novella
Active Member
I can hear a cow lowing up on Jerry’s hill. I’ve never seen his cow, only his dirty field dog Storm, his ducks and geese, his black cat I put saucers of milk out for, his chickens, his goats. He used to walk the goats down the hill on a rope leash, leaves in his beard, a foraging bag under his arm. Getting food for the rabbits, he said. Sometimes I wonder what he eats. Would he eat the chickens or the goats, or would he have a forage salad? Seems like he’s no stranger to killing.
The cow is lowing louder than I’ve ever heard. Maybe it’s calving, who knows. Jerry would know what to do about that, just stick his hand right into the cow, blood and all, and pull the calf. Routine. He stopped to talk to me once while he held a live chicken upside down by the feet and swung it next to his knee. That’s how you hold a chicken, he said. It won’t move a muscle. The chicken looked dead until Jerry set it down and it marched away, it’s silly head bobbing like mad. I’m taking that one to the auction tomorrow, he said. They have a chicken auction? I asked. Hmmmm, he said. I pictured a room of old farmers bidding up old chickens.
Jerry had a beagle I called Hamilton. It’s real name was Badger, but I didn’t know that until the dog was nearly dead, on his last legs, wandering stupidly in the road. Its splayed long nails dragged through the dirt. I stopped my truck and picked him up and put him on the passenger seat. He drooled and looked at me with one eye. Drove him up to Jerry’s. I was trespassing and he might shoot me, I thought, but he just stood looking. I climbed down from the cab. I said, Hamilton’s going to get hit by a car. Name’s Badger, Jerry said. Neither seemed to care much about the prospect of death. It would come sometime, somehow. So next time I just drove past that dog Hamilton, swaying drunkenly down the road. Didn’t see him after that. Maybe he found a shady place to lie down.
Burning garbage smoke came across the road last summer into my window. Acrid, hay and animal smelling. I walked up the hill. Jerry was under his truck, not waiting to shoot trespassers, just doing an oil change. His brown Carhartts stuck out from under, paint stained, oil stained, maybe blood. The rusted drum next to the barn was still smoking, still blowing down my way. Hey, I said. He rolled out slow and turned his face to me. Next time would you wait until the wind changes? I asked him, pointing at the drum. Hmmm, he said. I took it as a yes and went back down the hill.
A storm took the power out. A live line was down in the road. Jerry was at the door, under the dripping gutter. Phone’s out, he said. Can I use yours? He needed to report the outage. He came in and took his boots off, looking at my floor, afraid to ruin it. It’s okay, I said, to keep those on. He took them off anyway. Wouldn’t sit down. Drank a Coke standing, made the call. Told me not to go out until they fixed the live line. Might get hurt. He put his boots back on and left with them untied. He was in a hurry to get back.
I bought a book about making goat cheese, a local book about one of the farms nearby. Inside the pictures were clinical: stainless steel tanks, ladies in showercaps and latex gloves, big clean refrigerators. Except for page 18, which had Jerry. He took me by surprise, in his red and black plaid jacket, hay in his hair, feeding those dairy goats. They seemed to be talking to him.
His mother came by once. Faded hair dye, a soft face. I’m Jerry’s mom, she said. My husband died this winter. Forty years of marriage, now I’m all alone. The story came out without stopping, and then she went back up the hill.
The cow is lowing louder than I’ve ever heard. Maybe it’s calving, who knows. Jerry would know what to do about that, just stick his hand right into the cow, blood and all, and pull the calf. Routine. He stopped to talk to me once while he held a live chicken upside down by the feet and swung it next to his knee. That’s how you hold a chicken, he said. It won’t move a muscle. The chicken looked dead until Jerry set it down and it marched away, it’s silly head bobbing like mad. I’m taking that one to the auction tomorrow, he said. They have a chicken auction? I asked. Hmmmm, he said. I pictured a room of old farmers bidding up old chickens.
Jerry had a beagle I called Hamilton. It’s real name was Badger, but I didn’t know that until the dog was nearly dead, on his last legs, wandering stupidly in the road. Its splayed long nails dragged through the dirt. I stopped my truck and picked him up and put him on the passenger seat. He drooled and looked at me with one eye. Drove him up to Jerry’s. I was trespassing and he might shoot me, I thought, but he just stood looking. I climbed down from the cab. I said, Hamilton’s going to get hit by a car. Name’s Badger, Jerry said. Neither seemed to care much about the prospect of death. It would come sometime, somehow. So next time I just drove past that dog Hamilton, swaying drunkenly down the road. Didn’t see him after that. Maybe he found a shady place to lie down.
Burning garbage smoke came across the road last summer into my window. Acrid, hay and animal smelling. I walked up the hill. Jerry was under his truck, not waiting to shoot trespassers, just doing an oil change. His brown Carhartts stuck out from under, paint stained, oil stained, maybe blood. The rusted drum next to the barn was still smoking, still blowing down my way. Hey, I said. He rolled out slow and turned his face to me. Next time would you wait until the wind changes? I asked him, pointing at the drum. Hmmm, he said. I took it as a yes and went back down the hill.
A storm took the power out. A live line was down in the road. Jerry was at the door, under the dripping gutter. Phone’s out, he said. Can I use yours? He needed to report the outage. He came in and took his boots off, looking at my floor, afraid to ruin it. It’s okay, I said, to keep those on. He took them off anyway. Wouldn’t sit down. Drank a Coke standing, made the call. Told me not to go out until they fixed the live line. Might get hurt. He put his boots back on and left with them untied. He was in a hurry to get back.
I bought a book about making goat cheese, a local book about one of the farms nearby. Inside the pictures were clinical: stainless steel tanks, ladies in showercaps and latex gloves, big clean refrigerators. Except for page 18, which had Jerry. He took me by surprise, in his red and black plaid jacket, hay in his hair, feeding those dairy goats. They seemed to be talking to him.
His mother came by once. Faded hair dye, a soft face. I’m Jerry’s mom, she said. My husband died this winter. Forty years of marriage, now I’m all alone. The story came out without stopping, and then she went back up the hill.
