Pixie Pushes On

by Tamara Bundy

  Granddaddy sat up in bed and put on his reading glasses, like that was gonna help him think better. “It’s true your daddy’s working hard on the farm,” he said. “I think it’s his way of dealing with everything.” I looked over at him, his hair glowing silver in the moonlight. “You see, Pixie, as much as you miss your mama and your sissy, and as much as your grandma and I miss ’em, your daddy misses ’em too. But his pain might be even worse ’n ours.”

  I disagreed. “No way it’s worse than mine. I gave Mama the cough and Sissy the polio.”

  “Lands’ sakes!” Now Grandma sat up in bed too. “Why you keep saying that? Your mama got sick. Sometimes people get sick and get right better. Other times people get sick and don’t get better. It just happens. Same with your sissy. It just happens.”

  I shook my head.

  “Listen to your grandma,” Granddaddy said. “She’s right, Pixie. Nothing you did or coulda done about either your mama or sissy. But knowing how you feel, maybe you can understand your daddy a bit more.”

  I scooted closer to Grandma, laying my head on her shoulder like I used to do with Mama as he continued. “You see, he wanted to protect your mama and your sissy—but he couldn’t. So now, working on the farm—making it better for all of us—those are things he can do. That’s a way he can help. So he’s holding tight to that. That’s his way of pushing on.”

  We sat in the quiet darkness of the room for a few minutes as I tried to digest all that information about Daddy’s feelings.

  I squinted at the sparkling moonlight, hoping to keep my tears from falling.

  After a while, I heard Granddaddy snoring, still with his glasses on. Grandma took a deep breath and patted my back. “Now, scoot up to bed—and no more silly talk. Things always look better in the light of day.”

  She blew me a kiss, and as I was leaving, she whispered, “To tell you the truth, your daddy is doing a great job. We needed him.”

  And for once, I bit my tongue, ’cause I wanted to say I needed him too.

  CHAPTER 39

  If I thought time with Daddy was going to make me feel better, I was just plain wrong.

  A few days after the pageant, I got back from gathering the eggs, surprised to see Daddy still sitting at the breakfast table, like he was waiting for me.

  The day had started out like any other summer morning on the farm, with the heat of the sun already burning my shoulders on my trek from the henhouse. Buster had given Teacher a real runaround, and I must’ve been smiling all the way back to the house.

  But that wouldn’t last.

  “Daddy, you should see Buster in the henhouse, stirring up those old hens. It’s so funny. I grab—”

  “I need to talk to you, Pru,” Daddy said. He looked serious as he patted the seat of the chair next to him.

  My breath caught. “What’s wrong with Charlotte?”

  “Charlotte’s good—I think we can actually plan on getting her home this summer.”

  I’d waited to hear those words for so long I squealed like one of the pigs. “That’s great news, Daddy!”

  I wanted to leap up ’cause my heart felt so happy, but I could see Daddy wasn’t celebrating. “What’s wrong, then?”

  “This isn’t about Charlotte, Pru—it’s about Buster.”

  I can’t be sure if it was my heart or my stomach that jumped right then, but I looked down at the table.

  “Pru, do you remember when we first got Buster?”

  “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Honey, when I told you about him, do you remember me pointing out he was a farm animal—not a pet? And farm animals have jobs on the farm.”

  “B-Buster helps on the farm, Daddy. You should see the way he helps get the eggs, and—”

  “No.” Daddy shook his head. “That’s not the job I meant. A livestock animal’s job on the farm is to earn money by going to market. You know that was always the plan. I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clearer from the beginning.”

  Every conversation the adults had had with me about Buster—being a farm animal . . . livestock . . . not a pet—came rushing back in a blur. How had my ears heard something over and over that my heart was only hearing for the first time?

  Daddy went on. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Now my heart heard loud and clear. I knew—but I couldn’t understand. How could I let Buster go? Tears rolled down my cheeks. “Isn’t there a way we could keep him?”

  Daddy’s voice cracked. “No, honey. There isn’t room for a hundred-pound pet on a working farm. Clyde was over to help deliver the piglets and checked out Buster. Said you did a right fine job with raising him. He could bring a good sum of money at market, and once we take out the feeding cost, that money’s yours.”

  “I don’t want money. I want Buster.”

  He put his arm around me. “I’m sorry. It’s costing too much to care for him as a pet. The farm’s in a place to start making better decisions, not worse. We need to make every penny count.”

  I wiped my eyes and looked at the coffee can of money. “But you have money in the piggy bank. Can’t that go to feeding Buster? Please?”

  “Do you think that’s what would be best for our farm?”

  “It’s not my farm—but it’s my Buster!” I couldn’t look at Daddy. “Saving Buster would be right for him and for me!”

  He tried to pat my hand, but I pulled away. “It’s your farm because it belongs to all of us. And we all have to do what’s right for our farm—for our family. And I’m not saying it has to be today—”

  “Today?”

  “It doesn’t have to be today, but it has to happen, and I think these things are best not put off too long. Sometimes it’s best to get it over with.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Those words echoed in my head as I stood up. And without remembering taking steps at all, I soon found myself in the orchard.

  “Buster! Buster!”

  He was chasing a butterfly, but when he heard me, he came running. His head butted against my hand as I petted him. I bent down and tried to hold on to his neck, but he just wanted to be petted, not held. “I’m not gonna let you go, Buster. I won’t.”

  Tears fell down my face and onto his wool. It was hard to deny how big he was. His coat was soft and full, like tufts of cotton stuck together. He was strong enough that he could knock me down easy if he wanted to. But he would always be my baby.

  I started walking out of the orchard faster and faster, breaking into a run. Buster followed me.

  Before too long, I saw Ricky’s house and stopped to catch my breath.

  Taking a few deep gulps of air, I squinted at his house. From far away, I thought I saw Ricky out front, but as I walked closer, I realized it was a woman who wasn’t his mom.

  Then I got a little closer and I saw the woman looked like Miss Beany, but her hair wasn’t pulled tight into a bun. It hung soft and loose and pretty.

  She heard me when I got into the yard. “Hello there, Prudence. How are you doing?” It was Miss Beany, but I couldn’t talk.

  Ricky came outside smiling, like there was nothing strange about our teacher being at his house.

  “You okay, Pixie?” he asked.

  I had a lot of questions about Miss Beany, but right then all I could think of was what Daddy had just said. I knelt down to hold on to Buster. Ricky knelt to pet him too.

  “I’m okay.” I hugged Buster, burying my face and tears in his wool.

  I heard footsteps coming closer to me. “Is something wrong with Charlotte?” Miss Beany’s hand was on my shoulder.

  And then the tears really started flowing. And I told them.

  “Not Buster! No!” Ricky looked at Buster, who looked right at him. “He’s so much like a dog, I guess sometimes I forget he’s a lamb.”

  “I lo
ved the stories you wrote about this little guy in class. I’m sorry about what’s going on now,” Miss Beany said as she sat down next to us.

  We all sat there petting Buster, who sat still for only a few minutes before running around Ricky’s yard, eating grass and anything else growing.

  From behind me, I heard barking.

  Ricky laughed. “Uh-oh.”

  Mud circled Buster, who looked at the dog like he was the funniest-looking lamb he ever did see. Buster lowered his head like he was getting ready to charge him. Softly, he bumped him in the side, and Mud nudged him back, but in a friendly way.

  They did this around the yard a while longer before Ricky turned to me. “Do you think you can talk to your pa about Buster?”

  “I tried.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Miss Beany asked.

  “Can you help me hide Buster or convince Daddy he doesn’t have to go to market?”

  She took a breath before answering. “Town’s too small for hiding much of anything. And the only other reason farms have lambs is for their wool. But you’d need more lambs for that to work, I guess. I don’t know. I wish I could help.”

  And I knew she meant it. “Thank you.”

  She stood up. “Let me know if you think of something I can help with.” And she headed into the house, walking in like she lived there.

  Despite being sad, I was also mighty curious. I had to know what was up. “Miss Beany?” I said to Ricky. “Here! Why?”

  “Miss Beany and Bill . . . they were high school sweethearts,” Ricky explained. “But when Bill joined the army, they put getting married on hold. She didn’t want me to get teased or nothing, so we didn’t tell folks at school. But now—”

  “What happened now?”

  “Don’t worry—it’s good. We got a telegram that Bill’s getting better—gonna be released soon. And since school’s let out, Miss Beany’s heading to New York to be with him. Just stopped by here to pick up a few of his things.”

  “He’s coming . . . home?” That word held so much meaning for me now.

  Ricky grinned and nodded. “I just wish I could go too.”

  “But he’ll be home soon. That’s what’s important. And he’ll be so proud of you taking care of everyone while he was gone. You did a good job, Ricky. Maybe he’ll want you to keep that job even when he gets back.”

  He shook his head. “Nah. I’m happy Ma’s better, and it’ll be good to get Bill back. One thing I learned this year is being responsible’s a lot of work. Too many decisions. And sometimes those decisions are just plain hard.”

  Right then Buster ran back into our view, with Mud chasing him. I looked up at the sky, trying to keep my eyes from misting over again, thinking sometimes those decisions aren’t just hard—they’re downright heartbreaking.

  CHAPTER 40

  Halfway across the orchard on my way home, I spied Granddaddy coming to fetch me. He turned around when we got to him, and we walked in silence the first few minutes. But eventually, I couldn’t hold in my words any longer. “I can’t say goodbye to Buster, Granddaddy. Can you tell Daddy there’s a better way? Please?”

  I heard him take a deep breath before responding. “Pixie, I’ve been on a farm my whole life. I can’t even count how many animals I seen go to market. Remember us talking about that circle of life? That’s just the way it is on a farm.”

  “But why? Why does it have to be that way?” I stopped walking.

  He turned to face me. “Buster’s a lamb—and lambs go to market ’round here. Doubt if that’s ever gonna change. But I guess the decision you might have to make is how you want to let him go.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Pixie, when it’s time for something or someone to leave us—and there’s nothing we can do about it—we have a decision to make. We can cling to it and make it as hard as possible to push on, or we can open our arms and let it go. It still hurts, but letting go leaves fewer scars.”

  “I don’t think I’m brave enough to let Buster go, Granddaddy.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “Hmm . . . didn’t somebody help write a speech not long ago where they talked about fear and heroes?”

  “Yeah—but that wasn’t about me being a hero.”

  “What was that one part about how being brave is in everybody?” Granddaddy winked at me.

  I shook my head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Yes, you do. I saw your lips moving along with every word Berta spoke that night. Something about being brave inside?”

  I breathed in, but the words weren’t easy to let out. “The power . . . to be brave . . . also lives in me and you.”

  Granddaddy took my hand. “Wise words from a brave young lady.”

  But I wasn’t so sure.

  Maybe words are just funny that way—it’s easier to write them than it is to live them.

  CHAPTER 41

  In one way, the day it happened seemed like a picture show playing in slow motion, lasting for hours. But in another way, those same minutes sped by like a twister, stirring up so many things that you couldn’t see any of ’em clear.

  “Are you okay?” Daddy’s words were soft, but I wasn’t finding any comfort.

  “Not really,” I answered, standing next to Mr. Grayson’s truck. Daddy turned and hugged me.

  I squinted to find Buster, who was running to the orchard, the glare of the sun burning more tears into my already-wet eyes.

  Part of me hoped he’d run and just keep running. But there he was, eating a green apple off the ground like it was any other day.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Daddy said.

  I’d never be ready for this—but that didn’t matter.

  “C-c-come here, B-B- . . . Bust—!” My lips quivered too much to get it all out.

  Daddy’s eyes glistened. “You want me to get him?”

  I shook my head. I needed to do this. I took a breath. “Buster!”

  He heard me. And he came running. Like always.

  I gave him a last hug. “I’m sorry, Buster. You’re the best lamb ever.”

  Baa! Baa! He butted his head against my hand, which I had to hold on to, to steady it enough to pet him.

  Daddy opened the tailgate of the truck, which squealed with a shrill sound, and Buster followed my lead into the truck bed. He was too busy exploring the truck for me to be able to tell him everything else I needed to tell him.

  Daddy cleared his throat. “Do you wanna go with us?”

  As much as I wanted to be there for Buster, I couldn’t bear to. I shook my head and jumped off the truck. Daddy shut the gate, but not before I saw Buster look back at me. With his head tilted just so, the black patch in the middle of his forehead made him look like he was winking.

  My heart hurt.

  “It’ll be okay, Pru. I’m proud of ya,” Daddy said as he climbed into the truck. “Really proud of you.”

  I felt arms around me and heard Grandma’s and Granddaddy’s voices, but I wasn’t hearing any words.

  In no time, the big tires of the truck kicked up clouds of dust and dirt from the lane as Daddy drove off with Buster staring at me from the back. I could only imagine how confused my lamb was as he watched both the farm . . . and me . . . disappear from him forever.

  CHAPTER 42

  What did I do?

  Before the dust had settled on the lane, I let go of Grandma and Granddaddy and ran after the truck and Buster.

  What did I do?

  I ran faster and harder than I ever thought I could. I heard Grandma’s voice hollering, but it didn’t matter.

  Before I knew it, I was on the main road, still running.

  Tears had to be in my eyes, ’cause I couldn’t see much of anything, but I don’t rightly remember crying.

  I just remember running as Buster and the truck
disappeared from sight.

  But I kept running.

  I didn’t know anymore if I was running to Buster or away from everything else.

  Dust closed in around me as my feet moved like never before.

  One mailbox along the road gave way to another as I went farther away from the farm. Somewhere along the way of running, I guess I got off the main road, ’cause I started seeing less brown of the road and more green of the field.

  Then I ran some more . . . and wound up back at that creek.

  That creek where Charlotte got polio.

  * * *

  * * *

  I stopped so fast when I saw that creek that I fell down. Landed smack on my backside. And there I sat, glaring at the water like the creek was a big ole snake about to strike me and I was staring it down, daring it to do just that.

  The July sun continued to shine on my skin, as if it was just a normal summer day.

  But I was angry at the day, angry at the world, angry at the creek.

  And most of all, I was angry at myself.

  All that anger boiled inside me until it came screeching out in a scream that might’ve scared the devil himself, if he was listening.

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  I screamed at the creek and at the world, until I didn’t have enough breath in me to scream anymore.

  And then I sat there and tried to catch my breath.

  “Are you . . . touched?”

  The voice made me jump. And when I looked and saw Berta standing there, I wanted to scream again. I hadn’t seen her since the day of the pageant, and she looked different—wearing overalls just like me.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  She stepped farther away from me, like I might be contagious. “Screaming like that . . . Are you . . . touched in the head? That would explain a lot, I guess.”

  My hand clenched a handful of grass. I didn’t have the strength to talk to her. “Go away,” I yelled.