Little Joe (13 page)

Grandpa rolled up the tape, put it back in his pocket and smiled. “That’s what good breeding and green pasture can do to a calf. Looks like you’re both ready.” Grandpa hauled the tub of water and fed it to Little Joe. “There’s just one more thing I need to show you.”

Eli couldn’t imagine what else he needed to learn about posing.

“Get your bull calf back into the barn first. He’s been out long enough. You don’t want his hide getting red from too much sun.”

Eli led the calf into his show stall and turned on the fan he and Pa’d hung from the ceiling. He hoped it would keep Little Joe cool enough to get his hair growing. He clawed at Little Joe’s underbelly with his fingernails where the red patches were, forcing them to shed. Blue ribbon Anguses always had black hair that was thick and glossy. He’d have to keep Little Joe inside more during the day and let him out to graze at night so the sun wouldn’t color more clumps red.

Eli turned on the radio dangling from the manger with binder twine so Little Joe could get used to other people’s voices. He’d hear thousands of them at the fair.

“Come on out, son,” Grandpa called.

Eli squinted to block out the sunlight and nearly tripped over the box in front of him.

“Can’t show without a show box,” Grandpa said.

Eli looked down and saw a shiny square box the size of a newborn calf. It was painted bright red. Even though the gold letters were upside down from where he stood, Eli knew they spelled
STEGNER
.

“Figured your birthday’s comin’ up after the fair and
it’s a long ways before Christmas, so it makes sense to give you this early.”

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.

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 Eli 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.