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A Boy with Sense [excerpted] Chelsea and me are on our way to Gram and Poppy’s for one of our weekend visits. I’m excited because we haven’t seen them in a while and I’ve been wondering about the crops and the herd. As it is now, I only see Dad and Gram and Poppy at the farm every other weekend. In between, I live at Mom’s and go to school. I don’t care much about school, but Mom says too damn bad. You’ll learn to love it. She’s wrong, though. Farming’s what I love. What I’m best at. Mom can think what she wants. I’d stay at the farm for good. Never come back, if she’d let me. But I know better than to tell her that. Chelsea gripes that the farm’s dirty, that Gram doesn’t use soap in the dishwasher and lets the cats eat off the plates. But, really, she says all this for Mom’s sake. “Best day of my life,” Mom says with a cigarette between her lips, “was the day I left that shithole and that man-baby of a husband. Couldn’t handle that I gave you two more attention than I gave him. What did he expect? You were both so little.” Here we go again. I steal a look at Chelsea, but she keeps her eyes on the empty fields that stretch for miles beyond our backseat windows. Mom blows smoke at the ceiling. “The big baby had to go find someone else to cuddle him.” She flicks ash through the window crack. “Mimi.” Mom points at the windshield with her cigarette. “What a catch. On both sides.” Mom lets out a sharp laugh and shakes her head no. We’re almost there—I can tell by the sweet, grassy smell of cow manure that fills the car. Mom and Chelsea trade more complaints. Chelsea plugs her nose. I like the smell so I ignore them and keep to myself. Further down the road, Gram and Poppy’s neighbor Bud has a pig farm. His farm stinks bad, not sweet at all, just sour and salty and dead. Soon as the car’s parked in the drive, Mom pushes unlock and I fling open my door. No cows in the front pasture, so I sprint along the mud path to the back, past the milking shed. I remember not to scare the herd and slow to a walk. The cows act like they don’t notice me, but I see their eyes turn my way. They stay in place, working their jaws. All except Pep. She trots toward me, pulled into the mud by her own weight. First time Poppy caught me whispering secrets in Pep’s ear, his eyes went hard. “Don’t pick no favorites, son,” he warned. I stared back at him, kept my mouth shut. Knew better than to tell him that he had it all wrong. That she’s the one did all the choosing. One day last summer I rode with Dad on the four-wheeler to round up the cows. He dropped me at a group and told me to get them moving with the switch. When I walked toward them clicking my tongue, the group scattered. Only Pep stayed put. I swatted her rump to get her going, but she stood quiet and still. Her eyes waited for me, so I reached for her on my toes and wrapped my arm under her jaw. Even when I pressed my cheek on hers, she didn’t move. So like I said. She picked me. I run to the fence and unhook the electric wire. I have to jump on the middle rail to reach the top of Pep’s snout. When I pet her, she quits chewing, pushes her nose against my hand, and closes her eyes. Dad claims he’s never laid eyes on a heifer like her—all black except for a crooked white line running from her neck to the bottom of her rib cage, like a skunk. I called her Pepe at first for Pepé Le Pew, but that sounded like a boy name, so I shortened it to Pep. I give her a firm pat and hurry to Gram for a hug. “If you’re going to help milk, best get a move on.” Gram steers me toward the milking shed. I break into a jog. “Don’t go wandering around with no jacket!” shouts Mom. “Hear me?” I wave to her over my shoulder. Dad and Poppy are talking, arms crossed, inside the milking shed. Next to Dad, Poppy seems shorter than he already is. It isn’t until I stand close to Poppy that I remember he’s taller than me. “Cows about to come in?” I ask. “Yeahp,” says Dad. He lifts me high so I can see the pens from above. They look cold and hushed without the cows. Dad sets me on the cement floor between the two sets of stalls. “Ready to clean, son?” Poppy asks. “Yeahp,” I say. Dad brings in the heifers four at a time on each side. Cows’ hooves covered in mud and manure tread heavy on the cement. Their pink spotted udders are so tight with milk that the veins look like they could bust. I get to work wiping clean the udders. Poppy attaches a set of milkers on one of the new cows just bought from a farm on the other side of Mansfield. I know she’s new ’cause the tag in her ear is yellow. Dad says the farmer had to sell off his stock because he couldn’t keep up with the big operations moving in. Seems like every month another farm’s on the block. With sixty-five head and the corn, wheat and soybeans on top of that, Dad thinks we have as much as we can handle. “Well, son, what do you reckon?” Poppy asks. “Ready to help bale next year?” He’s walking down the line, stopping at each stall. “No,” I say. “This year.” “Not until you eat something other’n that junk food,” says Dad. His voice is deep—almost as low as the cows. “I cleared my plate last night.” Poppy takes off his hat, combs his sweaty hair, and puts the hat back in place. “Boy’s still not eating meat?” He’s looking at Dad, not me. “Seems like he’s getting plenty of carrots, though.” Dad grins and messes my hair. I cross my arms, lean away from him. I’ve heard enough jokes about my orange hair. “Calm down,” says Dad. “You aren’t paying your cow any attention.” Poppy lifts a bored finger toward Pep. I have to stand on my toes to reach her back teat. Just after I fix the metal tube on her, a pool of white collects in the small see-through tank below. Her body tenses. She’s talking to me now. Happy to be relieved of all that milk. “Stay clear of her hoof, son.” Poppy blows his nose, then pushes the handkerchief deep in his back pocket. The constant hiss and shunk of the milking machines puts me in a trance. Dad and Poppy’s low voices, as they gossip or complain about the price of things, makes me nearly fall asleep. Hooves scraping cement bring me back to attention, though. So does the cows’ talk. “Last one,” says Dad. He leads the group out while Poppy hoses down the cement floor. I switch on the cleaning system. In the pump room, Poppy gives me a taste of the milk out of the metal tank. It’s warm and full of bubbles—thicker on my tongue than the milk at Mom’s. “Go for a ride?” Dad asks once we’re outdoors. “I guess,” I say. Don’t want to seem too excited. “We’ll have to drive a bit to get to hard ground,” says Dad. “I don’t mind.” “We can go down the dirt road or around the pond,” he says, swinging his leg over top of the four-wheeler’s seat. “Dirt road.” Soon as I grab hold of his belt, Dad guns it. Cool wind strokes my face. After a while the air stings my cheeks, but I ignore it. Trees grow so thick on both sides of the dirt road that they create a sort of tunnel. Underneath that sky of leaves, daytime stops. We enter the sunshine again and I breathe deep. I feel like I’m floating at the top of a swimming pool, staring at the clouds. The dirt road dead ends into a pasture where fingers of tall grass skim my ankles. We follow the rise and fall of the hills. The air catches my laughter, carries it away. “Let’s quick check the winter wheat,” Dad says over his shoulder. “You drive so I can get a good look.” We switch and I drive until he taps me on the side and points. He climbs off the four-wheeler, sets one knee in the dirt. “Looks good.” He pushes himself to full height from the ground and searches the sky. “I expect it’ll snow soon.” I bet he can guess the exact hour. “Do you want it to?” “Next week would be best. Give the wheat a little extra time.” He waves me toward him and I sit in the space he makes behind him on the seat. Just in front of Gram and Poppy’s kitchen door, Dad bucks the four-wheeler to a stop. We walk inside. I catch heat from Chelsea’s glare. Gram’s got dinner ready to go. “Almost started eating without you,” she says. Poppy’s already serving himself sauerkraut, ham, and potatoes. Chelsea won’t touch anything but the potatoes. I serve myself a heap. Mom never makes food like this. I can only get it here. Dinner at the farm is serious business. We don’t talk much. Just get to work on our plates. There’s no room for waste at the farm, even when it comes to talking. Don’t waste words—or time. After dinner and dishes, Dad says, “Carter? Chelsea? Let’s play a game.” Chelsea fetches a board game from the hall closet and I take a chair at the table. “Get the career cards in a pile,” she says to me. They’re scattered everywhere—Doctor, Lawyer, Accountant, Teacher. “How’s come there’s no Farmer card?” I fan the stack again in case I missed it. “They know you’d lose for sure if you pick that one.” Dad laughs quick and sharp. “Then I’m not playing.” I drop the cards and cross my arms. “You’ll play,” says Dad, slapping a plastic game piece in front of me. “Keep acting like a baby, we’ll get your pacifier out of the cupboard,” says Chelsea. She’s soaking up Dad’s favor. “As long as you bring your witch costume with you,” I say, trying not to smile. “Knock it off,” says Dad. He shoves a blue plastic pin in one of the holes of my miniature red car and spins the wheel. “You know, I could have been a linebacker for Ohio State.” His eyes dart side to side. Every time he tells this story, he likes to pause, make sure the whole room’s listening. I play along, let him know I’m listening. Tell me, I say with my eyes. I want to hear. With one loud laugh, Poppy cuts the silence. Chelsea and me look at him, then each other. “Don’t lie to your kids, son.” He tosses a section of newspaper on the countertop. “That scout come once and told you ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ ” Dad and him are acting like they’re telling jokes. Laughing at each other. “How would you know what that scout said?” Dad laughs, but I can hear tightness in it. “Did he talk to you?” “Didn’t say a word,” says Poppy. “And that told you everything.” “I wonder,” Dad says. “How much did you pay him to pass on me?” Poppy wraps his folded hands around the back of his head. “I paid him what you’re worth.” He leans back in his chair. “Nothing.” “You would say that.” Dad stands and leaves the room. Goes to the coat hooks, picks up his jacket, and walks out. The screen door takes its time shutting, but when it does, it’s so quiet we hear the click. ...
