Moo (5 page)

Two hours Mom was gone. When she returned, she said,
Well! Mrs. Falala was perfectly charming!

Charming? Mrs. Falala?

And,
Mom continued,
I think we've sorted out
that little misunderstanding and I think we can
really be helpful to Mrs. Falala now.

Luke gripped my arm. I'm pretty sure we were both thinking the same thing:

                                  
Helpful?

                                  
We?

And at the same time
, Mom added,
Mrs. Falala
will be able to see that you two are not normally
disrespectful. You'll start tomorrow.

                                  
Start tomorrow?

                                  
Start
what
tomorrow?

                                  
Helping?

Luke:
No, no, no, no, not going to kookoo lady's house anymore, no, no, no.

Mom:
Now, now—

Me:
Do we
have
to?

Mom:
You might actually—

Luke:
No, no, no, not going, not helping, no, no, no.

Mom:
Let's see what—

Me:
Did you see the snake? The hog? Did Mrs. Falala snap at you?

Luke:
Awful, horrible, nutto lady—

Mom:
All right, Luke, Reena. That's enough.

                    
E n o u g h.

And when Mom says

                    
E n o u g h

in that way, in that tone, that's pretty much the end of the discussion.

                    
Over and out. Finito!

The next day, we all returned to Mrs. Falala's: Mom, Dad, Luke, me.

Luke, who had been attached to my arm since he woke up, was not speaking. Pancakes and bacon—usually his favorites at breakfast—did not interest him. Mom's and Dad's attempts to nudge him into good humor did not faze him.

I was not in my best form either. I hate it
when my parents volunteer me for something without asking me.

Of course Reena would be happy to watch Mikey
for you
, my mother promised a friend in our old city more than once.
Of course she would.

No, I would not. Not after the time Mikey handcuffed me to his front porch railing, dumped a bucket of blue paint on me and the porch floor, and screamed bloody murder for a solid hour.

Of course Reena will help you clear out your
garage, Mr. Conklin
, my father promised our old neighbor.
She'd be happy to!

No, I would not. Nests of mice in the corners. Roaches on the shelves. Moldy boards and spiders and wasps.

Do Ben's paper route while he's on vacation? Reena
could do that. She'd be happy to
, my father promised his boss.

No, I would not, especially since Ben left terrible instructions and I couldn't read the addresses and there were three terrifying dogs on the route and one exceedingly creepy man with no teeth and orange hair and I tripped on a rock and gashed my head and knees and it poured rain and the papers got wet and the people were mad.

But here we were now: me, Luke, Mom, and Dad back at Mrs. Falala's because my mother had volunteered me and Luke
to help.

To help with
what
we did not know.

Oh, that sneaky Mrs. Falala, how she

                    
s m i l e d

                            
at my parents

such a sweet, sweet

                    
s m i l e

and how she put her gnarly fingers together in

a little prayer pose beneath her chin

and how she pouted at me and at Luke

as if we had hurt her feelings—

oh, that sneaky Mrs. Falala.

When Luke and I apologized for our recent “disrespectful” behavior—an apology my parents made us rehearse on our way over to Mrs. Falala's house—Mrs. Falala stared at us for

            
one

                    
two

                            
three

                                        
eternities

or so it seemed

and she said not a word

until finally my mother said

Now is there something that Reena and Luke can
help you with?

Yes!
said Mrs. Falala so suddenly and loudly that Luke skittered back against the door and I reached for my father's arm.
Yes! There eez
barn first! Come!
Mrs. Falala lunged through the side door, swirling her bony arm like a windmill, ordering us to follow across the scrabbly yard to a small, old, gray barn and
into its dark interior and down the aisle that smelled of sawdust and out the other side and around the back to a fenced area that bordered one of the barn stalls.

There!
said Mrs. Falala, pointing to a dank sawdusty courtyard splotted with smelly cow dung and flies.
To scoop! To shovel!

Ah
, Dad said,
you'd like the kids to help you, erm,
clean the pen?

Yes! To scoop! To shovel!

I was trying not to gag from the smell. Luke's lower lip was quivering. Mom's hand covered her nose and mouth.

Well
, Dad said,
that doesn't sound too hard, does
it, kids? I'm sure they could help you out, Mrs.
Falala. Right, kids? Reena? Luke? Right?

Right?
Mom echoed.

Luke pinched my arm and buried his face against my back.

Right?
Dad said.

I stood up straight. I looked Mrs. Falala in the eye. She blinked innocently and tilted her head daintily to one side, waiting for my answer.

Right
, I said.

We scooped

            
p
    
i
    
l
    
e
    
s

            
i

            
l

            
e

            
s

                    
of

                    
C
    
O
    
W

                    
D
    
U
    
N
    
G

we shoveled

            
we gagged

                    
we swatted flies
       
flies

                                            
flies flies
       
flies

While my parents and Mrs. Falala

returned to the kitchen

to drink lemonade

in the cool, dry

non-stinky

non-smelly

non-fly-filled

kitchen

and

when Luke and I were finished

we had to wait for Mom and Dad

outside the house

because we were
too smelly.

Did Mrs. Falala thank me and Luke

for the scooping and shoveling

of the smelly dung?

Did she?

Noop.

What she said as we were leaving was,
Tomorrow!

Mom and Dad looked up at the sky, taking a sudden interest in the clouds above. Luke grabbed ahold of my shirt, tugging at the hem.

‘Tomorrow'?
I said.

Mrs. Falala's bony fingers danced in the air. She tossed her ropy braid from one side to the other.
Tomorrow: cow!
And with that, she backed into her house and closed the door while up on the porch rail the parrot eyed us.

Apparently Luke and I had been volunteered by our parents to “help for a while.”

What does that mean, ‘a while'?
I asked.
A couple
days? A week? Two weeks? A month?

Hmm
, Dad said.

Hmm
, Mom said.

And what does Mrs. Falala mean about ‘cow!'?
What do we know about cows?

Luke, who had not spoken since we began scooping the cow dung, now said,
We know
ZERO about cows.

ZERO
, I agreed.

Perfect opportunity to learn then!
Dad said, with a strained attempt at upbeat optimism.
Right?
It sounds like a great Maine-y thing to do. Right,
Reena? Right, Lukey?

The next day, we were back at Mrs. Falala's, just me and Luke.

Surely you don't need us along, right?
Dad had said.
Surely you and Lukey can handle this on your
own, right? And remember, be respectful. Right?

Right, right, right.

All the way over, Luke said,
Don't let her poke
me, Reena. Don't let her scold me. Don't let her be
mean to me.

I will try my best
, I said, but I was wishing that my parents were along so I could say,
Don't let
her poke
me
; don't let her scold
me
; don't let her
be mean to
me. And then I thought,
Come on,
Reena, you are old enough to handle one little old
lady.

Mrs. Falala was waiting for us by the barn, sitting on a hay bale.
First: water!

So much for pleasantries.

From her hay bale throne, Mrs. Falala barked orders:
Empty bucket! Over there! Fill with water!
See hose? Not too much. Not too little. Put it over
there. There! Get feed bucket. Not that one! The
other one! Take to feed bin. Over there! Fill it
up! No, not full-full! Half-full! Put it over there.
There! See? There!

Luke was moving carefully, almost in slow motion, and after we'd filled up the water and feed buckets, he stopped and stood still, his arms straight at his sides. He turned toward Mrs. Falala and said,
Where is the cow?

Cow?
she said.
You think there eez a cow?

Yes
, Luke said.
Yesterday you said, ‘Tomorrow!
Cow!' and today is tomorrow and where is the cow?

You are wanting to see cow?

He's not being disrespectful, Mrs. Falala
, I said.
He's just asking—

—About cow.

Yes.

You are wanting to see cow?

Yes.

Why didn't you say so? Cow over there—see?
Mrs. Falala snaked her arm toward the pasture beyond.

We saw only grass and weeds and fence.

There—you are not seeing? By bushes.

In one corner lying beside sprawling bushes was a black lump.

That lumpy thing?
Luke said.

Eez not lumpy!
Mrs. Falala replied.
Go see.

Neither of us moved.

What? You eez afraid? Of
cow
?

We are not afraid
, I said.
We are—just—cautious.

Pah! Afraid! Afraid of cow!
Mrs. Falala tossed her braid from one side to the other.
Afraid of cow!

Come on, Luke
, I said.
Come with me
. I opened the pasture gate.
Let's go see this lumpy cow.

Eez not lumpy!
Mrs. Falala said.

Halfway across the field, Luke whispered to me:
Is too. Lumpy!

The lump, we could now see, was definitely a cow, and it wasn't all black. It was one of the Belted Galloways—black on its front and hindquarters and white in the middle—or at least
white where it wasn't splattered with mud. It stared at us as we approached, making no movement except an occasional flick of its tail.

Lumpy old lazy cow
, Luke said.

And then came the sound, the low rumbling from deep inside and the long, drawn-out
Mooooooooo.
Its eyes were as big as apples and its nostrils gaping black caves.
Mooooooooo.

Touch it,
Luke said.

What? Me?
When you have a little brother, you don't want to look weak. I stepped closer to the cow.

On its head
, Luke said.
Pat its head, Reena.

Oh, that was one mighty large head. I bet the head alone weighed a hundred pounds.

It's not used to us, Luke. I don't want to scare the
poor thing.

Go on, pat its head so it will know we're friendly.

I leaned closer and quickly patted the top of its head.
There, there, cow. Hi, there, cow
. The fur was softer than I expected.

Abruptly, the cow tossed its head and let out another lone, low,
Mooooooooo.

We headed back to the gate, maybe a little faster than we had come. I could see Mrs. Falala watching us, but she said nothing about our encounter with the cow.

We did a few more chores for her before it was time for us to leave.

Not so bad
, Mrs. Falala said.
Tomorrow, you meet
Zora for official.

Zora? Who's Zora? Tomorrow? I'm not sure we can
come back—

Yes, yes, your papa says eez fine. Three mornings
a week.

But—

Watch out for Paulie—

The squealing hog that we'd seen on our first visit came barreling around the side of the barn, chased once again by the fat, golden cat. We plastered ourselves against the barn and let them pass.

Paulie is—the hog or the cat?

Paulie eez fat pig hog. Cat eez China. You come
back tomorrow. They'll be here. Zora, too.

Zora?

Zora eez cow.

At the bottom of the drive, we stopped and stared back at the house, waiting to hear the flute music. It wasn't long, only a few minutes, before the gentle melody drifted out of the attic window.