Little Joe

by Sandra Neil Wallace

Then Little Joe took off. Eli sure saw that. Running and bucking, with Pa still holding him and Grandpa chasing them both. Out toward the cornfields and into a patch full of needles.

  Eli was desperate to get out of the cab, but he knew Pa wouldn’t want him to. He scanned the windows for some kind of opening and discovered one an inch wide. “Is Little Joe all right?” he shouted, pinching his face against the glass.

  Grandpa nodded. Pa was still on his knees, both pant legs covered in burrs, and the back of his shirt was wet. Grandpa offered Pa a hand, but Pa brushed it aside and got himself up. Then Grandpa and Pa put their arms together and got Little Joe into the trailer.

  Pa lingered to make sure the latch was shut tight before getting in the cab next to Eli and driving around the pothole in the middle of the driveway.

  “Brought doughnuts,” Grandpa said after a while, taking a cardboard box off the dash. “All twelve of them are different.”

  Pa kept his eyes on the road.

  “How ’bout you, Eli?” Grandpa nudged Eli’s elbow with the doughnut box. “There’s one with sprinkles on it.”

  Eli didn’t think he could eat. The oatmeal Ma had made before dawn wouldn’t go down. And he didn’t want to mess up his clothes with chocolate frosting. “I don’t want to get any on my shirt.”

  “You’ll get plenty dirty unloading your calf,” Pa said, turning into the fairgrounds. “Ma’ll bring your show shirt.”

  Eli took the doughnut with chocolate sprinkles and craned his neck toward the trailer. Little Joe stomped against the metal floor. Eli spotted him poking his muzzle out of a slat on the side of the metal walls.

  “We’re driving into the show ring,” Grandpa announced.

  Pa idled the truck underneath a round metal roof.

  “Where is everything?” Eli asked. He couldn’t tell it was a show ring. More like being parked in a field of sawdust with a roof on it. There weren’t even any sides or a particular direction to face.

  “They won’t roll the bleachers in till this afternoon,” Grandpa said. “And hook in the gates right after.”

  “Go find the stall, Eli. Our name’s on it,” Pa said. “We’ll get the calf weighed in. The show barn’s up ahead, where that first trailer’s parked.” Pa unlocked the cab doors. “And take the chair with you.”

  Eli hopped into the sawdust with his lawn chair. He eyed the bright yellow sign that said BEEF CATTLE above the show barn. A group of farmers clustered below it, ready to corner an angry steer. “He’s got some good brakes on him,” the owner joked, letting himself be pulled through the work chute by the restless animal. Eli hoped Little Joe wouldn’t need all those men to make sure he got weighed in.

  Some older kids were already laying down bedding when Eli walked along the shed row. One was sprinkling, the other forking straw from a wheelbarrow. Eli was surprised that the stalls were just particleboard. He’d never seen the barn before a show, only when it was filled with straw and cattle and people. Eli searched the walls for a taped-up sign with the name Stegner on it. The steel bar of the lawn chair bumped against his ankle each time he moved.

  “Coming through!” somebody called out. Eli swung right. “Go left!” the voice boomed. Eli swung left. A bull swaggered by, fully grown and frothing, just like the ones in the Angus Journal. The flesh on his brisket rumbled as he moved, commanding attention. His handler stuck out both elbows to give the bull room and gripped the nose chain with thick leather gloves.

  Eli stopped and set the lawn chair down for a minute. A father and son hurried past, hauling a show box the size of a refrigerator. Ma and Hannah will be bringing my show box later, Eli thought. When they bring lunch. Eli tried to stay clear of the middle, where the grooming chutes stood, wheels locked into position with pieces of kindling. A row of soggy cows fidgeted inside them, getting their hair blown out. The kids drying the curly hides had bib numbers pinned to their chests.

  “Need help?” one of the groomers asked Eli. She looked down at him and smiled, rattling a can of ShowSheen.

  Eli shook his head. So far, he hadn’t seen anyone near his age and he wished he knew somebody. “Found it!” Eli cried out, just in case the girl with the can of ShowSheen might hear. He’d found the empty stall with STEGNER written on it. Eli unfolded the lawn chair and placed it beside the post where Little Joe would be tied up.

  “First time showing?”

  Eli followed the voice up toward the rafters, where a high schooler was balancing on top of a grooming chute. “I’ll be down in a minute to show you where to put that chair.” Legs straddled, the boy drilled in a sign with his farm’s name on it.

  Eli didn’t remember there being signs. He didn’t have one.

  “You don’t set your chair in the stall next to your show animal,” the boy explained, climbing down off the chute. “You put it in the aisle across from him. That’s where you and all your stuff goes.”

  Eli dragged the chair into the aisle, hiding his burning face with a sleeve. This wasn’t the same as being at home in the barn with Little Joe, like he thought it might be. He slumped down in the lawn chair and kicked up some sawdust with the tip of his new boots. How would he keep his calf settled when there was so much to watch out for? There were wheelbarrows to stay clear of and full-grown bulls. Grooming chutes and show boxes as big as appliances. And he sure couldn’t see a Ferris wheel from this side of the barn. A line of Porta Potties made up the view. Eli hoped Little Joe wouldn’t be bothered by it all. Or sense that Eli was.

  “Looks like you found the spot,” Grandpa said. He got out his jackknife and cut open a bale of straw, sprinkling a portion of it onto the stall floor. “You see that bird up there?” Grandpa pointed at a swallow, darting up to a nest in the rafters. “This is his home and he’s all jittery ’cause we’re disturbing it.”

  Eli stared at the bird quivering in its nest.

  “But you know what?” Grandpa said. “He’ll get used to you. In a few minutes he’ll be swooping down to see you like you was old friends.”

  Eli noticed there were lots of birds above him, all shook up. He got up from his chair, dug into the straw bale with both hands and helped Grandpa spread some over the stall.

  “Now go see your pa,” Grandpa told him. “He’s got your calf in front of the barn, waiting for you to lead.”

  “Where will you be?” Eli asked.

  “I’ll be around,” Grandpa said, “but out of the way.”

  Pa was leading Little Joe in circles in front of the show barn. When Eli took over the rope, he could feel the calf tighten a bit, so he started humming. “It’s okay, boy,” Eli whispered. “You’ll get used to it soon enough.” Eli kept humming, rubbing his elbow against Little Joe’s shoulder as they walked through the barn. They could look each other in the eye now, and Little Joe showed Eli plenty of white.

  Pa followed with the alfalfa. “Weighed in at 862,” Pa said.

  Eli knew that was bigger than most. He tied Little Joe to the post, stroked the back of his neck and smiled. The calf sniffed at the straw for bits of the apple Grandpa had scattered around. Then he snorted at his new neighbor.

  The girl was close to Eli’s age and barely a finger’s length away, feeding her calf Nutter Butters. The little Simmental calf lay on its side, much smaller than Little Joe. His delicate face looked as if it had been whittled out of old barn wood. He shook it every time he wanted another cookie. “How big’s your calf?” the girl asked Eli.

  “Eight sixty-two,” Eli answered. He got out the pitchfork while Little Joe pooped in his new stall.

  “Smokey’s a lot skinnier,” the girl said, looking down at the calf’s long brown eyelashes. “And I’ve already run out of Nutter Butters.”

  “That don’t matter,” Eli said. “What you do in the show ring’s real important.”

  “Did you show last year?” she asked.

  “No. Did you?”

  “No. My sister did. She got the side with the Ferris wheel. You gotta be here a few years before you get t
he side with the Ferris wheel.” The girl looked out at the line of Porta Potties. “Guess we can just climb over to get on our show clothes. The toilet’s right there.”

  They both laughed. Eli picked out some apple slices from the straw to give to the Simmental.

  Grandpa and Pa had gotten Eli’s show box out of Ma’s car and set it down next to Eli’s chair. Ma was carrying Eli’s show shirt on a hanger, and Hannah held the tub for the water. She dropped it as soon as she saw Little Joe and bounded over to the calf, giving him a great big hug. “You must be hungry,” she said, force-feeding him a sprig of alfalfa. “And thirsty, too. I’ll get you some water.”

  Hannah rushed to get the water tub filled from the hose Pa had dragged over. She carried the tub up to Little Joe, spilling most of it onto his nose.

  “Stop it, Hannah,” Eli shouted. “You’ll get him all worked up.”

  “There’s some clean rags in the show box,” Ma said.

  “I’ll open it!” Hannah rushed to the show box before anyone else. As soon as she unlocked the latches, Spider hopped out.

  “There’s a cat in here!” somebody shrieked.

  Spider darted through the shed row, scattering wood shavings.

  “I love cats!” the girl with the Simmental exclaimed.

  A hay rake tumbled over as Spider nicked it bolting past.

  “Hannah, how could you?” Ma cried, chasing after Spider.

  The Simmental bucked and kicked at the air as Spider churned up dust when she scooted by.

  “Here, Spider!” Ma called. But Spider wouldn’t move. She’d found Little Joe.

  Tucked safely in between the bull calf’s hind legs, Spider sat contentedly and purred. Little Joe snorted, then continued sniffing the straw for apples. Spider stayed between his legs, swirling her tail until he sniffed her, too. Then she moved away and jumped across the shed-row wall and onto Little Joe’s back.

  “You’re as good as DQ’d now,” the boy with the drill told Eli.

  “Not if the judge doesn’t see the cat,” the girl carrying the ShowSheen said.

  Spider stretched out farther along Little Joe’s back onto her white tummy and blinked. Slowly, Eli drew nearer, inching his way toward Little Joe. “Come here, Spider,” he said as he beckoned to the cat, extending his arm out gingerly to form a bridge across Little Joe’s back. Spider meowed twice, then jumped onto Eli’s shoulder.

  “You showin’ a cat or a cow?” somebody joked as Eli marched to the front of the barn, cradling Spider in his arms so you could see her brown underspots.

  Eli hoped he’d be showing a calf.

  “I’m so sorry, Eli,” Ma said. “If I knew what Hannah was planning …”

  “I just wanted to make Little Joe feel at home.” Hannah sniffled.

  Ma took Spider from Eli and curled the cat up in a blanket. “And don’t worry about being disqualified. The judge isn’t even here yet, so he won’t know about Spider. I’ll take her home. And Hannah, too.”

  “Heard your cat nearly got you DQ’d,” Keller said. “Good thing you know how to rein her in.” He thumped the back of Eli’s head with his cast. “Can you help me shave Strawberry? She keeps farting in my face and I show in an hour.”

  “I can’t. I gotta get Little Joe ready,” Eli said. He had the show box open, deciding which brush the calf would like best.

  “But I can’t shave left. It’ll only take a few minutes,” Keller pleaded.

  “Can’t you get your pa to help you?” Eli’d seen enough of Keller yesterday. Today was supposed to be just him and Little Joe.

  “He dropped me off,” Keller began, “but he don’t like pigs.”

  The hog barn was even noisier than the beef barn. Most of the kids ran around chasing their squealing pigs as the animals tried to avoid getting bathed.

  “Where’s Watermelon?” Eli asked. He stared down at the empty hog pen Keller had led him to.

  “Five pounds over. Didn’t make it.” Keller hopped into another pen with a pink pig in it. “I still got Strawberry,” he said, handing Eli a plastic blue shaver. “She needs a shave round her snout. I got this side done.” Keller slapped Strawberry on the backside. “I’m just waitin’ for her to shift over.”

  Strawberry peered up at Eli with her round, rubbery snout and grunted. Eli’d never shaved anything before, but the pig looked pretty cut up already. He aimed the shaver at a bristly white hair sprouting out of her chin and stroked it with the blade. Strawberry fluttered her white eyelashes. Pigs aren’t so different from cows, Eli thought. Just smaller and quicker, but they still liked being stroked and fussed over. “You practice much?” he asked Keller.

  “Who, me?”

  “That’s how you win,” Eli said.

  “I don’t win anything.” Keller sprinkled the bottle of talcum powder over Strawberry’s back and rubbed.

  “You never know,” Eli said. “Strawberry likes you a lot. You raised her. She’ll follow you around.”

  “They let them loose in the ring and we gotta go find ’em, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I got enough candy in my pocket to keep her close by, though.” Keller dug deep into one and brought up a handful of sugar-coated pieces. “Even put some in my boot. That way if I trip, she still won’t leave me.” Keller smiled. He took the spray bottle and squirted Strawberry’s neck with it. “Keep her cool,” he told Eli. “She can’t sweat.”

  Keller got out his show cane. “Wish me luck!”

  “Luck!” Eli wished back. He started making his way to the beef barn.

  “Hey!” Keller shouted. “Know why you never got DQ’d?”

  “Why?” Eli hollered back.

  “’Cause you got the best-lookin’ calf in the barn.”

  Pa’d already given Little Joe a bath and set him up in the grooming chute when Eli got back. “Get out the blower,” he said.

  Eli began blowing Little Joe’s feet dry, then his tail, working his way up to the neck. When he got to the calf’s face, Little Joe licked Eli’s nose.

  “It’s the salt they’re after,” Pa said, spraying the hairs on Little Joe’s topline in place. “Better get your show shirt on.” Pa swept up the hairs near the calf’s tailhead with a comb, making them stand on end.

  Eli rushed to get his checked shirt all buttoned, but his fingers seized up around the last hole. He wondered how he’d be able to work the show stick with his right hand being so shaky.

  “Comb out the tail yet?” Pa asked.

  Eli took the comb from Pa and stroked Little Joe’s tail.

  “That’s about it,” Pa said. He handed Eli the lead strap. “Take him to the gate and wait till they call you in.”

  Eli couldn’t move. The links of metal chain on the lead strap ran cold through his fingers. Anxious show animals sidestepped around him. But he couldn’t recall what to do. The lather of sweaty flesh nipped Eli’s nostrils. Blowers roared in his ears like tiller mowers. But when he saw Little Joe standing square in front of him, all Eli could remember was how his bull calf looked coming out as a baby, lying small and helpless in a clump on the straw.

  Little Joe butted the top of Eli’s head with his chin, forcing Eli to do something. Eli gripped the lead strap and guided Little Joe out of the chute and in line by the gate. He buried his fingers beneath Little Joe’s hair and took in the warmth. “I wish I was as calm as you,” he murmured, clutching the show stick tighter.

  Keep the stick in the left hand when leading, Eli recalled, and in the right hand to use it. What else had Grandpa told him? Turn away from the judge. Or was it turn around for the judge? Eli was a bucket of nerves. He blinked and eyed the rest of the bulls. The other seven in the class all looked like they could win.

  The gate opened. Eli froze. Little Joe led him into the ring.

  The bull calf in front of them took a stutter step, pulled back his ears and mooed. The judge’s face turned sour.

  Eli held his breath, hoping Little Joe wouldn’t moo, too. “No mooing,” he wh
ispered in Little Joe’s ear. But all Little Joe did was kick up some wood shavings and lick his shiny gray nose.

  “Line ’em up!” the judge shouted.

  Eli watched the girl in front lead her mooing calf. Keep half a cow’s length behind. Eli’d remembered. He broke away and took Little Joe into the center of the ring, tugging on the chain once the calf’s legs were square. Then he switched the show stick to his right hand and rubbed Little Joe’s belly with it.

  “Your first calf, right, son?” The judge ran a hand across Little Joe’s back.

  Eli was a bucket of nerves. He blinked and eyed the rest of the bulls.

  Eli nodded and kept stroking Little Joe with the show cane. He could hardly swallow, his mouth was so dry, and his stomach was fisting up, too.

  “He’s big, boy. What do you feed him?”

  “The whole orchard.” Eli couldn’t help but smile now. “It’s where he goes to kick and run.” As soon as he’d said it, Eli wished he could take it back—the kicking part. Blue ribbons didn’t go to kickers.

  “Around the ring once more.” The judge made a circular motion in the air with a finger, then scratched his double chin.

  Little Joe kept leading, calm as toast. All Eli had to do was follow. The mooing calf jerked up suddenly. Eli and Little Joe were just a few inches back. The crowd rose to their feet and gasped. Don’t do it, Eli pleaded in his head. Don’t rear back on us. Quickly, Eli turned Little Joe away, hoping it wasn’t too late.

  Eli could hear the ring man running, his footsteps grinding down the sawdust, and the girl yanking the lead strap too hard, then crying. But he didn’t dare look. It don’t concern you. Grandpa’s voice came back to him. It’s just the judge, you and Little Joe. Eli rubbed the bottom of Little Joe’s cheek with his free thumb. He lined the calf up in the center of the ring, next to an Angus cross with white markings up to both knees. The ring man, half a yard away, twisted up the mooing calf’s tail and led him out.

  The judge stepped toward Little Joe and pointed to his topline. “Folks, the Angus is a high-carcass breed as you can see.”

  Did the judge go to third place first or first place first? Eli stood still as a statue, wishing he knew.