with it,” said Henry.
“Say I set you up with my uncle. He’s not as bad as I let on, by the way. You just have to get to know him, learn what to ignore. And the cows, they’re just like you say. Bay-nine. Sweet things, named after flowers. Daffodil’s the friendliest. So say I get him to take you on.”
Henry felt a pump of excitement. “I suppose I’d catch on.”
Willy rolled his milky-blue eyes. “Any numskull would.” He blushed pink. “Sorry, sir.”
Henry disregarded the slight. “I know nothing about farm life.”
“Surely you’ve milked a cow or two in your time.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, Lord howdy, there’s nothing to it.” Willy pulled a black glove from a pocket and held it fingers down. “Looky here. Watch close.” He took the middle wool finger into the palm of his hand and squeezed with thumb and forefinger. “See how I start at the top of the teat?” Henry nodded, absorbed. Willy laughed. “Look at that beautiful milk, will you? It’s spilling all over the table.”
It was a strangely optimistic, queerly buoyant, sort of feeling. Henry’s palms moistened with the sensation, his ears rang. He’d had hunches, premonitions, but none as strong as this. His natural self belonged out of doors, not chained to a wooden stool in some blasted cubbyhole. Had he always known it? He thought so now. He believed it a fact of birth gone ignored.
Willy returned the glove to his pocket and ran a hand through his scraggly blond hair. “You’d be taking my job, see? No reason to tell Uncle Ned you’ve never met a cow. In return you’ll give me two months’ pay up front. One hand washes the other, right? What do you say?”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll be on the first train to Polly, thanks to you staking me.”
Henry hesitated. What right had he to undermine another father’s wishes? “Your dad won’t approve.”
“I’m going anyway,” Willy said, “with or without your help. I decided last night. I’m a man now. I’ll be making my own decisions from here on.” He played with his spoon, glancing up toward the open hatch. There was a smell of rain, the sound of flapping canvas above. “Thought I might do you and the uncle a favor,” Willy murmured, more to himself.
Henry asked gently, “How old are you, son?”
Willy’s apple throbbed in his young pimpled throat. “I’m eighteen years and two months old, sir.”
Henry nodded. Had he not known everything there was to know at the same age? He knew by then there’d be no music conservatory in his future. Pretentious, impractical nonsense. Once married with a child on the way, Henry agreed with his father. Dreams don’t butter the parsnips, his mother used to say.
Willy thrust out a hand. “What do you think? Do we have deal?”
Henry took his slim hand. “Two months up front?”
“Twenty-four American dollars, sir.”
“Once the post is secured.”
Willy grinned, pumping Henry’s hand. “Let’s smoke on it like the honest injuns do.”
Henry accepted the cigarette, inhaling deeply. It was exhilarating, like a lungful of fresh new air.
Berkeley
T HE SAILOR IN CHARGE of the animals allowed him to milk. “Sure, guv. She’s all yours.” During the final week at sea, Henry went to the animal pen twice daily. “They don’t care for surprises,” said the sailor. “Pick the side of her you prefer and stick to it.”
Henry chose the right side, resting his head against the warm agreeable flank as instructed. The stomachs gurgled in his ear. The cow chewed wetly, pissed hot streams, produced copious clods of yellow dung. By the third session he was milking with ease, falling a bit in love with the whole ripe enterprise. It was a world made up of just himself and an animal, a world he could somehow make sense of. The sailor in charge said he was born to it. Henry took it as a compliment.
Willy regularly looked on. “You’ve got the hang of it, Hank!” Henry let the nickname pass; he could afford
“Say I set you up with my uncle. He’s not as bad as I let on, by the way. You just have to get to know him, learn what to ignore. And the cows, they’re just like you say. Bay-nine. Sweet things, named after flowers. Daffodil’s the friendliest. So say I get him to take you on.”
Henry felt a pump of excitement. “I suppose I’d catch on.”
Willy rolled his milky-blue eyes. “Any numskull would.” He blushed pink. “Sorry, sir.”
Henry disregarded the slight. “I know nothing about farm life.”
“Surely you’ve milked a cow or two in your time.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, Lord howdy, there’s nothing to it.” Willy pulled a black glove from a pocket and held it fingers down. “Looky here. Watch close.” He took the middle wool finger into the palm of his hand and squeezed with thumb and forefinger. “See how I start at the top of the teat?” Henry nodded, absorbed. Willy laughed. “Look at that beautiful milk, will you? It’s spilling all over the table.”
It was a strangely optimistic, queerly buoyant, sort of feeling. Henry’s palms moistened with the sensation, his ears rang. He’d had hunches, premonitions, but none as strong as this. His natural self belonged out of doors, not chained to a wooden stool in some blasted cubbyhole. Had he always known it? He thought so now. He believed it a fact of birth gone ignored.
Willy returned the glove to his pocket and ran a hand through his scraggly blond hair. “You’d be taking my job, see? No reason to tell Uncle Ned you’ve never met a cow. In return you’ll give me two months’ pay up front. One hand washes the other, right? What do you say?”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll be on the first train to Polly, thanks to you staking me.”
Henry hesitated. What right had he to undermine another father’s wishes? “Your dad won’t approve.”
“I’m going anyway,” Willy said, “with or without your help. I decided last night. I’m a man now. I’ll be making my own decisions from here on.” He played with his spoon, glancing up toward the open hatch. There was a smell of rain, the sound of flapping canvas above. “Thought I might do you and the uncle a favor,” Willy murmured, more to himself.
Henry asked gently, “How old are you, son?”
Willy’s apple throbbed in his young pimpled throat. “I’m eighteen years and two months old, sir.”
Henry nodded. Had he not known everything there was to know at the same age? He knew by then there’d be no music conservatory in his future. Pretentious, impractical nonsense. Once married with a child on the way, Henry agreed with his father. Dreams don’t butter the parsnips, his mother used to say.
Willy thrust out a hand. “What do you think? Do we have deal?”
Henry took his slim hand. “Two months up front?”
“Twenty-four American dollars, sir.”
“Once the post is secured.”
Willy grinned, pumping Henry’s hand. “Let’s smoke on it like the honest injuns do.”
Henry accepted the cigarette, inhaling deeply. It was exhilarating, like a lungful of fresh new air.
Berkeley
T HE SAILOR IN CHARGE of the animals allowed him to milk. “Sure, guv. She’s all yours.” During the final week at sea, Henry went to the animal pen twice daily. “They don’t care for surprises,” said the sailor. “Pick the side of her you prefer and stick to it.”
Henry chose the right side, resting his head against the warm agreeable flank as instructed. The stomachs gurgled in his ear. The cow chewed wetly, pissed hot streams, produced copious clods of yellow dung. By the third session he was milking with ease, falling a bit in love with the whole ripe enterprise. It was a world made up of just himself and an animal, a world he could somehow make sense of. The sailor in charge said he was born to it. Henry took it as a compliment.
Willy regularly looked on. “You’ve got the hang of it, Hank!” Henry let the nickname pass; he could afford
Similar Books
