by Will Walton
Granddad rests his hands on his knees and crouches. “Gah-damn!” He hollers. When he stands up straight, he mumbles, “Too slow, can’t do anything anymore.”
He walks back toward me, his arm outstretched for the flashlight.
“It’s that cancer, Tretch!” He shouts it. “It’s that cancer gettin’ to me!”
The lasso bobs on the ground as he tugs it back in. “Maybe you can do it!” he says, swinging the rope at me. I catch it and hold it for a moment. “Granddad, I—” I start, but he walks past me.
It’s the moment when you give up. The moment when hope feels gone, and all you can think about is your failure.
“Granddad,” I say again, but I’m out of earshot now. I want to call for Dad. I want to hop in the truck with Dad and Joe and Matt and drive back home, then wake up like it’s going to be a normal New Year’s Day. None of this breech calf business.
I catch up to Granddad at the trail. “Wait,” I say.
“Maybe Rich’ll find ’er. I don’t know.”
“Maybe so,” I say. “She looked like she was headed toward the field. That’s where they were headed with the truck, weren’t they?”
“I reckon.”
“Well, let’s walk up that way.”
I get him to turn around.
We walk along the trail, out of the woods and into the clearing. It’s pretty weird to me. The last time I saw the farmland stretched out before me like this, under the cover of night, I wasn’t really myself. And now I’m seeing it again, all the frostiness flaring up under the great white moon. It gives me a sick feeling.
What was I afraid of that night?
Matt, vanishing.
Granddad, vanishing.
Everyone …
I hear the quiet rumble of the old pickup idling from across the field. We don’t have to climb the slope, then. I won’t have to look off in the direction of the frozen lake.
“You hear that, Granddad?”
“Huh?”
“The truck.”
We stand still and strain our eyes, and then I see it, the truck’s taillights beaming red, two bright spots in the dark. The truck sits pointed in the direction of the woods, the beams from the headlights lost somewhere inside. We begin to cross the pasture, Granddad hoping again, saying, “Reckon he found her.”
I’m hoping, too.
I’m hoping Dad has managed to lasso Mary and calm her. I’m hoping he will already have the calf delivered by the time we get there. And I’m hoping the calf won’t be dead.
Matt is leaning against the tailgate. He turns as we approach. “Tretch,” he says. “I lassoed her. Can you believe it?” His voice is excited, but there’s worry written all over his face. Like he can’t tell if he’s done something wrong.
“Good job,” I whisper. “Where are Dad and Joe?”
“They’re in the woods.” Matt points. “You have to follow the headlights. They’re way down in there, I think. They told me to stay put, though. I don’t think your dad wanted me seeing, in case—”
“Reckon they got her steadied?” Granddad interrupts, his voice heavy with breath. He places a hand on the tailgate next to Matt.
“I don’t know, sir,” Matt replies. “Might be. I think Joe was holding on to the rope the last time I saw—”
“Tretch, you better go.”
I push past some low branches and make my way into the woods again. I’m scared about what I’ll see when I get there. Dad made me turn my head the last time. “Tretch, don’t look,” he’d said, but I’d heard him pulling then, and I’d known. I think about that. I think about Granddad shouting, “It’s that cancer, Tretch!” I don’t want to walk any farther. I don’t want to see what’s coming. It’s all too hard. I’ll never get out from under it.
I hear my dad’s shout through the trees. “Joe, hold her!”
I move quickly. Joe sees me first.
“Tretch!” he calls. “Come help me pull!” Joe holds tight to the lasso as Mary snaps her neck frantically, stressed, struggling to free herself. She tries to back up, and Joe’s feet slide. Dad topples over behind her, and I think, She’ll trample him. She won’t mean to, but she will. I jump for the rope, and when I grab it, I puuuuullllll. Harder than anything, I pull. Harder than I’ve ever tried to pull anything in my whole life. I pull because I think it might be the only thing that can save Dad, the only thing that can save Mary and the calf, and Granddad. I pull like it’s the only thing saving my life, too, and the lives of everyone I know. I pull like it’s the only thing keeping us all together.
A burst of frosty air shoots from Mary’s nostrils, and she leans forward, resting on her forelegs. Joe and I hold the rope firmly, even though the struggle is over. She isn’t fighting anymore. She’s calm. I speak to her. “Attagirl. Just calm down.” She bows her head. I can see the outline of my dad working behind her.
Like last time, I hear the sound of him pulling.
I close my eyes. Be alive, I think. Be alive. A hand brushes against my own and holds fast to the rope. When I open my eyes, I see it’s Granddad. He keeps a steady grip on the rope between me and Joe. “ ’S all right, girl,” he says to Mary. “We gon’ make it.”
“Oof—” My dad’s voice erupts. Then there’s a dull thud against hard ground.
Mary lifts her neck.
“Is it—?” I start to ask.
“Tretch, wait,” I hear Joe say. But I have to see. I let go of the rope and step forward. Behind Mary, Dad lies sprawled, the calf in his lap perfectly still.
“Oh …”
It’s slimy and wet, its coat the same color as Mary’s. Dark black, without a single speckle of white.
A wet spot on the ground squishes when I step.
“Tretch,” Dad warns again. But I want him to know it’s okay, that I understand about death, and I’m not afraid of it, because death is a part of life. And I’m not scared of life, no way, even though it can be hard, and parts of it are sad. There are still the good things. There will always be the good things.
And then it moves. The baby moves.
“Dad!”
The baby’s eyes open, and he looks up. He shakes.
“Tretch?” Dad starts to fidget. The calf snaps his head back and forth, and Dad tries his best to steady him. “Here, Tretch!” he says. “Here! We got to—”
Granddad shoves me. “Clean out its nose!” I collapse to my knees and bend over the newborn. “Hold still!” I shout as I grip the wet snout. Luckily it’s over before I have time to really think about it.
I pull my hand away, fingers dripping with nasty clear snot stuff, and I remember what it felt like to pass out. But I keep my cool.
Which is more than I can say for Granddad.
“Hot dog, Tretch!” he yells. “Stuff like this happens and I feel like I could go forever! Reckon we’ll have to name that one Lucky!”
When we finally get back to the house, Granddad sinks into his easy chair. Moments later, he’s snoring. I laugh and eye Matt falling asleep on the living room sofa. The smell of breakfast is coming from the kitchen, but I don’t know who’s awake to eat it. Dad is falling asleep in the rocking chair, and Joe is sprawled out on the living room floor. I’m not tired, though. I feel really okay, actually. And I think it might be nice to try and catch the sunrise.
It’s not every day you get to watch the sun rise on a new year.
So I let myself out the back door and cross the yard. And that’s when I see them there, hanging from the big oak tree. The angel wings for Uncle Dennis.
Granddad finished them.
After sleeping through the morning and subsequently partaking in the annual Farm Farm New Year’s feast (black-eyed peas, turnip greens, hog jowl, sweet potato casserole, and a pork tenderloin), Matt and I are basically restored, energy-wise.
Now it’s four o’clock in the afternoon and we’re about to load up the car and head back to town, but Matt wants to see Lucky one last time before we do.
It isn’t as cold
out now with the afternoon sunshine, but there’s still a hint of that frozen bite we felt at six a.m. We peel our eyes for Lucky, but so far we haven’t seen so much as one cow.
“When are you gonna tell Amy you’re moving back to New York?”
“Oh,” Matt said. “I told her already. I told her last night.”
The dance, I remember. Was that really only last night?
“What’d she say?”
“Oh, not much. I mean, she was sad. But, honestly, you saved it, Tretch. You saved that whole dance, really. The second you started to bust those sick moves, it was like she forgot all about being sad. She just wanted to dance and have a good time. I think she’s all right. We never got a chance to really get to know each other, but …” Matt shakes his head. “I still couldn’t believe those moves, man. I mean, you got the moves!”
The moves.
“You keep saying that like you’re surprised or something. You think just because I suck at sports, it means I’d be a sucky dancer, too?” I land a punch on his shoulder, and he hops around acting like I’ve really hurt him.
“Ooh, Tretch so strooong,” he says. “Don’t even know his own strength.”
I smile. “Gosh, I’m gonna miss you,” I think. But then I realize it isn’t a thought. I’ve actually said it. I’ve actually told him.
Matt wraps his arm around my shoulder, and we start up the trail to the house. No sight of Lucky, but that’s all right. We’ll find Lucky another day. “I’m gonna miss you, too,” he says. “I mean, you might be about the only thing I will miss. Well, that’s not true. I mean, I’m gonna miss stuff like this. I’m gonna miss this winter break, and seeing you dance, and climbing the roof with you and Amy.” Then he laughs. “I’m gonna miss you coming out.”
I snort. “What?” I don’t know what he means. I already came out to him, didn’t I?
“You know, like, when you finally tell your parents and stuff.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “Well …”
“I mean, I was the first person you told, right?”
“Well, more like third or fourth, actually …”
“Serious? You waited that long?” He drops his arm and turns to me. “Why’d you do that? I mean, I should’ve been easy. We tell each other everything.”
And what am I supposed to say?
Matt, the reason I didn’t tell you sooner is because I fell in love with you on the day you came to church with my family. We were holding hands during the prayer. And somehow I was afraid that if I told you, you would know, and all the pieces would come sliding into place, and then—
“Because I used to have a crush on you.”
And then you’d freak.
Matt stands facing me. He puts his hands in his pockets.
“Seriously?”
I nod. “I mean, I’m over it now, but—” Is that the truth? Last time I checked, the jury was still out. “But, for a while there, yeah. I liked you.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I go on.
“I mean, you were, like, my protector, Matt. You stood up for me and stuff, in front of Bobby Handel, in front of all those jerks—”
“Well, that’s what friends do, Tretch.”
“I know. I get it now. Like I said, I don’t like you that way anymore. It was … I mean, it’s been a while since—” Now I’m definitely lying, because it definitely hasn’t been “a while.”
But the truth is, while I stand there looking at him, trying to explain, I don’t feel the way for Matt that I used to feel.
“I mean, just being honest,” I say. “The crush only lasted for, like, a week—”
“A week?”
“Maybe a month, tops.”
He squints. “How long ago was this?”
“Mmm. Eighth grade.” Yesterday.
“Oh, psh,” he says. “That’s puppy stuff.”
I can’t help but laugh. Totally.
We start back up the trail through the woods, and Matt cuts up by kicking at the frosty hunk of a fallen tree. He gets a running start and kicks with all his might to see how far it goes. The he chases it down and sends it flying again. “Maybe I should go out for kicker,” he says. Then he ducks inside a big hollow oak.
“Matt, there could be bats,” I warn, and as I do, he screams, “Ahhhh!” A bat flies out from behind him, grazing the top of his head. He falls on the ground with his hand to his chest, like he’s having a panic attack, and I crack up. I bend over, put my hands on my knees, and all-out belly laugh for what feels like the longest time. Eventually, Matt can’t help it, either. His laughter spouts up in cloudy bursts against the cold air.
“Now, this,” he says. “This is what I’m going to miss.”
Before we leave Farm Farm, I have one last thing to do. I have to give Grandma the scarf. After all, it’s been almost three weeks.
I fold it up into a square and slide it into the kitchen drawer next to her deck of cards. Later, she calls my dad and tells him that she found it.
“—and Tretch left the sweetest note!” she says.
Of course, I don’t know exactly how it all played out. Her finding the scarf, that is. But this is how I picture it.
I picture Grandma opening the kitchen drawer to pull out her deck of cards. I picture her seeing the scarf, lifting it up, finding my note attached, and reading it first.
Here is what it said:
Hey Grandma,
I ran into Mr. Thumb the other day, and he gave this to me. He said he had been wearing it around ever since Mrs. Thumb passed away. But he said it was time to give it to the person she made it for. She made it for you, Grandma. She wanted to say thanks for the pickled okra. And I don’t mean to try and steal her thunder, Grandma, I really don’t. But I wanted to say thanks, too. For being the bravest person in the whole wide world. And everything else.
I love you.
TRETCH
Then I picture her unfolding the scarf, holding it out in front of her, and smiling. I imagine her saying something to my granddad, maybe asking him, “How you feeling tonight, honey?”
“Pretty good,” he responds, emphasizing the “good.”
“Well, good,” she says. “Reckon we oughta celebrate tonight?”
Granddad looks up at this. “You mean, you’re not all celebrated out?”
Finally, I picture her shaking her head, smiling.
“No, honey,” she replies. “Not by a long shot.”
Sometimes, when I love a book, I need to get out to finish it. And I mean, get out—like, go someplace where I feel like the ending will be all the more momentous.
It’s early evening, the day before the last day of winter break. I have ten pages left in On the Road.
Mom and Dad don’t usually approve of me going out and wandering the streets when it gets close to dark. But it won’t take long. It’s only ten pages, after all.
So I don’t tell them; I just leave.
And I know where I’m headed, too.
The grass in the schoolyard is frosted over. The metal bars on the jungle gym are iced, and it looks like if I touch my tongue to it, I’ll be stuck until God knows when. I wonder how cold this winter has been compared to last winter in Warmouth. It hasn’t snowed or anything, but there’s a constant chill. In years past, it’s gotten weirdly warm around Christmastime. One Christmas Eve, I even remember wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt.
I prefer the cold in the wintertime, though; it just feels better that way. More momentous.
I pick a swing and tip it up, letting its collection of frost water drizzle out. The sunlight won’t last much longer, and if I want to finish the book here, I need to get started. I crack it open, exhale a cloud of breath, and begin reading.
That’s when I smell it.
Cigarette smoke.
I turn my head toward the big oak tree at the corner of the yard. Two benches sit there, angled oddly around the tree’s vast roots.
Nobody there. No curl of smoke rising up from anywhere that I can see.
But then I hear from behind me a loud, slick scrape, followed by, “Farm! What are you doing here?”
I turn around. And, there, on his way down from what we called “the big slide” as kids, is Bobby Handel.
“Bobby?” I ask. “What are you—?”
“Hey, don’t ask questions!”
Bobby is crossing the enormous sandbox filled with pea gravel where all the jungle gyms are. He has something balled up inside his fist.
Either that, or he’s just making a fist.
He stops about halfway to me and bends down like he’s about to puke or something. But he doesn’t puke. Instead, he digs out a little hole in the pea gravel, drops something in, then covers it up again.
I put two and two together.
“Are you smoking out here, Bobby?”
He looks up, his face scrunched up and red—from cold or anger or acne, I’m not sure. “Farm. I said no questions.”
“Are you stupid?”
That sets him off. Bobby comes running at me full speed.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I should try to dodge and run. One thing is for certain, though: I’m not about to try to fight Bobby Handel.
Bobby flings himself full force at me and knocks me off the swing. I manage to cling to On the Road as he pulls me down, and I hold it up in front of my face. “Bobby! Bobby!” I shout. “Stop!”
He rears his fist back. “Stupid Farm. Probably gonna run tell your dad and get me in trouble—”
“Bobby, what the hell?” I push—I push hard. Somehow I manage to get him off of me. He slides onto his butt in the wet grass.
“Jesus, Farm,” he says.
I sit up. “What the hell, okay?” I drop the copy of On the Road into my lap and notice its torn cover.
“Aaaggghhhh!” I roar. “You tore my book!”
Bobby looks aghast. “I—” he starts, but I stop him.
“You tore my book, Bobby. And all I wanted was to come here and get some peace and quiet, just like I always want, but no, God forbid I set foot on school property wanting some peace and quiet when you’re around!” I throw the book—not at Bobby directly, but also kind of at him. It sails over his shoulder and lands with a painful crumpling sound.