Swing Sideways

by Nanci Turner Steveson

  The chickens had ugly, yellow claws at the end of scaly legs—claws that would hurt if they got the chance to dig into my flesh. California worked her way around those birds like a boss, but whenever I’d put one toe inside their territory, they’d threatened me with ruffled feathers and loud cackles. My mission called for action. I opened the gate slowly and put out a hand.

  “Whoa, ugly chickens, I’m getting the eggs, same way California does.”

  They pushed their butts up against the wire and got real quiet. Too quiet. They were planning something. Slowly, I tiptoed inside, scooped each egg from the straw and cupped them in the hem of my tennis dress, then backed out of the pen, and ran, giggling at my success the whole way down the hill.

  At the last bend in the trail, I almost tripped over Field sitting in the middle of the path, his injured leg stuck out to the side. I showed him the eggs. “Brought your breakfast. Hope you like raw eggs, ’cuz that’s what you get.”

  His tail beat against the ground, but he didn’t move.

  “California’s not here. You’re stuck with me.”

  I tugged at the ruff of hair around his neck, careful to hold the eggs steady with my other hand. He made this I’m-so-sad noise and kept watching the trail. I let go of him.

  “You know, I’m the one who saved your life. I’m the one who stole food and medicine and eggs and the ice pack for you, and you’re still waiting for California? I’m not so sure how I feel about that.”

  Field whined again right as Lacy rounded the bend, flapping her wings and cackling indignantly. When she ran past us, Field turned and limped to the oak.

  “So, it’s Lacy you like better than me. What a sight we must be. A gimpy old dog, a crazy spotted chicken, and a city girl, all out here in the woods together with no more sense than an ant farm without a queen.”

  I was thinking about how impressed California would be when I told her about my adventures, how I’d knocked away one challenge after another to get Field taken care of properly. Then I saw the Rhode Island Red and two Leghorns running loose around the yard. I’d left the coop gate open. Chasing three crazy chickens into a pen they didn’t want to go into, with only a broom for a weapon, was one more thing to add to my list of activities I’d never done before meeting California. It was humiliating and exciting at the same time. Another crazy summer adventure in the New-and-Improved Life of Annie Stockton.

  TWENTY-TWO

  For one long, delicious minute I watched the sun spread waves of apricot across the late-afternoon sky outside my window. My muscles kinked from napping in the fetal position. One at a time, I unfurled each limb and stretched like a lazy cat.

  The phone rang once, twice, three times before I remembered Mom and Dad weren’t home. When I’d got back, the burned-frittata disaster hadn’t been touched. The smell of scorched egg still lingered in the kitchen. Mom never left the kitchen a mess, but at the time I’d been too unstrung to clean it up, and I had evidence of chicken-chasing on my clothes to wash.

  Four rings. Five rings. I ran to Mom and Dad’s bedroom and picked up the phone on number six. “Hello?”

  Mom’s voice roared through the line. “Annabel! Where have you been? I’ve been calling all day.”

  “I, um, I’ve been here.” The cell phone lay silent on my bedside table. Dead battery. “I fell asleep. Where are you guys?”

  “We’ll be home after we stop at the pharmacy. They didn’t have the right painkillers for Dad at the emergency room.”

  “Emergency room?”

  There was a muffled sound when Dad took the phone from Mom. “Don’t worry, Pumpkin. It’s only a sprain.”

  Mom stuck her mouth near the phone to shout, “A sprain hurts worse than a break—”

  “Vicky, stop, you’re going to scare her. Watch the road,” Dad said. “We’ll be home in an hour, if Mom doesn’t kill us on the way. I’ve got the shiniest pair of crutches you’ve ever seen.”

  “Dad, I don’t— What—”

  “Yeah, that was some fall. Completely unexpected. You’ll be glad to know you’re relieved of tennis duty for at least a month.”

  “I’m really sorry. I was going to play—”

  “I know. Don’t worry. Be back soon.”

  After we hung up, I stared at the phone. A sprain? Oh, God, the guilt. He really was hurt. I’d let the frittata burn and run off, not even thinking he might actually be injured. What kind of person was I turning into?

  By the time they pulled into the driveway, I had the kitchen spotless, the breakfast plates replaced with dinner china, and two of my own pillows lying on the coffee table for Dad to prop up his foot. I met them halfway down the steps.

  “Let me help.”

  “No, I gotta learn how to do this.” Dad braced himself on a pair of silver crutches. “I asked for wooden crutches, figured they’d go better with the lake-house decor, since we’re all about decorating these days. They don’t make ’em from wood anymore, only these slick, superpowered silver doohickeys.”

  Mom shoved a pharmacy bag into my hands. “Put this new ice pack in the freezer and get him some water. He’s going to need pain pills. Hurry, Annabel.”

  “I don’t need the ice pack. I’m good for now.”

  “You have a sprain. Go, Annabel.”

  I ignored the Annabel word, but paid attention to the building frenzy in her voice and ran to the kitchen.

  For the first time ever, I cooked tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner without charring the bread. Probably because Mom wasn’t hovering. She fussed over Dad instead, draping towels on his lap while I carried out a tray with the soup, a golden-brown masterpiece with his favorite horseradish sauce on the side, and a tiny glass vase with one bright-red gerbera daisy plucked from the flowerpot on the deck.

  “Thanks, Pumpkin, this is wonderful.”

  After a few bites the painkillers knocked him out. I carefully lifted the tray and cleaned up by myself. Mom pulled a chair next to the couch and covered herself with an afghan. By the time the dishwasher was running, they were both fast asleep.

  “Mom?” I touched her arm. She opened one eye. “When you’re ready to get Dad upstairs, let me know.”

  She nodded.

  “Can I get you anything before I go up?”

  She shook her head and pursed her lips. I slunk away to my room, leaving the door cracked open.

  Three hours later they hadn’t moved. Mom slept with her head tilted, a tiny bit of drool threatening to trickle down her chin. I dabbed it with a tissue and pulled the afghan over her shoulders. Dad’s head was flung back against the sofa. There wasn’t much anyone could do about his snores vibrating the walls. I turned off the lights and went back upstairs.

  When I awoke on Saturday, the sun hovered high above the cedar tree outside. It was almost noon. I was late to feed Field. Very, very late.

  “Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh—” I yanked on shorts and a T-shirt, stuffed the satchel out of sight, and bolted down the stairs. Dad sat up on the couch, TV clicker in hand.

  “Oh, Dad, I—”

  “Well, look who’s here.”

  “Where’s— Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay, Pumpkin, calm down. You sound like Mom in electric mode.”

  I pointed to his foot. “How’s it feeling?”

  He shook a prescription bottle. “The famous put-me-to-sleep painkillers are working their magic.”

  “Good. I’m really sorry about what happened, Dad.”

  I meant it. If I hadn’t forgotten the tennis game, if he hadn’t gone off down the stairs so fast—probably to distract Mom in case I decided not to play—none of this would have happened.

  “You didn’t do anything. You off on some wild adventure today?”

  “Yeah, I’m late, but I can’t leave you alone. Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s at the library getting me books. Go. Vamoose. Skedaddle! Hurry, before she gets home and puts you to work coddling me.”

  “I—”

&n
bsp; “Go on. I’ve had all the coddling I can take for twenty-four hours. Have fun.”

  He flipped his hand, dismissing me. I leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Ditto.”

  I wrapped two hefty chunks of leftover turkey breast in foil and shifted things around inside the fridge so Mom wouldn’t notice right away. Out the door and down the steps, I moved as fast as I could with my aching hip.

  Poor Field, having to rely on someone who was always late, or forgot food.

  Poor California, having to rely on someone who was always late, or forgetting things outside in the rain.

  Poor Mr. McMurtry, alone and sad all those years.

  Poor Piper, with all the pain that must have kept her away.

  All of them, knowing it or not, were counting on me. I couldn’t fail them again.

  Breathe, Annie, breathe.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Even with me keeping to the shade on the side of the road, the humidity made my heart pound. There was no stopping, though—not yet. I cut through the orchard and veered across the field toward the trailhead, putting me in plain view of the house. California had said Mr. McMurtry wouldn’t be feeling well, so I figured he’d stay inside and I didn’t need to worry about him seeing me.

  Two-thirds of the way across the field, I stopped where a cool breeze swept over the hill. The trailhead was still a good hundred yards away, but I had to let my heart slow down and try to stop the pounding in my head. Pressing two fingers against each temple, I inhaled slowly through my nose and exhaled even slower out my mouth. I wouldn’t make it to the river if the throbbing blinded me.

  “Git!”

  My hands jerked out, and I dropped flat to the ground.

  “Git!”

  Mr. McMurtry! Where was he? I slithered through the grass, trying to get a better view. Dear God, please let Matilda not be out for a nap. Please don’t let chiggers creep into my underwear. And most of all, please don’t let Mr. McMurtry find me.

  He was still out of my sight, but about twenty strides away, halfway between the woods and the house, Field raised up slowly out of the grass, watching the top of the hill.

  “Field,” I half whispered. “Over here!” He didn’t flinch.

  A glint of something shiny made me turn. Mr. McMurtry strode purposefully over the crest and down the slope, pointing a long, bronze rifle at Field’s head.

  “Go on, dog. Get out of here.”

  Field’s lips curled, exposing sharp, yellowed teeth. The ruff around his neck stood on end. Mr. McMurtry shook the rifle, and it made a menacing click. No! The word stuck in my head. My body locked. Field lowered his shoulders and stretched forward until he was only a shadow again. Mr. McMurtry stopped, raised the rifle, and laid his cheek against the metal, staring down the barrel at his target.

  “Git!”

  He was close enough for me to see his thumb reach for a lever on top of the rifle, then shift and aim down. Field shuffled back one step. No way could he run fast enough to escape a bullet. That bad leg would drag him to his death.

  “No!” I grunted.

  “Git, dog!”

  Crack!

  A bullet spewed grass and dirt up in the air. Field yelped and backed another few inches. Mr. McMurtry had missed. He wouldn’t miss a second time. My hand shot out, flinging the foil packet of turkey through the air to distract him while I jumped up and bolted toward Field.

  “No. Don’t!” Field raised his head. “Get down!”

  I ran straight for him, flailing my arms and screaming. A few strides away I leaped through the air, my body stretched wide, and landed hard on the ground next to him. “I’m sorry I was late, I’m sorry—” I covered Field with my body. My bruised hip stung and I rolled off it, crying, hysterical, not caring if Matilda or chiggers or even a bullet got me.

  Mr. McMurtry’s boots thundered down the hill, boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. He hoisted the rifle in the air, clenched his other hand into a fist, and waved it around with a crazy expression on his face.

  “Get away from that wild dog!”

  “He isn’t wild—he belongs to us, me and California. He’s ours. His leg is torn up—he won’t hurt anyone.”

  I seized Field’s head and shoved it under my arm. Mr. McMurtry slammed to a halt, the rifle hanging limp by his side, his mouth opened into a perfect O. His eyes shifted between the dog and me. He breathed so loud I could hear air rattling in his lungs. Tears streamed down the side of my nose.

  “He’s ours,” I cried. “Please, don’t hurt him. I was late; he was looking for food. California said . . .”

  Hiccup!

  “Catherine said what?” Gone was the soothing, chamomile-tea tone. His voice had turned as cold as a stone on a frozen hill.

  Hiccup!

  She said you’d be sick today, and she had to stay inside to help you; she said we couldn’t look for the ponies. I had to come feed Field, and I was late because my dad sprained his ankle all because of me. Field was only looking for food, or for California, or maybe even me; but he wasn’t going to hurt anyone . . . I promise—

  “What did she say?” he demanded.

  “She said you would be sick today from your treatment, and she would have to stay home, so I had to take care of him. . . .”

  Mr. McMurtry’s shoulders sank. He waved his hand for me to stop rambling, and the corners of his eyes dropped.

  “She said I—” He squeezed two fingers along the bridge of his nose, and his whole body sagged. When he let go, he stood in front of Field and me, holding that rifle at his side, his silence screaming of something so sad, I knew I’d never forget that moment as long as I lived.

  “I thought he was coming to eat the chickens.” His voice had softened. “One of them is missing, the one you girls call Lacy. She won’t stay in that coop. She’s every bit as stubborn as Catherine. I figured the dog got her and was coming back for more.”

  “Lacy’s gone?”

  “It’s going to break Catherine’s heart. She carries that damn-fool bird around with her everywhere.” He wiped his face in the crook of his elbow, then stretched out a hand to me. “I wasn’t going to shoot the dog. I only wanted to scare him off. If he belongs to you girls, we should get him some food.”

  His hand was callused but warm, and he held mine for a half second longer than he needed to. I didn’t mind. He turned wordlessly toward the house, motioning for Field and me to follow. At the kitchen door, he pointed to the stoop.

  “The dog stays here. He can’t come in.”

  Field flopped onto his belly, panting but comfortable, like he was used to being at someone’s back door. I tried to look past Mr. McMurtry to see if California was in the kitchen, but her chair was empty. Squishing my body into the only slice of shade, I scratched the top of Field’s muzzle. Mr. McMurtry came out a few minutes later and placed two ceramic bowls in front of Field, disappeared inside, and came back again with a glass of ice water for me.

  “He’s got a black tongue,” he said. “Means he’s got Chow in him.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Doesn’t mean good or bad, just a fact.”

  “Did you have a Chow?”

  “Part. But that was a long time ago.” His eyes sank at the corners.

  We watched Field eat, and when he was done, Mr. McMurtry picked up the bowls and nodded at the back leg.

  “How’d he get that injury?”

  “Some kind of animal trap.”

  “Hmm. Well, Catherine isn’t feeling well today. She’s still sleeping.” He opened the screen door. “The fumes from the train, you know, they make her sick. She probably told you that. Perhaps you could return the dog to wherever you girls keep him, and I’ll try to figure out how to tell her about that chicken.”

  I pushed myself off the ground and grabbed Field by the ruff around his neck. “I’ll take him now.”

  We’d only gone a few steps when Mr. McMurtry called out, “Well, what d
o you know?” He pointed down the hill at Lacy, who was running side to side through the grass, flapping her wings and cackling like we’d forgotten to invite her to a party.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  On Sunday morning California left a red shirt dangling from the lowest branch of the third apple tree in the third row from the paddock, our secret sign that she had already gone to the river. Every time I saw it, it made me smile. Coming around the last bend in the trail, I almost collided with her standing in the middle of the path, looping a string around the waist of her shorts.

  “Holy Minnesota, all this running through the woods is making me skinnneeeee.”

  I reached for my own shorts. All I could stuff inside the gap now was the tip of my pinky. I was making progress.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked.

  “Great. Why?” she asked, her face all shiny and sparkly.

  “Your grandfather said you weren’t feeling well yesterday.”

  Shiny-sparkly face disappeared, replaced by dark-and-doom. “You saw him? I told you not to come to the house. Why did you come to the house?”

  “I didn’t. Well, not on purpose. Didn’t he tell you? He almost shot Field.”

  “What?”

  “On the hill. He thought Field was coming to eat the chickens. Lacy was missing and I was late and . . .”

  I told California everything.

  “Field was growling, and your grandfather pointed a rifle at his head—he shot at him, but he missed.”

  Her face was like stone. “Go on—”

  “I ran to Field with that rifle pointed right at me, and I swear I could practically feel a bullet burn a hole through me. But he didn’t shoot—he ran down the hill shouting all crazy-like for me to get away.”

  “Son-of-a-biscuit-eater, he was going to kill him!”

  “He said he was only trying to scare him. Lacy was missing, and he thought Field had eaten her. I kept thinking about everything, and how if he knew the truth about—”