Dairy Queen (5 page)

So I dug around and got pretty rusty myself, trying to find enough cleaning-up stuff. Then I went to work in the barn, fighting off flies everywhere, trying to get the ceiling dusted, all the dirty old cobwebs knocked down. I didn't do a very good job—mostly I just got dust all over me—but after a couple hours I could kind of tell where I'd worked and where I hadn't. Finally I got bummed out and quit, just as Mom called all excited to tell me that Curtis had won his game. Which was just extra superduper, because as long as Curtis kept winning, it meant he'd be at practice every day, and at games every week, and I'd be stuck working by myself.

That night at dinner I sat down starving, my hands all clean, and Dad handed me this big steaming bowl of puke. I'm sorry, but that's what I thought when I looked at it. Hot vomit. Curtis said grace—Mom gave him that job just to get him to say something but he's so quiet that I'm sure God can't hear him—and everyone else dug in: Dad because he made it, Mom because she's so happy not to be cooking herself, and Curtis as I said will eat anything.

I sat there trying to think of the best thing to say. What someone like Oprah Winfrey on TV would say to be polite. "So ... what is this?"

Dad glared at me.

"It's good, honey." Mom smiled to Dad. "Very innovative." That's just the kind of word Mom would use too.

"It's just macaroni and cheese. With some other stuff mixed in."

I could see now. There were beans and hamburger and some green stuff, maybe peppers I think, all mixed together. It didn't taste all that bad, but I had to close my eyes to eat it, and breathe through my mouth too, because I was so sure it would smell like puke.

"You act like that, you can just eat outside," Dad said.

Oh, that made me mad. There was so much I wanted to say, about how I'd worked all morning on his stupid barn trying to make it look how Grandpa Warren kept it, how if he'd had his stupid operation back when the doctors said, he wouldn't still be in his walker with me flunking English and working like a slave. How if Win and Bill were around, if Dad hadn't started that huge fight that ruined our whole family, maybe none of this would be happening.

I think Dad kind of knew what I was thinking because he looked at me and held on to his fork like it was an ax handle. But no one said anything because, well, even when we fight we're not the world's best talkers. So I just shoveled that puke in and went to bed.

Saturday morning, things were a little better. At breakfast I told Mom I was cleaning the barn and she told Dad, which is how Dad and I communicate most of the time because Mom actually likes talking to him, and a little while later Curtis showed up in the barn with this look like he knew I was about to put him to work. Which I did.

The day before with Brian, even when we hadn't been talking or when I was rubbing something in, I'd had the sense that talk was possible—if Brian, you know, changed into someone human. But with Curtis, no matter what you say you might as well be talking to yourself. Actually, talking to yourself is better, because at least you know you'll answer. Mom keeps getting Curtis tested to make sure there's nothing wrong with him, like his hearing or his mouth or anything. Or his brain. But the testing people just say that he's fine and he'll talk when he feels like talking.

Cleaning the barn with me, he didn't talk at all. It was like being with someone who does exactly as much as he needs to do to stay out of trouble. Which I guess pretty much describes Curtis to a T.

Luckily Jimmy and Kathy Ott came for lunch. I was really happy to see them, not just because it got me off work but because they're two of my favorite people. Jimmy's kind of short, and he's got red cheeks and this little belly that make him look like Santa Claus, but he's really fierce as a football coach. Hawley football is always really good, so I guess that Santa Claus fierceness pays off. Kathy's the only person in the world who still calls me Dorrie. Before I was born Mom wanted a girl so much she promised God she'd name me after both my grandmothers, which is why I'm stuck with Darlene Joyce which I totally hate. When I was little my family called me Dorrie until I switched to D.J. Kathy still uses Dorrie, though. Coming from her, it's like a reminder of the best parts of being little.

Anyway, she gave me a big hug even though I was all dusty and Jimmy patted me on the back, and Dad came over with his walker and said I was doing a top-notch job cleaning the barn. Isn't that weird? Dad had all day to say that to me and he didn't. And then right when I was so busy being friendly that I didn't even have time to enjoy it, he jumps in. Maybe he thought I wouldn't notice. Or he was showing Jimmy what a great guy he was. In any case, the compliment was nice but it would've been nicer if I thought it was his idea.

For lunch Dad made chicken.

Mom couldn't have a garden this year what with Dad so hurt and her teaching sixth grade
plus
being acting principal at the elementary school because Mr. Ivanovich retired. And on top of that she had to spend all year going everywhere interviewing people to be the next principal, which no one wants because the pay's so little and who wants to work in Red Bend. So that's why they didn't have a garden, but Dad said not to worry because once everyone found out they'd dump their extra vegetables on us. Boy, was he ever right about that. Every day there was some more stuff left in the mailbox.

So we had zucchini with lunch too. Some recipe Dad made from you-know-where. With Parmesan cheese, like no one has ever eaten Parmesan cheese before.

Kathy couldn't get enough of it. "This zucchini is
so
good! Did you really make this?"

Mom smiled. "He's turning into quite a chef."

"This is the best zucchini I've ever tasted. I've got to get the recipe."

Which made Curtis and me bust a gut trying not to laugh at the idea of Dad writing one of those recipe cards.

Jimmy eyed me. "So, what'd you think of Brian there?"

Well. I buttered a roll and frowned, trying to look mature. "He's got a great arm. But I don't know how he'll handle the season." I took a little bite of roll because Mom gets on me about stuffing it all in my mouth at once. "He doesn't need a job so much as a personal trainer."

"You think so?" Jimmy asked.

"Oh, yeah," I answered, pleased that I could sound so grown-up when what I really wanted to say was that Brian wasn't worth a pound of salt and that Jimmy was crazy even to think about keeping such a stuck-up, lazy whiner on his team.

"I guess I was wrong, then, thinking he could help you folks out."

They all went back to talking about zucchini because I guess they hadn't discussed it enough the first time. But whenever I looked up for the next couple of minutes, Jimmy Ott would be sitting there studying me. It made me feel so weird that I stopped looking up and just plowed through my plate and ate all my zucchini without even realizing it.

After lunch and Kathy's amazing banana cream pie, Jimmy asked if he could see what I was working on. So he and I went out and walked around the barn, not saying anything, in this weird way I couldn't understand. He didn't even mention the wagons in the hayloft still full of hay because I hadn't unloaded them yet.

"You've taken on a lot here," he said finally.

"Yeah," I sighed, surveying the mess of the barn.

"I didn't mean the cleaning. I mean everything. Milking, field work ... You're doing an awful lot."

I shrugged, getting all uncomfortable. It wasn't like I deserved the compliments anyway, seeing as all I did was feel sorry for myself. "I've got Curtis."

"Your dad ran this farm with two boys plus you." Jimmy stepped over a cowpie we hadn't cleaned up.

I didn't know what to say, so I just rubbed at one of the windowpanes. Which was a mistake because it showed how dirty the windows were.

"I shouldn't have sent Brian over that way." Jimmy sighed. "I think you're right. You should train him."

"That's okay—What, me? His
trainer?
I didn't say I wanted to be his trainer!"

"You watched your two brothers train. You saw where it got them."

"Yeah, but—"

"You played Pee Wee football yourself. For four years if I remember it right."

"Only because Mom kicked us out! Dad had to take all of us on Saturdays—"

"You were pretty good."

"I was nine." I felt like I was in the middle of some practical joke. "Brian Nelson would rather chew glass than work with me."

Jimmy studied me. "I think you'd be a real good influence on him. And he could help out around here."

"He would never do it. Even if I wanted to," I added, just to make it clear that I didn't.

"My experience has been that an athlete will work for anyone he respects."

"Well, Brian Nelson doesn't respect me."

Jimmy polished his glasses. "Respect, D.J., is something you earn."

Ouch. I didn't like that statement one bit. Jimmy seemed to know more about Brian's haying experience than he was letting on. "Okay," I sighed finally, just to say something. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask, D.J." He patted me on the shoulder.

We strolled back to the house, not saying another word.

"You going to join us?" Mom asked from the porch, offering me an iced tea.

"I—I've got to check on some things," I said, heading off to the barn.

"Dorrie is so responsible," I heard Kathy say. "You two are blessed, you really are."

Then they were out of earshot, thank God, because I had way too much to think about without adding anything more.

I sat in the equipment shed for about an hour, picking hayseeds off the baler, which of all the jobs on a farm is probably the very stupidest. Even sleeping is more useful. Although, our baler's so old it should be in a museum. That extra weight, those three or four ounces, probably isn't helping it any.

Why would Jimmy Ott say I could be a trainer? That was the craziest thing I'd ever heard. Although, well, I
could
be a trainer, and a pretty good one. I used to hang around Win and Bill all the time, watching them with their weights and their sprints and their drills. Win needed a receiver to catch his passes, and Bill being a linebacker needed a receiver so he could intercept those passes, so when we played together that's what I got to be, a receiver. I got pretty good at outrunning Bill, but I got even better at getting tackled because that happened a lot more often.

After Win went away to college, Bill still needed someone to practice with, so he'd get me to throw. The bad news is, I can't throw a football worth beans—I guess from all those years of basketball and volleyball. Most times it just ends up skittering off into nowhere. And every time this happened Bill would stop and look at me with this serious expression and say, "I thought you were a gifted athlete," because Mom made the mistake of repeating this once when she came back from parent-teacher conferences, and I'd chase after him trying to punch him and he'd laugh hysterically and hide behind Curtis, who'd be cracking up too. Luckily Curtis has a pretty good arm, so most of the time I got to be receiver instead and end up all black and blue from Bill's tackles.

Thinking about that made me really miss Bill. I wished I could talk to him. Find out what he was doing and stuff like that. But there was no way I was going to call him, and even if I did he'd probably hang up on me right away considering everything that's happened, which I'm not going to explain thank you very much. So I tried to stop thinking about him and think instead about what it would be like to train someone. Because it would be fun to work with someone like Kyle Jorgensen, who's QB for Red Bend this year. He's Kari's twin brother and just as nice as she is. I could think of a lot of stuff he and I could do together that would really help his game. Maybe coaching is just in my blood, from Dad and from Jimmy, who's as close to an uncle as I know, and from Win, who's going to end up coaching as sure as shooting.

After a while it was like those games I play with Amber where we talk about what we'd do with a million dollars. I was really liking the idea of being a trainer, in that way you like something while knowing it's never going to happen. Because even if I decided I could work with Brian, which I wouldn't, he wouldn't go for it in a million, billion years.

When I went back to the house, there was Jimmy leaning against their Explorer. He grinned at me. "You're interested. I can tell."

"Well, kind of. But I don't think it'll work out." Which was the most tactful way I could think of to express my feelings about Brian.

"You want me to ask your dad about it?"

"Don't you dare!"

Jimmy jumped a bit. "Okay then! I guess not."

"No, it's just—he'd want to get involved is all." Again, super tactful.

"Suit yourself. Kathy, you ready yet?"

Kathy came out with Dad's zucchini recipe and we said our goodbyes and they left. But the memory of them being here made the rest of the afternoon that much nicer.

Sitting here now, writing this all down, I'm beginning to see how Jimmy Ott might be a pretty good insurance salesman.

That evening at dinner when no one had said anything for a while, I screwed up my courage. "Dad, when you were coaching, did the kids, you know, respect you?"

Just as I thought he would, Dad made a crack. "Heck yeah, or I'd show them who was boss." He popped out his teeth and grinned at me. Dad lost a whole bunch of teeth playing football in the army, so he's got false ones now. When we were kids he'd take them out all the time and show us his big old toothless mouth. Curtis, the weirdo, used to love it.

"It's a good question," Mom said, of course. "Respect goes both ways, you know." She and Dad always double-team you on this stuff, backing each other up, I guess because they've been married so long.

"She's right," Dad added, scooping out some more leftovers. "You don't care for someone, they can tell."

"You cared for your players?" I asked, kind of incredulous.

"Of course I did! I was their coach."

"He bought us pizza," Curtis chimed in. When he says something, which is never, it's a big deal. Then he gets embarrassed because we all look at him.