Little Joe

by Sandra Neil Wallace

  Eli’d seen them at shows before. In catalogs, too. They were expensive. Especially nice ones. This one had leather handles on each end that looked brand-new.

  “Go ahead. Open it,” Grandpa urged, swinging the box around on its wheels to face Eli.

  Eli unclasped the shiny silver latches and looked inside. There was everything you could imagine in the way of showmanship: Sullivan’s livestock shampoo, clippers and combs and shoe polish to darken Little Joe’s hooves.

  “It’s mostly new,” Grandpa began, “the things in there. Like the spray cans of show gloss to make ’em look pretty. The old stuff’s from when your pa showed.”

  Eli kept staring, drinking in the notion that it was all his. Spider scurried over to take a peek and hopped inside, wrapping her tail around the edge of the lid.

  “This was his currycomb.” Grandpa pulled out a soft brush. “That’s for good luck, you know.”

  Eli took the comb and studied it. This was in Pa’s pocket when he showed, Eli thought. When he won the blue ribbons. He took out the comb that was already in his back pocket and replaced it with Pa’s.

  “I’ll tell you another thing that’s ready,” Grandpa said, clearing his throat. He walked to his truck and brought out some bright red fruit. “It’s my tomatoes.”

  Grandpa had left a tip from the vine on the one he handed to Eli. Eli plucked it free and took a bite, taking in the peppery smell that clung to his fingers.

  Tater bounded over and barked at the show box before nudging his face into Eli’s hand, itching for a taste, too.

  “It takes two people to lift that box into the show barn, Eli,” Grandpa said. “Your pa on one end, you on the other. Remember, I’ll be with you in that show ring, whether I’m really in there or not.”

  Eli gave Tater the rest of the tomato and looked up at Grandpa. Now his hands were free to give him a hug.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Poison Weeds!

  Little Joe stuck his neck over the fence as far as it could go. He flicked his gray tongue in the air like a lizard, snatching a branch with it.

  “Not too many apples down that low,” Eli told him.

  A fistful of crumpled leaves fluttered into Little Joe’s face.

  Eli rattled a high branch with both hands to get some apples to drop. A few lumpy ones rolled to the ground on his side of the fence. Eli scooped up two and steadied them in his palm. What Little Joe liked most this time of year were sour green apples freckled with brown spots right out of Eli’s hand. Little Joe’s mouth felt like warm rubber grabbing onto Eli’s fingers, but he never bit.

  The wind blew heavy, drowning out Little Joe’s crunching. It played shadow with the sun between the maple trees, washing over Little Joe’s coat with ripply waves of dark and light. Eli looked up at the tops of the maples, where the gusts grew stronger. Caught in the teeth of the wind, their branches bobbed back and forth, trying to keep the early autumn leaves from blowing away. But they spun around like pinwheels, faster and faster, until they let go, sending a shower of color down on Little Joe.

  “Eli!”

  The wind carried Pa’s shout over the hillside. Something’s wrong. Eli knew it from the way Pa sounded.

  Eli dropped the apple he was feeding Little Joe and raced up the field. It was harder going up the hill than running down it. He was out of breath within a few strides and slipped on a pile of leaves. Scrambling to his feet, Eli scared the wild turkeys into flying off. He focused on the space where the hill broke and became flat, sucking in more air while he ran against the wind. The closer Eli got, the tighter his chest became. When he was halfway up the hill, he could see Pa standing at the top, one arm splayed out against the sun, dangling something lifeless in his fist.

  “What’s wrong, Pa?” Eli burst out, breathless.

  “This.” Pa’s face had turned the color of birch bark. He showed Eli what was in his hand.

  Now Eli could see what Pa was holding. A clump of lobelia, roots hanging from Pa’s fingers, clotted with dirt. “When was the last time you checked the fields?” he boomed.

  This morning, Eli thought. But yesterday felt the same as today. And the days before. His mind raced through the weeks, stretching to remember when he’d searched the fields last. But it was all a blur. Which field was it and when? Eli was never good at days. There was no school in summer, so every day seemed like a Saturday. Now that school had started up again, Eli hadn’t paid much attention to flowers and weeds. He’d been too busy gearing up for the fair.

  “Yesterday,” Eli finally spat out. “Or the day before.” But he knew it wasn’t true. Eli’s legs grew wobbly and his throat was bone dry.

  “Couldn’t have.” Pa stared coldly at Eli. “It’s good and bloomed. I found it in the field where the mother cows are. No telling if the crossbreds might’ve eaten it. Or Fancy. Who knows how their calves will come out.” Pa turned away from Eli. “Won’t know till spring.”

  Eli had to sit down. He knew his legs wouldn’t support him much longer. He’d seen pictures of what happened when cow mothers ate poisonous plants. Pa’d showed him a photo last year of a tiny calf with front legs all crooked, her bones so brittle she could barely walk.

  “Didn’t I tell you to check the fields every day?”

  Eli felt a rush of sadness wash over him. He tried to sniff back the tears, but they welled up in his eyes anyway.

  Pa took out a lighter and torched the root ends. He held on until the clump became a ball of fire. Then Pa tossed the burning plant to the ground and stomped it with his boots. “I’ve got a mind to ground you from showing at the fair, Eli,” he said. “Because of what you done.”

  “No!” Eli’s voice exploded. “You can’t do that, Pa!” he cried, choking back tears.

  “You’d still get the money.” Pa’s hands were trembling. Eli’d never seen him this way. “Ned’ll buy your calf, anyhow.” Pa kept squashing the plant with his boots, but it was already a shriveled heap of stringy black bits.

  Money? Eli hadn’t even thought of the money. He had to get away. He sprinted into the barn and kicked at his show box hard before slipping into the empty pen. He slumped down into the straw and let the tears flow.

  How had he forgotten to check the fields? What if one of them babies comes out crooked? It would be his fault. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Eli pulled himself up and leaned against the stone wall of the foundation to keep his head from spinning. I’m not even going to get a shot at winning the blue ribbon, he thought. Eli slid down the wall slowly, hoping the coolness would soothe him, but it didn’t. He crouched down, curling his knees up close, and cried some more.

  Eli slid down the wall slowly, hoping the coolness would soothe him, but it didn’t.

  “There you are.” Grandpa stood over the gate to the empty pen.

  “I—I didn’t mean to forget, Grandpa,” Eli stammered. “Really I didn’t. I know I checked the fields. Just not yesterday. And maybe not the day before.”

  “Ah, son. It’s not your fault.” Grandpa opened the gate and slid down into the straw, too. Eli opened his eyes and looked up at him. Shafts of light streamed across Grandpa’s shoulder, carrying flecks of dust from the straw bedding.

  “I saw the lobelia,” Grandpa said. “It wasn’t even chewed on. And you didn’t make it grow.” He lifted Eli’s chin. “They can bloom in an afternoon, anyhow. Now help me up.”

  “I won’t win the blue ribbon,” Eli said as soon as he saw the show box. “Pa said I can’t go to the fair ’cause it’s all my fault.”

  “Will you stop carrying on like that? You can’t know the pasture every minute of the day. Now quit your sniveling and start listening. It ain’t your fault, you hear me?” Grandpa repeated. “A cow’d have to eat a whole lot of lobelia to have a calf come out crippled.”

  Grandpa stroked the top of Eli’s head. “I’m gonna tell you something, not because I want you to feel worse, but because I want you to know about your pa.” Grandpa pulled El
i onto the show box next to him. “I told you your pa’s first show animal was Shamrock, didn’t I? Back when your pa was a boy. About your age.”

  Eli sniffed, then nodded, wiping his wet nose with the back of his hand.

  “What I didn’t tell you is what happened to her.” Grandpa gripped a corner of the show box with his fingers before letting out a deep breath. “Things were goin’ real good with the training. Shamrock was always good on the training part. She was so attached to your pa with all the fussin’ he gave her, she’d do anything he asked. Trusted him wholeheartedly. One hundred percent. But she was lean on the weight, see?” Grandpa jabbed at the middle of his glasses. “I didn’t care much, but your pa did. He wanted to win that blue ribbon so bad, he thought if he grazed her on fresh pasture loaded with clover she’d bulk up some and her backbones wouldn’t stick out as much.”

  Grandpa rubbed the side of his face with a callused-up hand. “We didn’t have any fresh pastures—not enough land to rotate the fields each season—so he took her over to old Rupert’s fields, which hadn’t been chewed on in years. I didn’t even know about it till it was too late.”

  Eli leaned forward and stared at Grandpa. “Too late for what, Grandpa?”

  “The field was peppered with lupine, son. And she was all alone in the pasture. With no grown cows like Old Gertie or Fancy to show her not to. She was dead the next day. Must’ve eaten a whole lot. Your pa was heartbroken. Didn’t talk for days. Still don’t talk much.”

  Now Eli knew why Pa’s heart had dried up. And why he acted the way he did when he found the lobelia. Eli felt another rush of emotion well up into his throat, this time for Pa. He’d make sure to check the fields twice a day from now on. Even after blooming season was over. Until the first snowfall, Eli decided. He wanted to run to Pa and tell him how sorry he was about Shamrock. He wouldn’t even care if Pa hugged back. But he was afraid to.

  “I’ll talk to your pa,” Grandpa whispered. “Just because he didn’t get to show at the fair that first year doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. That was then. Now it’s your turn, son.”

  Eli hoped Grandpa could convince Pa, but he knew how different they were. “Pa says we talk too much.”

  “He does? Well, I got a right to be with my grandson. Tell him a few things.” Grandpa pulled Eli closer, the way he always did. Eli couldn’t help but smile.

  “You and Pa sure are different,” Eli said.

  “Your pa’s got a particular way of seeing things, Eli. It don’t have to be yours. If you don’t want it to.”

  But Eli wanted to please Pa. Whenever he caught sight of the winning photos in the tack room, his neck hairs tingled. And he figured if he got close enough to winning the blue ribbon with Little Joe, Pa might be proud of him.

  “You are gonna lose him, son.”

  “Huh?” Eli leaned over to look at Grandpa.

  “Your show animal.”

  Eli wasn’t ready to think about that.

  “Sometimes nature decides when, sometimes a cattle sale does.” Grandpa put an arm around Eli. “That’s just the way it is. Doesn’t mean you stop caring just because it hurts. If you do, you turn away all the good that comes from knowing them. The only thing sadder than losing a show animal is hardening up for good.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  No Trespassing

  Eli started off slowly beside the nodding white petals of Queen Anne’s lace, dawdling along the gravel shoulder next to the road that led to Tess’s farm. He wanted to see the horses. He’d been told more foals had been born and hoped to touch them before they got too big. Maybe he’d see Tess. Tess was different. She wasn’t always talking like Hannah. And she was close to her horses the way he was to his calf without ever having to say it. Eli didn’t feel like saying much. Or thinking. Especially about what Grandpa had told him in the barn. Or the lobelia Pa found in Fancy’s field.

  Eli tugged at his cap and began to jog as soon as he heard whinnying. When he got near the white ribbons on the electric fence surrounding the pastures, Blue barked.

  “Blue! Come here, Blue!” It was Tess calling. The little blue-gray dachshund waddled next to her heels with his squatty legs and stuck out his tongue.

  Eli rested behind the deeply grooved trunk of a sugar maple nearly stripped of its golden leaves and caught his breath. He watched Tess lead an Appaloosa he hadn’t seen before into the pasture above the lake.

  “Hi, Eli.” Tess smiled. Eli looked around the tree and smiled, too.

  Tess took off the twine holding the pasture gate in place and guided the speckled horse through it. She unhooked the lead chain and the horse galloped free, kicking and bucking at the wind. He slowed to a trot and flared his nostrils when he got close to the others and saw they were grazing.

  “Come to see the babies?” Tess asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They’re in the pasture by the lake where it’s nice and flat. No gopher holes. And no electric fence to zap them. Come see.”

  They watched the foals frolicking in the fields and rolling around in the last patches of clover. Eli marveled at their long, spindly legs. They splayed out in all directions, yet somehow the foals didn’t topple over.

  “Their mouths are softer than velvet,” Tess whispered.

  A tan one bit the neck of another to get him to play. They galloped away with bushy tails in the air so new, the stubs barely covered their rumps.

  Tess climbed through the fence and made a clucking sound. Two foals came over. She took a cloth from her back pocket and wiped their eyes with it.

  “Still fly season,” she told Eli. “And their tails are too short to shoo anything away.” Tess curled an arm around the neck of the rust-colored one and guided him toward the fence. “Would you like to touch him?”

  “Sure.”

  The colt’s black mane stood straight up and was all feathery. Just like a toothbrush, Eli thought. Only not near as many bristles. Eli could see right through it.

  “Go ahead. Reach your hand out, palm flat, and he’ll sniff it,” urged Tess.

  Eli stretched out his arm too quickly. The foal got spooked and backed away.

  “They’re so skittish at this age,” Tess said. “Try again. Give me your hand this time and I’ll bring it to him.”

  Tess took Eli’s palm and rested it on top of hers. Slowly, she guided it toward the colt. He didn’t get spooked and sniffed at Eli’s fingers. Snorting out a warm breath of air, the colt skimmed Eli’s palm with his mouth.

  “It is soft.” Eli smiled. Tess was right. It was softer than velvet. Softer than anything Eli’d ever touched. He imagined it must be even softer than the velvety skin he’d seen hanging off a buck’s antlers. And it was softer than the pinkest part on Tater’s belly.

  Tess laughed and studied the colt like Eli studied Little Joe. She examined his legs, cupping her hand around a tiny ankle and sliding it up the tendon. “They’re pretty helpless when they’re babies,” she said, feeling a scab below the colt’s knee. “They need lots of attention.”

  Tess picked some straw out of his mane in the same gentle way Ma used to comb Eli’s hair when he was little. She ran her fingers through his stringy mane and the colt stepped on Tess’s foot. She giggled and looked down at the hoof, no bigger than a few fingers. “They go barefoot until they become yearlings,” Tess explained. “Then they get shoes on the front feet.”

  Eli stuck a sneaker under the fence. The little hooves were the color of his shoelaces. “Cows don’t get anything done with their hooves till they’re at least a year old,” Eli mentioned, happy he knew that.

  “Oh. I didn’t know that. Is your calf a year old?” Tess asked.

  “He’ll be a little over nine months at the fair.”

  “When do you show?”

  “Tomorrow.” If I even go, Eli thought. He kept eyeing the colt’s hooves, trying not to think about the fair.

  “I could never do that.” Tess climbed under the fence and stood beside Eli.

  “Do
what?”

  “Part with an animal the way beef farmers do.” She shook away a loose brown hair from her forehead. “I couldn’t imagine taking care of an animal every day, then going to the fair and selling it. None of us in my family could.”

  “It’s different with beef farmers,” Eli admitted. He thought of Pa and how he kept growth charts filled with numbers on all the crossbreds. And how he even named them numbers. Eli could never do that. I’d have to give them real names, he thought. Just like I did with Little Joe.

  “Don’t you want to win a blue ribbon?” he asked Tess.

  “Oh, I’ve got plenty of ribbons,” she said. “Not to brag or anything. I go to competitions all the time with Chili Pepper. She’s grazing up there.” Tess pointed to the paddock where the older horses were. “I always get nervous. Don’t know why. I do the same jumps with her down by the lake a hundred times, but the minute I enter the show ring, I forget. Only for a second, though. Chili Pepper reminds me. She helps me win all the time.”

  Tess swung around and leaned into the rail to face Eli. “Is it like that with Little Joe? Does he help you, too?”

  Eli thought about his calf and smiled. “He’s just a big old teddy bear.” Eli laughed. “Once he got used to me leading him around. And he’ll do anything I ask him to. Poses like he’s a movie star. As long as Tater don’t spook him.”

  “I bet you’ll win,” Tess said. “Then you’ll get lots of money to buy another one.” She paused, then forced out a laugh. “Guess I’m lucky they don’t eat horses and I can keep mine each year.”

  “Yes, they do.” Keller had snuck up from behind. Both Tess and Eli jumped a little from the fence.

  “They eat horses over in Europe,” Keller said. “That’s where my grandma’s from.” He tried to squeeze into the space between Tess and Eli. “They make glue out of ’em, too. That’s why glue smells the way it does.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Tess hopped onto the lower rail and whistled at a foal that skittered by.