Little Joe (18 page)

Eli tightened his hold on the show halter and pulled Little Joe closer.

“Just make sure to leave his water bucket full.”

“Huh?” Eli didn’t know what Pa meant.

“Once he’s sold, son. Leave water, a bale of hay and you’re done. Now let’s get this bull calf sold.”

Eli blinked at the big blue ribbon Pa’d put on Little Joe’s halter, moving whenever Little Joe breathed. He’d done everything right so far, Little Joe had. And Eli’d shown them he had the Stegner touch, too. But Eli wished it was still morning. And there was no blue ribbon. Before Little Joe wouldn’t go in. Before Little Joe got so big.

“Now in the ring … Eli Stegner and Little Joe, Junior
Champion, bull calf division,” the auctioneer hollered. “Eat him or breed him … he’s the Junior Champion … Little Joe.”

Eli’s shirt collar felt stiff. His new boots weren’t even worn in yet, and he felt a blister coming on. But Little Joe didn’t look bothered at all as he entered the show ring to be sold.

“Boy, that’s some carcass. About a year’s worth of barbecuing, I’d imagine!” someone bellowed from the front row.

“Why’d you have to get so big?” Eli whispered, looking at Little Joe from the corner of his eye. “I’ve got an apple in my pocket,” he said. “Why don’t you sniff around for it? Rear up or something.”

Around and around they walked as the auctioneer cackled out numbers. It was just Eli and Little Joe now, being swallowed up by the lights and the sawdust that smelled like medicine.

Little Joe nudged Eli’s arm and tried to lick his hand. “You’re supposed to be afraid of me,” he told the calf, tugging tighter on the lead chain.

Eli looked up to find something familiar—someone—and caught a flash of white. It came from a belt buckle in the middle row. Eli swung Little Joe away. He knew it was Ned Kinderhoff standing there, bidding on his calf.

Eli took his gaze higher and spotted Grandpa in the
high row, smiling and waving his hat. Eli wished he could feel happy like Grandpa. But he found it hard to breathe and looked down at his boots.

“Sold!”
yelled the auctioneer. The crowd gasped at the high number.

Eli felt the blood rush to his ears and block out the noise. He loosened his hold on Little Joe and stood there for a moment with his eyes closed, burning. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead and onto his upper lip.

“Time to get out of the ring, boy,” Eli heard the ring man say. “Time to go.”

Grandpa was waiting outside the gate.

“It’s all over, Grandpa,” Eli murmured, giving him the lead strap.

“I know, son, I know. Now we can go home.”

With his hands free, Eli thought about apple season and supposed that Old Gert would get a few extra with Little Joe gone. And he’d have more time for climbing those crooked trees instead of picking them clean. That’s how a real farmer would think. A real farmer would be getting curly fries by now with extra gravy.

It was strange letting go and wanting to hold on. Little Joe was still behind him. Eli could feel it. He wanted to look back, but he couldn’t. The tears were too close. If he were Fancy, he’d turn around and kick and buck and moo and do just about anything to keep his calf near. But Eli
wasn’t Fancy; he was a farmer. He wiped his face with his palm.
Don’t stop caring just because it hurts
, Grandpa had said. How could he ever stop caring for Little Joe? He could still smell him on his fingers.

“Ready to load up, son?” Grandpa asked.

Eli didn’t understand.

“Little Joe’s got an apple orchard to eat over at my farm. I’d imagine he’s starving.”

“But …”

“I’ve been thinking ’bout getting back into it … keep the rhythm of life going,” Grandpa said. “There’s not a young bull finer than Little Joe. He’s worth every bit the money I paid for him.”

Eli didn’t know what to say.

“Now don’t think I’m gonna need another one next year,” Grandpa added.

“Oh no.”

“But Little Joe … he’s not a bull you want to part with.”

“Uh-huh” was all Eli could say. For he’d already grabbed hold of the halter and was feeding the apples in his pocket to Little Joe.

Acknowledgments

Sometimes the best stories come to you in the middle of the night and all you can do is get up and write what you’ve been told. That’s how it was with
Little Joe
. I scribbled down the first few paragraphs, which still stand in their original form, but I needed help with the rest. I found the perfect guides.

First and foremost, Nancy Hinkel, my editor
—Little Joe
would not have become a novel had it not been for Nancy, who read the story in picture-book form and knew it could be more. Associate editor Rebecca Bullene, for her watchful eye on all things ethical, rural, and deeply rooted in the soil. Heather Smith Thomas’s book
A Guide to Raising Beef Cattle
, which became my beef bible and a riveting nightly read to this day, along with the
Angus Journal
. Clearfield Farms, run by the Rickards, my Cherry Ridge neighbors, whose chickens, barn cats and newborn Anguses made this story real. Their cattle stared me down in the pasture outside my window each day as I wrote this story. Keith O’Grady, our other neighbor, thank you for seeing the world as you did growing up, and for your bouquets of poison ivy. Ed Pruss, of Penn State’s agricultural office in Wayne County, for setting me straight on every question I asked about beef and farming, as did
veterinarian Richard Trayes and farmers Beth Troop, Dave Nogan, Jess Scull and Diana Beisner.
Highlights for Children
science editor Andy Boyles, and Mark Baldwin of the Roger Tory Peterson Institute, for making the Big Night chapter come to life. And finally,
Little Joe
’s highest form would not have been achieved without the support of my husband, Rich Wallace, who knew the voice as well as I, and saw that it never faltered. He eagerly read each new chapter and never stopped seeing the wonder of it, making daily walks with me to the cows.

About the Author

After fifteen years as a network TV announcer, Toronto native Sandra Neil Wallace moved to rural Pennsylvania. When she woke up to a mischievous group of runaway Holsteins on her porch twirling pumpkins with their candy-pink tongues, Wallace’s curiosity was piqued. A trip to the county fair deepened that interest. Befriending a nine-year-old boy eager to show her his Angus calf, Wallace watched him tearfully flee into the midway after his show animal had been sold. That night she began to write
Little Joe
, her first novel.

Sandra Neil Wallace now lives in New Hampshire with her husband, novelist Rich Wallace, and Lucy, who’s a lot like Eli’s dog, Tater.