Little Joe

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  It took a few blinks before Eli could take in the dimness. What lay inside revealed itself in pieces. First, it was the shape of things. Two wooden arms of a wheelbarrow splayed sideways against a whitewashed post. Next, the jagged teeth of barbed wire. Piercing the air in circles, it glinted silver around spools as high as Eli’s waist. Then finally, movement. Eli spotted a smoky curl, hairy and soft. It wove through his legs in a quivering tickle. The curl turned serious, into a shove only a barn cat could give. A shove that nearly toppled Eli over until he leaned down and stroked it.

  The cat purred and followed Eli as far as the pen, where they heard chewing.

  Every time Eli entered the barn this early, he thought he’d wake up the animals, but it never worked out that way. They were always up before anybody else. Spider, the youngest of the tabby barn cats, was up, too, balancing on top of the stanchion wall. It couldn’t have been more than an inch wide, which suited Spider just fine. Spider could climb most anything a real spider could, the thinner the better. She licked the back of a mackerel-striped paw, peered over Little Joe in the maternity pen and mewed.

  “He’s your calf, too, huh, Spider?” Eli’d seen Spider nuzzled up against Little Joe’s stomach yesterday afternoon. Eli wished he could get that close. He stretched out his arm and made a bridge across the stanchion, but Spider didn’t need it. She jumped onto Eli’s shoulder, clear.

  Eli rubbed his hands together to find some heat. The barn wasn’t much warmer than outside and it was dark. He couldn’t reach the lightbulb on the low beam yet, and the switch had been broke for years.

  Little Joe shook his ears and hid behind Fancy as Eli unlocked the latch and came into the pen with a bucket of grain.

  Keep humming, Eli remembered Grandpa saying. And pretend not to look. It had been four days since Little Joe was born, and Eli worked on gentling him. Still, Little Joe snuck behind his mama no matter how slowly Eli slid the pitchfork into the straw to scoop up the manure. Little Joe would lower his neck, thick and fuzzy as a bear cub, and peek at Eli through Fancy’s legs. And no matter what Eli hummed, tossing the clumps into a wheelbarrow, Little Joe wouldn’t take water from the bucket Eli’d freshened until after Eli left.

  Maybe he’d like other songs besides Christmas carols, Eli thought. Christmas was over, but it was still Christmas-cold. Eli caught sight of his breath whenever he stopped humming. All he could think of to hum was Grandpa’s favorite—the “Pennsylvania Polka.” So he started humming that.

  Little Joe’s ears pricked up.

  Eli edged closer and Fancy mooed. He gave her some grain and wondered why Pa had put the halter on her. She and Little Joe wouldn’t be grazing for months and didn’t need to be led.

  Little Joe head-butted Fancy’s water bucket. It lay on its side, the top frozen over. Fumbling in his pockets for some gloves, Eli found the pair with the holes in them. He knelt and broke up the icy layer with his bare fingers. Then he felt a nudge. Before he knew it, he was flat on his face in the straw, with a hand in the icy bucket of water.

  “Hey, cut it out!” Eli said. Little Joe had nudged him hard and was sucking on Eli’s wet fingers.

  Eli pulled his fingers free, but Little Joe gripped Eli’s wrist with his tongue.

  “Hey—I ain’t no blade of grass.” Eli laughed. Little Joe’s tongue was strong as a suction cup and felt like fine-grit sandpaper against Eli’s skin. It was different from a Holstein tongue. Little Joe’s was black on top, bubble gum pink underneath and bent on keeping hold of Eli.

  “You’re really mine, aren’t you?” The thought burst into Eli’s head straightaway and stood there tingling, finally taking hold. He reached with his other hand and stroked the stray wisps of hair sprouting up between Little Joe’s ears. Then he leaned closer and smelled his calf. He knew he’d never forget that smell. It was sweet and fresh—a mixture of earth after rain, just-boiled milk and the fleshy parts of Tater’s ears.

  “Maybe you’re ready to be gentled after all, huh, boy?”

  Little Joe sneezed, flashing his bottom teeth.

  “What’s so funny?” Hannah asked, peering over the pen door.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be helping Ma?” Eli got up slowly and brushed the straw from his jeans.

  “I have time.” Hannah smiled. “The hair dye Ma’s mixing hasn’t turned purple yet.” She gripped a rail and swung one leg over the pen wall.

  “Ah, don’t come in, Hannah.” Eli scowled. “You’ll scare off Little Joe.”

  “No I won’t. I know how to be careful.”

  “You got to be quiet as Spider when you climb over, or he’ll skitter away.”

  Hannah hoisted the other leg over, then jumped.

  Eli watched his bull calf dart behind Fancy. “I don’t go chasing your rabbits away, do I?” he moaned.

  “Maybe he likes to hide.” Hannah squatted on the butt ends of her pink boots and looked at Little Joe skittering under Fancy’s legs. “My bunnies do. They like being chased, too.” Hannah inched closer. “Oh, Eli, his eyes are bigger than most. That means he’s smart. Snow White’s are the size of rubies and she knew how to pose right away.”

  Hannah stood up and stuck her face into a cobweb. It clung to her chin, thick as maple sap. “Get it off me, Eli!” she shrieked.

  Eli laughed and let Hannah claw at the dangling web before scraping it off with his thumb.

  Eli’d studied those cobwebs sometimes while doing his farm chores. He noticed they weren’t thin and silky like the willowy ones you’d find in a house; barn cobwebs were thick and as solidly wound as string. They hung in sagging clumps fat as spitballs and just as white, weaving their way around anything with corners.

  “There’s no cobwebs at Sassy Clippers,” Hannah sniffed, thrusting a boot back over the pen wall. “I’m going to help Ma.”

  The sun was up by now and spilling into the windows. It shone through Little Joe’s tail, soft and downy at the tips and not yet tangled up or dirty. It shone through the pink parts between the ridges of Little Joe’s ears when he bobbed up from his mama to see if Eli was still there.

  As soon as Eli looked at those ears, he realized what today was—tattoo day. He suspected Little Joe wouldn’t like it one bit.

  Eli’d seen plenty of cattle being tagged—Pa did it every year—but you didn’t have to tattoo milkers, on account of they weren’t certified Angus beef. And tagging was different from tattooing, Grandpa told him. Tagging was like getting your ears pierced.

  The smell of disinfectant met Eli’s nose before he saw Pa coming. Then Pa rounded the corner, screwed on the lightbulb and placed a silver pan swirling with alcohol on a bale of alfalfa next to the corral.

  “Do we keep him in the pen?” Eli asked.

  “Nah.” Pa pulled out the tattoo kit from under his arm. “Too little for that. He’d wrestle free in no time once we’d take hold of his head.”

  Pa had the kit open. He gripped the tattoo pliers, pressing hard on the handles. Then he dunked some metal digits into the silver pan. They clinked and bubbled as they went in. Eli could see that their points were made of tiny needles.

  “But he’s not even halter-broke,” Eli said. “How you gonna get him out?”

  In four strides Pa had the corral gate open. Now he was clipping a lead strap onto Fancy. Of course Little Joe would follow. He buried his forehead behind her hock and headed for the gate, too.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Grandpa?” Eli asked, watching their hooves clip the cement floor as he tried to keep up. “He could hold down Little Joe so’s he could stay right in the pen.”

  “I’m at the sawmill today.” Pa led Fancy through the shiny blue work chute and into the lot where all the steers were. “Besides, I can do it myself.”

  Little Joe followed Fancy toward the lot, but as soon as his shoulders reached the head gate, Pa squeezed it shut, locking Little Joe in the chute.

  When it sank in that he’d been caught, the bull calf jerked his head back, but the chute only had a few inches t
o give.

  “Take this sponge and wipe the earlobes with it, Eli, to get the wax off E-1’s skin.”

  “Who’s E-1?” The sleet had started up again and pounded down on Little Joe’s poll. Eli stared at the knotty lump between the calf’s ears.

  “Your bull calf.” Pa snapped the tattoo digits onto the pliers.

  “You mean Little Joe?”

  Little Joe snorted and showed the whites of his eyes. His mouth began to froth up and he started bawling.

  “He’s E-1 to me, son. If you’re wise, he would be to you, too. No use naming something that’s gonna get eaten.”

  Little Joe’s ears kept flicking as Eli rubbed them with the soggy sponge.

  “E stands for ‘Eli,’” Pa said, testing the tattoo on a piece of paper. “Then one, ’cause it’s your first show animal. Now hand me that tube of green paste.”

  Little Joe kept fighting the chute, banging against its sides to get free and bawling each time he couldn’t.

  Satisfied the tattoo had come out right on paper, Pa rubbed his fingers full of green ink. “Best to think of the calf as a number, boy. You’ll just have to part with it next fall.”

  Spider hopped onto the railing and hissed.

  The wind had changed course. The sleet was going in all directions now. Eli brushed an icy drip from his Steelers cap and eyed Pa. “What about all them dairy cows you had, Pa, right since you were little? What’d you call them?”

  “C-1 through 949. And number 949—the very last one—was just plain miserable.”

  Eli looked over to the lot at the steers herded up and facing them. Slick with sleet and munching on hay, the crossbreds were pinned with green tags dangling from their ears. Eli knew that the numbers and letters written in black marker had been done by Pa.

  He caught sight of Fancy and Old Gert.

  “Then why’s Old Gert called ‘Old Gert’ and Fancy ‘Fancy’?” Eli wanted to know.

  “Gert belonged to Grandma, and Fancy’s the cow your grandpa bought us to get this beef operation started.”

  But Eli didn’t quite remember it that way. To him, Gert was as much Pa’s as Grandma’s. Hadn’t Pa stayed up all night with Old Gert, back when she was still a milker and carrying twins? Maybe Pa was still sore about selling his dairy cows. He’d moped around that first afternoon come milking time last spring, not knowing what to do. Now he worked over at the sawmill while Ma cut hair in the old milk house.

  “Go rub your hands with alcohol and get the sponge. There’s bound to be some blood,” Pa said.

  Pa smeared the ink paste into Little Joe’s ears with his fingers. Then he put the jaws of the tattoo pliers against a lobe and clamped down.

  Eli couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t look. Instead, he eyed Little Joe’s hooves and saw the drops of blood begin to color the snow. He felt helpless. Helpless as Little Joe. The bull calf thrashed against the chute. Eli could hear the metal rattling, see the hooves tramping on the snow. But soon the bawling drowned out everything.

  “Rub the paste in that ear with your thumb, Eli, till all the bleeding’s stopped.”

  Eli did what he was told and felt the ridges in the calf’s ear with his thumb. He knew Little Joe must be sore at him. And afraid of Pa. How would Eli gentle Little Joe now?

  “It takes a while to break ’em down, but they get to know the score soon enough,” Pa explained. “They don’t win.”

  Hannah came out from the barn all happy. “I’ve come to help,” she shouted. “Ma’s cutting Mrs. Motichka’s hair and won’t let me listen.”

  “Oh no.” Pa put down the pliers and shooed Hannah away.

  “How come Little Joe’s crying so much?” she asked.

  “Not now, Hannah.” Pa stood square in front of the calf.

  “But what are you doing? Ma says I’m old enough to—” Hannah stopped talking when she saw the blood.

  “Bet you don’t want to get your ears pierced now, huh, Hannah?” Eli knew it was mean, but he was mad. Pa had made Little Joe afraid. He’d never get Little Joe to trust him. He’d think this was all Eli’s fault.

  Hannah put her hands to her mouth and screamed.

  “The blood should taper off soon,” Pa said. But Hannah had already fled into the barn.

  “The hard part’s over, Eli.” Pa closed up the tattoo kit and dipped his fingers in the disinfectant. “We can tag E-1 if you want to, but it can get in the way of the show halter.”

  Eli shook his head, so Pa went over to the lot and got Fancy.

  “There’s a difference between them and you, Eli.” Pa swung the chute open and Little Joe staggered out, still bawling as Fancy licked his hide.

  “You’re in charge,” Pa explained. “That’s what keeps ’em afraid.”

  Fancy tucked the bull calf close behind her rib as Pa shooed them into the barn. Eli wanted to follow, to be with them, but what would Pa think? Instead, he stood still.

  “Remember that when you take the rope halter to it, Eli. You can’t give ’em an inch. And don’t ever let go.”

  Chapter Three

  Sweet & Sour

  Eli didn’t want to go over to Keller Tibbet’s house in the first place. The gale winds of March had taken hold of the valley and hung on all week. Snowdrifts reached up to the apple branches. Even the sure-footed turkeys slid on the rock-hard snow. But Ma insisted Eli walk down and deliver the chicken potpie. She figured the Tibbets’d had their fill of junk food by now. Keller’s mother was away at a horse show, and Ma’d seen Keller tossing a whole bunch of pizza boxes into a burn barrel.

  “Hear your calf’s got scours.” Keller smirked. “Better stay clear when he fires away.” Keller rested a BB gun alongside his freckled jaw and took aim at a target.

  “Most every calf gets it,” Eli reasoned, trying to stay clear of the yelping Akita dogs lunging behind their kennel.

  “Every baby gets the runs once in a while,” Keller admitted. “Humans. Mammals.” Keller put down his gun and took the dish. He balanced it on top of an empty doghouse with his bare hands. No matter how cold it got, Keller never wore gloves or a winter coat even. The first thing you noticed about Keller was those red hands, cracked and chafed up like an old farmer’s. “’Cept hogs.” He stabbed at a chunk of snow with his black Wolverine boots. “They could pop right out of the sow and start nibbling on nails, then guzzle it down with some beer, I swear.” Keller smiled. His teeth were so big, Eli wondered if Keller had any gums and thought the top two looked like Snow White’s, Hannah’s rabbit. “They only get the runs at the fair when you don’t expect ’em to. Right when the judge is looking.”

  Eli hadn’t shown at the fair before, like Keller. And they weren’t exactly friends. But Keller was the closest farm kid near Eli’s age, so Ma kept pressing him to go visiting.

  “Got one in reserve, or is the calf with diarrhea your only show animal?” Keller asked.

  Eli hadn’t even thought of having a backup for Little Joe. “He was born stocky,” Eli said. “And he’s already square right up to his rump.” Eli peeled off a glove and blew on his frostbitten fingers. “My grandpa says he should do real well in his class.”

  Keller nodded and pulled out his jackknife. “This pie goes right in my fridge in the hog barn.” He cut through the foil and sniffed. “No sharing.”

  Eli heard squealing and caught sight of a mess of hogs in Keller’s pen. A sow, candy pink and panting, looked down at her empty feed tub and yawned. Eli wondered if she was the pig Keller showed at the fair last year—the sow who fell asleep in the middle of the show ring and didn’t wake up till the class was over.

  Keller held the chicken potpie away from the groveling hogs, hoisting it above his head, which was high. More than a foot taller than Eli, Keller was the only near six-footer in fourth grade. Eli knew Keller’d repeated Mrs. MacFarland’s class before, at least once. And he figured Keller would be six foot for sure if he let his hair grow. But Keller was always coming around the house for a trim. Ma said he could have any haircut f
or free.

  “Careful. Watermelon’s a biter,” Keller warned. Eli watched for any sniveling, open mouths and tried not to step on the feed tubs. They’d been turned over by Keller’s crop of Sour Patch hogs—a bunch of weanlings, piglets and sows who were rooting the upside-down containers into the filthy snow with their grunting snouts. Keller named all his hogs after the candy he sold on the school bus. Sour Patch were by far his best seller.

  Watermelon took hold of Eli’s pant leg.

  “Are you taking Watermelon to the fair this year?” Eli asked, tugging hard to set his pant leg free.

  “Don’t know yet.” Keller slapped Watermelon on the backside to get him moving and out of mischief. “Too early to tell how their hams’ll fatten up by the fall.”

  Keller walked into the barn and pulled open a rusty refrigerator door. He took out a slice of pepperoni pizza to make room for the potpie.

  Two little piglets with big pink ears and silky white faces came over. They wiggled their snouts in the air and stared up at Eli with long white eyelashes. Then they saw Keller and squealed.

  “The one on the left rants up already, so he’s out of the question.” Keller swooped down and scooped up the other with one arm. “This one’s so pink, naming her Strawberry’s a no-brainer.” Keller pulled out a tiny pair of clippers from his back pocket. “Needle teeth,” he said, trimming the pointy tip of a fingernail-length tooth. “If you don’t keep an eye on ’em, they’ll cut up the sow’s teats real bad and all the babies go hungry.”

  The piglet gazed up at Keller, who reached for a bottle stopper and nursed the piglet with it. “It’s just sugar water,” Keller said. “They’re so dumb ’n’ ornery, they’ll eat anything.”

  Eli smiled at Strawberry looking happy inside Keller’s camouflage vest. She gripped the bottle stopper like it was her mother and made all sorts of suckling sounds.

  “This one sure likes to camp out,” Keller said, blushing as the piglet snuggled closer. “So when’s he gonna get snipped?”

  “When’s who gonna get snipped?” Eli asked.