Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  “There’s no information on it, just her name. Besides, her owner is mean and horrible. What kind of person abandons a baby goat? When I found her, she was having to eat out of a trash can and being tormented by kids who thought it was funny to scare her on purpose and record her distress for a video montage. She has a genetic disorder that gives her anxiety. She’s like me.”

  Mom’s anger drains away. “That’s really sad, but I can’t keep a goat in my garden.” Mom looks over at the saplings that are now barren sticks. She massages her temples. “She ate my plants. Give her another hour and she’ll gobble up everything. There will be nothing left.”

  I feel the finality of Mom’s decision in the air, but I try one more time anyway. “But …”

  Mom crosses her arms and shakes her head. “We can’t, honey. If she were a dog, maybe, but she’s not. She’s a goat. She doesn’t belong here. We’ll take her to the humane society. They’re better equipped to find her owner or a good home. That’s my final answer.”

  My heart slips all the way down my body and splats onto the ground.

  Mom, Reef, and I stand in the middle of the garden, staring down at Butter.

  I bite back tears while Mom looks guilty yet determined and Reef digs a hole in the dirt with his foot, uncomfortable with the impasse.

  “What’s going on out here?” a deep voice says.

  The three of us look toward the house and see my dad standing in the doorway. He’s wearing his navy uniform and holding his duffel bag.

  Reef doesn’t hesitate. He runs to him. “You’re home!”

  Dad drops his duffel bag and throws his arms around Reef. They do a man hug—all back pats and forearm embraces.

  “Oh my goodness, Jack!” Mom’s voice cracks, and she runs to him too.

  He wraps her in a bear hug.

  Mom wipes tears from her eyes and gives him a big smooch. “What are you doing here?”

  “Got some unexpected leave,” Dad says, and then looks over at me.

  I know I should run over to him like Reef and Mom, but I feel weird. Sometimes, after Dad’s been gone for a long time, he starts to seem more like a character from a book or movie than a real person. I hear Mom’s and Reef’s stories of Dad and he sounds amazing—always brave, always strong, sometimes funny. They share all these specific, special details—like the way his Southern accent sounds when he says sweetheart or champ; that his favorite color is a shade of blue only found in the waters off the Gulf Coast, where Dad grew up; how much he loves cheese grits and insisted Reef try them only to have Reef gag and spit them out, making Mom laugh so hard she doubled over—and I always want to join in these conversations. I want to tell my own stories, but when I search my memories, they’re hazy, like something off in the distance.

  Then I feel awful because I’m failing him by not remembering right. We’re the troops at home. We’re supposed to support him by being brave, by being strong, by being okay he’s away, by not giving him extra stuff to worry about while he’s at sea, and by remembering him perfectly when he’s gone so that when he comes home it’s not strange.

  Only, having Dad suddenly here in real life is strange and I’m not sure how to act, so I hang on to Butter like she’s the reason I can’t greet him properly.

  Dad gives Mom and Reef another round of hugs and comes to us instead. “Hey, Marvel. What do you have there?

  “This is Butter.”

  He kneels down and scratches Butter’s ears. “I’m surprised Mom let you get a goat.” He winks at Mom.

  “She didn’t.” I fill Dad in on Butter and how she came to be in our garden, but I leave a lot of stuff out. I don’t tell him about my stage fright or fake-threatening to tell on the kids or any of the stuff that makes me sound like a loser. I can’t. Not yet.

  “That was brave of you.” Dad strokes my hair.

  Emotion flickers across Mom’s face. It’s like sadness and love stirred together. Sometimes, I think Mom feels worse for me than I do.

  “I wasn’t really.” I don’t want to take fake credit. He doesn’t know the whole story, the defective parts. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to help her.”

  Dad regards me and then nods like we’ve shared something between us, but I don’t know what it is.

  Butter bleats and paws Dad’s arm.

  He smiles and pulls Butter’s tag toward him.

  “I want to keep her, but Mom says I have to take her to the humane society.” I’m ratting Mom out on purpose. I’m angry she’s making me give Butter away.

  “Is that so?” Dad scratches Butter’s head. “She’s mighty cute. Did you know my grandpa kept goats on his farm in Louisiana? I loved visiting him.”

  I stash that tidbit of info in my mind and vow to remember every detail. I’m going to share it the next time Mom and Reef are telling stories after Dad leaves. Because Dad will be gone again as quickly as he arrived.

  Dad turns to Mom and shocks me by saying, “We can let her keep the goat until she can find the owner, right? What harm could it do?”

  His words spark a glimmer of hope, which Mom immediately blows out. “What harm? That goat ate my landscape order and she’s been here less than an hour!”

  Dad looks from me, to Butter, to Mom, and back again like he wants to make us all happy. “What if she sleeps in the garage for tonight and I build her a proper …”

  Mom scowls at him.

  “Temporary enclosure tomorrow,” Dad finishes, and my flicker of hope reignites.

  Mom and Dad do their mind-meld thing. They don’t say a word, but I know they’re silently communicating. I have no idea how they fall back into it so easily after Dad’s been away.

  I hold my breath, not wanting to move a muscle, afraid I’ll jinx the verdict.

  Dad must win the argument because Mom relents a little. “Only until she finds the owner. We can’t keep a goat as a pet.”

  “Yes!” I pull Butter toward me and snuggle her in celebration. I’m so happy, I barely notice the trash stench emanating from her fur.

  “Don’t get attached. She’s a guest, not a family member,” Mom warns, and then looks at Reef. “You’ll help her hang signs and put a notice on Nextdoor.”

  “Me? Why me?” Reef asks, and I bet he regrets following us into the garden now.

  “Because you need to learn responsibility and …” Mom pauses, trying to think of more reasons to make Reef help me. “You play too many video games and need something else to do.”

  “Ugh.” Reef rolls his eyes and stomps inside.

  Dad laughs. “There’s no place like home.”

  Mom lovingly pats Dad on the shoulder. “Remember, the goat was your idea.”

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly. I bathe Butter to get the garbage stink off her and repair her makeshift enclosure. While Dad gets settled, Mom cooks dinner. When it’s ready, we decide to eat in the garden so Butter can explore her enclosure with supervision.

  We bring all the food to the outdoor table, and it’s amazing how full it feels with four people sitting around it instead of three. We linger long after we’ve eaten, giving Dad, Mom, and Reef time to fill one another in on the last nine months. Dad tells interesting stories about faraway ports. Mom gushes about her newest landscaping job, her biggest one ever. Reef, being good at everything, talks about school, sports, and friends. I listen to them quietly and watch Butter bounce around her pen.

  As the hour grows later, it starts to get chilly and the flow of my family’s chatter slows. Dad glances at his watch and then me. “Catch me up on your world, Marvel.”

  Mom, Reef, and Dad look at me expectantly, but I don’t want to talk about myself because I don’t have any victories to share and the night’s been too cozy to ruin with tales of mortifying defeats. “Um … well …” I stall, trying to think of something, but the only thought in my head is an image of me freezing onstage.

  “Was that a raindrop?” Mom asks.

  Before we can respond, we all f
eel them, big round drops dripping from the sky. The night brought the rain along with the chill. We jump up, clearing plates and food before it starts coming down in buckets, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ve been saved from answering Dad’s question and gotten a little more time before I have to confess my failures to him.

  I bring Butter inside and get her situated in the garage. By the time I’m done, it’s time for bed, and despite all the events of the day—my humiliating speech, finding Butter, and Dad’s unexpected arrival—I fall asleep quickly.

  * * *

  I’m not sure what wakes me up first, the rain or Butter.

  Outside, one of our famous Northern California rainstorms rages. Raindrops pound on the roof, and wind shakes the walls. Over it all, I hear Butter bleating. Despite her cozy spot in the garage, she sounds terrified.

  I sneak downstairs and quietly open the door leading into the garage.

  As soon as Butter sees me, she bounces over.

  I scoop her up and carry her to the bed I made for her of old moving blankets. I sit down with her in my lap and sink my fingers into her fur.

  Butter snuggles into me and nibbles on my pajama sleeve.

  A big gust of wind blows. It rattles the garage door like the whole house is going to fall down. Butter freezes up and goes stiff.

  Poor Butter. I stroke her side until she relaxes again. I don’t blame her for being scared of the storm. I know exactly how she feels. Personally, I worry about the wind being strong enough to blow the windows apart, sending flying glass and gushing rain into the house. Vivid, I know. My imagination is part of my problem.

  She pops up and shakes herself off and then lies down next to me.

  I curl myself around her.

  Butter pushes her nose into my cheek. It’s soft and warm and a bit ticklish.

  “You know, Butter, I have anxiety like you,” I say, talking to distract her from the loud noises. “Only, I don’t think I was born with an anxiety gene. No one else in my family has it and my dad’s the bravest person on the planet, so mine isn’t genetic. I think mine started from a seed and grew up inside me like a big, giant redwood. Sometimes, I feel like my insides are a whole redwood forest of concerns, one worry pollinating another.”

  Butter gazes up at me, and I swear she’s asking me a question with her aquamarine eyes.

  “You’re wondering what the seed was? Mr. J, the school therapist, asks me that all the time. I’m not exactly sure, but Mr. J says anxiety is unprocessed feelings coming out sideways.” I mimic Mr. J’s soothing therapist voice: “ ‘Emotions will get you one way or another, Marvel.’ ”

  Butter bleats at me.

  “Shush,” I tell her. “You can’t make noise or Mom might change her mind about letting you stay, and I really want to keep you.”

  Someone clears their throat.

  I pick my head up and see Dad. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

  He sees me snuggled next to Butter and I wonder if I’m in trouble, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply closes the door.

  Relieved he’s not mad, I lay my head back down, and my eyes start to feel droopy.

  After a few minutes, the door opens again. Dad has a blanket and a pillow. He covers me with the blanket and hands me the pillow. “Don’t let your mom catch you out here. I think that goat’s on borrowed time as it is.”

  At the thought of losing Butter, sadness coils around my heart like a constrictor and squeezes. I can’t let anyone take her away from me, not even Mom. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

  He kisses my forehead and goes to the door.

  “Good night,” I say, groggy.

  “Night, sweetheart. Get some sleep. You have school in the morning.” Dad closes the door.

  My eyes pop open, and I’m suddenly wide awake. I can’t go back there. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

  I wake up on the garage floor with Butter nibbling on my hair.

  “You need a chew toy.” I gently push her head away and roll over. I’m exhausted. Dad’s parting words about going to school today kept me up fretting and planning how to get out of it.

  I finally settled on talking to Mom at breakfast and telling her all the gruesome details of exactly what happened during my presentation. Even though the idea of reliving the whole thing again makes me queasy, once she understands how awful going back to school will be for me, I’ll roll out my homeschooling plan.

  I even came up with the perfect project—Butter. I can build her a house (math), record and measure her growth (science), study her origins (history), and read books about training (language arts). It’s perfect. Mom has to agree.

  I kiss Butter on the nose.

  She headbutts me.

  “Ouch.” Cranky. I rub my forehead. She must not be a morning goat or maybe she’s hungry. We’re still getting to know each other. Another reason why I need to stay home with her instead of going to school. I scoop her up and take her into the house.

  Dad’s at the stove scrambling eggs. “Morning, you two. How’d you sleep?”

  “Okay.” I sit down at the table with Butter in my lap. “Where’s everyone?”

  “Your brother left for school about ten minutes ago, and your mom jetted out of here at the crack of dawn to get to her landscaping project. Something about traffic and reordering plants.” His Southern drawl and old-timey slang make him sound like a country singer sometimes. He puts a plate of eggs in front of me.

  “She’s gone already?” I push my eggs around on my plate. I can’t talk Mom into homeschooling me if she isn’t here.

  Dad watches me play with my eggs. “Don’t worry. Dad’s on deck. I’ll take you to school this morning, and I’ll be there at two thirty to pick you up.”

  I frown and pull Butter closer, trying to focus on the feel of her fur instead of the rolling nausea that wants to overtake me. No way I can face school. Everyone is going to laugh at me.

  Misinterpreting my expression, he says, “I’ll get there before two thirty. I’ll be there at two fifteen so I’m ready and waiting as soon as school gets out.” He smiles as if he’s solved the problem.

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks. Um …”

  “Yes?” Dad pauses and waits for me to say more.

  “Yesterday …” I want to tell him about my stage fright. The way I couldn’t move my legs, couldn’t speak, how everyone laughed at me and how embarrassed I am to face the kids at school, only I can’t do it. Of course Dad knows I have anxiety. It’s not a big secret or anything, but it’s one thing to know about it and it’s another to live it. Because he’s not here most of the time, he doesn’t have to drown in the day-to-day details and I don’t want to plunge him into it.

  He might only be home for a few days. The navy can call him back at any moment. It’s happened before. Then he’ll be gone again for who knows how long. I don’t want to spoil what little time we have by showing him who I really am. How defective. How cowardly. Dad fights in wars. I can’t even give a thirty-second speech without sinking into a bottomless ocean of nerves and full-body panic. And if I can’t explain why not going back to school matters so much, I can’t make a case for homeschooling.

  Dad sets another plate down. It has a variety of fruit cut up in tiny pieces. “For Butter’s breakfast. I’ll find her some goat food while you’re at school and work on her enclosure.”

  “Thanks.” I feed Butter a piece of banana.

  She gobbles it up and begs for more by pushing her nose into my hand.

  Dad laughs, but I can only manage a half-hearted smile at her cuteness. I’m desperate to stay home with them, where things are easy and friendly, instead of going to school.

  Dad considers me. “Don’t worry about Butter. I’ll watch her today.”

  At the moment, Butter isn’t the one I’m worried about. She gets to stay home with Dad.

  “Tell you what, I’ll finish feeding her and get her secured before we leave. That way you can get ready.” Dad holds out his arms for her.

 
“Okay.” I reluctantly hand her over and head to my room to get dressed. On my way, I devise a plan that might help me hide for the six grueling hours of school. As soon as I get there, I’ll go straight to Skippy and tell her I feel terrible. If I’m lucky, she’ll let me camp out in her office for the day. If not, there’s always the bathroom. The one thing I know for sure is that there’s NO WAY I’m stepping one single toe into any of my classes.

  * * *

  Instead of swinging around through the car line, Dad pulls into the parking lot.

  “You aren’t dropping me off?” Mom never parks. She stopped in third grade when she realized the walk from the car to my classroom gave me too much time to beg her to take me back home again.

  Dad pulls off his baseball cap and rubs a hand over his head, straightening hair that’s cropped too short to actually get messy. “Principal Huxx wanted to have a quick chat with you and a parent before school. I told your mom I’d do it. I miss so many of these things.”

  I practically feel my head exploding. I mean, we’re not talking about an open house here or an awards ceremony. I’d be thrilled to have Dad come to those, not that I’ve ever been to any (there are no awards for Most Anxious and open house is optional, so I opt out), but in theory those are nice events. This is a principal-parent conference. Everyone knows that’s not good.

  If Dad gets called away tomorrow, the memory of me he’ll take with him for however many months he’s gone is whatever happens next. After yesterday, let’s face it, Principal Huxx isn’t calling us in to celebrate my unique way of handling presentations.

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  When we get to the office, Ms. Day is waiting for us. I suppose everyone but me got a heads-up about this meeting.

  “Good morning, Marvel,” Ms. Day says sweetly. She’s a first-year teacher, so she’s brand-new and not worn out yet, which is nice because she’s almost never grumpy.

  “Hi, Ms. Day.” My school voice is different from my home voice. The one I use at school sounds shakier and kind of shy.