by Sarah Willis
“Nothing,” Brenda says.
Mr. Murphy tilts his head to the side, as if he’s trying to see around us, see if we’re hiding something behind our backs. He knows something’s up. He rubs at his lips. “Uh-huh. Better not be.”
“I’m meeting the vet here now,” Mr. Burns says. “Your dad here?” he asks me.
“He’s out of town,” I say.
“Oh, yeah,” Mr. Burns says. “The vet said he was gone. Gone a while, is he?”
I shrug. Who knows when he’s coming home. Who cares?
“Well. Let’s go look at the cow, shall we?” Mr. Burns says.
We all look at each other. I think Mr. Murphy catches our looks, but we are saved, momentarily, because the vet drives up.
The vet gets out of a mud-covered blue car, unfolding like a fan. He presses his hands to his lower back and bends backwards and forwards, letting loose a light groan. Then he stretches his hands up above his head and yawns. “Oh my,” he says. “That was a long drive. Hello, everybody.”
I’m completely speechless. He is as tall as my father and gorgeous. He’s probably almost thirty, with jet-black hair, a square jaw, white teeth, and dark smoldering eyes right out of the movies. He’s got on a white shirt and new blue jeans. “I’m Dr. Ostrum.” He reaches out to shake Mr. Murphy’s hand, since he is the nearest adult.
“I’m Mr. Murphy, sir. Just the neighbor. Mr. Burns owns this land.”
Mr. Burns introduces himself and his wife, and all the adults shake hands. Then Dr. Ostrum looks at us kids.
“And who is Tamara?” he asks.
“I am.”
He shakes my hand. “Glad to meet you. Sorry to scare you on the phone.”
“You didn’t scare me,” I say. “But you sure scared Helen.”
“Helen’s the girl who milked the cow most recently? I should talk to her.”
“She’s my daughter,” Mr. Murphy says, his tone both belligerent and apologetic. “She got that TB test yesterday. She goes back on Friday.”
“Good. Do you mind if I call and see how that turns out?”
“No. That’d be fine. I better be getting back.” Mr. Murphy looks over at his house as if it were calling him. “Good luck with the cattle, Sam. Good day, Emily. Why don’t you kids come with me, get out of the doctor’s way.”
“Oh, they’ll be no trouble,” Dr. Ostrum says. “If they want to watch, it’s fine with me.”
I’m torn between wanting to leave before they find Edith is gone and staying near Dr. Ostrum. But I don’t have to make the choice because Mr. Murphy does. “If they’re any trouble, send them home,” he says, then turns and walks back across the road. He must know this is the most interesting thing that’s happened since Timothy died.
“So, where’s the milk cow?” Dr. Ostrum asks, leaning in through the open window of his car to pull out a black doctor’s bag.
Mr. Burns looks at me, and I shrug.
“Must be up in the pasture,” he says. He walks over to the fence and opens the gate.
“Well, let’s go get her,” Dr. Ostrum says to me. Then he winks. He winks right at me. The wink almost makes me forget the hole in the fence.
With Mr. Burns in the lead, and Mrs. Burns at the tail end, we walk through the field, watching our steps. I’m embarrassed by the cow-manure piles, as if I had forgotten to pick up my dirty clothes. I want Dr. Ostrum to like this place because I do, and I know if I see him frown or shake his head in disgust, I will like this place a little less. Liking it is so new it’s a fragile feeling that could be ruined by the disdain of a handsome man who winked at me. I want to point out the patch of wild foxglove along the edge of poplars, or tell him about the pileated woodpecker. The woodpecker would be the best thing to mention I think, because he works with animals, but maybe they’re not as rare as my mother says they are. Maybe it would be like pointing out a crow to this man.
“So, Tamara,” he says, turning his head toward me and grinning with his shining white teeth, “you have an unusual name. How did you get to be named Tamara?”
“My great-grandmother’s name. I’m named after her.” I wish desperately I had an interesting story about my name, but for the life of me I can’t even think of one to invent.
“It must be tough, having your mom gone, huh?” He looks at me again, his eyes opening with the question, like he’s really expecting an answer from me.
“Yeah, I guess.” It’s only the stupidest answer I could have come up with and I want to take it back. I’m watching him and not looking where I’m going. I step right in the middle of a cow pie.
He has to see me turn bright red, but he acts like nothing happened. “Tell the truth, we haven’t seen people infected with bovine tuberculosis for a while,” he says. “Oh, there she is. What happened to the fence?”
We’re over the ridge. The stupid cow is standing this side of the hole in the fence, eating grass.
Mr. Burns stops, scratching his bald head. “What the heck happened to that fence? Looks like it’s been torn down.”
“I have a good idea,” Mrs. Burns says.
He looks at her. “Huh?”
She looks at us.
“Really?” he says, the wrinkles on his forehead getting deeper, just like my dad’s when he gets mad. “You kids did that?”
Rusty nods, and says, “Yes, sir.” The rest of us just look down at the ground.
“You’re damn lucky that cow’s too stupid to run off,” Mr. Burns says, shaking his head. “Rusty and Robert, you two are gonna help me fix that fence as soon as the doctor’s gone. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir,” they both say.
Mr. Burns turns away, dismissing us. “Now listen here, Doctor, I don’t think that cow is sick. I said it before and I’ll say it again, Mrs. Burns and I never got sick from that cow. I think this is all a big mistake.”
“Maybe so, Mr. Burns. But it’s my job to check things out. A man has to do his job.”
“Well, sure. But I’m betting she’s fine.”
“I’m hoping you’re right,” the vet says. “Now maybe we should lead her down to the barn so we can contain her while I give her the test.”
“All right. You kids stay back here now.” Mr. Burns has brought a rope along. He and the vet walk over to Edith.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Mr. Burns says. “Come here, sweetie.” She doesn’t run away, and Mr. Burns slips the rope around her neck. Then she gets scared and tries to pull away, but the rope is tight. Mr. Burns talks to Edith, rubbing her neck. She calms down and follows him reluctantly back to the barn.
“Stupid cow,” Brenda says. I can tell she wishes the cow were gone, not because Edith wouldn’t have to get the test but because it would have been much more fun, real entertainment. She probably doesn’t even care she’d be grounded or worse.
Megan takes my hand as we walk down the hill.
Back at the barn Mr. Burns ties the rope to the barn post. Dr. Ostrum puts his bag down on a hay bale and opens it up. He pulls out something that kind of looks like a fat syringe.
“Now, this is called an intradermal test,” he explains, in a tone that reminds me of my mother. She would have loved this, this kind of hands-on experience. “The fold of skin under the tail is where I’m first going to inject her. Then I’m going to give her another injection into the lip of the vulva.”
I bet I’m the only one in the room who knows what vulva means. I try not to blush, but my face gets hot. “The trick is not getting kicked in the process,” the vet says with a wink. “Want to help me out here, Mr. Burns?”
“Sure thing.”
Dr. Ostrum tells Mr. Burns where to stand and how to hold a leg in place, then bends over and lifts the cow’s tail. Mrs. Burns has her hands on Edith’s head and says shhh, shhh, shhh as if calming a baby. We kids are all crowded around the vet, trying to see what he’s doing.
“I need some light here, guys, you got to move back please.” We do. He messes around down there in the private parts of the cow
, who is not happy about it at all, bending and turning her head and mooing low guttural sounds. Then he’s done and stands up. He goes over to his black bag and puts the syringe thing away.
“I’m going to give her a checkup too. Just give her a little looking over.” He comes back and asks Mr. Burns to hold the cow’s neck for him, then the vet opens Edith’s mouth and shines in a flashlight. “Say ahhh.” The cow moos and everyone starts laughing. A sparrow flutters around in the top of the barn, upset with all the commotion, then flies out the open door.
The vet rubs the cow all over, feeling for something. Then he checks her ears, which really makes her tail swish. Finally he listens to her lungs with a stethoscope. “Seems fine to me,” he says. “I’ll test the remaining cattle after I see how this turns out. I’ll be back in three days to check on the injection sites. I’ll be able to tell you more then. Can you meet me here, say ten?” He’s talking to Mr. Burns, who agrees, mentioning once again he bets the cow is just fine and this is a waste of time.
The vet shakes Mr. Burns’ hand and nods to Mrs. Burns. “Thanks for your help, kids,” he says to us. I watch him from the barn door as he bends down and gets into his car. I wave good-bye, but he’s already backing out. Just by being here, Dr. Ostrum made me feel more exciting, and now I’m not.
Fourteen
Thursday morning my father calls again with another excuse. Megan and Robert and I don’t even blink when Mr. Murphy gives us the news, but I suppose our disappointment shows because Mr. Murphy asks us if we are all right. Mrs. Murphy doesn’t say a thing, but she opens the refrigerator and shakes her head. From out of her big square uniform pocket she takes a sheet of paper and writes down a few words. I think about the loose change in my father’s drawer. It’s probably not more than a few dollars, but I’ll bring it over and leave it on her kitchen counter. I’ll ask Robert if he has any money. He eats the most.
When Mrs. Murphy leaves for work, Helen goes into town with her so she can spend the whole day praying at church again. It’s humid and the air is so thick it sticks to our skins like cotton candy. I don’t dare suggest we go to the pond. We sit around the Murphys’ reading comics and listening to the radio. I fall asleep in a chair and wake up with my neck bent permanently to the right. Since Helen isn’t here, Brenda has to cook dinner. I show her how to make the green bean casserole, and we also make a meat loaf. Brenda pats the meat loaf into a huge cone with a point on top. She says it’s my boob. She says Rusty doesn’t like meat loaf, but she bets he’ll eat plenty this time. I flatten it with a quick smack and tell her now it’s her chest. She tells me to fuck off and walks out of the kitchen. I form the meat loaf into a perfect oblong shape and draw lines across it with ketchup. Brenda won’t speak to me all night. It’s so quiet, I can hear my brother swallow.
Friday my father doesn’t even call. Mrs. Murphy decides Rusty and Brenda should get tuberculosis tests when she takes Helen in to have her test read today. Helen stares at her arm all through breakfast. Doesn’t she realize if God is going to save anyone, it’ll be her? How much holier do you have to be?
It’s a gray day, like there’s a lid on the sky, a solid sheet of unpolished tin. Robert, Megan, and I go over to our house and I bring my record player downstairs. We listen to music and read comics we’ve already read a dozen times.
Around one o’clock, Mr. Murphy decides to check in on us. He knocks tentatively on the door and asks if he can come in. I can see him take a deep breath before entering, and then hold it as long as he can, which is pretty long. He’s got a cup of coffee in one hand. His other hand is shoved in his pocket.
“Mind if I sit down?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say, surprised and wary.
He sits in the floral chair, directly facing the nude painting of my mother. He can’t help seeing it. I can tell exactly when he realizes it’s my mother. He flushes just like Rusty, and shifts his position so he’s not facing the picture, even though that means he’s at a funny angle in the big stuffed chair, half in, half out, with his bad leg sticking straight out. Robert and Megan are both on the couch with comics in their laps, not reading because they are now too nervous. I sit in one of the high-backed wooden dining room chairs, which stays in the living room by the staircase.
“Just felt an adult should be here,” Mr. Murphy says, obviously as uncomfortable as we are. “I told your dad I was watching over you, so …” His cheek twitches and he looks around the room. I think he’s trying to see if there are any more strange things he might not want to look at.
“So, you travel a lot, huh?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “We do.”
He asks where we’ve lived. I recite the list.
“Boy,” he says. “I’ve seen so little of this country. You’re very lucky. Where’s your favorite place?”
“Diamond, Georgia,” Robert says. “We lived there last year and I had a friend named Benny who had a BB gun. He let me use it.”
“Mom said you couldn’t,” Megan says.
“I did, though. A lot of times,” Robert says.
“You like guns?” Mr. Murphy asks Robert.
Robert nods, looking quite serious, as if he’s been around a whole lot of guns. “Sure do,” he says.
“I have a few,” Mr. Murphy says. “I hunt deer in the fall. We eat venison all winter. I’ll show you how to hunt, if your dad says you can. Rusty’s got a rifle might suit you.”
Robert stares at Mr. Murphy like the man just blew up. His jaw drops open. He can’t even talk. Robert looks so goofy Mr. Murphy starts to laugh. “Oh boy, look at you, you look like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Well, at least I know you can hold still and be quiet.” He laughs some more.
“You shouldn’t kill deer,” Megan says.
“I know how you feel, child. Helen used to say the same thing. But it’s God’s way. We do what we need to survive, and He has provided much bounty for us in these woods. You eat chicken, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” Megan says. She makes it sound like she’s forced to eat chicken.
“Well, you should see those creatures run about with their heads cut off when they get killed. It’d put you off chicken I bet. But we got to eat, so we have strength to do the Lord’s work, and bring people into the arms of Jesus. So, you want to learn to hunt, Robert?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll ask your dad.”
Robert, Megan, and I are all quiet for a minute, trying to figure out what our father would say. He believes in the survival of the fittest, so I guess he’d agree, although I think he hates guns, so I wouldn’t want to make a bet on it. I would bet, though, that Robert’s got his fingers crossed so tight they hurt. You can see it in his eyes. All of a sudden he thinks Mr. Murphy is the greatest person in the world.
“Did you ever kill anyone in the war?” Robert asks, leaning forward on the couch, his comic falling to the floor. “Rusty told me you were in the war.”
“No, I didn’t kill anyone. But I tried, and I’ll tell you, sometimes that bothers me. That I was trying to kill somebody I didn’t know from Adam. We did the right thing, going over there, I know that, but me killing someone would have been a terrible burden. I got shot though.”
“Where?” Megan and Robert ask.
Mr. Murphy puts his hands together like he’s going to pray, then snaps his wrists so his fingers weave together, and all his knuckles pop. “I can’t really show you. It’s my left knee, got shattered to pieces. I’d have to take my pants off to show you. I think we’ve had enough people taking off their clothes for a while.” He says this dead serious and we tense, ready for a stern lecture, but instead he bursts out in laughter. Megan and I share a look of total shock.
“Now, mind you, it was wrong what you did, and you should never do it again. I shouldn’t be laughing.” His eyes flicker to the picture of my mother. “Let’s change the subject. What was your favorite place to live, Megan?”
“I liked Diamond best too,” she says. “I liked t
he way people talked. And the trees had flowers.”
“Sounds pretty. I’d like to see that someday. Mrs. Murphy and I are trying to save up for one of those trailers you can drive around in. Someday we’ll drive all over the country, just like you.” He relaxes against the back of the chair with a sigh, but he very carefully keeps his eyes lower than the picture. “And you, Tamara, what place did you like best?”
I’m thinking about Megan’s and Robert’s answer. I think they picked the last place we lived because it’s the easiest to remember. But I never look back. “Here,” I say.
“That’s my girl.” He grins at me, a warm and happy grin, like he’s so proud of me, like he really likes me. I can’t help smiling back.
The phone rings. I don’t want to answer it, because I know it’s my dad and I’m never going to talk to him again. He’s mean and selfish and I hate him. He can stay in New York City forever. We’ll live off venison, pickles, and canned tomatoes. It rings again. Robert doesn’t seem to be able to move. His eyes are still glassy with the picture of him holding a gun. It rings again. Megan gets it.
“Hello. Oh hi, Daddy. Yeah, it’s me. Yeah, I’m okay. I don’t know, I just did. Yeah, I love you too. Uh-huh. We’re talking to Mr. Murphy. Oh, okay. Just a minute.” She holds out the phone to Mr. Murphy. “He wants to talk to you.”
Mr. Murphy pushes himself up out of the chair and takes the phone, clearing his throat before he speaks. “Hello,” he says. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No. No. You don’t owe us nothing. It’s been no problem at all. Oh, really? Well, that’s nice. Sure, I’ll get her.”
“He wants to talk to you.” He holds out the phone to me.
I shake my head no.
“Come on now. He has something to tell you.”
I don’t want to hear anything he has to say, but I take the phone anyway. “Yeah?”
“I’ll be there at eleven-thirty tomorrow morning and I want you to have everyone ready. We’re going to visit your mom.”
I close my eyes against the sudden hot feeling inside them.
“Will you be ready, Tamara?” my father asks.