turn around in the circle,” Mom said. “Stop right here, this is good.”
“I know, I am.” I stopped, put the car in P, turned the key off, pulled up the hand brake. Before we could get out, we were surrounded by a pack of wild dogs.
Except they weren’t really wild and there were only four of them. A stranger would’ve been scared, which I guess is the point. I got out and clapped my hands and Red, the oldest dog, came right up to me. Then Mouse, the little grayone. I had to get down on my knees to make Tracer come, she’s the sheepdog mix, and old Tough Guy never did—so far I’ve never even petted Tough Guy, he’s too scared. Jess said he bit the UPS man once, but only because he accidentally kicked him.
“Hello!”
“Hi, Jess!” I jumped up, grinning, not sure what to do. He looked good, and really glad to see us. I felt like hugging him, but I didn’t for some reason. Something about Mom. Like maybe she’d think it was disloyal to my dad or something.
“Glad you could come,” he said, and started walking backward, toward one of the big stone and wood barns instead of his house. He had on brown corduroy pants, a regular blue shirt, and an old leather jacket, unzipped. And sneakers. He’d just combed his hair, you could tell by the comb tracks; he wears it straight back and kind of long, and it’s just starting to recede in front. He’s tall and on the skinny side, but I know he’s strong because I’ve seen him lift a 120-pound calf like it was my book bag.
“Tracer knows a new trick,” he said, still walking backward. “Want to see it?” Tracer’s the smartest of the four dogs. When Jess found her she already knew how to shake hands, but he taught her how to turn it into a high five—it’s so funny. He called her and she ran over and sat down in front of him. He stuck his hand out and made a gun with his index finger and his thumb and yelled, “Pow!”
Tracer dropped to her stomach, rolled over, and stuck all four feet in the air.
What a riot—Mom laughed almost as hard as I did. Then I tried it, and Tracer did it again, perfectly. “What a great dog! She’s so smart.”
“She’s a genius.”
“What else can she do?”
“Well, we’re working on milking the cows,” he said, not cracking a smile. We looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing. “Let’s go in here first,” he said, “unless you’restarving. Are you?” We said no, not really. “Good, because there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
I’d never been in this barn before. It was smaller than the main barns; I figured it was for tractors and machinery and big equipment. The red double doors were as high as garage doors. Jess hauled one open and we went in. Yeah, tractors and combines or whatever, big yellow vehicles sitting up on huge black wheels, blades and paddles and rusty metal teeth behind. It smelled like gas, sawdust, dead grass, and paint, and it was almost as cold inside as outside. Straight back, a light was on in the high, beamed ceiling, and I could see a man with his back to us hunched over a sawhorse, sawing wood.
Damn. I didn’t know we had to socialize, I thought it would be just us. We started walking toward the man, and about halfway down the echoey plank floor, it hit me who he was and what he was doing: that Pletcher guy, making ark animals. Jess tricked us.
Sure enough, he said, “Carrie, you remember Landy, don’t you?” and to me, “Ruth, this is Mr. Pletcher, my neighbor. Landy—Carrie Van Allen now, and her daughter, Ruth.”
Landy, what kind of a name was that? He was short and slight and he smiled without showing his teeth. “Carrie? Well, I declare.” He put his saw down and took off his old, stained John Deere cap. He had dull, straw-colored hair, thinning in back. He shook hands with Mom and she said, “Landy, it’s been ages. How’ve you been? You look just the same.” He must’ve always been ugly, then. I had to shake, too, and his hands were
“I know, I am.” I stopped, put the car in P, turned the key off, pulled up the hand brake. Before we could get out, we were surrounded by a pack of wild dogs.
Except they weren’t really wild and there were only four of them. A stranger would’ve been scared, which I guess is the point. I got out and clapped my hands and Red, the oldest dog, came right up to me. Then Mouse, the little grayone. I had to get down on my knees to make Tracer come, she’s the sheepdog mix, and old Tough Guy never did—so far I’ve never even petted Tough Guy, he’s too scared. Jess said he bit the UPS man once, but only because he accidentally kicked him.
“Hello!”
“Hi, Jess!” I jumped up, grinning, not sure what to do. He looked good, and really glad to see us. I felt like hugging him, but I didn’t for some reason. Something about Mom. Like maybe she’d think it was disloyal to my dad or something.
“Glad you could come,” he said, and started walking backward, toward one of the big stone and wood barns instead of his house. He had on brown corduroy pants, a regular blue shirt, and an old leather jacket, unzipped. And sneakers. He’d just combed his hair, you could tell by the comb tracks; he wears it straight back and kind of long, and it’s just starting to recede in front. He’s tall and on the skinny side, but I know he’s strong because I’ve seen him lift a 120-pound calf like it was my book bag.
“Tracer knows a new trick,” he said, still walking backward. “Want to see it?” Tracer’s the smartest of the four dogs. When Jess found her she already knew how to shake hands, but he taught her how to turn it into a high five—it’s so funny. He called her and she ran over and sat down in front of him. He stuck his hand out and made a gun with his index finger and his thumb and yelled, “Pow!”
Tracer dropped to her stomach, rolled over, and stuck all four feet in the air.
What a riot—Mom laughed almost as hard as I did. Then I tried it, and Tracer did it again, perfectly. “What a great dog! She’s so smart.”
“She’s a genius.”
“What else can she do?”
“Well, we’re working on milking the cows,” he said, not cracking a smile. We looked at him for a second, then burst out laughing. “Let’s go in here first,” he said, “unless you’restarving. Are you?” We said no, not really. “Good, because there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
I’d never been in this barn before. It was smaller than the main barns; I figured it was for tractors and machinery and big equipment. The red double doors were as high as garage doors. Jess hauled one open and we went in. Yeah, tractors and combines or whatever, big yellow vehicles sitting up on huge black wheels, blades and paddles and rusty metal teeth behind. It smelled like gas, sawdust, dead grass, and paint, and it was almost as cold inside as outside. Straight back, a light was on in the high, beamed ceiling, and I could see a man with his back to us hunched over a sawhorse, sawing wood.
Damn. I didn’t know we had to socialize, I thought it would be just us. We started walking toward the man, and about halfway down the echoey plank floor, it hit me who he was and what he was doing: that Pletcher guy, making ark animals. Jess tricked us.
Sure enough, he said, “Carrie, you remember Landy, don’t you?” and to me, “Ruth, this is Mr. Pletcher, my neighbor. Landy—Carrie Van Allen now, and her daughter, Ruth.”
Landy, what kind of a name was that? He was short and slight and he smiled without showing his teeth. “Carrie? Well, I declare.” He put his saw down and took off his old, stained John Deere cap. He had dull, straw-colored hair, thinning in back. He shook hands with Mom and she said, “Landy, it’s been ages. How’ve you been? You look just the same.” He must’ve always been ugly, then. I had to shake, too, and his hands were
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