Donkey Sense
By Dean Lombardo
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
DONKEY SENSE
Copyright © 2014 DEAN LOMBARDO
ISBN 978-1-62135-376-8
Cover Art Designed by BOOK BEAUTIFUL
For Mom, who loved animals and had always wanted me to take a break from horror novels to write a sweet book for kids.
This book is dedicated to my dearly departed mom, who is still with me and with all the people and animals she touched. It is also dedicated to my children, Ty and Maya.
I would like to thank the following individuals for their advice and support:
Elizabeth Hull and Crash Froelich, who provided me with advice and renewed hope in the story.
My wife, Karen Vaught Lombardo, who offered technical assistance on English-style riding and wouldn’t let me quit in getting the story published.
Ted Minkinow, who saw something in “Donkey Sense” that others didn’t and said some magical things that made me believe.
Debbie Howell, Lisa Michelle Medeiros and Kim Stribling, who all took interest in the story and encouraged me when I most needed it.
Susan Finlay and Sammy HK Smith, who once again selflessly guided me toward publication.
Last but not least, I want to thank publisher Stephanie Taylor for providing a home for Pedro the donkey so that I may now share his story with you.
Chapter One
“HEY, SHRIMPO UNDERPANTS!” shouted a big, beefy thirteen-year-old named Eddie Batts. “If you give yourself up like you did the last time, we’ll go easy on you!”
Timmy Unterkanz dropped his book bag and leapt from the sidewalk, leaving behind the four seventh-graders who’d followed him out of school after dismissal.
One of them called after him: “Hey! Slow down Underpants!”
Timmy ran across the parking lot.
“Hey!” another shouted.
“Get him!” Eddie yelled.
The sound of their footsteps followed him and Timmy shivered in terror.
Gotta make it home, he thought, huffing. He forced his wheezing, gasping self to run even faster, but already his legs were tired; weakening.
The second day of school had just ended and, as a fleeing Timmy reached School Street’s sidewalk, he wished he’d never had to come to Richfield, Pennsylvania, in the first place, to this school where older students greeted small newcomers with—
“You are so dead, Underpants!” Eddie hollered. “You better stop running!”
Timmy Unterkanz—or Shrimpo Underpants as some of his schoolmates were already calling him—glanced back at the four bullies chasing him. They’d gained on him and the quick peek back sent Timmy into a zigzag pattern costing him additional time. Focusing all of his attention on the sidewalk ahead, Timmy pumped his short, skinny legs and planted his feet as far and as fast as he could.
Eddie Batts’ voice came again, out of breath. “Hey Shrimpo Underpants, if you keep running away… it’s only gonna get worse.”
Timmy refused to look back. Despite being nearly exhausted, he pushed himself. “We’ll go easy on you,” and “it’s only gonna get worse,” was what Eddie had said the last time, and Timmy wasn’t going to let the four bullies slap and spit on him and then push him down again like they’d done on the first day of school during recess. They hadn’t used their knuckles, and by the time Timmy had found the nearest teacher to report the bullying, all of the bright red spots where they’d slapped him and the shiny wet spots where they’d “loogie-tized” him had mostly vanished. Then Eddie Batts, Joey Jergens, Ralph Bacchio, and Stew Pressner had lied to Mrs. Folson and said they hadn’t touched Timmy. Mrs. Folson, despite inspecting the accused boys with a suspicious eye, had let them off with a warning.
Worst of all, because Timmy had told on Eddie and his accomplices, the four boys were now trying to hurt him really bad. He’d seen it in their eyes just before he’d dropped his book bag on the school’s front sidewalk and bolted toward home. If only his mother could have picked him up after school today.
Timmy broke into a sprint, nearing the intersection between School Street and Main Street with Crabapple Farm on the other side of the highway, beyond the fence.
“Get him!” Eddie hollered again and Timmy heard the gang’s thumping footsteps getting closer. His heart racing, he scrambled to the end of the street then checked both ways for speeding cars before crossing to the opposite side of Main Street. Without slowing, he raced up the bank. When he reached the sidewalk, he turned left and gave it all he had, his feet flying, the soles of his sneakers smacking the concrete sidewalk, his breath coming in wheezes.
Almost home.
Timmy checked over his left shoulder and gasped when he saw Joey, the fastest of Eddie’s gang, sprinting diagonally across the street and heading straight for him. Behind Joey, the other three boys had just started to cross. It was going to be a footrace to Timmy’s front door and Timmy realized in a sudden panic that, one, he hadn’t even reached the end of Crabapple Farm’s pasture yet, and two, that Joey could run a lot faster than he could.
Timmy was hyperventilating, something his mom said happened whenever he got too excited or the weather was too humid, both of which were the case now. His mom always told him it was all on account of his asthma. Mom, where are you now?
Joey grunted and the first thing Timmy felt as the boy tackled him was the punch of Joey’s hard shoulder under his left eye, the force slamming Timmy’s head into the fence post. The pain brought dizziness and then drowsiness.
Timmy collapsed into a patch of grass and weeds next to the pasture fence. His eyes closed, and then everything went black.
When he opened his eyes again, Joey stood over him, his fists ready to pound should Timmy try to get up. Timmy shut his eyes again and, when after several seconds nothing happened, he squinted through half-sealed eyelids to look around. He noticed all four of the bigger boys standing over him, staring down at him.
“You think we killed him?” Timmy heard squeaky Ralph Bacchio ask. And then he saw Eddie’s big, meaty hand come down and felt Eddie’s pudgy fingers slapping his cheek. Timmy couldn’t help but cringe in fear and disgust.
“Nah, the Shrimpo’s not dead. He’s just playing possum, right Shrimpo Underpants?” Eddie grabbed a handful of Timmy’s hair and dragged him out of the weeds toward the concrete sidewalk. Timmy moaned.
He heard one of the other boys cracking his knuckles, and in a sudden burst of self-preservation he rolled away toward the fence. A sharp sting to his scalp—the skin on his head stretching—and then Timmy yelped and broke free of Eddie’s grasp, losing a few hairs in the process. Groaning and sobbing, he rolled away under the fence, down the slope, and into the pasture.
He tumbled down the hill on his side, bouncing over dried mud and straw and an occasional rock. The tumble seemed to take forever and he heard the other boys laughing as they watched from the fence. Then, finally, with a squish he landed softly in something mushy. The sweet but awful smell hit him immediately and Timmy knew where he’d come to rest even before he opened his eyes.
Manure pile.
Dazed and disgusted, Timmy’s filthy hands came to his face and he started to cry. Why did Dad hav
e to die? And why did Mom have to take me here? To this town of bullies, who chase me and knock me around for fun on the second day of school?
What have I done to deserve all of this?
Lost in self-pity, Timmy was startled when something wet and bristly touched the back of his hand.
He removed his hands from his face and looked up, trembling.
The wet, bristly muzzle belonged to a donkey.
Timmy blinked.
The donkey snorted and jerked its head to the side. The animal had a brown, dusty coat with a grayish-white snout. Its eyes regarded him.
Timmy held his breath, uncertain what to do.
Once again the donkey snorted and swung its head to the side, pinning its furry ears back.
“What do you want?” Timmy cried. “Leave me alone.”
The donkey pressed its muzzle forward and breathed on Timmy’s face. Then it swung its head back and batted Timmy’s shoulder.
Suddenly Timmy understood. “You want me to get up?”
"Eeeh-awwwww!" the donkey bellowed.
Chapter Two
As Timmy got to his knees, he saw a pair of big, brown boots striding toward him and braced himself for Eddie Batts’ kick. When no kick came, he looked up.
J.T. Akins, the owner of Crabapple Farm, stared down at him. “I see you met Pedro,” Mr. Atkins said in his loud, Texan voice. He gestured toward the donkey. “You’re Timmy, Ann Unterkanz’s boy, ain’t you?”
Timmy nodded. “Yes sir, Mr. Atkins.”
J.T. Atkins was a wiry man in his sixties, with a thick tassel of gray hair always swinging down over his eyes, a matching gray moustache, and a loud voice. “Well, any son of Ann Unterkanz’s is a friend of Pedro and me. Your mom took good care of me over at Scranton when my ol' heart was giving me problems. Here, let me help you up.”
Mr. Atkins extended his hand. Timmy took it and Mr. Atkins pulled him up to his feet.
According to Timmy’s mother, Mr. Atkins had moved to Richfield five years ago, shortly after one of Pennsylvania’s worst-ever summer storms had knocked out the area’s power and electric companies from Texas had been called in to help the local utility companies restore it. Mr. Atkins had been the foreman of one such visiting utility crew and from the bucket truck he and his men had used to fix the downed power lines, Mr. Atkins had spotted Crabapple Farm in the distance and, at first glance, fallen in love with the property. Two months later, he’d quit his job with the Texas power company, bought Crabapple Farm, and returned to Pennsylvania for good.
Timmy had first met Mr. Atkins over the summer after Mr. Atkins, who’d been grateful for the care he’d received at Scranton Hospital where Timmy’s mom worked as a nurse, had invited her to visit his farm and to bring her son along. Timmy could remember Mr. Atkins giving him a horse treat and then showing him how to hold the crunchy sweet snack, upturning his palm while curling his fingers down and out of the reach of the horse’s giant, square teeth.
“So did you fall down the hill when you was walking home from school?” Mr. Atkins asked. Without waiting for a reply, he gestured for Timmy to follow.
They walked, leaving the donkey and manure pile behind, with Timmy hustling to keep up with the Texan’s quick, proud step. They passed a horse barn on the right and a small fenced paddock to the left. Beyond the paddock, Timmy noticed a riding ring where several jumps were set up. Straight ahead there stood a white, two-story farmhouse. As they moved past the house, Mr. Atkins said, “I’ll let you cut through my property this time, but only because—all kiddin’ aside—your mom is a good woman and I think you is gonna be a good man when you grow up.”
Timmy nodded.
“What made you come through my yard anyhow?” Mr. Atkins said as they reached the gravel driveway, his boots crunching the stones. He scratched his head. “It ain’t exactly a shortcut.”
Mr. Atkins was right, Timmy thought. He would have a longer walk home from here, but at least he knew the way.
When Timmy didn’t answer, Mr. Atkins turned and placed his hands on his hips, his long, slender fingers playing with his belt straps. He looked Timmy up and down, finally studying Timmy’s face. “By the looks of you, you took a good tumble, boy.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Atkins. That’s exactly it. I was all by myself and I fell and rolled down the hill . . . and landed in the manure pile.”
In the distance, Pedro the donkey snorted and Mr. Atkins gave a coarse laugh. “Well, get on home and take a bath then. You want me to call your mom?”
“No thank you, Mr. Atkins. I’ll be going now.” Timmy started down the driveway.
“Now wait a minute,” Mr. Atkins’ voice stopped him. “Where are your schoolbooks?”
Timmy turned slowly, trying to buy time to come up with a reply that Mr. Atkins might believe. “Uh . . . I left them at my desk back at school,” he said.
Mr. Atkins leaned toward Timmy and started in on him, pointing. “Now, look here—” But a loud, braying noise interrupted the scolding.
Timmy looked toward the pasture and there stood Pedro staring at him through the fence.
“Good ol' Pedro,” Mr. Atkins said, slapping Timmy on the shoulder. “You know Pedro’s from the finest line of donkeys in the land. He’s a prize-winning donkey.”
Timmy laughed hesitantly.
“I ain’t kidding you,” Mr. Atkins said, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Pedro won at the Lubbock, Texas Fair, back in . . . uhhhh . . . I dunno . . . 2003.”
Timmy smiled at the donkey.
Mr. Atkins continued. “And Pedro also knows a liar when he hears one.”
His eyes leaving the donkey, Timmy looked up into Mr. Atkins' steel-blue eyes, which had lost their earlier humor.
“Tell me how you really got them bruises, Timmy.” Mr. Atkins said.
Chapter Three
His head and shoulders sagging, Timmy shuffled lazily down the dirt road, upset with himself for having lied to Mr. Atkins three times before leaving the man’s driveway for Crabapple Lane.
He’d lied about forgetting his book bag back at his desk when actually he’d dropped it on the school sidewalk before fleeing from the fast-approaching Eddie and his gang. Then he’d lied about what had happened just before he’d fallen down the hill and into the pasture. And finally he’d lied about the bruise under his left eye, telling Mr. Atkins it had happened during his tumble, when in truth, Joey Jergens’ flying, shoulder-first tackle had caused the shiner. A series of sudden sobs brought a suffocating, burning ache to Timmy’s lungs and throat as hot tears rolled down his cheeks.
Why does everything have to be so hard? Timmy thought, wheezing with each sob. Why do I have to be so small and have such ugly red hair? Why do other kids tease and hurt me wherever I go?
He reached the end of Crabapple Lane and made another left onto Huckleberry Drive where, a few blocks ahead, he and his mother lived in a small, one-story ranch.
And why did Dad have to die?
Timmy let out a choked howl.
Dad had been only thirty-six years old when the cancer had swiftly taken his life. Timmy had spent the final days at his father’s bedside, inside their former home back in Connecticut, holding his father’s hand and desperately willing him back to health. As a nurse, Timmy’s mother had brought Dad home from the hospital where she’d last worked so that her husband could spend his remaining time with his family. But neither the special, home-based care from Mom nor all the prayers, pleading tears, and hand-holding from Timmy had been able to stop the cancer’s dirty work. With a sudden faraway look, Dad died on Christmas Eve; his mind, soul, and everything that had made him unique leaving his body behind, empty and silent.
Remembering the heartbreaking moment, Timmy’s sobbing grew faster and more intense, the pressure in his chest becoming unbearable. He was hyperventilating again.
He slowed a few hundred feet from his home and tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t let his mom see him like this—it would only bring her own tears and she had been through
enough sadness already. As Timmy brought his forearm up to his eyes to blot the tears, someone called out to him.
“Hey!”
Timmy quickly raised his shoulder to hide his face. Using the fabric of his short-sleeved shirt, he wiped the remaining tears from his eyes and cheeks and then looked up in the direction of the voice. On the lawn to his right, just three houses from his own home, he noticed a girl on a trampoline. She watched him, a look of concern on her face, as she continued to bounce casually.
“Hey,” the girl said again. “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
Timmy wiped his face some more, then cleared his throat. “I wasn’t crying,” he said in a sniffling voice.
The girl continued to stare. She appeared to be about his age, though slightly taller, with curly brown hair, green eyes, and a suntanned face. She wore a white tank top and green shorts, and was barefoot. Behind her stood a two-story house, red with black shutters, the front door stained a dark, natural brown.
The girl fell to a sitting position, bouncing once, before she swung her legs off the side of the trampoline and hopped down to the grass. She walked toward him.
“Yes you were,” she said, stepping through the grass and onto the sidewalk where she stopped and folded her arms. “Hey, I know you—you’re that new kid . . . Timmy, right?”
Timmy nodded.
She studied him some more and said, “How’d you get so scraped up and dirty?”
He turned as if to continue home.
“Hey, don’t go yet Timmy,” the girl said, entering the street. “Ouch!” she said and picked up her feet, running in place.
“What’s the matter?” Timmy said.
“The pavement’s hot.”
“Oh.”
“Say, are you always this cheerful?” she asked. “My name’s Kelly.” She offered her hand.
Timmy shook Kelly’s hand, looking off to the side to avoid her gaze. He didn’t want her to know for sure that he had been crying.
Donkey Sense Page 1