turning to foreign languages, to come up with new ideas.
He slapped the last of his cows on the side and urged her out the shed door. Dale had finished already and was bringing in the water hoses to swab out the pit below the milking stands. Robbie disconnected his milk lines and took them out to the washroom with his milking jars and teat cups.
It was still dark, but it was almost always dark for the morning milking. They started at five, finished around six-thirty, and this time of year the eastern sky was barely turning gray even when they finished.
He hurried to the washroom and dumped the equipment into the sink at the corner. Dale would disinfect it and set it out ready for the evening milking.
The light was on in the kitchen. Nanny would have breakfast ready. He mustn’t dawdle, but he still took a chance and ran over to the new enclosure, where Soapweed’s new calf stood in a lonely state. She was bawling, longing for company, for her mother, for food. She was only four weeks old.
Robbie hated that part of dairy farming. It was cruel to take babies from their mothers. The other calves didn’t fare much better than Soapweed’s calf, being pinned next to little sheds outside the main barn. Working cows couldn’t be sharing their milk with their own offspring. It all had to go to the farm. At least the other new calves were outdoors. They all could see the sun and each other.
Soapweed had cried for forty-eight hours straight when Serise was taken from her. And poor Serise, she was in this god-awful— sorry, Jesus, but it is —pen, no sunlight for her, no friends. Robbie undid the lock and went in to pet her.
“King Jesus, He moves the mountains,” he crooned, rubbing her nubby red head.
The cow nuzzled him and tried to suck his fingers. He smelled of milk. He had it on his clothes. She wanted to nurse so badly it hurt him.
“Your bucket of ultrapure is coming soon, girl, don’t you worry. And when you’re rich and famous, don’t forget who looked after you, either, you hear?”
“Hey, Robbie!”
Robbie jumped, but it was just Dale, who added, “You know Arnie don’t like you in here. And I seed your Nanny looking out the kitchen window for you. Maybe you’d better go on inside.”
Ten
THE RED HEIFER
“W HAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?” Myra asked. “I saw Dale cleaning out the jars before you showed your head.”
“Yes, Nanny,” Robbie said. It was easier to agree with her than to offer excuses.
“Those Jews are coming from Kansas City this afternoon to look at the calf,” Arnie announced. “Make sure you’re not playing that music of yours while they’re here. We need them to give us a favorable answer, and that guitar churning up the air isn’t going to put them in a good frame of mind any more than it does me. And don’t wipe your mouth on the back of your hand. What do you think that piece of paper is next to you? A copy of the Ten Commandments?”
Junior snickered. Robbie gulped down his eggs and raced upstairs to shower. He couldn’t stand to go to school with milk on him. It had happened earlier this year, when he started in ninth grade, in town, and the memory of the girls mooing in the hall as he passed still made his ears burn. Lara Grellier had been in the group. He suspected it was she who told the others. They were city girls, who wouldn’t know how fresh milk smelled, just that Robbie smelled funny.
He stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, then rubbed a clear space on the mirror to inspect his upper lip. Junior had only started shaving last year, when he turned seventeen, but Robbie was hoping that dark-haired musicians grew mustaches faster than blond football players.
“I won’t wait all day for you, Romeo!” Junior bellowed, rattling the bathroom doorknob.
Robbie sprayed himself with the bottle of aftershave he’d started keeping in his backpack after Junior filled a previous one with ammonia. He pulled on his black BECOMING THE ARCHETYPE T-shirt.
He slapped the last of his cows on the side and urged her out the shed door. Dale had finished already and was bringing in the water hoses to swab out the pit below the milking stands. Robbie disconnected his milk lines and took them out to the washroom with his milking jars and teat cups.
It was still dark, but it was almost always dark for the morning milking. They started at five, finished around six-thirty, and this time of year the eastern sky was barely turning gray even when they finished.
He hurried to the washroom and dumped the equipment into the sink at the corner. Dale would disinfect it and set it out ready for the evening milking.
The light was on in the kitchen. Nanny would have breakfast ready. He mustn’t dawdle, but he still took a chance and ran over to the new enclosure, where Soapweed’s new calf stood in a lonely state. She was bawling, longing for company, for her mother, for food. She was only four weeks old.
Robbie hated that part of dairy farming. It was cruel to take babies from their mothers. The other calves didn’t fare much better than Soapweed’s calf, being pinned next to little sheds outside the main barn. Working cows couldn’t be sharing their milk with their own offspring. It all had to go to the farm. At least the other new calves were outdoors. They all could see the sun and each other.
Soapweed had cried for forty-eight hours straight when Serise was taken from her. And poor Serise, she was in this god-awful— sorry, Jesus, but it is —pen, no sunlight for her, no friends. Robbie undid the lock and went in to pet her.
“King Jesus, He moves the mountains,” he crooned, rubbing her nubby red head.
The cow nuzzled him and tried to suck his fingers. He smelled of milk. He had it on his clothes. She wanted to nurse so badly it hurt him.
“Your bucket of ultrapure is coming soon, girl, don’t you worry. And when you’re rich and famous, don’t forget who looked after you, either, you hear?”
“Hey, Robbie!”
Robbie jumped, but it was just Dale, who added, “You know Arnie don’t like you in here. And I seed your Nanny looking out the kitchen window for you. Maybe you’d better go on inside.”
Ten
THE RED HEIFER
“W HAT TOOK YOU SO LONG?” Myra asked. “I saw Dale cleaning out the jars before you showed your head.”
“Yes, Nanny,” Robbie said. It was easier to agree with her than to offer excuses.
“Those Jews are coming from Kansas City this afternoon to look at the calf,” Arnie announced. “Make sure you’re not playing that music of yours while they’re here. We need them to give us a favorable answer, and that guitar churning up the air isn’t going to put them in a good frame of mind any more than it does me. And don’t wipe your mouth on the back of your hand. What do you think that piece of paper is next to you? A copy of the Ten Commandments?”
Junior snickered. Robbie gulped down his eggs and raced upstairs to shower. He couldn’t stand to go to school with milk on him. It had happened earlier this year, when he started in ninth grade, in town, and the memory of the girls mooing in the hall as he passed still made his ears burn. Lara Grellier had been in the group. He suspected it was she who told the others. They were city girls, who wouldn’t know how fresh milk smelled, just that Robbie smelled funny.
He stood under the shower until the hot water ran out, then rubbed a clear space on the mirror to inspect his upper lip. Junior had only started shaving last year, when he turned seventeen, but Robbie was hoping that dark-haired musicians grew mustaches faster than blond football players.
“I won’t wait all day for you, Romeo!” Junior bellowed, rattling the bathroom doorknob.
Robbie sprayed himself with the bottle of aftershave he’d started keeping in his backpack after Junior filled a previous one with ammonia. He pulled on his black BECOMING THE ARCHETYPE T-shirt.
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