The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  “Let's go.”

  I started to leave, but stopped when I noticed Ohma's steer.

  “Look,” I said.

  “Look at what?”

  “Ohma's steer. See how his stomach is so round on the left side?”

  Carol Ann leaned forward.

  “I guess. What's that mean?”

  “It could mean that he's bloated. And that's not good.”

  “What do you think you're doing?”

  The voice came from behind us. I turned to see Precious, arms folded, mouth open, eyelashes batting.

  “This steer—” I started.

  “That steer is my sister's, and what did you do to it?” Precious said accusingly.

  “I didn't do anything to it, but I think it's getting sick.”

  “It's not sick. It's fine. Now get out of here!”

  Carol Ann was already halfway out the door. I followed, but turned one last time. I knew for a fact that I had more knowledge about steers in my pinky toe than Precious had in her whole pea brain. I wasn't going to let her intimidate me.

  “Precious, listen to me. You need to call the vet. That steer isn't well and needs to be looked at… soon.”

  “Oh, really?” Precious scoffed. “And who made you junior veterinarian? You know, Libby Ryan, I really don't give a flip what you think you know about steers, okay?”

  I'd said what I could. Precious wasn't going to listen to me. She was probably still miffed about her sunglasses.

  Carol Ann and I spent the rest of the day watching the horse show at the grandstand. We ate and laughed and finally rode the Super Loop. Twice. Then we decided twice might have been one too many times.

  By dusk we had checked in with my parents and convinced them that we all needed one ride on the Ferris wheel after dark, because the fair isn't the fair until you've seen it at night, with all its colored lights, from the top of the Ferris wheel.

  I climbed into a red gondola car with Carol Ann while my parents got into a green one behind us with Frannie on the seat between them. Better to have Frannie with my parents, and not with Carol Ann and me. That child was just so unpredictable.

  Once around to let passengers out and others in and finally we were off, spinning through the night air, a blur of color before us. Up and around, I closed my eyes and savored the coming down, my favorite part. Again and again. I looked back to see Frannie clapping her hands while Mom and Dad each kept a hand planted firmly on her shoulders. We slowed, and I knew the ride was almost over.

  We were stopped at the top when I noticed several trucks in front of the beef barns. Only emergency vehicles were allowed on the fairgrounds. I turned to Dad behind me and pointed in the direction of the barns. The music and crowd drowned out his reply, but as soon as we were all on the ground again, we headed in that direction.

  “What do you think is going on?” I asked, nearly running to keep up with Dad.

  “We'll see soon enough,” came Dad's reply. The look of concern on his face said more than his words.

  We entered the barn from the back to avoid the crowd at the front. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Mule comfortably lying in the straw, securely fastened in his spot.

  Jack Evans's father walked toward us.

  “What's going on, Dave?” Dad asked.

  “It's that youngest Darling girl's steer. It's dead.”

  No sooner had Jack's dad delivered the news about Ohma's steer than Precious and Lil appeared, hurling accusations my way.

  “There she is! That Libby Ryan was hanging around my sister's steer this afternoon! She poisoned him or something,” Precious shrieked so that the entire barn could hear.

  I was speechless. How could she think I would hurt an animal? Even Ohma's.

  Carol Ann, who was never at a loss for words, and multi-syllabic ones at that, stepped forward.

  “Now, listen to reason, would you, Precious?”

  I imagined it was nearly killing Carol Ann to call Precious by her first name, but she let it glide off her tongue like it was nothing at all.

  “Are you even aware of the multitude of diseases that can attack the bovine species? Not to mention the stress of cohabiting in such close quarters with numerous other animals in the heat of summer? When it comes to what could have killed your sister's steer, a thousand different scenarios come to mind, and not one of them includes Libby Ryan!”

  Wow. Now I was even more speechless. I just stared at Carol Ann, once again astounded by her loyalty. What a friend.

  “Well,” Lil huffed, “I'll have you know my baby sister is devastated. She's been crying all evening.”

  Okay, that was enough to rock my voice into action.

  “Devastated? Are you kidding? I have never seen one of you show any concern for any of your animals!”

  I could have gone on, but Dad was giving me one of his be-careful-what-you-say looks.

  “Of course she's upset!” Precious spoke again. “After all, you do realize that now she has no steer. And no steer means no auction! Think of all the money she's lost!”

  Precious didn't wait for a reply. She turned and huffed off. Lil scurried to keep up with her.

  I was angry enough to spit! Money. That was all the divas of Darling Farms could think about! Money was the only reason they showed steers in the first place. But the worst part of it all was that those girls had the nerve to say such awful things about me when they had no concern whatsoever for their animals.

  Other exhibitors stood around the barn, whispering and looking my way. Could they possibly believe I would hurt Ohma's steer? My mind flashed back to the day outside the thrift store, when Lil mentioned that Piggy had died. If the word around town was that I had poisoned Piggy …

  I felt tears stinging my eyes.

  “Dad…”

  “Hey, listen, Lib,” Dad said. “I saw Susan's truck pull up to the other end of the barn a few minutes ago. She's down there now, and she'll be able to straighten this whole thing out with one look at Ohma's steer. Besides, everyone in this barn knows how well, or how poorly, the Darling family cares for their livestock. Don't worry.”

  It was getting late and we still needed to bed Mule down for the night. Just then Mom and Frannie appeared inside the barn door.

  “Just checking to see if everything's all right,” Mom said.

  Dad nodded.

  “We'll fill you in at home. From the looks of it, you'd better head that way soon.”

  Flopped over Mom's shoulder, in her brown jacket, Frannie looked like a stuffed teddy bear. A teddy bear that had just devoured pink cotton candy.

  “I'm tired,” she whined, wrapping her sticky fingers around Mom's neck, narrowly missing her hair.

  “Okay, we're going. Carol Ann, it looks like Libby and Mr. Ryan are going to be a while. Want me to drop you at home?”

  Carol Ann turned to me.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I'm fine.”

  “Okay, then, I'll head out with your mom. But I'll be back tomorrow for the big event.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Then, before she got to the door, I added, “Thanks, Carol Ann.”

  She gave me a smile and a wave before she said to my mom, “Here, Mrs. Ryan, I'll carry Frannie for you.”

  There was no doubt about it. Carol Ann Cuthbert was a saint.

  The commotion at the other end of the barn was over by the time we got Mule settled in for the night. Susan's truck was gone and the fair board had seen to it that Ohma's steer was promptly removed. It was not good for public relations to have dead livestock lying around when people came through the barns.

  As we walked past the pink and purple palace, Precious's and Lil's steers were both settled for the night, but no humans were hanging around. I had a sad feeling when I looked at the empty spot where Ohma's steer had been hours earlier. I felt strangely sorry for Ohma. I'd lost Piggy, but under different circumstances. I simply could not imagine what it would be like to lose Mule after all the month
s of time and work I had invested in preparing him for show.

  Of course, I would lose Mule, and I knew it, and I had known it all along. It was part of the project. The circle of life. The perpetuation of the food chain. Dad had a thou-sand ways of putting it. And as much as I hated to lose Mule, it was going to happen.

  So why, if all these steers were destined to end up on someone's table, was my heart breaking for Ohma? She wasn't, after all, the friendliest girl I'd ever met, was she?

  I don't know if I would have ever known the answer to those questions if it hadn't been for a couple of red hair ribbons.

  Dad and I were walking slowly to the truck at the far end of the livestock exhibitors’ lot. The midway had shut down for the night, the fairgoers had gone home, and the only people remaining were the livestock folks like us. I was exhausted and grimy from the heat of the day and the dust of the fair. I was thinking about a refreshing shower and washing the dirt out of my hair.

  That was when I remembered.

  “Dad, I have to go back.”

  He looked at me. It had been a long day, and it showed in every line on his tired face.

  “Why?” He sighed an I'm-trying-to-be-patient sigh.

  “Because I have two red hair ribbons in the show box that Karen Elliott is letting me borrow for tomorrow. And Mom's going to braid my hair at home in the morning before the show. I have to have them, Dad.”

  “Okay, you go back. I'll walk out to the truck and pull up to the barn to pick you up.”

  “Thanks, Dad! I'll hurry.”

  The braids had been Carol Ann's idea. No ponytail for a cattlewoman, she had insisted. Real cattlewomen wore braids. No doubt, she'd been reading too much historical fiction lately.

  I did hurry. I was a little creeped out about the silence of the fairgrounds at night. It was unnatural. A fair was sup-posed to be an active, noisy place with rides running and animal sounds and carnival workers shouting to pull in their next customers. At that hour it was all too still.

  Mule barely blinked as I ruffled through the show box. It didn't take but a second to snatch the ribbons from the tray where I'd left them. I hurried to the end of the empty barn to wait for Dad. No headlights coming my way yet. I leaned up against the barn siding just outside the Darling Farms exhibit. And that was when I heard it.

  Snuffling. Or snorting. I honestly thought maybe a stray hog had wandered over from the pig barn, but in the shadows I could see nothing. Yet the noise only got louder, so I went back into the barn. There, alone in the dark, sitting in the straw where her steer had been, was Ohma Darling.

  “Hi,” I offered.

  I wasn't sure what else to say. If I tried to talk to her, would she rip me apart for allegedly killing her fair steer?

  “Hi,” came her grumbled reply.

  It was silent until she snuffled again. Why was she sitting in the barn all alone at this hour? In the dim light it was hard to tell if she had been crying.

  “I'm really sorry about what happened to your steer,” I said, hoping she wouldn't take my sympathy as some sort of admission of guilt.

  “What do you know about it?” she asked flatly. I wasn't sure if she was accusing me or questioning me.

  I took a cautious step closer to her.

  “Ohma, I promise I didn't do anything to your steer. I saw him this afternoon, and I told your sister to call the vet. I'm so sorry.”

  “I know that,” she said.

  “You do?” I asked. I wasn't very good at hiding my surprise.

  “Yeah. Dr. Susan said he died from eating too much feed. And the wrong kind. Lil fed him. And then I fed him. I gave him feed from that bag over there.”

  She pointed to the Evanses’ exhibit. I knew how important it was to feed consistently. Messing with feed can cause an animal to bloat and even die. I had been right after all.

  I glanced in the direction of the parking lot. Dad didn't seem to be on his way yet.

  “Can I sit down?” I asked.

  “I don't care,” she mumbled. Then she added, “If you want. You don't have to.”

  I sat. In all my years of going to school with Ohma, she and I had never had a real conversation. She was usually just so unpleasant to be around.

  I glanced at Ohma. She really did look devastated. And I had a feeling it wasn't all about money.

  Then, to my surprise, she began to cry.

  “I killed Roberto.”

  “Roberto?”

  “That was his name.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was too stupid to take care of my own animal!”

  Her loud voice rocked the empty barn, and again, I wasn't sure what to do. I put my arm around her shoulder.

  “It's okay,” I told her. “I know how you feel.”

  “No, you don't,” she said, a look of disbelief on her face.

  “Yeah, I do. The steer I brought to the fair wasn't even supposed to be my fair calf. I had two, remember? The other one was the one that I liked better at first. And one day last spring, he got hurt. Every single day I wonder if I should have checked on him earlier, or wired the gate tighter, or done something to protect him.”

  She nodded as though she knew exactly what I was saying.

  “He was counting on me to take good care of him, and I let him down,” I finished.

  “I really tried to take care of Roberto,” Ohma said softly. “You have no idea what it's like.”

  No idea what it's like to care for a steer? Of course I knew all about that, but Ohma was talking about something entirely different.

  “I can't live up to my sisters,” she continued. “I mean, look at me. I'm nothing like them.”

  It was a well-known fact. Ohma was not petite, not gorgeous, not anything like her sisters. It must not have been an easy task, trying to live up to their expectations.

  “I thought if I could do well in the steer show it might make up for the way I'm sure I'll bomb in the Beef Princess pageant,” she said matter-of-factly.

  She sobbed again, a little more quietly, and we sat for a while. The mystery of Ohma Darling was starting to un-ravel. She didn't hate the world, like her grouchiness had led us all to believe. She despised herself.

  “I decided to be in the Beef Princess pageant this year, too,” I reminded her. “And I don't feel very much like a beauty queen, either.”

  Ohma turned toward me, and I thought I saw a hint of a smile on her face.

  “It was my mom's idea,” I continued. “She thought it would be a good experience.”

  “You should see my dress,” Ohma confided. “It's the white one Lil wore three years ago. I look like a giant marsh-mallow in it.”

  I smiled.

  “I think I tried on a hundred dresses before I finally found one I liked. And you want to know something? I did get it at the thrift store in town.”

  “Really? Yours isn't new, either?”

  “Nope. And, besides, I had to buy my used dress because nothing in Ronnie's closet was suitable for the Beef Princess pageant!”

  “Well, I'd hope not!” Ohma nearly giggled. Who would have thought it could happen?

  We shared a laugh until the rumble of Dad's diesel engine pickup approached.

  “Need a ride?” I asked.

  “I guess so,” Ohma answered.

  “I'm sure my dad will drop you at home.”

  We stood and brushed the straw off our jeans, and I opened the door to the truck. I slid in next to Dad, who gave me a what's-this-all-about look, and Ohma sat by the window. As Dad backed up, the truck's headlights lit up the open end of the barn again, briefly illuminating the empty spot where Roberto had been.

  I saw Ohma quickly wipe away a tear before it could fall down her cheek. The painful memory of seeing Piggy's pen the day after he'd been taken away came rushing back, and I squeezed Ohma's hand as a tear fell down my own cheek.

  On the day of the show, Dad and I left the farm chores to Granddad and Ronnie so that we could get to the fair-grounds early. Mom braided
my hair in two short braids and tied Karen's ribbons on each one just as the sun was coming up. I grabbed my best jeans, the striped shirt we'd bought for the show, a belt, and my boots, and I was out the door.

  At the fair, Mule ate a hearty breakfast of grain and hay before we led him to the wash racks to clean him up good. After that, we took him to a grooming chute and brushed and sprayed his thick, coal-black coat until he looked like a stuffed black bear. It occurred to me that we'd spent more time on Mule's hair that morning than I usually spent on mine in a month.

  Dad had fastened the paper exhibitor number to my back with safety pins just as the announcer called for Mule's class of steers to enter the arena. The arena consisted of a big building with a large ring of metal gates in the center and bleachers on either side. A huge announcer's box with a microphone sat right in the center. It was a noisy, busy place with steers and exhibitors coming and going from the ring while the announcer's voice bounced off the building's metal roof and siding.

  Now, with the stands full of family, friends, and curious fairgoers, the steer show had begun. Mom, Granddad, Carol Ann, and Ronnie sat together in the front row. Then there was Frannie, with a space just big enough for the grand-children between her and Ronnie.

  Ten exhibitors, including Karen Elliott and her Angus and Lil Darling and her Hereford, were in Mule's weight class. Jim Darling's daughters might have been used to being winners on the stage, but in the arena, they had a much different track record. That Hereford would be easy to beat.

  We filed into the arena and got to work setting up our steers. I gave Mule a gentle nudge with the show stick to set his back hooves in the proper position. A quick check of the back. Everything was perfect. Good. Now, to keep it all just so, I used a steady, rhythmic rubbing of his underbelly with the show stick. Mule blinked, but he didn't move a muscle.

  The judge hesitated in front of Mule. My heart raced. It's just the same as we practiced at home, I told myself. Pretend the judge is Ronnie. Pretend we're standing in the barnyard. Oh, my heart never pounded like this in the barnyard. This was for real!

  I froze as the judge eyed Mule. Only after he moved on down the line did I exhale and relax slightly, remembering not to take my eyes off him. It was a rule that at that very moment Lil Darling wasn't following.