Somewhere I Belong (13 page)

Isabelle had found a section where the river was a foot deep and made her way to the other side. She lay over the riverbank, broken ice around her, her udder engorged, a leg flailing in the air. The other one lay motionless in the freezing water.

“Musta bin headin' for the swimmin' hole,” Uncle Ed said. “Old John says she's particular 'bout it. Won't take a drink where there's a current.”

I lunged toward the river, but Uncle Ed threw out an arm. “Hold
on, young fella. You follow me and take it slow. That water's colder'n Holy Hannah.”

Uncle Ed edged down the slope, stepped cautiously into the river, and picked his way across. He wedged his shovel against the rocks and threw an arm out for balance. Uncle Jim slung the rope over a shoulder and followed close behind, using his shovel in like manner. I entered the river, keeping close to Larry, and felt the frigid water roll over my rubber boots. By the time my brother and I reached the other side, both uncles were already kneeling beside Isabelle, the rope coiled on the ground beside them.

She lay on her left side in the frozen ice and muck. She raised her
head, lowered it, then closed her eyes and lowed. My first thought
was that we weren't too late—that she was still alive. I knelt down in front of her, hoping she had enough strength left to get off the frozen ground—hoping she could get back across the river and home.

“Get away from 'er, Pius James,” Uncle Jim barked. “She's full-on
calvin'. She thrashes and she could kill you.” He moved down the cow and lifted her tail.

Uncle Ed knelt beside him and checked the bulge that protruded from her. Fluid flowed from her in a steady stream. “Looks like she's bin here for hours.”

Uncle Jim slowly ran a hand down the motionless leg and stopped below her hock. “Lordy,” he said, in almost a whisper. “Leg's broke.”

He moved away from Isabelle, got up and put a hand to his chin. “Well now, this is some mess we've got ourselves into, ain't it, ol' girl?” He turned to where Larry and I stood staring down at her. “We'll have to wait and see what she does. She starts kickin' and she's on 'er own.”

“Poor ol' thing.” Uncle Ed bent over her enormous belly and placed a hand on it. “There's movement here, Jim; it's comin' for sure.” His voice echoed along the riverbank.

“By the looks of 'er, she won't be much help,” Uncle Jim said. “She's
near spent; we'll have to help 'er along.” He thought for a moment.
“You take 'er head, Pius James; cradle it, like; stroke 'er neck; try to
keep 'er calm. Don't worry, she won't hurt you from there.” As if I
needed reassuring. “Larry, you go get Big Ned's blanket. Isabelle needs it more'n he does.”

I dropped my scarf to the ground and knelt beside Isabelle. I put her head on my lap and ran my hands over her cheek and down her neck. “Come on, old girl.” I leaned over her and whispered into her ear. “You can do it; I know you can.” She was cold, but I could feel her life. The more I rubbed, the more it seemed to rise up toward me. Her fur softened and came unstuck. Her neck warmed as I worked it.

Larry returned with the blanket and draped it over her. He knelt in the snow and rubbed along her shoulders and down her back. Uncle Ed moved a hand down her broken hind leg and shook his head.

Uncle Jim removed his jacket, rolled a shirtsleeve up past the elbow, knelt in the frigid muck, and checked her. “I can feel somethin'. A hoof…
there's another one. Don't know which way she's comin'—head or
hind-first.”

Uncle Ed looked on hopefully. “Pray for a miracle, boys. Give us a few Hail Marys.”

I cradled Isabelle's huge head and kept talking to her. “You're a
good old girl, Isabelle.” I whispered to her and kept stroking her neck, hoping to spark more life into her. Her nostrils flared. Her breathing shortened into quick, little puffs. Her eyes flickered open and fixed on me in a terrified stare. Beside me, Larry mumbled out the Hail Mary, over and over.

“There's a head here; I can feel it,” Uncle Jim said. White, slimy ooze covered his arm. Mud and manure coated his trousers. Steam rose up from Isabelle.

Uncle Ed had a hand on her belly. “She ain't helpin'. She ain't doing nothin'.”

“She's still breathing,” I said, thinking as long as there's life in her, she could keep on trying.

“That's all she's doin',” Uncle Jim said. He got up and rinsed his hands off in the river. Then he turned to us with a look of disgust. “Ol' John musta left the barn door open. He says he loves this cow, but he don't look after 'er. This ain't her fault—poor ol' thing.”

He picked up the rope and made a noose at each end, leaving a
length of rope between them. “Ed, you get back here with me; we've got some work to do.” He knelt back in the muck, braced a foot on a nearby stone, and sent the rope inside Isabelle, one noose at a time. He slipped a noose over each of the calf's hooves and tightened them. Then he handed the rope up to Uncle Ed. “When I tell you, Ed, you pull slow and easy.”

Isabelle's belly shifted. She craned her neck and bellowed weakly. I hugged her head and shushed her.

“Now!” Uncle Jim said, in almost a holler. “Lean back onto it!”

Isabelle gasped and bellowed again as Uncle Ed tugged on the rope.
Uncle Jim knelt in the mud and tried to guide the calf. I got up on my knees and cradled Isabelle's head on my thighs. “It's okay, girl.”
Somehow I knew it wasn't. Still, I hoped.

Larry kept running his hands down the length of her. “Come on, Isabelle.” He had given up on the Hail Marys. Sweat poured off his
brow despite the cold.

“Ease up now, Ed,” Uncle Jim said. “Let's give 'er a rest.”

Uncle Ed slackened the rope and stood back. Isabelle panted and moaned. I kept stroking her, trying to keep her calm. Several minutes later, she shifted again. Uncle Ed tightened the rope and pulled. Uncle Jim grabbed a hoof.

“Good and hard this time, Ed,” Uncle Jim said. “It's comin'; I can see it.”

After what seemed like hours, I could see two tiny hooves covered in a thin, creamy film. Isabelle lay motionless, hardly breathing. Uncle Jim stepped around her. He put a hand to her abdomen and held it there. Then he moved up to where I held her head. He placed a hand on her neck and another one over her nose. “Looks like we're on our own.”

He moved back behind Isabelle, pulled the blanket off her, and placed it on the ground behind her. “On the count o' three, Ed, we'll both give a good, solid pull. We'll keep at 'er 'til we get that calf out.”

They kept tugging, Uncle Jim counting the intervals, measuring the strength and duration of each attempt, while he and Uncle Ed both leaned back on the rope. I watched Isabelle with concern. “That's not gonna to hurt her, is it, Uncle Jim?” I felt her head shift and her warmth roll off her with each pull. “That's not gonna to hurt her calf?”

“Calves're tough as nails, Pius James. Else they wouldn't survive
this.” He was almost hollering under the strain. He didn't say anything about Isabelle.

Soon we saw a nose and then a shoulder. When the second shoulder slipped through, the rest of the calf appeared after one long, slow tug. Uncle Jim eased the sodden calf onto the blanket. It was all spindly legs, soft, tiny hooves, and curly, wet brown hair. “Looks like we got our miracle.”

I looked on with love and amazement as my uncle rubbed the calf down with the blanket and moved it closer to its mother. Isabelle raised her head, licked her newborn once, then lowered her head again and closed her eyes.

“This ain't good,” Uncle Jim said. “If she don't look after that calf, it'll die.”

“She's just tired is all,” I said. “She just needs a rest.” Then I looked up at my uncle and asked the question I didn't really want an answer to: “She'll be fine soon, won't she?”

“Likely not.”

“What're we going to do?”

“We'll get this here calf to stand up for a bit. Then we'll put it up to its mother and let it feed. When it's done, we'll put it on the sleigh, and you and Ed'll take it home,” Uncle Jim said. “Larry, you stay with Isabelle. I'm gonna get my gun.”

“You're not going to shoot her!” I stood up, gape-mouthed, gulping in the bitter cold.

Larry was on his feet now too, echoing what I had just said. “You're not going to shoot Isabelle?”

We both looked at our uncle in disbelief. His attitude was matter-
of-fact, like he was ordering toast with butter and jam. But he was
talking about Isabelle.

“We got no choice, boys. We'd never get 'er outta here.” Now he was ordering bacon and eggs—the eggs over easy, the bacon crisp. Just the usual, no fuss. He wasn't even thinking it through.

If this was the miracle, I wondered, where was the bit where Isabelle got up onto her broken leg, cleaned up her calf, fed it, and walked it home? If I wanted to save her, I had to figure out how. And I had to figure it out fast. Uncle Jim wanted it done and over with. “We could put her on the sleigh with her calf, couldn't we?” I blinked back tears and grasped at any idea that came into my head. “We could pull her on with the rope. Big Ned could get her out. He's strong enough.”

“We won't be ruinin' a good horse to save that ol' cow, Pius James; she'd be a ton o' dead weight.” He crouched by the river and rinsed his hands. “Besides, she's sufferin'; it's the only decent thing to do.”

I spun toward Larry. He was the smart one. He could come up with
a sensible plan, one my uncle would wonder at because he hadn't
thought of it first. But Larry just stared at the ground, crying.

I turned back to Uncle Ed. But he was already stepping into the river, the calf weighing down his arms, wrapped in the blanket. I grabbed
my shovel and followed him. I searched for a footing, shaking with
anger. I wanted to chase after him, but I didn't want to slip and fall and look the complete fool. I threw a hand out and a foot, slipping and splashing and huffing my way after him, my shovel plunging into the riverbed, my mind racing and raging.
If my Dad were here, he'd find a way.
I climbed up the opposite slope, boots sliding, mitts soaked,
fingers aching with cold.

I turned back to the river and saw Larry and Uncle Jim kneeling
beside Isabelle. For a brief moment, I caught an image of that stupid
old man warming his hands by the cookstove. This was his doing,
his fault. And he wasn't even here. I scrambled up the slope. A knee crashed to the ice. I got up and raced toward the trees and Big Ned, toward where Uncle Ed was carrying Isabelle's newborn calf. I stopped midway, planted my feet in the newly fallen snow, wiped my eyes, and
sucked in the dry Arctic air. “She just had a baby calf, dammit! You
can't kill her!”

Uncle Jim was standing by then, moving away from Isabelle. He
stopped and turned toward me. He raised a hand up and then let it fall. I was too far away anyhow.

Behind me, Uncle Ed carefully arranged the calf onto the sleigh. He stood up, wiped a mittened hand across his brow, and spoke in a deep, firm voice. “I'd wallop you good, young man, if I weren't so done in. Now let's go. Your mother's no doubt waiting on you.”

I sat behind Uncle Ed in the sleigh, held onto Isabelle's calf, and listened
to him tell me about cows and broken legs.

“You can't stand 'em up, Pius James. You can't put 'em into a sling because it bungs up their innards. They're not like other animals.

“You take Dodger, for instance. He breaks a leg and you can put a splint onto it and he can hobble around. You can cut it off and he can still run and herd just like a dog. But cows are heavy—they need all fours for balance. They break a leg, you can't do nothin' for 'em.”

He was quiet for a while, then he let go of the reins and turned in his seat, leaving Big Ned to navigate the path. “I'll tell you what—you and Larry take care of this here calf. You do it for Isabelle. How would that be?”

I smiled up at him and fought back tears, my mind still holding an image of Isabelle lying over the riverbank.

“You're a good boy—you know that.” Uncle Ed said. He turned and concentrated on the reins. Neither of us spoke the rest of the way home.

Next morning, Uncle Jim came whistling in from the barn, slipped
off his jacket and boots, and sauntered into the kitchen the way he
did on any other day. You wouldn't think he had just shot Isabelle the day before. I was sitting over breakfast with Helen. Granny and Aunt Gert buzzed around the sink and the cookstove. Ma was still in bed.

“Slept in, did you, Pius James?” He tousled my hair. “Who's lookin' after that calf?”

“Larry is.” Since yesterday, I hadn't been interested in food, but I
kept my head down over my oatmeal and ignored him.

“What was that?” He turned toward the cookstove, grabbed the
coffee pot and poured himself a mug.

“I said Larry is.” I was trying not to raise my voice. But all I could think about were Isabelle's big, trusting brown eyes. Of how she lay in the mud, weak and helpless after birthing. Uncle Jim had killed her the moment Uncle Ed and I placed her newborn calf on fresh bedding in a stall next to the Holsteins. I heard the distant echo of that single shot echo as it rang out through the woods. When I told Uncle Ed I was going back there, he grabbed my arm and said for me to
stay put
.

The thing that confused me the most was how Uncle Jim could have been so unfeeling about it all. How he could have put a gun to Isabelle's head, pulled the trigger, and walked away. Now he leaned against the kitchen counter, savouring his coffee. You'd think he didn't have a care in the world.

I pushed my bowl aside, got up from the table, and went into the mudroom. I pulled on my jacket and boots, opened the back door, and headed toward the barn. Lu was there and I wanted to see her. If she didn't understand, at least she seemed to try. Partway across the yard,
I realized that Larry would be there too, no doubt fussing over the
calf. He and I hadn't spoken since the ordeal by the river. I was mad at him for not taking a stand over Isabelle, and Larry, being Larry, was biding his time. I stopped and weighed my options. I could go back to the house and put up with Uncle Jim, or I could continue on to the barn and ignore Larry.

Morning had broken. The barnyard was cold and quiet. Dark clouds sat low and heavy in the late winter sky. Chimney smoke drifted by.
The chill grey, the silence, and the smell of smoke reminded me of
Everett the day after Dad died. The whole town had shut down and the constant hum of traffic was replaced by a mournful stillness. The same bewildering sense of loss I felt that day came back again.

I was standing in front of that shattered window next to Larry. After the second explosion, he gripped Ma's elbow to steady her. Alfred clung to her in a panic. Helen crept up beside her, slipped both arms into one of Ma's, and hung onto her. We huddled together and stared in shocked silence in the direction of the blasts as the frigid air poured in.

“That's Beacon Oil.” As tall as Larry was, he stood on his toes and stared off into the distance, his eyes wide with fear.

Smoke rose in dark plumes and blocked out the horizon. Flames shot skyward. A stream of charcoal-grey smoke billowed up, then slowly sank and moved through the neighbourhood. Several seconds passed, then Larry said what everybody must have been thinking since that first blast—the one that had rocked the house and sent me flying over the bottom stair. “Dad's out there.”

I remember the pounding in my chest and the tight ache in my
throat as I wondered about Dad and feared there would be another blast—a third one that would blow the whole house to smithereens and every one of us inside of it.

The telephone rang. Ma stepped around the shards strewn over
the kitchen floor and answered it. It was Aunt Mayme, checking on us. When Ma told her of the condition of our place, she said we should head on over. Ma stepped around the mess along the hallway, toward
the front closet. She pulled out a tangle of jackets and scarves and
piled them in a heap on the wingback chair in the parlour. She threw on her coat and opened the front door. It was freezing out there. The smell of oil had seeped through the neighbourhood. It filtered into the house along with the freezing cold. I pulled my jacket from the pile and threw it on. I dug for my hat and pulled that on too. I fumbled with my buttons, slipped on my boots, and followed Ma onto the front stoop.

“Mind, Pius James.” Her voice trembled and her hands shook as she buttoned her coat. “You're going to Mayme's.”

I buttoned the last button and then bent over to lace up my boots. There was no way I was listening to Ma—not with the whole north end of Everett burning up. And Dad out there, trapped behind that fire. I pulled my mittens from a pocket and put them on.

“Mind, I said!” Ma's voice rose in panic, this time. She leaned over me and put her hands to my face. “You've nothing to worry about. Your father's no doubt helping out; I'm sure of it. I'm just going to check on him, that's all. Now, go off to your Aunt Mayme's, like I told you.” She took a deep breath and calmed herself. “Stop your worrying.” Her voice had softened, but her hands shook. And I could see the fear in her eyes.

The last thing I remember is Ma flying down Hancock Street and the motorcars and the stream of people all racing in the same direction. And us kids walking the three blocks to Aunt Mayme's in the confusion, scarves wrapped around our faces to fend off the heavy stench of burning oil. And the sirens blaring in the distance.

I imagined Ma arriving at the closed iron gates of the plant, hollering out her frantic enquiries. Someone likely recognized her—the plant manager, perhaps, or the foreman of the afternoon shift. Whoever it was had told her the dead had been sent to J. T. Henderson's Undertaking, in Everett, and the injured to Massachusetts General Hospital, in downtown Boston. So she went downtown, hopeful, convincing herself my dad was still alive. That's where Uncle George found her. She was lying in a heap on the marble floor in the foyer. A telephone call had come in from Henderson's Undertaking and she had fainted away.

Early next morning, Helen, Alfred, and I were kneeling on the settee in Aunt Mayme's parlour, with the curtains pulled back from the front window. The fire was still smouldering in the distance. Smoke drifted under an overcast sky. A layer of soot smudged the road and the snowbanks that had built up around it in a recent winter storm. Except for a single motorcar creeping by, there was no one in sight. But it was the eerie silence in the neighbourhood I remember best—the deep feeling of sadness that had settled in all around. Ma, having cried herself to sleep the night before, still lay in bed, as she now did most mornings at Granny's.

I continued along the frozen path toward the barn. Larry or no Larry, I was going to see Lu. She was the only one I could confide in; the only one who would make me feel a little better. Lu nickered and turned in her stall as I eased open the barn door. I went up to her and stroked her neck. “You're a good old girl, aren't you, Lu.”

She rubbed her head on my chest and I hugged her.

A lantern hung from a rafter across from Big Ned's stall. Beneath it, Larry knelt in a bed of clean straw in the stall Uncle Ed and I had prepared for the calf the previous day. His arm was wrapped around
its neck. To its mouth he held a quart bottle of colostrum to which
he had attached a rubber nipple. The calf nudged it and sucked on it, slobbering milk over his face and onto the straw.

“She's a hungry little thing, isn't she?” Larry said, with a big smile. “She thinks I'm her mother.” He turned back to the calf. “Uncle Jim collected colostrum from Isabelle so her calf wouldn't die. Want to try?”

“Did he do it before he shot her?” Without waiting for an answer, I said, “I got to clean Lu's stall and get her feed.”

Ignoring Larry, I went to the storage room and grabbed the rake and the wheelbarrow. I returned to Lu's stall, nudged her toward a clean corner, and scooped the manure into the wheelbarrow. I would have spent hours mucking out, just to avoid Larry. And if he tried a fake, cheery, “Come on, P.J., it ain't all bad,” like he did when he was trying to sound like Uncle Jim, I'd just grunt at him, like he did at me when he thought I was being a pest.

In my estimation, Larry was nothing but a coward. He was no better than Uncle Jim. They had both taken the easy way out, Uncle Jim by shooting Isabelle and leaving her dead body in the woods, Larry for not taking a stand. Neither of them had the guts to admit that what they had done was wrong.

When I finished the stall, I brushed past Larry and the calf and climbed up the ladder to the loft. I pitched straw bedding and hay
down to Lu, then climbed down and groomed her. I brushed in long, continuous strokes down her neck and over her wide, muscular barrel. I kept working on her, trying to calm myself, while a head-pounding
fury built up inside. “You're a good girl, aren't you Lu,” I said, loud
enough for Larry to hear. “I'll bet you'd have pulled Isabelle out on
Uncle Jim's rickety old sleigh.”

I kept stroking her and talking to her, pretending Larry wasn't there. Talking to him would have meant forgiving him for what happened to Isabelle. It would have made him think that everything was just fine, when it really wasn't.

When Uncle Jim returned to the barn with a second bottle of colostrum for Isabelle's baby calf, I grabbed a pail and stomped off to the well, leaving the barn door open for spite. Hauling water was his job, and he hollered from the door.

“Leave the watering to me, Pius James; I'll get to it. How many times have I told you to stay away from that well?”

Like I'll listen to him. Like I even care about what Isabelle's killer has to say.
I ignored him and kept on going.

The well cover had iced over, so I returned to the barn for the shovel.
When I pried the cover off, a rock came loose from the mortar and
splashed into the water below. I looked up to be sure Uncle Jim hadn't seen, then I filled a pail for Lu and returned for another one for Big Ned. I figured I could make four more quick trips for the cows and put the cover back on before anybody noticed the missing stone. Besides, Uncle Jim was planning on fixing it soon anyhow. At least he said he was.

“Boys, it's cold in here,” Uncle Jim said as I poured Lu's water. “What d'you say we hitch up Big Ned and I take you fellas to school in the jauntin' sleigh this mornin'?” The jaunting sleigh was the one we used for visiting and for going to church on Sundays. In the spring, Uncle Jim would remove the wooden runners and put on two sets of wheels.

“That's a grand idea,” Larry said. Islanders made a big deal over
everything and now Larry was doing it too.

“I'm walking.” I didn't care about travelling to school in Uncle Jim's fancy sleigh.

By the time I had lugged water in for the cows, Uncle Jim had returned to the house. Larry had thrown fresh straw down for Isabelle's calf and was arranging it in her stall. “You could go easy on Uncle Jim, P.J.; he only did what he had to do.”

“Right, Larry. Like I'd listen to you.” In my books, my brother had been a willing accomplice. He had stood beside Isabelle while Uncle Jim did the deed. I hung up the water pail and stormed out the barn door.