Moo (2 page)

Then one day, when we were stuck in traffic

behind a tall gray bus spewing exhaust

with horns HONKing

and people YELLing

and sirens WAILing—

on a day that was hotter than hotter than HOT

my mother asked my father a question.

A question can swirl your world.

My parents had recently lost their jobs when the newspaper they worked for went out of business. We were on our way to drop my father off at another job interview.

So,
my mother said,
do you still like reporting?

Not so much,
my father admitted.

Is that what you see yourself doing ten years from now?

Um—

Because that's the flight path we're on.

I was sitting in the backseat with my brother, Luke, a seven-year-old complexity. Sometimes he acted as if he were two, and sometimes twelve. He was full of questions and energy and opinions except when you wanted him to have any of those things.

Luke was drawing with a black marker in the yellow notebook that was nearly always with him. He drew for hours and hours: contorted heroes leaping and jumping and vaporizing; bizarre enemies with gaping mouths and sharp talons and horns; and complicated towns with alleys and bridges and dungeons.

In the car, when Mom said,
Because that's the
flight path we're on
, Luke said,
Flight path? We're
not in an airplane, you know. We're in a
car
and
we're on a road,
but I noticed that he was adding a runway and an airplane to his drawing.

Drivers all around us were HONKing their horns like crazy, and the smells and the heat and the NOISE were pouring in the windows and

                    
squeezing
us

                    
from all sides.

Let's get out of here,
my mother said.

My father took his hands off the wheel and raised his palms to the sky.

No, I mean out of this city
, my mother said.

Let's move
.

To—?

Maine!
I said.

My parents turned to look at me.

Then they looked at each other.

Then they looked at me again.

Maine!
they said.
Of course!

My parents had met in Maine many years ago

and when they spoke of Maine

their voices had the glint of sea and sky.

In the car that day,

Maine
just popped out of my head.

I hadn't expected they would take me
seriously
.

I'm glad I didn't say
Siberia
.

Which is how I came to meet Zora, though not quite so easily as it might sound because first we had to give our landlord a month's notice and then we had to clear out all our closets and cupboards and the dreaded storage garage. Then we had to lug some of that outside for a yard sale and the rest to the Salvation Army and then we had to clean and watch as future renters tromped through our rooms noting

how
small
they were and how old

and how dark and

it

was

embarrassing.

And then there was the packing and moving of the beds and clothes and books and pots and pans—oh, it hurts my head to remember it so let's skip it.

My parents' friends said

Are you crazy?

and

It gets cold in Maine, you know.

and

There are giant mosquitoes in Maine.

and

It gets cold in Maine, you know.

and

Why? Why? Why?

But some others said

They have lots of lobsters there.

and

Great blueberries in Maine!

and

Beautiful ocean and mountains!

and

Great skiing!

and

Lots of lobsters!

Lots of blueberries!

Though . . . it does get cold there

you know?

Luke said

How did this happen

this moving thing?

In his yellow notebook

Luke drew a winged dragon

scaled in gold

flying through purple skies

grasping a house, a car,

beds, tables, and chairs

in its black talons.

Why did I say
Maine!
that day?

Let's move to Maine!

Because I'd read a book about it—

three books in fact:

two were stories about a family's life

on an island in Maine

and one was a book of photographs

of rocky shores and lighthouses

and vast oceans with breaking waves

and high blue mountains

and while I was reading those books

and looking at those pictures

I was there already

in my mind.

I was clambering over rocks

and wading in the ocean.

I was hiking up a mountain

and standing at the top

peering down the steep hillsides

to the ocean beyond.

I was there.

Maine.

It had such a
sound
to it

such a feel.

And yet . . .

I'd always lived in the city

I was full of buses and subways

and traffic and tall buildings

and crowds of people

and city noises

            
honking and sirens and

            
helicopterwhirring

and city smells

            
bakeries and car exhaust

            
hot dogs and coffee

and city lights so bright . . .

Was there room inside for

the sights and sounds and smells

of

Maine?

Would I know what to do

and how to be

in

Maine?

The few friends I had didn't believe me when I told them we were moving to Maine, and then when I'd convinced them, they acted excited about it, but as the days went by, I realized they were already forgetting me. It seemed they didn't want to waste friend effort on someone who was leaving town.

One of them said,
You're going to get all Maine-y.

I wasn't sure what “all Maine-y” meant, but
whatever it was, they had decided it was undesirable.

My parents had similar reactions from their friends. At first people thought they were joking, and then they seemed excited and curious, but gradually they became less and less interested.

My mother was hurt by that, but my father said,
Maybe they're jealous or maybe they feel
you're abandoning them.

When Luke told his latest friend, Toonie, that we were moving to Maine and that it was far away and he couldn't come over to her house anymore, she socked him on the nose and called him a
stupid doofy head.

When Luke told Dad about his encounter with Toonie, Dad said,
Well, who knows, maybe we're
all stupid doofy heads.

With that white chalky paint

that newlyweds write

Just Married

on their cars

we wrote

Moving to Maine!

And all along the way

as cars and trucks passed us

people honked their horns and waved.

Some rolled down their windows

and shouted:
Maine!

and some scribbled signs

and held them up for us to see:

            
Eat some lobstah for me!

and

            
I love Maine!

and

            
We're so jealous!

but one guy's sign read

            
It's COLD there!

At the border

we pulled over and posed beside

the WELCOME TO MAINE sign.

People honked their horns like crazy

as they sped past us.

Maine!

In a small town three hours up the coast

we parked by the post office

and walked to a diner for lunch

and when we returned there was a note

on our windshield:

            
Welcome to Maine!

            
We hope you like it here.

The ocean was a block away—

you could smell that salty air.

People were walking their dogs

and their kids

and the church bells were chiming

and the sky was blue.

Maine!

Dad stepped in dog poop

that oozed into every crevice

of his running shoes

but still:

Maine!
We'd made it!

It was the beginning of summer

and we thought we'd landed on another planet:

a boat-bobbing

sea salty harbor town

with people strolling the docks

eating ice cream and lobster rolls.

Gentle mountains rose up opposite the harbor

and curled around it

wrapping the town

in their bluegreen embrace.

How exactly did we get here?
Luke said.

He drew towering mountains

and steep cliffs

above jagged rocks

and tiny, fragile boats

bobbing in the ocean below.

We made our way

to the place my parents had rented:

a small old house

with a woodstove inside

and an apple tree outside

and a chipmunk on the doorstep

and a chickadee nest in a lilac tree

and spiders in the woodpile.

That same day our parents said

Go on, ride your bikes.

Check out the town.

We've got unpacking to do.

Go!

What?
we said.
By ourselves?

In the city where we'd lived

there were few safe places

for us to ride—

few places where we weren't competing

with cars and trucks and buses

and surprise clumps of kids

armed with sticks and stones

or wobbly bearded men spitting

but here in this little town by the sea

there were wide sidewalks

and quiet, curving lanes

spreading like tree limbs

from the trunk of the town center

and you could ride and ride

the whole day long.

We rode down streets and trails

discovering our new town

its people and dogs and old houses

its winding lanes and gnarled trees.

One day we passed a farm

and Luke shouted,
Oreo cows!

Black-and-white cows

(black in front and back

with a wide white fur belt)

munched at the grass.

A girl about my age

in rubber boots

stood near us

on the other side of the fence.

Belted Galloways, they're called,

she said.

Or just Belties, for short.

Purty, right?

Maybe I had imagined a cow was like a

LARGE lamb:

soft, furry, gentle, uttering sweet

sounds.

But oh—

not so, not so!

One of the Belted Galloways

lumbered up to the fence

and pushed its

            
ENORMOUS HEAD

                    
with its

            
ENORMOUS NOSE

toward us and uttered a

            
DEEP DEEP LOUD

                    
MOOOOO

so loud and deep as if it were

coming from low down in the ground

and traveling up through the cow's legs

and body and head and out of that

                    
ENORMOUS

                    
SLOBBERY

                    
MOUTH:

                    
MOOOOO

so LOUD and surprising that we

                    
j u m p e d
    
back

and the girl in the rubber boots

gave us a pitying look

as if she were thinking

Silly tourists!

And I wanted to say

No, no, we're not tourists!

We
live
here now!

More cows ambled up to the fence

nudging their

ENORMOUS HEADS AND NOSES

between the wires of the fence

and bellowing the

DEEPEST LOUDEST

MOOOOOS.

Luke's hands were pressed tight against his

ears.

Flies

            
amid the smell of

            
cow dung.

Out riding around on our bikes, Luke and I passed that farm nearly every day. On the gate was a blue and white sign:

BIRCHMERE FARM.

I'd never been to a farm before our move to Maine, and I wasn't sure what I thought of this one at first. On sunny days, it looked inviting, with its green pastures and its barns, and cows dotting the hillsides and gathered in the pens. On the first rainy day, though, when Luke and
I stopped by the fence, it looked muddy and sloppy and smelled of sawdust and manure. Flies dogged the animals and the stalls.

Up close, the cows were thick and wide, with heads as big as kegs, and black eyes the size of oranges, and wide sweating nostrils, and they let out loud, low
mooooos
. They scared me, to tell the truth.

A rotating group of teenagers showed up each day to work with the animals. Only a few adults were around, driving tractors or trucks. We watched the teenagers fill feed bins and water buckets and climb fences and tromp through sawdust and lean against cows. Luke often sat on the grass and drew. His heroes, now, took on the look of farmers brandishing halters and conquering giant cow-like creatures.