He sounds so much like Dad when he says this that I'm just itching to kick him under the table. It's bad enough that no one thinks I'm much of a rancher; since when am I not good enough to be in the army? I'm not going to be this short forever.
“What do you want to study?” Grandma says, passing around third helpings.
I just shrug and rearrange the potatoes on my plate.
“Dude, don't go for engineering. No girls,” John says. “And don't become a teacher either, because those classes are just packed with bossy girls.”
“The army likes engineering grads,” Jim says. “They pretty much get their pick of which branch they want to sign up with.”
And then we are onto the topic of what branch of the army Jim will go into when he graduates next year, and I get to thinking about the long line of soldiers that have marched away from this table, which is great if you're the patriotic type. But it's not so great if you are the one waiting for your dad to come home.
After dinner is the best part of Christmas Eve. Grandpa gets out our favorite Monty Python movie, and us boys drag our pillows and blankets off the bunks and out to the floor under the Christmas tree. We laugh at all the stupid parts and say all the good lines and act out the fights, including catapulting our old teddy bears over the tree and down the hall. Traditionally, Grandma does the dishes while we watch, saying “Outrageous!” and “Blasphemy!” every ten min utes, and sounding more Irish as the movie goes on.
But this year Grandma just leaves the dishes in the sink and goes to bed, and Grandpa actually falls asleep in his recliner before we get to the killer-rabbit part. Pete turns the volume down and shushes us about saying the lines, and suddenly it's not such a funny movie when everyone is behaving.
“Come on,” Jim says. “Let's get those dishes. It's a lot of work to have guests. God knows, the Grands don't need extra work.”
“Guests?” Frank says, trailing us into the kitchen. “We aren't guests; we live here.”
I've got nothing to say about this because I'm the only one who lives here now, which gets real obvious when I'm the only person who remembers where the soap and clean dish towels are.
“All right, men,” Pete says, putting on his command voice. “I'll scrub; John can dry and put away. Jim, clear the table and counters, and Frank, sweep and mop.”
He forgot a job for me. Dad never forgets a job for me.
I'm an inch from turning around and slugging him, but the Nativity on the mantel catches my eye, and something about the Holy Family all snug and together in the stable melts me.
“I guess I'll make everybody hot chocolate,” I say, pulling a step stool over to the cupboard. I make killer hot chocolate. I get out the big pot, the cocoa, the sugar, and the milk jug. It's Christmas; maybe I'll make a whole gallon.
Jim launches into another of his “perfect date” stories while we work. Nobody actually believes he's been on a date, but I love the part with the girl, the rope trick, the parking meter, and the awkward conversation with the Boise patrolman. He's just about to launch into another when John says, “Hey, I wonder what Grandma's got in the sinners’ cupboard.” Pete reaches up and brings down an almost full bottle of Irish whiskey.
What a stupid idea.
“Hey, guys, the hot chocolate is done,” I say to distract them. I pour beautiful steaming cocoa into the china coffeepot and line up a row of mugs.
“Excellent!” Pete says, pouring himself half a cup of cocoa and topping it off with whiskey.
Oh, man! It was perfect. It smelled perfect. It was heaven by the spoonful, and he dumped gasoline in it. Jim and John are right behind him, and Frank too— that traitor!
Fine. I take my cup to the far corner of the kitchen and hoard all the whipped cream. I figure the brothers are going to get all rowdy now, so it's weird when they just stand around saying nothing and looking at the half-mopped floor.
“Do you think they are going to send your unit to Iraq anytime soon?” John says, not looking at Pete.
Pete shrugs and takes a slow sip from his cocoa. “Not for a while yet. We're gearing up to train deploying troops for now, but if we're in Iraq for the long haul …” He looks at Jim, and then John. “I bet we'll all get our turn out there.”
The four of them nod their heads over their hot chocolate and study the ground. It's not like anyone needs to say it, but how are we going to keep the ranch going with everybody gone? Pete pours a second round of whiskey.
Finally, Jim says, “The Grands look so old, all of a sudden.”
“Yeah,” John says, “and since when does Grandma go to bed at eight o'clock and leave the kitchen a mess?”
“Grandpa doesn't stand up as straight as he used to,” Pete adds.
Like bad posture is some kind of moral failure.
“I don't get it,” Frank says. “The hired man does all the really heavy work, but Grandpa looks exhausted every time I see him. You know, they only came to one basketball game this year, and it was just down the road, in Vale.”
“The cold is hard on him,” Pete says. “Look how skinny he's gotten.”
Now being skinny is a crime? I scoop up an extra spoonful of whipped cream and drown it in my cocoa.
“Remember when Dad and Grandpa used to take us out on the hay wagon Christmas Eve to look for the Christmas star?”
And then they go on about all the great things that happened at Christmas in their childhood but not in mine, Christmases when Dad and Mom were both home. My gut starts churning, and even the hot chocolate doesn't sweeten me up.
Then conversation switches back to all the things that need doing around the ranch and whether Grandpa will be strong enough to do them. Pete says, in his most annoying trying-to-be-Dad voice, “We should make a plan for what to do, just in case—”
That's it. I can't take another word.
“We're fine!” I shout. “We're doing just fine. It's you—all of you. You're the ones who are gone!”
And then I just can't cry in front of my brothers, so I attack.
I kick Frank in the shins as hard as I can and he falls down, cussing as he goes. He knocks into Jim, so I ram Jim in the gut with my head. Jim trips over Frank and goes down laughing, which makes me even madder. I swing punches at Pete and land some good ones, but he won't even fight back. Then John comes up behind me and scoops me off the floor, pinning my left hand to my ribs. I flail around with my legs and reach for the only weapon I can find, the hot chocolate pot. I grab it and crash it down on Pete's head as hard as I can.
It explodes in my hand.
Frank and Jim start howling as the rest of the hot chocolate rains down on them, and John drops me so I'm standing on Jim's hand. Pete staggers over to the sink, groaning.
“Dude,” John almost whispers, “you assaulted an officer, and he's bleeding!”
“Explain this,” Grandpa says in a voice that is even more scary because it's calm and comes out of nowhere.
I turn around and there he is, standing in the doorway looking bone-weary, and I am standing in a puddle of brothers and hot chocolate with the broken handle of a coffeepot in my hand and blood on my knuckles.
“Ignatius kicked the shit out of us, Grandpa,” Pete says with his back turned. “He did a hell of a job.”
Groans of agreement come from the floor.
“Dude,” John says again a little louder, “you are really bleeding.”
It's true. Still gripping the edge of the sink, Pete lifts his head up. Two rivers of blood roll down either side of his face.
“John,” Grandpa says, “my medical kit is in the barn.”
John's out the door so fast, he doesn't stop for a coat. Frank and Jim untangle themselves and stagger to their feet. Grandpa walks around the pool of cocoa. He looks from the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter to each of us in turn, and that's about all the scolding I need. I feel terrible, and I didn't even touch a drop.
Grandma is not at a loss for words. She starts in on the scolding, full vol
ume from her bedroom at the far end of the hall. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! For heaven's sake, boys—brawling on the holiest night of the year! What would your father—Lord help us!”
She comes into the kitchen, and we quick line up, tall to short, because the truth is, we've been in trouble with Grandma before. She looks up the row—from me, still holding the coffeepot handle, past Frank and Jim, to Pete, bleeding down into his collar.
“Angels and saints,” she says, not shouting now.
The front door bangs and John dashes in, breathing hard and shivering, with the medical kit in hand.
“Set it by my chair, John,” Grandpa says. “I'll wash first. Pete, lean over the sink. Boys, I want all the broken pieces off the floor.”
Grandpa washes his hands and then takes Pete's head and rinses it in great bloody gallons of cold water. I shouldn't watch. Blood makes me dizzy, even natural blood from lambing and calving. But there's Grandpa, up to his elbows in it and calm as a summer day. Grandpa sees me watching him and says, “Head wounds bleed a lot. Pete's going to be fine.”
I nod.
“Go. Wash your hands twice. Do a good job.”
“What?”
“Brother, there are probably little shards of china in this cut, but I can't see them, and I won't be able to pull them out. You are the only man here with a clear eye and a steady hand.”
“But I can't—”
“You will.”
“But I never—”
“You must.”
“Grandpa!”
“I'll teach you.”
I wipe my sweaty hands on my chocolate-covered shirt and nod slowly. Grandma has the towels ready by Grandpa's chair. I head down the hall to the bathroom, and a whole chorus of brain waves is chanting that I can't do this. This is crazy. You can't pretend to be a doctor just because someone needs you—not when you are only a kid.
I run the water and pump out a big handful of soap. I don't even want to look in the mirror, so I look down at the wet, sticky front of my pajamas. I tug the shirt off with one sudsy hand, dry my hands on the clean side, and kick it behind the bathroom door. The draft from the bathroom window raises a shiver all down my back. I peek down the hall, and no one is looking, so I slip into the dark of Dad's room. I stumble over his clean work boots on my way to the dresser and find his wool flannel work shirt by touch in the drawer. It's blue and brown plaid, and worn thin at the elbows. I wrap it tight around my chest and breathe in the dad smell that is still stuck in the collar.
Dad lets me do stuff. It's just my brothers who think I'm too little.
I let Dad's shirt hang down to my knees and start buttoning. “Piece of cake, Brother,” Dad would say to me. “Grandpa's done sutures a million times. It's about time you learned how.”
Dad would hug me.
I trail my hand over his pillow on the way out the door. I head back to the living room, and everyone is waiting like an audience. Pete's kneeling by Grandpa's recliner with his head right under the reading lamp. Grandma is sitting in the chair, holding Pete's hands. “Holler all you need to, Pete. There's none but the good Lord and them that love you to hear,” she says.
This is not exactly encouraging, but Grandpa smiles at me like stitching up your brother's head is a perfectly normal thing to do.
“Let's take a look,” he says.
Before he can lift up the towel over the wound, Pete turns to me and says, “I'm sorry, Brother. You and Grandpa are doing fine, way more than your share.”
“Dude, the barn looks perfect,” John adds.
Frank nods, and Jim says, “What would we do without you?”
I just open and close my mouth a bunch of times, so Grandpa says, “Thank you, boys,” for me, and hands me the long tweezers with the bent end. I brace myself to be grossed out by the wound. Grandma starts praying the rosary, with the brothers chiming in, but when Grandpa takes the cloth away it's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The main thing is, I can't see Pete's face, plus the cut is only about two inches long.
“You want to pull out the shards just like a wood sliver,” Grandpa says. “Pull them out the same direction they went in. Can you see them?”
I tilt Pete's head a bit more toward the light. I push his bristle-short black hair apart with my thumbs.
“Yup, I see a big one and two little ones.”
“Nice and steady now,” Grandpa says.
I slowly, slowly lower the tweezers and get a grip on the shard. Pete sucks in a sharp gasp. Panic starts to creep up my arms and make my hands shake. Pete gasps again, and then groans. Frank sits down suddenly on the floor and puts his head between his knees.
“Breathe,” Grandpa says softly. “Everybody breathe. Angels are all around us now. We can do this.”
Grandma presses on with the rosary. I shake out my hand and try again. This time I steady my wrist on the top of Pete's head, and it goes much better. Grandpa holds out a saucer for me to put the piece of china on and a teacup full of rubbing alcohol to rinse the tweezers in. The next two shards are easier because they are small and don't make Pete twitchy when I pull them out. I take one last look.
“Let me do this next part,” Grandpa says, and he takes gauze dipped in disinfectant and wipes out the wound. Pete takes in a big gasp. Every muscle in his arms and shoulders bunches up.
“Okay, now for the stitching,” Grandpa says. He hands me the medium-sized curved needle. I thread a length of black thread on it.
“Remember that stitch I taught you when you were mending your leather gloves? We're going to use the same stitch here, and it will feel a lot the same as working on your glove. Pete's scalp is a bit thinner, but skin is skin.”
I am never going to wear leather anything for the rest of my life.
“Okay, start with the end nearest you and take a bite with your needle about a millimeter back from the edge.”
I breathe in a big gulp, grit my teeth, and then stick the needle in Pete's head. He squeezes his praying hands together tighter but doesn't make a peep. “Excellent, now do the same on the opposite side…. Perfect, now draw them together…. Now the knot.” Grandpa walks me through each step.
“Hey! The edges on either side of the thread just joined up and stuck together! Wow, Grandpa, that was the weirdest thing!”
“That's the miracle of healing right there, Brother. We were meant to be whole and healthy.”
I snug the knot down tight and move to the next stitch. As I do, I see clear yellowish fluid seep into the margins of the cut and form the shiny shell of a new scar. Amazing.
I chew that idea about healing over good, because ten minutes ago I was trying to kill Pete, and now that he really, really needs me, I've never loved him so much.
I tie off the last knot and blow out a huge breath of relief.
“Beautiful!” Grandpa says, and his warm hand squeezes my shoulder. “Just a dab of this and you'll be done.” He hands me a tube of ointment.
“Is it over?” Frank says, still hiding his head.
“He was awesome,” Jim says, pulling Frank to his feet.
“Don't worry, we'll make a cowboy of you yet,” John says. “You don't even have to put the stitches that close together when it's a cow.”
The brothers gather around to inspect my work. I squat down and take a look at Pete. He looks a little gray and his hands are shaky, but he gives me a smile anyway
“Sleep,” Grandma announces briskly. “Growing boys need sleep.”
The brothers grumble a little just for effect, and Grandpa puts another log in the woodstove while we settle our blankets under the tree.
Hours later, when the brothers are long past snoring, I've got my head propped on Pete's belly and my feet up on Frank. I keep drifting in and out of sleep, watching the red glow of the fire wave like a flag on the living room wall. When I dream, there are rivers of blood and singing, and when I wake up again I can see how Pete's wound sealed up just like magic. But then I fall asleep and dream of fires and bells, and wake
up freezing. The fire is out, but the phone is ringing. Pete sits up and reaches for it on the coffee table.
“Dad?” Pete mumbles. “Dad! Hey, Merry Christmas!”
It's Dad. I'm warm clear to the ends of my fingers.
I start to nudge the brothers awake. Pete is saying, “Yeah, Dad, of course … all of us under the Christmas tree. We remembered…. Listen, Dad, I think you'd better speak to the man of the house.”
And Pete hands the phone straight to me.
FEBRUARY
It's the first Sunday of Lent, the first almost warm day of the year. The last patches of frozen ground have gone mushy and there are pale green buds on the cottonwood tree on the sunny side of the barn. Grandma lets me drive the truck the first mile to church, but once we are off our own land I get out and sit in the backseat with Ernesto.
“What do you think the new priest will be like?” I ask Grandma after we've switched places.
“Taller.”
Grandpa grunts out a laugh, his hands folded over his black leather journal.
“Thanks. Very helpful.”
Our last priest, Father Rosetti, was the size of a Hobbit and getting shorter, with the face of an evil dwarf—all north-and-south wrinkles and beady black eyes. If you met him on the street, you would immediately suspect him of poisoning Snow White. But he had a beautiful voice, with a lift at the end of his words like the Italians do. At least I guess they do. Father Rosetti is the only person I've ever met that actually came out of Italy
I remember him standing on a box to see over the lectern and preaching in his beautiful voice about how having faith is like falling in love. If he hadn't been 112 years old, I would have definitely asked him how he knew about love. Father Rosetti is retired now—or maybe he just got so small they can't find him anymore— so we've got a new priest, a circuit-riding Jesuit named Ziegler.
“He's from New York City,” Grandma says. “We'll have him for a year.”
It's hard to get a priest in a little country parish like ours because they don't want to live out here, so the bishop checks one out to us like a library book. The priest rides the circuit of three parishes, sixty miles apart. We've never had a priest stay with us more than two and a half years. What we need is a priest who grew up around here and wants to stay, somebody who understands how people who live off the land pray
Heart of a Shepherd Page 4