Dairy Queen

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  Anyway, that was the last of Schwenk Joe Namath.

  No one said anything for a bit except Brian, who was teasing Smut, trying to pull her rope away, not even interested in what just happened.

  Dad glared at him. "What are you doing?"

  "Uh, hanging out."

  "Hanging out." Dad let those words rest in the yard for a bit. Hard to believe a guy with a walker could be so scary. "Hanging out, eh? You're here to learn how to goddam work, and if you want to start this season, you better get to it."

  Brian stiffened. "Yes, sir," he said, not looking up.

  In a way I was sort of sorry for Brian. I sure know what it's like to get both barrels. The only reason Dad got mad was because he was cut up about having to sell Joe. If this was a perfect world, we'd keep her forever and spend a million dollars trying to fix her sore legs and she'd die of old age in a rocking chair in some pretty green pasture. But this isn't a perfect world, it's Wisconsin, and feed costs money and vets cost money, and we barely have enough for the healthy cows, and the butcher pays us money for the old cows, and that money feeds the healthy ones. But of course Dad couldn't say that, any more than I could. I can barely figure it out to write it down. So instead he just beat up on Brian. Who deserved it.

  Dad glared at me. "You got a job for him to do?"

  I jumped. "Um, yeah. We're ready to go." I nodded at the tractor.

  "Curtis!" Dad hollered.

  As cut up as I was about Joe, I couldn't help noticing what Dad had said about how Brian needed to work for us if he wanted to be a starter. "Learn how to goddam work"—that's what Dad said, his exact words. I mean, it was one thing for Jimmy Ott to send Brian over because we were short-handed haying. But the fact that Brian had to come or he wouldn't get to play football, to start, which is a big deal especially if you want to play college ball, well, that was different. That explained why Brian even showed up at all. Because it wasn't like he was in love with us, or wanted to learn agricultural science. If he had to work for us, if it was some kind of test Jimmy Ott was giving him, well, that was something else altogether.

  Jimmy Ott—I guess I should explain about him too—he's been the Hawley football coach for twenty-nine years. He sells insurance too, but mainly he's just a really good coach and a really good guy. A long time ago before Dad and Mom even met and even though Dad had played for Red Bend when he was in high school, Dad and Jimmy coached together. Dad had just gotten out of the army and he was living here with Grandpa Warren and Grandma Joyce, and the two of them ran the Hawley football program. That's how Dad met Mom, because she was new in town teaching at Red Bend, and she went to the Red Bend–Hawley game because that's what everyone does, and they got to talking and then they got married. And even after they were married and living in the little house down by the highway and Win and Bill were born, Dad was still assistant coach. But then Grandma Joyce died and I was born and we had to move into this house and Dad had to quit coaching to work the farm, and they had to sell the little house off, and then Grandpa Warren died and Dad got the farm to himself and he doesn't coach anymore. But he and Jimmy Ott are still really good friends, and Jimmy Ott came to see him in the hospital, and he and Kathy Ott come for dinner a lot and they bring us Christmas presents because they don't have kids of their own.

  When I was little it used to make me confused that we were rooting against Hawley even though Hawley was Jimmy Ott's team. I asked Mom about it once and she said it was because life isn't black and white, which didn't make any sense because Red Bend's colors are black and red, and Hawley's colors are black and orange. But later I learned what black and white meant and I thought I understood a little bit more, and then I just stopped thinking about it, which I guess is the same thing.

  Anyway, Jimmy Ott used to watch us kids haying or milking or weeding the garden or playing a pickup game together and he'd just shake his head and say to Dad, "Boy oh boy, you sure did something right." Because us Schwenks aren't rich, and we're not that smart, and except for Bill, and Mom when she was thin back before she got married, we're nothing to look at. But one thing we can do is work. You want to learn how to work hard? Just look at us. We're about the very best place for a snotty, rich, sit-on-your-butt kid like Brian to go.

  I began to realize, kind of excited, that if Brian had to help us in order to play football, well, that meant he'd have to put up with anything I dished out.

  3. Brian Bails

  So off we went to hay, Brian and me and my chatterbox little brother. We rode up the hill, the tractor jerking along past cows grazing, past the timothy and corn and alfalfa.

  "So, what's your workout schedule this summer?" I asked Brian all innocent-like.

  He snorted.

  "I'm serious. What are you doing?"

  "It's vacation, remember? Summer vacation?"

  "I'm just asking because Win and Bill worked out every day all summer. They'd do weights, stretches, pushups ... Win even made a football field over there." I nodded at the heifer field, where the heifers spend all summer. If you don't know, heifers are cows that haven't been bred yet, haven't been married, as Grandpa Warren used to say. "My brothers would bring a couple of guys over and work out almost every afternoon."

  "Jesus Christ," Brian said under his breath.

  I ignored this. "You know, they say Win was just about the hardest-working football player Red Bend has ever seen. He was real talented, that's for sure, but he got that scholarship because he works so hard. He isn't that big either, but he gave every game and every practice two hundred and ten percent." I smiled at Brian. "You know, Win sure is one heck of a role model."

  Just then we pulled into the hay meadow, the hay bales spread everywhere like trash after a party. I'd baled yesterday afternoon, and by now the dew had burned off so we could start bringing the bales in. It's really important that the hay be dry when you bring it in, because if there's any moisture it'll start to rot, and then heat up until the whole bale catches on fire and the barn burns down, which you don't want. Most of the farms around here use the new baling machines that make a huge round bale, so heavy you have to move it with a forklift. Knowing how poor we are, you're probably not surprised to hear that we have the same baler Grandpa Warren bought back in the Dark Ages, and it makes old-fashioned small bales that one person can pick up, more or less. You ever hear the term "backbreaking"? This job was about to define it.

  "Can I drive the tractor?" Brian asked, trying to get out of the heavy lifting.

  Curtis and I exchanged a look. Driving always goes to the weakest person. I started driving the tractor when I was six years old, when Bill who was nine could wrestle the bales into place.

  I shrugged. "Sure."

  Brian climbed in. "What's that pedal?"

  "That's the clutch," I said.

  "You mean this is a stick shift?" he asked.

  "Yeah," I said, straight-faced. "No such thing as an automatic tractor."

  Curtis snorted loudly. Brian flushed.

  "Doesn't your dad"—I asked this as slow as I could, because it was, you know, worth lingering over—"doesn't your dad own a truck dealership?"

  "We don't sell tractors," Brian said, like that explained everything. He was looking daggers at Curtis, who in his quiet way was rubbing it in. Curtis has always taken the Red Bend–Hawley thing really hard.

  "Let's just have Curtis drive," I offered. We needed Brian, after all. Curtis and I could hay by ourselves if we had to—we had already done it twice this summer, but it had been pretty awful. So Curtis putt-putted back and forth across the field, trying to get as close to each bale as possible and slowing down when we were behind, while Brian and I humped bales into the wagon.

  A hay bale weighs about fifty pounds and it's about the size of a filing cabinet, with two big loops of baling twine—rope, kind of—holding the hay together. That's how you pick up the bale, with the twine, and you'd better wear gloves because that twine will cut your hands up in about five seconds. Which it did to Brian, I saw
, because he wouldn't wear them even though I said "There's gloves in the tractor" just as clear as daylight. It's hard enough to pick up a hay bale, but you sure can't toss one if your hands are all raw. So Brian would just carry a bale over and lay it in the wagon with this huge sigh, and then look at his hands, which were getting all pink, and then look down the field at all the hay bales we had left to get, and then sigh again like this was all too much.

  Eventually at least he put the gloves on. He was smart enough to do that.

  The thing with haying—or most jobs, really, that I know of—is that you can't think about how much you have left to do because that's just one thought, one sad thought, that'll make you bummed out all day long. Instead you've got to think about how much you've already done. I never look down the field, I just keep my eye on the wagon. First layer of bales in: hooray! Second layer: hooray! Third: yippee! And then the top layers when you have to really swing the bale to build up enough momentum to get it up there, that's even better, because it means the wagon's almost full and you can quit loading and drive back to the barn to unload. Although it's best not to think about that part either.

  It was hard, though. I couldn't really get into a zone and just work away until it was done, because of Brian. Because every time he'd load a bale he'd wipe his face off and look at all the bales we had left and groan a little bit. Even though he was twice as slow as me. Really. I counted. I could easily get two bales loaded for every one of his. Plus he kept looking up at the sky too, like he couldn't believe that the sun was still up there burning so hot. But guess what: it was. Then he'd shake out his T-shirt, trying to lose the little bits of grass seed stuck all over his skin, but that's impossible to do once you're sweating. That's the thing about haying. It's hot and slow and backbreaking, but worst of all it's itchy.

  So even though we were faster, kind of, than just me doing it with Curtis driving, it seemed a lot longer. And Brian couldn't figure out that hip thrust you need to get the bales up high, so he'd just hand them to me instead, and I'd toss them up and then climb up the side of the wagon to put them in place while he wiped his face off and shook out his T-shirt. Again.

  "I really need some water," he mumbled.

  "There's some back at the barn," I said.

  He sighed.

  We finally filled the wagon, and Curtis drove as carefully as he ever has back to the barn with Brian and me hanging on to the sides of the wagon, trying not think about how itchy we were. I was, anyway. I can't speak for Brian. Then I got to back the wagon up into the barn hayloft so we all could have so much fun unloading. It's not as much work as loading, thank God, because you don't have to walk as much. And you're out of the sun, although it's not like the hayloft is air-conditioned or anything. Or dust-free. Plus you have to be careful when you stack the hay bales because you're stacking them so high, and if you leave gaps the whole stack could collapse when you're climbing on it and break your leg. But at least Curtis was helping us unload, so we got it done faster. We didn't say too much.

  Then, thank God, it was time for lunch.

  We got to the kitchen and right there in the middle of the table were these huge, beautiful sandwiches with sliced tomatoes and everything, and pickles alongside. They looked like something from a magazine. I poked at them because I thought they weren't real, they were a joke.

  "Wait till everyone's seated," Dad said for the millionth time.

  Brian looked surprised as well. Surprised-impressed, not surprised-disgusted the way he normally looked. "Wow, Mr. Schwenk, those look great."

  Dad shrugged like we ate like this every day. So that was it. Showing off for Hawley. I glanced at Curtis. He'd figured it out too, and he wasn't too pleased. If Brian wasn't there I would have asked Dad what TV show he'd seen them on, but instead I just started eating. It didn't make me very happy, though, Dad doing all this for a jerk like Brian. Something needed to be done about that.

  "Brian," I asked, knowing the answer, "are you captain?"

  "No."

  Dad perked up a bit. "You're not captain?"

  "No," Brian repeated, clearly just loving this topic.

  Dad frowned. "You're quarterback and you're not captain? That's unnatural. If the QB isn't running the team, that's a team with a serious problem."

  Brian just stared at his plate, chewing away.

  We ate in silence for the rest of the meal, except that every once in a while Dad would say, just in case we hadn't heard, "QB has to be captain."

  Dad and I don't get along most of the time. Maybe all of the time. But he sure did cooperate with me on that one, even if he didn't know he was doing it.

  Heading back to the hay field for the second load, Brian didn't say too much, just studied his hands, which were all sore-looking. Welcome to farming, son.

  "My brothers were both captains," I offered. "Win was captain even when he was a junior. He used to call everyone on the team every week all summer just to see how they were doing and make sure they were training enough."

  "Jesus," Brian muttered. "If they're so perfect, how come they're not here?"

  "Because," I chipped right in, happy I could brag about them some more, "they're both working at this football camp in Chicago with players from all over the country. There are scouts there and everything."

  "And that's more important than helping your family?" Brian looked at me when he asked it too. Straight in the face.

  I stared back at him, trying to think of some smart response, which was hard because all I could really think was that he'd just punched me right in the gut. That's how much that question hurt. And there was no way in heck I would ever tell Brian Nelson, of all people, why. But he just kept looking at me until finally I managed to get out something about how we needed to go to work, and we pulled into the hay field and started loading up the wagon, the sun beating down twice as hard while I tried to ignore what had just happened.

  At one point, Smut, optimist that she is, showed up with her football, like we'd all stop working and play catch with her for a couple hours instead. And of course Brian did.

  Okay. You've probably figured out by now that Brian Nelson is not my all-time favorite person. But I stood for a minute watching him throw, because he had just about the prettiest arm I'd ever seen. Even though Smut's football was a little flat and slimy, he'd just send it through the air every time like a bullet. And Smut would go tearing after it and bring it back just as fast as she could so she'd get to run after it again. Dang, he had a handsome arm. The rest of him was handsome too—which I'm sure makes you wonder why I haven't mentioned that before, but he was stuck-up enough already, and it didn't have anything to do with his arm anyway, as you would know if you thought about it for even a second. But still, I could see why Jimmy Ott would be interested in keeping this guy around.

  Brian caught me looking at him and grinned like he'd won something, and I pointed to the wagon to remind him to get back to work, just to show I meant business.

  So we finally filled the wagon, leaving half a load in the field that me and Mr. Cooperative would have to come back for by ourselves, because Curtis had to go to baseball practice. His Little League was almost to states, so it was a really big deal, and of course anyone on a winning team like that gets off chores. Brian was pleased to hear about that, you can be sure.

  So Curtis went off with his ride to practice and Brian and I headed into the loft and started unloading. Brian every once in a while gave this little cough just to let me know how dry and dusty the barn was.

  "Aren't you thirsty?" he asked after a while.

  "No," I said, even though hay dust coated my mouth.

  That made him mad, that I wouldn't get water and therefore he couldn't get water either because that would show what a wimp he was. His cell phone rang, one of those extremely annoying songs that cell phone owners are so in love with because for some reason they can't tolerate a plain old-fashioned ring. Finally whoever it was hung up and went back to painting her nails or something.
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  Brian kept sitting down. He'd lug a bale up the stack and then sit down on it, shaking out his arms each time like there was nothing in them. I've never seen anyone move as slow as Brian, not even Grandpa Warren with his arthritis. It was like he was in a contest to see who could do the least work, only he was the only contestant. Plus he was really angry now, which was good because it kept my mind off how thirsty I was. He muttered something under his breath.

  "What?" I asked.

  "You'd probably jump off the roof if they told you to."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't you see how you live? You do all the work they expect you to do and you don't even mind. It's like you're a cow. And one day in about fifty years they're going to put you on a truck and take you away to die and you're not even going to mind that either." Brian shook his head like he was truly sorry.

  "Oh yeah?" Which was a dumb response, I know. He was acting like he'd said something all deep and powerful, but if you haven't noticed, I'm not a cow like Joe Namath. I'm a girl.

  "Forget it." He stood up. "I'm out of here."

  "Why don't you get out your little cell phone and tell Jimmy Ott you're 'out of here'?"

  Brian glared at me. "Screw you."

  "Screw yourself. You stay here and work."

  "This isn't work, what you do. It's stupid. It's stupid and pathetic and you can't even see it." He walked past me and right out the barn.