house. “That’s wonderful. One more step in the right direction.”

  “Sounder.” Scotty worries at his shirt collar.

  Dolly stops beside him. “Beg your pardon?”

  “A family of pigs is called a sounder, not a herd.” Nervous or not, he’ll spout facts till his dying breath.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I tug Scotty toward the stairs. “You said the wrong word,” I tell Dolly. “He’s giving you the right one.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? That’s adorable.” She ruffles Scotty’s hair, and he flinches, curling inward. He’s very particular about who touches him, and Dolly is definitely not on the list of can-touch-me’s.

  “Ask first.” I step between them. “Don’t touch people without asking first.”

  “I only meant to say—” she sputters.

  “I know what you meant. But next time, ask. That’s all.”

  “Let’s go inside.” Mom walks up the steps and opens the door. “I think we’ve had a misunderstanding.”

  We file into the house, and Dolly prances over to the table, pulls out Dad’s chair, and sits, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world.

  For a moment, time freezes. Mom, Grandpa, Scotty, and I all stare.

  “Get off—” Angry words boil up my throat, but Grandpa rests a hand on my shoulder and murmurs, “It’s just a chair, darlin’. It’s okay.”

  But it’s not just a chair. It’s his chair. And no one sits there. Not any of us. We have to keep it open for him. What if he needs it? I try to jerk my shoulder away, but Grandpa’s hand stays, rooting me to the floor.

  “Dolly,” Mom asks, “who did you invite to the open house? Weren’t there any farmers interested?”

  “Yes, I had some calls, but I thought it better to keep this one small. Let the guests know they had an exclusive invitation.” Her smile falters as she looks from Mom to Grandpa and back. “It’s okay. If it doesn’t work out, we can always try again.”

  Grandpa clears his throat. “Not one farmer in the bunch, was there? Only developers.”

  The chair creaks as Dolly leans back. “I’m getting you ten times what your land is worth. Maybe twenty. This land is a gold mine if we play it right. You could be set for life.”

  Mom glances at Grandpa. “We know that—we do. But you said you’d try to find someone who wanted to keep this as farmland. That was part of our agreement.”

  “I did say that was a possibility, but . . .” She taps the table with her electric-green nails. “You do understand I’m trying to help you, right? The more money I can get for you, the better. Think college funds and retirement.” She points at the door and offers a smile. “You could replace that old van with a new one that’s all one color.”

  “Patches runs just fine.” Scotty stares at the floor. “It’s got a good motor.”

  The chair creaks again as she leans forward. “It looks like it’s been patched together.”

  “That’s because it has been.” I glare at her, but she seems more confused than hurt. “Dad built it.”

  “Please let us know when you’ve contacted those other folks you turned away this time.” Grandpa opens the door and holds it for Miss Dolly.

  “What?” Dolly asks. When she stands, Scotty sidesteps her and slides Dad’s chair back into place.

  Mom sighs. “We told you what
it meant for us to keep it as a working farm. All you brought was developers.”

  Dolly walks to the door but faces Mom. “That’s because they’re the ones with the finances to make the purchase. As I understand it, you’ve only got a few weeks before foreclosure. I could have this place sold like that”—she snaps her ­fingers—“to one of the people who came today, and you’d never have to work a day in your life again. Are you sure you want to take this risk?”

  “This land has been in our family for a hundred years. What’s a legacy worth to you?” Grandpa asks.

  “Alright. I’ll try again. But keep this in mind: if I don’t find a buyer you accept, and the property forecloses, the bank will sell to developers. It will happen either way. I just think it’s better to make the sale and get the payoff.” She smooths her shirt over her jeans. “There’s a reason why Asher Ferro is here to do a story on family farms. They’re an endangered species. Every year more go under.”

  “Seems to me,” Grandpa says, “if farms are endangered, the need to protect them is greater, not less.”

  “Think about it. I’ll be in touch.” She steps out the door, and we follow her onto the porch as she walks to her car, waves, and drives away.

  We’re still watching her dust trail when a high-pitched squeal cuts through the air.

  A midsized piglet bolts through the yard, little legs churning.

  Twenty feet behind it, Mr. Ferro runs full-out, his hat gone, sweat glistening on his forehead, and grass stains and dust on his jeans.

  Mateo dashes over from the other side of the house. “Help us corner it!”

  The pig spins in front of Mateo and runs back to the corner of the yard between the two, snorting and squealing all the way.

  We line up to make a human wall between the pig and the rest of the yard, our hands stretched low and to the side.

  “Alright now,” Grandpa says, “everyone stay real calm and close in slow. Don’t let him past you.”

  We take one step and another, the pig watching us warily.

  “Paige,” Mateo murmurs, “if you can get him to look at you, I think I can grab him.”