The Wish and the Peacock

by Wendy S. Swore

  “He almost did.” I shudder. “I almost turned on the pump.”

  “With his tail feathers down there, he’d have been toast for sure. Good thinking wedging the fork under him like that.”

  “It was all I could think to do.”

  Studying the hole, he shakes his head. “I thought maybe I could get a rope around him, but I think he’d spook and fall in again. We need a real net. Mr. Ferro had one, didn’t he?”

  “Yes! Do you have his number?”

  Mateo turns away, his fingers flying on his phone. “On it.”

  Ten minutes later, the red Dodge Ram spits gravel down the road toward us and skids to a stop.

  The door flies open, and Mr. Ferro jumps out. “Where is he?”

  “He’s down there.” Mateo points at the hole. “Paige saved him from drowning. You got the net?”

  “Absolutely.” Mr. Ferro slams the door and pulls a net with a long silver pole out of the truck bed.

  Together—Mateo using a stick, me holding the pitchfork, and Mr. Ferro working the net—we catch Royal in the net, with the opening against the cement. The only part of him not contained is his sad and drooping tail, which hangs out the side, the feathers all broken and muddy.

  “Mateo, can you grab a blanket from the truck, please?” Mr. Ferro asks.

  “You got it.” Mateo runs, and I peer at the shivering little body. If it weren’t for the head, I’d never know a peacock was under all that muck.

  When Mateo gets back with the blanket, we drape the corner of it over the net and carefully swap the net for the blanket, always keeping Royal’s wings tucked tight against his body. At last he’s in my arms, an extra-muddy bird burrito.

  Mr. Ferro passes Mateo the net and adjusts a few things with Royal before taking him from my arms and cradling him against his chest. “Paige, can you get the door?”

  “Sure.”

  Mateo drops the net in the back of the truck while Mr. Ferro places Royal carefully on the floor behind the seats and tucks another blanket around him.

  “I’ll call after the vet checks him out. I can’t believe we found him again.” He flashes a grin at us and then speeds away.

  With one more look to be sure nothing else lurks in the water—and a couple of swishes with the pitchfork just to be sure—I pull the lever and start the pump. The loud whine fills the air, and we watch for a few minutes as water leaks from every joint until the line pressurizes.

  “So.” Mateo rocks back on his heels. “You texted me.”

  “Yeah, and? People text, right? Isn’t that what you guys keep telling me?”

  His smile is a slow, mischievous thing, and I want to smile back, but first, I need to set things right.

  “I’m really sorry about your mom’s plant.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Accidents happen.” With a shrug, he walks his bike beside me and T-Rex, waiting now and then as I jam a wire down inside a bunch of clogged Rain Birds and pump the nozzle till mud and grass spit out, freeing the line. Normally we have one or two clogged birds, but today, there are almost ten. Royal musta been fighting for his life a long time to kick this much mud into the lines.

  Details about Mom and Grandpa and the foreclosure letter spill out of me as we go, and for once, Mateo listens without interrupting. At last, he says, “So you have to sell or the bank will take it anyway.”

  “Mom says if that happens, we won’t have a choice. It’s move or get kicked out. The bank doesn’t care that my family’s been here a hundred years. When it’s money, nothing else matters. And when the bank takes it, it’ll get developed for sure. I don’t know. Maybe Mom was wrong to turn down the people Dolly found last time.”

  “Maybe if we bring in a bunch of farmers, someone will want to buy it,” Mateo says.

  “Yeah, because that worked so well last time.”

  He raises a finger. “All you need is an open house that we don’t sabotage.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When Kimana’s bike growls down the driveway, I break into a run and meet her at the gate. With Grandpa, Royal, and everything, it seems like months since I saw her instead of days, and I almost tackle her when she swings off her bike. Her hair tickles my nose with the scent of woodsmoke from her cousin’s cabin. With one more good squeeze, I let her go as Mateo catches up to us.

  “How’s the baby?” I ask.

  “Cute and fat, with black hair as thick as his brothers’—two inches long already. You should see the boys argue over who gets to hold him next. What about you? I’m sorry I couldn’t be here, but I finished a surprise for you.” She digs into her pouch and pulls out the peacock lanyard.

  “Oh! Wow.” At the base of the leather necklace, a peacock fans its tail, the feathers sparkling like shattered crystals, each bead a prism of captured light. Lines of long, gold beads branch from the feathers and twine up the leather necklace like molten sunshine beside the blue-and-green vines. “It’s beautiful.”

  Mateo whistles. “That’s your best one yet.”

  “Thanks. I think it turned out pretty good.” Kimana lifts the base. “And there’s a clip here so you can hang a key or something from it, if you want.”

  “But what about your jingle dress?” I slip the necklace over my head and touch the peacock again. “You shouldn’t have wasted time on me when your regalia isn’t done yet.”

  “Maybe. But after I heard what happened, I couldn’t work on anything else until I got it done. When I make something like this, I think good thoughts and prayers, so it kind of carries those things with it for you. And it brings good things back to me too. You needed it, and it was something I could do.”

  I blink hard and swallow a couple times so my voice will work. “Thank you. It means a lot.”

  With Kimana back home and Mateo by my side, we come up with a pretty good list of things that need to be done. It’s kinda weird to plan an open house without sneaking around, hiding plans, or smuggling in fart spray and soup bones, but we do our best.

  Near as we can figure, for an open house to work, we gotta pick a date, advertise, find farmers to come look, and sweet-talk the heck out of them.

  But if the bank gave Mom a final date, she never shared it with me, so snooping that out of the mail pile’s the first step. The bank letter blends right in with the other envelopes, a rattlesnake hiding in the piano basket, but eventually I find it. I open it up, skim the letter, and find the words I need: “Make all payments and fees by 11:59 p.m. on April 30.”

  I grab my calendar. That’s Friday—over a week away. We’ve still got time. Just to be safe, I pick Monday for the big day, so if it doesn’t work, we’ve still got till Friday to try again.

  Mateo calls Mr. Ferro to see if he’ll ask the Idaho State Journal to write something about the open house. And Kimana’s dad helps her make a list of farmers on the north side of the county—ones he knows from his patrols—who might want to come.

  And me? Well, it’s my job to call Miss Dolly. I shudder. Mateo’s and Kimana’s jobs don’t sound so bad, but I can think of a whole list of things I’d rather do than mine:

  Lick a cow

  Wear a dress

  Read an encyclopedia

  Kiss a skunk

  Or even send a text

  Asking for her help feels akin to inviting a black widow into my bedroom to catch a couple flies, but if we want to catch buyers in our web, who better to help than her? Besides, if she’s half as good as she says she is, she’ll make this work. She picks up on the first ring and promises to bring as many people as she can.

  Mr. Ferro’s willing enough to help, but he still holds a pitchfork like it’s a broom. His city apartment must’ve been at the tippy-top of some cement skyscraper, ’cause I could fill ten calendars with all the things he doesn’t know.
At least he told us the vet said Royal will be fine soon, so that’s good.

  Every day after school, we clean, organize, and mow. Milkshake even gets a bath—which she doesn’t mind—though Prince is pretty sure shampoo is pure torture.

  The doctors let Grandpa come home Sunday night, and we settle him in his room. He’s supposed to be resting, but he keeps sneaking out of his room, so Mom hides the truck keys and promises Scotty a subscription to National Geographic if he’ll keep an eye on Grandpa.

  “If he steps foot outside this house, you call me immediately,” she whispers.

  “I can go where I please,” Grandpa grumps, his sheepskin slippers peeking from under his striped pajama bottoms.

  “Of course you can, as long as it’s inside.” Mom kisses Scotty’s head. “If he sneaks out, and I don’t answer, text me.”

  “Got it.”

  When Monday rolls around, we cross our fingers and toes while we wait for folks to arrive.

  Instead of fancy cars like last time, trucks roll down our lane filled with people wearing baseball caps and cowboy hats instead of slick hairdos.

  A husband and wife jump out of an older truck and a ­couple little kids in boots and John Deere shirts spill out of the jump seat behind them.

  “Daddy, I see a tire swing! Can we swing on it?” the girl says.

  “Not right now. Let’s see what’s happening first.” The dad is wearing leather boots, a silver belt buckle, and a long-sleeved work shirt. A low ponytail keeps the lady’s long, curly dark hair out of the way while she holds onto her husband’s arm as they take in the house, the pump house, and all the outbuildings. I’d peg them as cattle ranchers, if I had to guess.

  “This your place?” The man squints up at us from under a straight-brimmed black hat. He waves while the lady and two kids pet T-Rex, his tail wagging in lazy circles.

  “Yep,” I say with a nod.

  “I love the porch.” The lady stands and leans against the man with her arm around his waist like Mom used to do with Dad. “Wouldn’t the kids love that?”

  “Yes, yes!” The brown-haired girl runs up beside us, leans over the rail, and waves at her younger brother.

  “How are the riding trails? Any way to get up into those hills from here?” the man asks.

  “We used to ride up there all the time.” I hitch a thumb at Kimana and Mateo. “And we got good neighbors here too.”

  “There’s good pasture.” The lady gazes across the fields. “We could run a sizable herd from here.”

  Other people enter the yard, but I keep watching that same little family. Before last year, that was us: Mom, Dad, Scotty, me. Excited about our farm. Wishing for an extra turn on the tire swing, or planning a ride up in the hills. We had nothing but time, and no one better to spend it with than each other.

  “May I have your attention?” Miss Dolly claps her hands from the porch steps and beams at the crowd. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll begin with a tour and take your questions as we go. Hope, would you lead the way?”

  The family follows Mom and Miss Dolly. Scotty and me stay on the porch. We’ve done all we can do. All that’s left is hope.

  “What do you think?” Mateo straddles the porch rail, his feet dangling off either side. “Any of them look like good neighbor material?”

  “I dunno. Good neighbors for normal people? Or for you?” I tease.

  “For me.” Mateo scowls at me. “Hey, wait.”

  “Kidding! Totally kidding.”

  My thumb slides over the wishstone in my pocket as the strangers disappear into the chicken barn, the place where we first found Royal and where I promised I’d fight and never let this day come—except I helped make this happen ’cause it’s the only way for my family to survive.

  “Mateo, why won’t your dad buy the farm? You said you guys wanted more space to run cattle. Why not here? We could rent from you—work for you and stay here.”

  “We talked about it, but we can’t. Dad says we have too much to pay on our place now. We can’t get any more loans until we pay off more stuff. I wish we could.”

  Dolly’s group pokes around the farm for a good thirty minutes before they gather by the porch again. Some go right to their trucks and drive off, and others stay a while and talk. The family of four is one of the last. Mom leads them into the house.

  “Do you think you’ll move into town, or find someplace to rent out here?” Kimana swings on the porch swing, and I shrug.

  “I dunno.” She may as well ask if I’d rather live on the stars or on the moon. I can’t imagine either one. This is the only world I know, and even if I don’t get to live here anymore, I’m just hoping I can keep it from disappearing.

  “Dolly has papers!” Scotty squints through the front window into the house.

  “What?”

  We jump to our feet and cup our hands to the window.

  The dad sits in Grandpa’s chair while Miss Dolly points at one page and then another, with him signing right behind her. Then Mom leans over and adds her signature. They shake Mom’s hand and Grandpa’s, and Dolly slides the papers into her briefcase and flips the locks shut.

  Sealed. Locked. Done and done.

  “We did it,” I breathe.

  We sold the farm.

  The kids come bursting out of the screen door, thunder down the steps, and race for the tire swing. “It’s mine!”

  “No, it’s mine. I saw it first!” Then the girl drops the swing rope and runs for our tree fort. “You can have the swing. I get the fort!”

  Their squeals wake T-Rex from his nap, and he thumps his tail, hefts himself to his feet, and takes a few steps toward them before he stops and whines. The wrong kids are on our toys and in our fort.

  Dolly steps out, holding the door for the new owners. “I’m so glad this worked out.”

  “We’ve been looking for a place to move our operation so we can be closer to her parents. The house is older than we’d like, but you can’t beat the location.” The man tips his hat to me and Kimana on his way past us.

  “Close to town, but still in the country. It’s the perfect place to raise a family,” the lady agrees.

  She’s not wrong. It really is the perfect place for a family.

  Just not our family.

  Not anymore.

  We watch Dolly and the family drive off, and Mom pats my back. “I’m real proud of you, honey. Thank you for helping this happen.”

  My lips part to say “No problem,” but the words get stuck somewhere in my throat, so I just nod.

  I don’t want this change, but like it or not, it’s the only way for my family to go on.

  After everyone leaves and Scotty goes upstairs, I sink into T-Rex’s sleeping bag nest and run my fingers down his side as he snores, his paws twitching from the chase inside his dreams. Whatever he’s dreaming must be real exciting ’cause he huffs a few times and twitches a little faster.

  I kiss the top of his head and go inside.

  A faint whir sounds from inside Mom’s room as she works on something behind closed doors. I pass her by.

  At the back of the main floor hallway, Grandpa’s door sits ajar, like it has almost all the other times I’ve checked on him since he got home from the hospital. He sits dozing beneath a floor lamp, in Grandma’s upholstered armchair, a doily at each elbow. Whatever book he’d been reading lies facedown on the floor where it fell from his sleep-numbed fingers, the pages curled against the red shag rug.

  A black, oval frame with Grandma’s picture stands beside the bed, which is made up tight as any military bunk ever was. Under the foot of the bed, two sets of slippers wait side by side.

  Did he always have that many wrinkles? Sunspots smatter over the tanned, thin skin on the backs of his hands, which are curled around one of Grandma’s embroidered throw pillows where he fell asleep hugging
it.

  It’s like he’s stuck in a time loop in there. None of it changes, but Grandpa gets older every day.

  And now, how’s he gonna let it go?

  Everything in me wants to hang onto the farm with all my might, but all that would do is drag us down—same as Royal in the pump well. He couldn’t jump to safety, and he couldn’t fly free, ’cause he was stuck, caught by his own beautiful feathers. And who could blame him with something that wonderful to hang onto?

  But is that what the farm is for us? A beautiful weight to pull our whole family down?

  Even peacocks shed their tail feathers once a year.

  Maybe it really is time to let go.

  What did Dad always used to say?

  It’s like shaking hands with God—I’ll do my best, and you do the rest.

  Peacocks grow a new tail, don’t they? Maybe that’s what this will be like. We’ll grow and change, and someday what we carry will be just as good as what we had before.

  Just different.

  Mom’s phone chimes from the kitchen, and she hurries from her sewing room to answer it. “Hello? Oh, hi, Dolly.”

  I drift to the kitchen doorway, where Mom stands with her head bent to the phone.

  “They were denied? Can’t they appeal?” She rubs her face. “I see. Okay. Then we’ll do what we have to do. See you tomorrow.”

  She sets the phone down and leans against the counter, shoulders slumped.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?”

  With a sigh, she turns around. “It was a good try, but it’s not going to work. The bank denied the family. They can’t buy the farm.”

  Is that all? We found that family; we can find more. We’ve got time to do it again.

  “So we’ll try again. I saw the letter. We’ve got till Friday to sell.”

  “No, honey.” Mom shakes her head, an awful sadness in her eyes. “Today’s the twenty-­ninth. The deadline is tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Her words make no sense. “What do you mean it’s tomorrow?”