[Iris and Lily 01.0 - 03.0] The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  The thing about Uncle B. was that he could bombard you with his spit bombs and you had to sit there and take it, just like you had to sit on his lap if he asked you to, even though he made you stay there much longer than you could stand it. In fact, he seemed to like it if you wriggled around, laughing as you tried to work yourself free. Sometimes, getting The Look just wasn’t enough to make you stay.

  The last time Uncle B. had visited, Lily offered her obligatory greeting kiss to him quickly, hoping to escape before he finished swigging on his can of beer.

  “Hey - c’mere!” he caught Lily by the hand as she turned to walk away. “You call that a greeting?” With Lily’s face squished between his hands he planted a wet sloppy kiss smack dab on her mouth. Lily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Uncle B. just laughed, pulled her onto his lap, and jostled her around on his knee.

  Lily continued reading. “‘There is so much for the girls to do out there’,” said Nancy. “‘And now that I have the little ones and all, they would be a great help, too. In fact, the Orleans County Fair is just around the corner - if we brought them back with us tonight, they would have enough time to train a show cow.’

  “The next thing I knew, me and Iris were each packing our clothes and a toothbrush into a Star Market bag. ‘Be good,’ said my mother. And then we were in Nancy and Bill’s truck, headed for the country.”

  Lily tried to infuse her voice with a sense of enthusiasm hoping to make it sound as if going to the farm was the best vacation ever, filled with adventure, and as if she and Iris were dying to go. As if they had a choice. After all, no one wants to hear an essay about being forced to spend the summer on a stinky messy farm.

  Their first morning at the farm, they were awakened by Nancy shouting from the bottom of the stairs. “Rise and shine! Those eggs aren’t going to collect themselves!”

  Lily and Iris dutifully got up, and together they made the bed, stuffed their pajamas under their pillows, and got dressed. There was no breeze coming in through the window, just the stifling promise of another scorching summer day on the farm. The daily chores took the girls out to open fields of hay, where the sun bore down with unrelenting insistence. Lily felt choked by the afternoon as she rode on the back of the baler, stacking up bales of hay and dreaming about getting back to the house where there were shade trees and frosty aluminum pitchers of sweet iced tea in the refrigerator.

  The stairs creaked and moaned the way farmhouse stairs do, and when Lily and Iris arrived in the kitchen, they were greeted by cousin Nancy holding out two banged up aluminum buckets. Farmers seemed to have a thing for aluminum.

  “Watch out where you step,” warned Nancy. “And you may have to nudge a hen with your foot to get her to move. You won’t want to be reaching under her with your hand while she’s sittin’ on an egg. Then just put the eggs in the bucket and bring them here when you’re done. Your shoes are out on the back porch.”

  When Lily stepped out onto the porch, a fleet of fleas immediately attached themselves to her bare legs and started gnawing on her exposed suburban skin.

  “Grab your sneaks!” shouted Iris, frantically slapping at the fleas that had jumped onto her. “We can put them on outside.”

  The yard was constantly patrolled by a troop of dogs, but the dogs that hung around Bill Jablinski’s farm were not like Jasmine’s gray French poodle, Princess. Nancy called them “working dogs.” They were not pets; they were there to do a job. The animals weren’t allowed in the house – they stayed outside all day, had their meals outside, pooped and peed wherever they wanted, and then settled onto the back porch to sleep at night, making their hearty deposit of fleas into the musty straw floor mats and ragged curtains.

  Misty was a pointer, bred for hunting. Sometimes, for no reason at all, she would freeze in a pose, just like the dummies that Lily saw at Sibley’s downtown once, when she was allowed to accompany Auntie Rosa and Iris on one of their shopping trips. It was Misty’s job to guard the hen house to keep the foxes and raccoons out. The problem was that Misty couldn’t really tell the difference between hungry intruders and young girls who were sent out to collect eggs. As Iris and Lily approached the hen house, Misty positioned herself in front of the entrance, bared her teeth, and growled. The girls took a step forward and Misty barked ferociously.

  “What do we do?” asked Lily.

  “How am I s’posed to know?” said Iris. “Get away!” she called to the dog. Lily had never heard Iris scream that loud before, but the volume of her voice remained slight and fragile, barely perceptible over Misty’s warnings. Misty snarled again and took a small but emphatic leap forward, kicking up the dirt into an ominous cloud around her.

  Lily set her bucket down and picked up two rocks from the ground. She pitched one, shouting, “Let us by, you stupid dog!”

  “Hey, Ernie!” shouted Bill, snatching the remaining rock out of Lily’s hand. Bill was a huge man with strawberry blond hair and pink cheeks - like a giant Campbell’s soup boy in suspenders and blue jeans. He had dubbed Iris and Lily “Bert and Ernie”, after the Muppet characters from Sesame Street. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

  “That dog is mean!” said Lily. “Nancy told us to come out and get the eggs and she won’t let us by.”

  “She’s just doin’ her job, same as you’re doin’ yours,” said Bill. “Misty! Git!”

  Misty immediately backed up, tucking her tail between her legs, which made Lily want to go and give her a hug and apologize for throwing the rock. The dog watched cautiously as the girls walked past her into the hen house.

  As it turned out, collecting eggs wasn’t that much different than picking up apples, except the hen house smelled about a jillion times worse. Bill and Nancy’s farm was marked by odors that you couldn’t wash off – not even after a bubble bath. They got into your skin and they coated the hairs on the inside of your nostrils: cow urine that splashed you as it hit the concrete floor of the milking house with the force of water from a fire hose, manure that was gathered up as though it were gold and then loaded into a truck, hen feed and the resulting poop that seemed to follow you no matter where you went, and of course, hay dust.

  Lily couldn’t wait to get to the part of her essay that she was sure would impress her classmates the most: playing in the hay loft. Every day – once all the chores were done and before the afternoon milking - Lily and Iris would go up into the hay loft to swing on the ropes. The ceiling in the loft was higher even than the ceiling at church, and it felt more like God was there, too - lolling about in the sunshine, hanging around with the countless swallows and tabby kittens who called this place home. The sun poured in through the single window at the top and millions of tiny bits of hay dust danced in the golden light.

  You could stand in the middle of the barn and look straight up and out through a door in the roof. Bales of hay were stacked into graduated towers on both sides, forming steps that could be climbed to the top. A thick burly rope hung down from the center rafter, and was anchored off to the side about halfway up the tower. It took both girls to hold the rope as they climbed all the way up, where they would take turns jumping off of the tower on one side and swinging across the loft to the tower on the opposite side. It didn’t even matter if you fell – that was actually the most fun part – because you would just land in the thick pile of loose hay that padded the floor.

  The worst injury you could sustain swinging in the loft was a rope burn on your thighs, which didn’t hurt that much worse than the Indian sunburns John and Alexander gave them, for no reason at all. For this particular torture, the boys would place their hands next to each other on your forearm, palms flat against your skin. Before you even had a chance to cry for help, they would turn the grip of one hand in one direction, while turning the other one in the opposite direction. The result was to twist your skin, causing a tremendous pain akin to a severe sunburn. It only took a second or two for them to give you an Indian sunburn, so by the time you knew what w
as happening, they were already gone; it was a crime that was nearly impossible to get caught at. The Indian sunburn wasn’t even the worst of the big brother tortures. There was Dodge Lego, where they stood you against the wall and pitched tiny plastic blocks at you, and there was also the famed game dubbed, “Prison Camp” that the children would be required to play whenever Alexander and John were babysitting. But there were no brothers on the farm to torment you, and by comparison a little rope burn was a small price to pay for the thrill of soaring through the air in the hay-filled sunshine.

  After supper each evening, the girls went out to work with the cows that had been selected for showing at the Orleans County fair. Since all cows looked pretty much the same, and since everyone at the fair was a farmer with cows of their own, Lily couldn’t quite figure out what the point was. But Bill and Nancy seemed really excited to teach them how to lead the cows around in a circle with a rope - and no one asked them if they wanted to anyway - so the girls obliged.

  Even though Iris said she hated cows - just like Lily - she still practiced and smiled, and of course the judges gave her a blue ribbon. Lily tried to care - she even pretended that her cow Masie was actually a beautiful white horse with wings, like the kind she imagined they had in Heaven. After all, who wouldn’t love to show off such a magnificent creature - one who may have been ridden by angels, or even by Jesus Himself? But no matter what, every time she looked behind her, all Lily could see was fat ugly Masie, and all she got was a white ribbon, which they gave to everyone who showed up with a cow in tow. Lily tossed the ribbon into her brown paper bag of clothes and threw it into her underwear drawer when they got back to Chestnut Crest.

  Lily told her classmates all about the way countless kittens show up at milking time, about how baby bulls are kept in a separate pen and fed through a bucket with a huge nipple on it. For one week, it was Lily’s job to feed a bull calf each afternoon. Even though the udders of all the cows in the barn were bursting and dripping with fresh warm milk, the little bull was not allowed near any of them. He was kept in a dedicated stall, in a separate room all by himself. Lily was glad to take care of him and be his friend. Bill showed Lily how to measure out the formula powder, how much water to add, and how to mix it all up real good.

  Carrying the bucket of formula to the calf’s pen was the most difficult task Lily had that summer. The weight of the filled bucket wrenched Lily’s shoulder and elbow, the thin aluminum handle cutting into the flesh of her fingers and palm. During the short trip from the sink to the pen, she would need to stop several times to change hands and rest. But it was worth it, because Lily was taking care of the baby bull and he was depending on her for his dinner.

  Although cows were sweet and kind, they weren’t the most attractive animals in the world. They always had thick streams of mucus which would hang from their mouths, and swing back and forth with each languid chomp. They always peed or pooped right where they stood - they didn’t even stop eating - and their backsides were constantly encrusted with manure. But Lily decided that there were fewer things in this world cuter than her baby bull. She named him Toro, and when she came by each day he would stick his head out from between the slats of his pen. Lily loved to stroke and kiss his smooth soft snout.

  Lily hoisted the bucket up with both hands, bringing the long rubber nipple up to Toro’s hungry mouth. Wriggling his fleshy lips, he found and grabbed hold of it, sucking and chewing on it voraciously. As the calf drank, the bucket became lighter, and Lily was able to free one of her hands to pet his head.

  “You’re such a sweet baby, Toro” Lily cooed. Toro stopped suckling and looked up at Lily with his big brown eyes. He shook his head and snorted, sending splatters of formula all over the front of Lily’s shirt and shorts. She laughed so hard that she had to set the bucket down, as she lowered herself to the concrete floor, face to face with her charge. Leaning forward, Lily nuzzled Toro’s nose with her own and said. “I love you, little Toro.”

  “Now don’t be gettin’ all attached to that bull calf there, Ernie,” said Bill, wiping his hands with a red handkerchief. “You shouldn’t be givin’ him names and kissin’ on him and what not.”

  “But he’s my friend,” said Lily.

  “No,” said Bill. “He’s not your friend. And in about another two weeks, he’s going to make some folks a fine dinner. So don’t go gettin’ too attached.”

  “What do you mean?” Lily rose to her feet.

  “Now Ernie, you know this is a farm. We’re in the business of raisin’ animals, and sellin’ animals and the things that they produce. We sell milk and eggs to the grocer’s, we sell manure to other farmers, and sometimes we sell bull calves to the butcher.”

  A rush of heat zipped through Lily’s body, shooting out from her gut, radiating down to her feet and up through her chest and arms. Her knees weakened, and she put her hand out to grasp the rough wooden railing of the pen. She looked down at Toro, who was vigorously contorting his mouth, trying in vain to reach the nipple of the bucket which had been abandoned on the ground. He bleated in frustration.

  “What do you MEAN?! What are you going to do to him?!” Lily repeated the question, furiously hoping that she misunderstood, or that Bill was playing a cruel joke. Her eyes stung with tears.

  “Now don’t go gettin’ all hysterical there, Ernie. This is just the way it is.” Bill shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of his overalls and crouched down to meet Lily’s eye level. “Let me ask you a question, Ernie. Do you like cheeseburgers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And exactly where do you think those cheeseburgers come from?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Yes, you do. They come from cows. Some cows we keep for milkin’ and some we sell for beef. And we send ‘em off to the butcher and the butcher slaughters ‘em, and grinds ‘em up and puts that meat into little packages.”

  Though Lily tried to steel herself, to will herself not to cry, a single tear escaped down her cheek, which she quickly swiped away, hoping Bill did not notice.

  “And those little packages,” he continued, “are sent to Star Market grocery out there in Chili Center where your mama shops. She puts them into her basket and she brings ‘em home and she fries ‘em up in a pan so you can have your dinner, and that’s the way of the world. I don’t send creatures out to slaughter because I’m mean; I do it because people like to eat meat.”

  Lily stood, dumbfounded. Toro was on his way to the slaughterhouse, and she was partly to blame.

  “Finish feeding that calf and then come up to the house for dinner.”

  As soon as Bill disappeared from view, Lily picked up the bucket, placed the nipple into Toro’s mouth, and watched as he sucked down the last of the formula, oblivious to the sprinkling of Lily’s tears on his snout.

  “In conclusion,” Lily looked back up at her classmates, hoping to impress upon them that such was the proper way to end an essay, “farms are good places that give us lots of food.” Raising her index finger, she added, “But remember when you eat a cheeseburger that you are eating a cow that has been slaughtered and ground up into little bits.”

  Most of the children just stared at Lily, with the exception of William Nolan, who cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Moooooo.”

  Sister Elaine told Lily to take her seat and then announced that it was time for lunch. Lily checked her jumper pocket to make sure she still had her lunch slip. Today was pizza day - not only was it her favorite, but last pizza day Mike Dylan traded her his chocolate peanut butter square for her pepperoni. If she could convince him to do that again, she wouldn’t have to worry about eating any cows. And anyway, what if the butcher got confused and put Toro in the pepperoni line instead of the cheeseburger line? Lily couldn’t bear the thought of eating even a tiny slice, no matter how good it tasted.

  As the class filed into the cashier’s line in the cafeteria, Lily looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then placed the crumpled green lunch slip into Mrs
. Fish’s palm. She tried to be nonchalant, which was what Auntie Rosa called it that time when she had invited Lily to come along with her and Iris to the East Avenue Inn. They had finished breakfast, but there were still a few small muffins left in the wicker basket on the table.

  “We’re going to take these home so they don’t go to waste,” Auntie Rosa said. It seemed like stealing to Lily. She was sure that Auntie Rosa would never steal, but if it wasn’t wrong to take the muffins, why would she try to hide it?

  “Now watch. This is how we do it,” Auntie Rosa smoothed a paper napkin over her lap. “Very nonchalant...” she selected one muffin from the basket, and then with a smile planted on her lips, pretending to admire the surroundings of the restaurant she placed the muffin into the napkin. She repeated this, one muffin at a time, until all the leftovers were safely nestled in her lap. Lily bent over and lifted up the corner of the white tablecloth, so she could watch as Auntie Rosa gently folded in the four corners of the napkin, then slipped the small package into her purse. Iris kicked Lily in the shin, causing her to drop the tablecloth and bolt upright, to find Iris and Auntie Rosa both giving her The Look.

  Auntie Rosa must have felt the same way Lily did when she passed the lunch slip to Mrs. Fish. It wasn’t wrong, but you didn’t necessarily want anyone to see you doing it, either. Mrs. Fish seemed to know even less about being nonchalant than Lily did; she took the slip, laid it on the counter, flattened it out next to the cash register, and then taking it in both hands, she sawed it back and forth over the edge of the counter, smoothing out the creases. Lily stood frozen in place, staring down at her slice of pizza and fruit cocktail, not wanting to know who was watching. Mrs. Fish might as well have stood on the table and announced, “Lily Capotosti is on the free lunch program!”