The catalpa tree scraped a window upstairs, sounding so much like a phantom rocking chair. She went outside, and as she sat down on a quarry-stone step, Midnight gravitated to her lap. Stroking his head, quieted by the way he purred, she took a deep breath. It was that space in time between twilight and dark when even grasshoppers cast shadows. She heard a truck coming down the gravel road and thought at first that it was Greg, but as the truck came into view, she saw its black lettering, ‘Lorain County Game Warden’ on the door. The driver slowed down as if he was going to stop. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his eyes on her. Then he picked up speed and drove away. She could have sworn that all the cats were hiding, including Midnight who was crouched under the swing. Then she heard another truck coming, and a rattling aluminum trailer. It was Greg, coming home with their cow.
The front porch swing squawked with each dip and rise, its varnish flaking at the touch of a hand. Still, it was a peaceful end-of-the-day, when the talking was done, when an early-summer eight o’clock was both the time of day and the time of night. A whiff of wild roses drifted from the creek, a cicada song rose and fell, and a million peepers harmonized into one voice.
Greg sat beside her, the warmth of him against her, playfully crowding her to the edge. She sensed a rambunctious mood. He brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, his knuckle soft on her cheek. She knew it was coming, but wasn’t quite sure what ‘it’ was until he started petting her head. Broad strokes of affection, aggravating at best, down the length of her hair.
“Such a round head,” he said, his hand gliding over her scalp.
Anyone else might have smacked him. But this was something his dad had passed down, an induction to the Hamilton family, of sorts. His dad had taken such pride in how round his kid’s heads were, or so it seemed. There were so many kids in Greg’s family, that maybe any one-on-one attention was better than none.
So Debra sat still. Thinking of that little house and all those kids, she pictured Greg from when he was eighteen and worked in the lumberyard. He was physically stronger than his brothers—a bull, they called him. He never took off his shirt in public, embarrassed by the way people would stare. He was shyer than anything back then, and Debra was anything but shy.
He rested his hand on her knee. He leaned over and breathed a whisper, “It’s time to water the livestock. You should give it a try.”
“It doesn’t bite, does it?”
“Not at all. He’ll eat oats right out of your hand.”
She stood up, reinstating the ‘I can do this’ mantra all over again. Her charge was just a calf after all, just four months old. How bad could it be?
“Did you think of a name?” Greg asked.
She had thought of a name, something ordinary, something to last the summer and be done with. Nothing cute. Nothing to foster any kind of attachment. “Otto. How about Otto?”
He was saying ‘not bad’ in a thinking-mode-nod, like when you taste liver and onions for the first time floured and fried in bacon, and you actually like it. Then he said, “. . . Otto ought-to do it.” He had a way of making her smile even as she rolled her eyes.
Back by the well she pumped water. This won’t be bad, she thought. Otto isn’t so different from any other pet; we’ll be friends in no time. As she filled the bucket, she caught sight of the three hundred twenty pound toddler—what he was up to. He’d managed to get himself hung up against the tree where Greg had tied him. For whatever reason, the thing had walked in circles until he had only two inches of rope between him and the tree. There he stood, speaking the one-syllable language of moo.
The tenderloin was a Holstein Angus mix with horns so big it was a wonder he could hold his head up. The closer she got to him the worse he stunk, his poop everywhere in plops. She didn’t want to touch him. She didn’t want him to touch her. Debra got directly behind him, apprehensive, back far enough to reach his hide. She patted his hind quarter to prod him in the opposite direction. “Go on. Go.”
He wouldn’t budge. She stepped over fresh dung to get closer. “Come on, Otto,” she said, giving him a shove with the palms of her hands, impulsively keeping her fingers from touching him.
Otto was immovable, a marble slab with a swishing tail. She smacked his butt; she shoved a little harder. “Come on Otto. Move.” Debra leaned in and pushed. Otto urinated a flood, spritzing her feet.
“Great! That’s just great!”
Greg came from around the house and stopped at the garage, his arms folded. “That’s a L-Otto steer,” he yelled out to her, amused with himself.
“Come here,” she yelled back.
“Just take his lead and walk him around the tree. He won’t hurt you.”
Pee-splattered feet, she made her way to the animal’s head, saying, “Nice cow.” She reached for the leather lead. But, he would not let her take it, his horns targeting her midsection. She hopped off to the side. He gained three feet of rope but he stopped right there. She looked at Greg and back at Otto. “I don’t think he likes me.”
“Take charge of him,” Greg yelled out to her. “You can do it.”
She took a step forward. “Good boy. You be a good boy now,” she said sweetly. Cautiously stepping in front of him, watching out for his horns, she extended her hand. He aimed for her midsection again. Trying not to be intimidated she trotted backward, him plotting ahead, round and round the tree until Otto had the full length of rope. Quite an accomplishment from her point of view, without having to touch him once. She was glad it was over, glad she’d never have to do it again.
As it was Otto walked in circles around every tree, every day, all day long.
Chapter 5
Summer brought temperatures of ninety degrees. Debra unfastened clothespins; towels and sheets stiffening on the line. Out in the daunting sun, the air was still, nothing to flap a single towel, nothing to wave a single sheet. She shied away from looking at Otto. He was tied to a tree near the barn today. A nagging thorn in her side, he was probably tangled already. She heard rustling nearby from a wood pile, and saw the elderberries tussle. It was that groundhog; she knew it; one of the woodland creatures who demolished her garden, one who dug for grubs in the lawn and left big holes where she would trip and twist her ankle. “I ought to get the rifle,” she said to Midnight, “. . . for all the good it would do.” Midnight rubbed a full-body purr against her leg and curled around her ankle and rolled over her toes. “I know. I’m better off without it. I couldn’t kill anything anyway.”
Debra had kept her mother’s rifle within sight those first few weeks, and carried it with her whenever she heard strange sounds in the house. She hated that rifle, hated what it had done, hated what it could do. Worst of all she hated how easy it took to her hands.
She’d been counting cats for weeks on end, fifteen cats in all. Then two more joined the group, which made her think the cat killer hadn’t come back. She’d been dumping cat food in an old hubcap she’d found to keep track of them, calling out, ‘kitty, kitty,’ to gather them all in one place—rationing cat food she bought on sale.
She’d kept the rifle handy for a few weeks more, and after some time she moved the rifle to the coat closet, trying to rationalize how the wind played tricks on her with the house. A south wind would set a shutter to flapping which she swore was bare feet pit-patting on a bare floor. A west wind would stir up mortar pieces that fell in the chimney, unlike anything she’d ever heard. And a north wind would blow the catalpa tree branches against the windows upstairs which bore the resemblance to someone walking up there. That’s how Greg saw it, so it must have been true.
Denying an ever-present uneasiness she put the rifle away, up high in a bedroom closet alongside the Exxon Motor Oil box, and covered it with a blanket, resolved to not see it again. Not for now anyway.
Ninety degrees, it was one of those days when you worked up a sweat by just standing outside, a humid day when the smell of your sweat turned the bugs mean. Carrying laundry back to th
e house Debra could see Otto—him in his usual spot hung up on a tree. Greg tied him to a different tree every day, further in the field to graze, and every day Otto circled it until he couldn’t move—today at the barn. He mooed a never changing pitch, the same no matter what. It was as though he was void of a soul, void of loving or hating or being happy or sad. Seven hundred pounds now and horns to match, he seemed to be growing aggressive. It wasn’t one thing in particular, just a change in temperament—as if he hadn’t been gelded. The vet had cracked his ball-sacks in a vice-like thing the night they brought him home as a calf. Greg had seen it, heard it, said it sounded like walnuts cracking. It was an awful thing the vet did; Greg had never heard of anything like it.
Debra stood on the deck, laundry basket in hand, looking at Otto. “He has to be downright addle-brained,” she said to Midnight. “How can anything be so stupid and live?” She’d tromped down a path for as many times as she’d been there today, and had let him chase her around the tree for the sake of untangling him. She hiked it once more, shielding her eyes from the sun—snapping a red-checkered kitchen towel at whatever was circling her face. There was an awful swarm around Otto’s head, worse in the heat of the day. Horseflies. Deerflies. Gnats. All in his face. Crawling. Buzzing. Climbing on sweat, on top of the other, him chewing his cud in gobs of slobber. She’d been waiting for Julie to come over to spray him with some sort of repellant, and was terribly curious as to why she hadn’t been there yet, even a little aggravated. She’d made ice tea and finger sandwiches, goose liver and cucumber, which had been sitting in the fridge for what seemed like hours.
Debra swished the towel at Otto’s face, trying to lessen the bugs, and snapped it accidentally in his eye. Otto jerked, suddenly spooked. Debra hadn’t meant to spook him but she had spooked him and she couldn’t take it back. He kicked up his hoofs, bucking like a wild horse, his tree-trunk-neck jerking the rope nonstop.
“Easy Boy. Easy,” she said, trying to calm him down. “Easy now . . . .”
He flailed his head. He reared up, fighting the little bit of rope, a wild fire in his eyes. Amid flicks of sweat and slobber something told her to run, an inner voice, like when something tells you to hold your breath under water or you’ll drown. She backed away. Then she heard it—a snap. And then she saw it—the rope dangling from his tether. He was so enthralled in senseless ire that his good fortune hadn’t occurred to him yet. She walked backward mindful of any quick movements, trying to think of a safe place to run. The house was too far. The barn was boarded up.
He stood still for a moment, suddenly aware he was free—free to chase Debra—and that’s what he did. She was already running, knowing full and well that she’d been training him for this all summer. She ran on uneven ground, her flip-flops slapping her heels, weeds waist-high, blackberry barbs stinging her bare arms and legs. She looped around a tree and ran behind the barn, dodging Otto, not like a matador would, but more like the clown sent in afterwards. A clumsy silly no one clown.
On this side of the barn, she saw something odd set way back in the field, an old swing set. The image shifted through heat waves like a mirage, abandoned here for who knows how long. Debra widened her strides, but suddenly stumbled, her foot caught in a tangle of vines. She felt her knees buckle. She felt his horn graze her calf. But somehow she didn’t fall, somehow she was able to keep her balance and run. Otto was breathing heavily, she could hear him over her own sinking breaths. It was so hot, so damn hot. This is how she would die, she thought as she ran. He would gore her to death, and they would find her body there. He chased her to the swing set where she climbed up on a rusty teeter-totter seat, and boosted herself up to the center bar that connected the two A-frame poles.
“Julie!” she screamed as if Julie could hear her. “Julie!”
Rusted paint flaked off in her hands, red and yellow. The teeter-totter swung on its own, Otto’s new target of destruction.
The rusted bar suddenly broke from under her feet, her hands clenching the bars above. She slid her foot over the bolt that remained, trying to get a foothold. Hand over fist, glazed in sweat, she maneuvered herself to the main overhead bar. She was sweating badly, her wet palms sliding. Otto rammed the swing set. She tried to pull her body up to help her hold on, but lacked the kind of strength it took. The rusty bars seemed to be melting in her hands. Bugs swarmed around her sweat. Horseflies. Deerflies. Gnats. All in her face. Crawling. Buzzing. She felt a sting just under her eye and shook her hair, screaming for screaming’s sake. Now she was mad, fighting mad.
“You stupid-ass fudging cow!” She kicked at him and immediately lost her grip. Her feet swung out and she fell, her head hitting the hard parched ground. Blurred images closed her eyes and the sound of waves flooded her head, as she slipped into unconsciousness.
You stupid-ass fudging cow . . . “You stupid-ass fucking brat!” She saw Aida, her mother screaming at her nine-year-old self. Underweight as a child, her clothes hung on her delicate body. She saw three-story houses, lining the street, from inside an attic window, overlooking a steep gabled roof. The houses outside were so close that you could hardly walk between them.
“I told you to never leave this yard! Where were you? I looked everywhere!” Aida screamed, pinching the fleshy part of Debra’s arm.
“Ruth went to the circus. She was showing me . . .”
Aida slapped her face. “I’ve told you and told you. Never leave this yard. There’s men out there who experiment on girls like you.”
“I didn’t mean to . . .”
Aida stopped, her eyes in a glaze, looking up at the ceiling. “They’re here. Hide.” Aida opened the attic window. “Hurry. On the roof.” She motioned to the steep gabled roof. “They’re coming. You’ve got to hide. They’ll never look on the roof.”
“No. Mom. I can’t.”
Aida grabbed Debra and dragged her to the window. “You’ve got to. No one will find you there.”
The view spanned the whole neighborhood. She could see the wind stir the treetops. Debra knew not to speak. She knew not to cry. Anything more than a silent observer would throw her mom further into the crazies. She stepped over the low windowsill, and eased herself to the other side. Aida closed the window, locked it, and then stood with her back to it, guarding it, yelling to no one there. Fierce words that Debra couldn’t make out. Aida’s back against the window, she slid down and curled up in a ball. “No one no one no one no one . . . .”
A thin layer of moss covered the slate roof. Debra hung on to the old wooden window frame, the chipped paint on her fingertips. The wind whistled in her ears and whipped her hair. She angled her foothold, trying her best to be perfectly still. A chunk of old wood came off in her hands, her foot slipped. She felt herself sliding, falling.
Debra’s body jerked. She suddenly opened her eyes, lying beneath the swing set, everything blurry. She could smell Otto three feet away. His horns were mangled in a rusty chain. She rolled slowly to slip away. She heard someone coming. Julie.
Julie threw down her bottle of bug spray. “Damn it! Get out of there!” She stormed over to Otto and whacked his behind. Otto turned and snorted. He reared up. Without a word, she grabbed his collar. Julie held him firm with one hand, and she punched him square in the face with the other. “Stop it!’ She jerked him down. “I don’t need this!” She clipped the tether to his collar. “I’ve been up since five this morning!” Julie jerked one quick jerk, and led him to a nearby tree. Otto moseyed behind her, subdued, as if nothing had happened at all.
Debra sat up. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“An old farming trick. Punch him right in the snout next time. You’ve got to show him who’s boss.” Julie tied a heavy knot on Otto’s rope and went back for the bottle of bug spray. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Are you okay?”
“I think so. Do you lift weights or something?” Debra stood up and wiped her face in her shirt.
“I don’t have to lift weights, not with the workout I get
on days like these. My boys are supposed to be taking care of those steers, and I’m stuck doing all the work.” Julie jerked Otto steady. “Although I like to go jogging,” and doused him with fly spray. “Are you sure you’re okay? It looks like you’re bleeding.”
“I’m okay,” Debra said. But she really wasn’t. She was trembling so. Her face was spotted where she had been bitten. Dried blood crested on her bruised leg, and her head hurt. She tucked all of it inside; whining was not endearing. Whining wouldn’t win any friends. “Got time to come inside while I clean up?”
“Are you sure? I’m all sweaty. I’ve been messing with cattle all day.” Julie brushed dried mud off of her sweat-stained shirt. “I can’t stay long.” They walked back to the house, Debra limping. Julie sat on the porch step, pulled off her boots and then she got a good look at Debra. “You poor kid. You look awful.”
“I’m just a little shaken, that’s all. Nothing’s broken. I can handle pretty much anything else.”
Julie rubbed her feet. “I’ve got to tell you. My balls are killing me,” she said matter of fact.
Debra perked up. “Your balls?” she asked surprisingly.
“My balls. You know . . . the balls of my feet?”
It was a dumb joke but that was alright. It brought a welcomed laughter between them. The kind of laughter that makes you look forward to laughing some more.
At a quarter to eight Debra could hear the rattle of ladders, the unmistakable sound of Greg’s work truck coming down the road. The pounded gravel spun a dry fog you could taste in your mouth. He got out of the truck, bent like an old man, soot sweat-pasted to the fine lines of his face. She knew he’d had a big job today on a steep roof, tearing off three layers of shingles, and in this heat.
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