Shelby Haskle is second in command on account of her formidable artillery skills. She is an evil genius in devising tank traps and roping adversaries. She's the other half of the Haskle family's junior calf-roping team. Chuck Haskle, her roping partner, is probably a double agent. We send him over to the girls’ lunch table to collect intelligence, but he actually enjoys chatting.
Then there is the secret fifth-grade weapon, Rosita Ugarte. She is so little, she is practically invisible, which makes her the perfect spy. There she sits, in the corner, quiet as church, but if you're not careful she'll drop off radar completely, and before you know it your coat sleeves are stapled together. She looks completely innocent, with brown eyes and one long black braid, just like all the other Basque women in her family. She wears a red ribbon at the end of her braid, always red except once in a while it's a white ribbon, obviously a secret signal to attack. When Rosita wears a white ribbon, the boys shift to DEFCON 1 immediately
You would think, being outnumbered and all, the girls would lose every battle, especially since girls just don't have the attention span for warfare. They keep veering off into piracy or unicorns and griffins, or they all go and morph into princesses, completely against the uniform code. Still, they're much more treacherous than they look, and they can run like wild horses, so according to my count, our battles are dead even, with only a month of school left to break the tie.
Ammunition is always an issue. There are a couple of scrubby pines along the schoolyard fence that drop cones in the fall. With careful hoarding, we can make them last until there are snowballs to throw. Spring is the real problem. We have to wait until April—May sometimes—for the camellias to fall off the bush. On the sheltered side of the school, near where the hose leaks, there is a giant camellia. It's thirty feet tall, with round red flowers every spring. It's kind of dippy to fight with flowers, and sometimes the girls get completely the wrong idea about flower petals and weddings. But I like the way the schoolyard looks like a blood-spattered battlefield after it's covered with red flowers.
Paco and I are the first out the door for morning recess. The little boys come screaming out right after us and take up a defensible position on the jungle gym. The little girls commandeer the swing set.
“Come on, Brother, the armory!” Paco calls over his shoulder. We make it to the camellia bush first and stuff flowers into our sweatshirt hoods, which make the perfect quivers. I see Paco sneaking some flowers that aren't dead yet.
“Just the ones on the ground,” I warn him, “or the brass will have our butts in the stockade.”
We've almost got them all when Amazon Shannon stomps her foot down in front of the last dozen dropped flowers.
“Don't even think about it!” she snaps. We beat it right away, because that girl can kick like a mule.
We have plenty of firepower, so we retreat to the backstop to plan our strategy. The older boys are heavy artillery all the way. They have been working out some kind of catapult for tumbleweeds for weeks. Paco and me, we love to run, so we cover the light infantry. We're in position for our first charge when that rebel Rosita whips behind me at top speed and snatches a fistful of flowers out of my hood. She must have used some stealth technology. She's pretty much a one-woman aviation brigade.
“Oh man!” Paco groans.
Rosita just turns around and sticks her tongue out at me, and the little girls cheer. She runs back to girl headquarters, where they are maintaining the cover of an innocent game of four square. It would definitely be standard operating procedure to eliminate enemy air cover right off, but Rosie is Paco's little sister, so I hate to press that point.
We get in three good charges and nail Anita for sure, but she doesn't die. She always refuses to die, which is just more proof in my book that she's secretly radioactive. And then Shannon and Shelby corner Paco and pelt him to death with flowers.
I love it when Paco dies. He's read a ton of good books, so he knows just how to pull it off. Today, he spins around four times and moans, makes a few dizzy staggers, and then collapses in a twitching heap. At last his body goes all quiet and he gets ready to make his death speech. It's always a great speech about some secret conspiracy or hidden explosives. This time it's the location of the treasure, and he dies completely just a second before he can say the one thing that will solve the mystery of where to find the Blood Diamonds.
It's beautiful. I feel noble just kneeling beside him, holding his sleeve. The flower petals that killed him are splashed on the dirt under his head like a halo in the holy pictures.
I should do something for him. There's a hush over the schoolyard, because even the little kids like to watch Paco die. I can hear the flag flap against the pole. Perfect.
I lower the flag and unclip it. I carry it, very formal, over my arm, the way I carry the altar cloth when I serve at Mass. I drape it over Paco's body. The little kids are stone-still, their mouths hanging open with reverence, except for Rosita. She's got a little wobble in her chin. After my speech, I'll fold the flag in a triangle and give it to her. It's only proper for the surviving sister to get it. I'm about to say my piece when Rosita rockets behind me and sweep-kicks me behind the knees. I fall like a tree.
“He's my brother. You can't have him!”
She snatches the flag off his body like it's laundry and stomps over to the flagpole. Her shoulders are shaking with rage, and she runs that flag all the way to the top.
A truck pulls up alongside the schoolyard fence. Three men get out. They are wearing clean boots, white shirts, and black hats: Paco and Rosita's uncles. The second I see them, all the breath squeezes out of my chest. They would never leave the ranch together in the middle of the working day, not in their Sunday clothes. I look down at Paco and hold out my hand.
He grabs hold to stand up, and for a minute I want to take him and run away and live off the land like bandits so he won't ever have to face that bad-news row of uncles.
But then Rosita sees them, and what can I do? I can't let her hear what happened alone. My mouth is suddenly too dry to say anything. I nod my head in the direction of the fence. Paco turns and looks. He goes straight to the flagpole, where Rosita stands wide-eyed and frozen. The little kids keep on swinging and running, but the big kids get what's going on. They stop and stare. Pretty soon the whole playground gets spooky-quiet.
Paco and Rosita head over to the gate, and I follow some respectful paces behind. When they get there, I see Paco make himself stand like a soldier, and I lift up my head and put my shoulders back, but I still feel just as hollow and shaky inside.
The oldest uncle takes Rosita's two hands in his and kneels in front of her.
“They're alive, mi niña. They are both alive and coming home.”
Rosita starts to cry because there is only one reason to send a soldier home early. Her uncle holds her and rocks her while she cries, and the other two turn to Paco.
“They're hurt, but they're going to live. The army will fly them to a hospital in Germany in the morning.”
“We spoke to Colonel Alderman just now. He promises they will recover.”
I hear Paco pulling in big gulps of air and trying not to cry. My whole body feels hot with shame because my dad's okay and his isn't. I want to hug him, but his tíos are already there, with their broad arms over his shoulders. They make a circle of grief that closes me out.
A second car pulls up, with all the aunts inside. Paco's abuela gets out and goes to the schoolhouse steps to talk to our teacher. The oldest uncle says, “Come with us now. We'll go to church tonight at the cathedral in Boise, and then in the morning Abuela will go to be with them at the hospital in Frankfurt.”
Rosita just looks at the ground, and Paco nudges her toward the cars. I should say something. I take a step closer.
“Mr. Ugarte, may I come help with the stock at your place?”
They all turn and look at me.
“Grandpa and I could drive over after school and make sure everything is squared away f
or the night.”
“Gracias,” the oldest uncle says without smiling. “Our doors are open. You will see what to do.”
“I'll take care of everything.”
They get in their cars and drive off. Already I feel that promise on my shoulders, and I'm calculating how to get my chores done faster to have enough time. Grandpa will come help because it's in his code of how to treat people, and Ernesto never complains about extra work. Still, I'm the one who promised.
I think about my dad loading the Ugartes on a plane for Germany, and promising to call their brothers, and promising he would check up on them to make sure they get treated right.
I could never do it. I couldn't make all those promises. I could never take those salutes and the “yes, sirs” and then take moms and dads into danger. God knows what I'm supposed to be—not a soldier.
MAY
“Bueno, Ignacio. Can you feel the calf?” Ernesto says. He is standing with me in the birthing stall, holding the cow's head so she won't back up and step on me. I've helped with calving since I was eight, but Dad never let me pull a calf before, and now I know why. Last year my arm was too short.
“Lean into it, Brother,” Grandpa says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and shows me how to turn a little sideways and get a few inches further into the birth canal so I can reach the baby calf. Grandpa pulled the last two calves, and now he's leaning on the bars of the stall to rest. The cow bawls pitifully. She's a first-calf heifer, and she doesn't know what she's doing. Ernesto brought her inside when her labor went on too long.
“Don't worry, she's just scared. You aren't hurting her,” Grandpa says.
I grunt and nod, standing in the wet, sticky straw. Grandma's in the stall next to us, making sure the calves we just pulled can stand and drink. There are five more calves with the mothers who didn't need any help at the far end of the barn. The sour, salty smell of blood and goo makes me gag a little, so I breathe through my mouth.
“Muy bien. Find the feet—two feet—and pull,” Ernesto says.
I grope around, twisting my wrist from side to side. At first all I feel is wet fur, and then something roundish and bumpy—a nose, maybe. I work my way down. At last! A leg! It's broomstick-skinny I fish around for the other one and squeeze them tight in my fist.
“I found them!”
“Bravo. Now pull, Ignacio.”
“Nice and steady, Brother; the hardest part is done.” Grandpa holds the tail to one side so I don't get smacked in the head with it.
I take a deep breath and pull as steady as I can. I feel the calf's legs and head ease out of the womb and into the birth canal.
“Here she comes,” I grunt, leaning back.
I brace myself for another tug, but something sucks the calf backward and pulls me in with it.
“No! Wait! Hey, she's going backwards.”
“Sí,” Ernesto says. “It is like the waves of the ocean. Pull with the wave, not against.”
This doesn't seem like a good time to point out that I've never been to the beach in my whole life.
“He's right, Brother, don't fight the contraction. Pull when you feel the squeeze and hold when it lets up. Do you feel it?”
I've been trying not to think about my arm getting squeezed every other minute, because, honestly, it's a really gross feeling.
“Sí, like the ocean.” Ernesto presses my free hand on the heifer's belly so I can feel the wave from the inside and the outside. “Pull. Wait. Pull. Wait.”
“Great. Thanks.” I push that queasy feeling out of my mind and think about what I guess the ocean is like. I brace my free arm on the heifer's hipbone and pull and wait and pull.
“It feels … like my arm … is going to fall off.”
Ernesto smiles. “No, you are gaining. ¡Fantástico!”
I lean back and pull some more. Every inch of me that isn't inside the heifer is drenched with sweat. My hand gets a cramp, and my grip slips down to the hooves. Every muscle in my arm and back and shoulders feels like it's going to snap.
“How does Dad … manage to pull … a dozen calves a day?”
“He has you to help,” Grandpa says, “and Grandma and your brothers. Nobody is strong enough to do this alone.”
“I don't think … I'm strong enough … to do this even once.” But just as I say it, the calf finally slips all the way out of the womb and into the birth canal, and suddenly I'm only in up to my elbow.
“Muy bien, almost there.” Ernesto gives the cow a pat on the shoulder. “Tranquila, mi vaca. No temas.”
“Hey! It isn't so hard now. Here it comes!” I tug the last few inches and two little hooves poke out. Another tug and I see a nose. Suddenly the heifer figures out what she should do, and the calf squirts out so fast I fall over backward and thump! eighty pounds of wet, bloody calf lands on my chest.
“Well, look at you,” Grandma says, glancing over the top of the stall next door.
I'd rather not. I'm sure I've never looked more revolting.
“We'll make a rancher out of this boy yet,” she says.
Grandpa reaches out a hand to help me stand up. “This boy might have his own road to follow.”
“Do you think?” Grandma says, looking me over more carefully.
“Time will show,” Grandpa says.
Grandma reaches out and messes up my hair. “Don't you let that road take you too far from us.”
Even though every muscle in my body aches, I can't stop smiling. Dad will be so proud of me when I tell him. The calf shivers and blinks open her eyes. I rub the goo off her face. The heifer turns around and starts licking her calf clean with earnest concentration. I hold the calf just long enough to know she's breathing steadily and then slide her onto the cleanest patch of straw I can find in the pen. Ernesto tosses me a rag to wipe off the slime. The blood doesn't seem nearly so gross to me, now that I'm really helping with the birth. It just feels like a natural part of the work, as clean and honest as dirt on the ground or sweat on a horse.
I kneel beside my calf and stroke her fur. She's going to be a beautiful rusty red when she dries off, just like her mom. She has huge brown eyes and the saddest little face. I hold out my hand to her, and she immediately tries to suck on my fingers.
“She's a fine strong one,” Grandma says, and then she turns to Grandpa. “Look at that boy shaking. When is the last time we fed this child?”
I shrug and try to hold my arms still. “I dunno. Lunch?”
“For heaven's sake, that was seven hours ago. There's a pot of stew on the stove. You eat; we'll finish up here and catch up with you.”
I nod and slide open the barn door. The long evening shadow of the cottonwood tree reaches all the way from the barn to the front steps. I stop by the hose at the side of the house to wash the rest of the goop off my hands and arms. I kick off my boots, slide out of my work clothes, and run into the house in my shorts.
All the lights are out, and the house is weirdly quiet. I triple-wash my hands in the sink, click on the evening news, and dish up a big bowl of stew. I take it to the sofa in the living room.
There's a roadside bomb on the news. Again. It seems like there's one every night. The TV flashes pictures of burning trucks and gaping holes in the pavement and people wandering around, dazed and weary. Every time I see it I want to turn it off, but I stay and search the edges of the picture for Dad. But he's never there, and they never say the names of the dead.
I used to like the news when Dad was home. We would put it on every evening after chores, and Dad and I would find the news stories in the atlas. If the big brothers were home, they would make pretend bets on the sports, and everyone watched the weather.
Grandpa has kept track of the local weather every day for the last forty-eight years. He keeps a log in his journal of the daily temperature at six o'clock in the morning, noon, and nine o'clock at night, along with the barometer reading, wind direction, and rainfall. Sometimes I watch him copy it out in tidy block print in the plain black journal
he writes in every evening after supper. He always looks up from his writing for the weather, checking the local report for accuracy and keeping an eye on communities in Montana, Nebraska, and Washington where he has friends.
Sometimes I see him sigh and shake his head at the weathermen, especially the young ones. “They don't account for the shape of the land,” he would grumble. If it looked like anyone was paying attention, he'd launch into his personal philosophy of the weather.
“The land makes weather as much as the sky,” he would say, demonstrating the contours of a landscape with his hand. “The shape of the hills and the amount of water in the ground.” And then he'd lean back in the La-Z-Boy and say, “Land shapes a man's heart, too, and his aspirations. A man near the mountains learns to look up, and it calls his mind to God.” And then he'd do that Quaker thing where he sits quietly and says nothing, and the rest of us go back to playing chess or poker, and a dozen hands later he would say something like, “God's in the valleys, too, in the coolness of the water and the softness of the ground. That's the tender side of the Almighty.”
I love it when he talks like that, because then, when I go wading in the creek, I think of the Holy Spirit squooshing up between my toes.
Now I turn off the news and get the atlas from the bookshelf in Dad's room. I sit on the edge of his bed and flip it open to the Middle East. Nothing but flat land in the entire nation of Iraq. Well, okay, maybe a few hills around the edge. For real mountains you have to go east to Iran or north to Turkey. What's Dad going to look at on all that level ground? It's not even nice tidy deserts like in Saudi Arabia. Iraq's got swamps, and every picture I ever see on the news just looks dirty and depressing. What's going to lift him up over there?
Cities are even worse. Dad can barely stand Boise. I don't know how he's coping with Baghdad. Whenever we have to go to town for something, Dad maps out the route and timetable like it's a mission. He gets us in and out of there in two hours tops.
Heart of a Shepherd Page 6