Little Joe (5 page)

There was Apple Wood, standing in a field somewhere looking meaty and thick in the brisket, too. The advertisement said he had plenty of dimension and was more than just a numbers bull. That “his progeny exhibit flawless phenotype with show-winning appeal.”

All Eli knew was that Apple Wood had a shiny gold ring through his nose and the calluses on his dewclaws were big as crab apples. Apple Wood’s eyes were real tiny, too. Eli figured the bull could barely see through all that flesh and didn’t know he had a nose ring, anyhow. The
back of his black neck puffed out so thick, it was as if Tater, or a farm dog just like him, had climbed up and wrapped around Apple Wood’s shoulders.

“Folks around here know all about his offspring.” Grandpa swept his hand alongside Little Joe’s back. “How most of them have just the right amount of marbling on their tops—and around the rib.”

Little Joe yawned as Grandpa’s fingers felt his rib cage. “We’ll have buyers looking before Little Joe gets to the fair, I suspect.”

Grandpa took the magazine and placed the picture of Apple Wood against Little Joe’s girth. “Don’t he look like him already, some?”

Little Joe licked the picture, then tried to grab the glossy ends with his tongue.

But Eli was focused on the folds in Little Joe’s neck. Apple Wood didn’t have folds; he had muscle. Little Joe didn’t have any muscles to speak of and was no wider than Eli, except in the shoulders. His ears still looked silly, too, not cocked forward like Apple Wood’s, but fuzzy as Hannah’s slippers. And his switch wasn’t even a real-looking switch yet. It hadn’t reached anywhere near his hock.

“I mean, there’s great possibility in that brisket, son, once you see past all that wrinkly flesh,” Grandpa said.

Little Joe wandered over to the automatic waterer. A gush of water squirted into his eyes, so he pulled back his head, then stomped and mooed.

“See the skin?” Grandpa bent down and took hold of a fleshy fold. “He’ll grow into it. That’s why there’s so much of it.”

Little Joe flicked his ears and showed Grandpa the whites of his eyes. Then he shook his head and sneezed until Grandpa let go. “Course, growing gets pretty uncomfortable. And it itches. That’s why he sneezes and scratches an awful lot.”

Eli watched Little Joe take a pee and remembered how itchy his own ankles got last year, when he’d grown at least two inches.

“He’s going through a red stage now, with his coat,” Grandpa said. “Every Angus—at least the good ones—always go through one. But he’s already square and walks easy. Look how long he is, too, how level his topline is. Just like Apple Wood.”

Eli squinted and thought he could see how Little Joe might become just like Apple Wood. That Little Joe wouldn’t always reach up to Eli’s chest or follow him around the barn, his tiny hooves almost tickling whenever they stepped on Eli’s muck boots, feeling more like plastic shoes. But then he stopped squinting and saw how
squooshed Little Joe’s muzzle still was. Eli felt the bull calf’s hips and thought they were too bony to add volume to anything.

“Now don’t look at his hips,” Grandpa said. “Sure they’re bony, but watch how wide he stands. He’ll grow into them real soon.”

Eli rubbed Little Joe’s brisket while Grandpa put the
Angus Journal
back in his pocket.

“That’s the sweet spot, Eli. Keep rubbin’ on that and he’ll forgive you for everything. Let you do most anything, too. Like getting him halter-broke.”

Eli’s heart pumped through his chore coat. “You mean right now?”

Grandpa nodded.

“But it’s already getting dark.” Eli looked down at the pen floor. He noticed their shadows moving against the sawdust and straw, the shifting light in the barn. He was pretty sure it must be close to five.

“Now’s the best time to start, Eli. When he’s kinda drowsy and full of milk and happy.” Grandpa came out of the tack room with a rope halter to fit over Little Joe’s muzzle, leaving enough length for Eli to use to lead.

Curious, Little Joe lowered his head, then came closer.

“Let ’im sniff it real good,” Grandpa said.

Little Joe looked up at Eli and down to the halter.

“You should know right off the bat he’s gonna fight it,”
Grandpa admitted. “It’s just normal. Even though you’ve been befriending him. Now reach over and hand me that bucket of corn.”

Eli wondered how he’d get the halter on Little Joe if there was a bucket of corn around.

“Put the halter in the bucket and when he reaches in to munch, slip it over his head.” Grandpa’s voice had turned faint and raspy.

Little Joe darted behind Fancy.

“Go ahead. Take him a little treat,” Grandpa urged.

“You mean trick him,” Eli said.

“Not exactly. You been with him every day, see. He trusts you. His first smell was you. You’re the boss cow. Now go on. And don’t make like you’re doing something mean. He’ll keep eating for a second or two, then start fightin’ it. I’ll grab the bucket once you got the halter on him.”

Eli and Grandpa stood next to Fancy. She glanced at Eli and took a few steps back, rustling the straw bed as Little Joe hid deeper in the corner.

“Show him a handful of kernels,” Grandpa whispered.

Slowly, Little Joe stepped out from the corner of the pen and over to Eli. He sniffed at the yellow niblets in Eli’s palm and lowered his head into the bucket.

“That’s it. Keep feeding him, lowering your hand until his face is deep inside. Now halter him.”

As soon as Eli got the halter past Little Joe’s eyes, the bull calf bucked back and thrashed his head from side to side. He swept the halter against his knees, trying to scrape it away, but Eli had already secured it.

“It’s okay, boy,” Eli murmured, holding the end of the halter snug. “I promise it won’t hurt. Not if you don’t keep rubbing.”

Grandpa took the corn bucket and placed it under Fancy to keep her occupied. “Go on, Eli,” Grandpa said. “Get up to him and scratch the back of his ears. Whatever you need to do to calm him.”

Eli began to hum as he followed Little Joe around the pen. But Little Joe wouldn’t let himself be soothed in any way and kept stutter-stepping about Fancy.

“Let him walk around with it for a little bit,” Grandpa said. “See that it don’t hurt.”

Eli let go of the rope end and examined his palms. They’d gone all blotchy and swollen at the center, where the rope slivers had cut their way in.

Realizing he no longer had to fight, Little Joe lay down by Fancy and started chewing on the rope end.

“That halter’s not a toy, Eli,” Grandpa said. “Time to tie him up.”

Grandpa helped Eli tie Little Joe’s rope to the rail underneath the pen window. The bull calf bawled, getting
Fancy to come over. “Keep quieting him,” Grandpa prodded, rubbing Fancy’s forehead.

“It’s okay, boy.” Eli spoke softly in Little Joe’s ear. “How am I gonna take you to the fair if I can’t even tie you to a post?”

Little Joe sniffed at the windowsill, then fought the rope. Over and over, Eli stroked the bull calf’s chin. Finally, Little Joe gave it a rest.

“That’s enough for today,” Grandpa decided. “You don’t want to sour him. And Fancy’s been more than patient. Now take the halter off, give him some corn and keep rubbin’ that brisket.”

“Can we try again tomorrow, Grandpa?”

Grandpa squeezed Eli’s shoulder. “Your pa will help you tomorrow. It’s time for me to go home. Now get washed up for supper.”

Eli waited until he couldn’t see the taillights on Grandpa’s Ford pickup anymore. Then he eyed Little Joe. He didn’t want Pa helping him tomorrow, thinking he couldn’t gentle his own bull calf. He had to show Little Joe who’s boss. Or else Pa would. Eli’d lead him out to the silo and tie him up there for a few minutes, just to be sure. And he wouldn’t let go. That’s what Pa was always worried about.

Eli took the halter from his back pocket. He slid it up
on Little Joe’s head so quickly Little Joe didn’t see it coming. But when Eli led him out of the pen, the bull calf froze and started bawling.

“It’s for the best, boy,” Eli told him. “I need to make sure you know who’s boss.”

Eli kept tugging until he could hear Little Joe’s hooves tapping on the barn’s cement floor.
The silo’s only a few more steps
, Eli thought.
I can see it through the barn window
.

Little Joe kept bawling and balking, pulling, then stopping, pulling, then stopping against the rope until frothy rings bubbled out of his mouth when they reached the silo.

“How else am I gonna lead you around?” Eli asked. “Get you into the show ring?”

Little Joe squinted and tugged harder on the rope.

Eli closed his eyes and tugged even harder than Little Joe. Then he felt a release. He wasn’t tugging anymore. Little Joe was beside him, then bolting ahead of him at full gallop.

Don’t let go
was all Eli could think. His feet swept under him and he heard himself shout into his collar.

Eli could catch bits of the smoke-colored sky as Little Joe dragged him down the pasture hill. He felt a stab of pain whenever his chore coat rode up and the curly dock and chokeberry bushes beneath the snow jabbed at his skin.

Little Joe kept bawling and balking, pulling, then stopping, pulling, then stopping against the rope…
.

“Help!” Eli yelled. He caught a burst of Hannah’s pink coat and her cowboy boots running. He could hear Tater barking before something sharp tore through his sleeve, smothering the shouting. Mud coated Eli’s eyes when Little Joe finally stopped. Eli blinked and forced one eye open.

They were at the bottom of the field, halfway through the fence, in front of the apple orchard. Little Joe was breathing hard. Eli could feel his arm moving up and down with the breath. He strained to lift his head and saw the bull calf’s nostrils flaring. There were streaks of blood running down Eli’s palm onto the rope, and his butt hurt. But he hadn’t let go.

Tater caught up and came over, panting. He licked Eli’s nose.

“Pa, come quick!” Hannah hollered. “Eli and Little Joe are covered in muck.”

Mending Fences

Eli fought to keep still. Between Ma’s scissors sending prickly bits of hair down his back and the stitches he got in his hand the night before, Eli was one big itch. The Easter lily sitting at the center of the kitchen table wasn’t helping. The scent from its curled-out petals kept prickling Eli’s nose.

“Ma, can you move that flower?” Eli wished he could get to his nose, but he was pinned underneath the haircutting cape.

“What for?” Ma asked. She stopped clipping for a second.

“’Cause it stinks.” Eli caught another whiff. He thought
about the forgotten cantaloupes going rotten in Grandpa’s garden last summer.

“It’s part of Easter, Eli,” Ma said. She stuck a finger in the planter, making the purple tinfoil crinkle.

“Just like Easter bunnies.” Hannah grinned. She combed the white fur rounding Sleepy’s back while the bunny nibbled on a carrot top.

“Hold still,” Ma told Eli. Her eyes darted from Eli’s bangs to the scissors.

“Colored eggs are part of Easter, too,” Hannah said. “Ma, you promised we’d color eggs tonight and now you’re cutting Eli’s hair.”