Moo (3 page)

Just before you reached the farm

at the far edge of town

at the end of Twitch Street

was a tall, narrow house

that tilted to one side.

Thick, twisted vines crept up

the side of the gray house

around doors and windows

to the chimney top.

The attic window was cracked and open

and from within you could hear

the sound of a flute

Mrs. Falala lived in the house.

Fuh-LA-la is how you say her name.

Most people agreed she had a cow and a pig

but some said she also had a goat

and an alligator and a bear.

Some people said not to bother Mrs. Falala

because she was old.

Others said not to bother her

because she made

            
weird things

                    
happen.

One day our father took Luke and me to Mrs. Falala's house.
Be respectful
, my father said.
No
matter what you hear or see, be respectful to Mrs.
Falala.

An enormous golden cat

fell straight down from a tree overhead

landing at our feet.

The cat reared back on its hind legs

and bared its teeth and claws

and out of its mouth came a

menacing

            
hi
sssssssssssss
.

A fat black hog lurched into view

from behind the house

and raced toward the cat

squealing all the while

the most unappealing squeal.

Pay no attention
, our father said, urging us toward the front door.

High above

from the open attic window

floated the delicate melody of a flute

while behind us the hog chased the cat

round and round the yard

and a bright green parrot perched

on the porch and squawked at us

as we climbed the steps

to the door trimmed in vines.

A sign on the door read

            
WRONG DOOR—GO TO BACK

and so

dodging the hog and the cat

under the watchful eyes

of the bright green squawking parrot

we obeyed.

A sign on the back door read
WHO ARE YOU?

We looked at each other, me and my father and Luke.

Luke said,
No way. Not going in there. She'll
probably chop us to pieces.

My father said,
Be respectful
. He knocked.

Around the corner: hog squeal and cat hiss.

The hog knocked Luke over

and the cat jumped on the hog's back

and as my father and I battled

the hog and the cat

the door opened and

a long

            
pale

                    
thin

                            
old

                                  
wrinkled

                                              
arm

reached out and pulled my brother inside

and my father and I tumbled in after him.

At the end of the long, thin arm

was Mrs. Falala clutching Luke

and kicking the door shut.

You eez living?
she asked.

Her voice was unexpected,

full of honey.

Eez you?

My father stepped forward.

Yes, yes, we are, erm, living, yes.

He handed her two books.

From my wife
, he said.

She asked me to bring them to you.

You met her, apparently—

at the doctor's?

Mrs. Falala closed one eye.

And where eez she, this wife?

Why she not bring?

She eez living, yes?

Yes, yes. She had an appointment today,

but living, yes, most certainly.

Mrs. Falala studied the covers of the books.

Down her back trailed a long, white braid

which she flicked like a horse's tail.

Wrong books
, she said.

Wrong?

Wrong, wrong, wrong!

She pushed the books back to my father.

She turned to me and Luke.

And you, who are you? And you?

When we told her our names

she tapped my forehead.

Eez peculiar, no? This name
Reena
?

Mrs. Falala caught me trying to peer

around her into the room beyond.

She kicked that door closed.

Eez nothing there. No going in there.

I glanced at the ceiling, straining to hear

the sound of the flute

but there was silence.

What you eez looking at?

Shoo, shoo, nothing here,

good-bye now, go home.

As we left the house of Mrs. Falala

seagulls white and gray arrived

one by one

and perched on the ridge atop

her house

not just a few

first ten, then twenty, then thirty

or more

until they were lined up

wing to wing

a row of feathered soldiers

guarding her house

and the flute music

high and light

floated from the attic window.

On Luke's arm

where Mrs. Falala had held him

was a pale blue mark

in the shape of a leaf

and in the sky two white clouds

joined to form a flying girl

long white hair trailing behind.

The hog and the cat and parrot were gone.

I listened for them.

What I heard was the faintest

            
moo, mooooo.

Luke was not fond of animals.

He kept his distance

much as he did with people.

His first spoken sentence was

Don't you touch me.

He said it to a lady in the post office

who then looked offended.

I won't hurt you, cutie pie,

the woman said.

Don't you touch me!

My mother offered a weak apologetic smile.

Luke said it to a grocery clerk

and an elderly man on the sidewalk

and the doctor.

Don't you touch me.

He'd point his finger in warning.

My mother reasoned that Luke just did not

like people getting in his face

pinching his cheeks

squeezing his chubby arms

telling him how cute he was.

Don't you touch me.

Now that he was older, he rarely said

Don't you touch me.

More often, if someone was swooping in

too close, he'd scowl or run off or

say something silly

like

Nutto head!

or

Frog brain!

Funny little kid

people would say.

When Mrs. Falala had snagged Luke's arm

and pulled him inside

his reaction said it all:

            
wild, wide-opened eyes

                    
stiff arms and legs

                            
fingers clenched like claws.

Luke wrenched himself away from Mrs. Falala

with the practiced skill of an escape artist.

I know he wanted to say

Don't you touch me!

but he didn't.

That night in his yellow notebook

Luke's drawings included a skeletal

towering figure with a snake braid

and sharp metal claws

surrounded by a posse

of enormous hogs and menacing cats.

I was leaning over the fence at the farm

watching a sturdy dark-skinned girl

maneuver a rope halter over the wide head

of a wide cow that protested

Moo! Mooooo!

The girl planted her boots in the muck

and angled her hip against the cow's neck

urging the animal toward the rope loop

Moo-ooo!

The girl wore orange canvas overalls

and tall black rubber boots

and spoke to the cow all the while:

Come on, there you go,

don't be so stubborn, over here,

back it up, this way, you know how.

Nearby another teen

a tall, lanky redheaded boy

urged another cow out of a stall

coaxing it into a rope halter as well.

The boy called to the girl

Hey, Beat, I've got this one—

and she called back

Okay, Zep, that's good—

and it made me smile

those names

Beat
and
Zep

Zep
and
Beat

but when they looked up

and saw me watching

I turned away

embarrassed

I don't know why

and rode off down the hill

down Twitch Street

and past Mrs. Falala's house

where the flute music

drifted from the window

and the parrot squawked on the porch

and somewhere behind or beyond

was that soft
moo, mooooo

but no hog and no cat that day.

Before we moved to Maine, my parents sent out piles of job applications to the coastal towns in which they most hoped to live. One of those applications resulted in a job offer for my mother, teaching English at a private school near this harbor town. Her job would start in September.

That is perfect!
she said.
It gives us a couple
months to get settled first.

Dad was still looking for a job. He'd been to lots of interviews and was hopeful that one of them would lead to work. He said he wanted to change direction and do something completely different, maybe something outdoors, maybe something with landscaping (he was good at that) or animals (Really? I knew he liked dogs, but that was about it) or painting (houses). He said he was open to anything, though.

If I can find something even part-time
, he said,
we'll be okay. We'll have enough to pay the rent
and put food in our mouths.

Luke said,
But if you don't find a job, does that
mean we won't eat?

Hmm
. He turned to Mom.
Honey, we can always
eat the children, I guess.

Luke went white.
Whaa—? Whaa—? Whaat?

Dad had to spend the next half hour reassuring Luke that he'd been kidding.

One misty morning Luke and I rode

along a cobbled wall

past a cemetery with tilting headstones

circling around the back side

of Birchmere Farm

with its pond and grass meadows

and graying, mossy fences

and clumps of cows grazing.

What are they thinking?

Luke asked.

Are they happy?

Why do they just stand there?

Don't their legs hurt

standing up all day like that?

Moo, mooooo.

First one, then several in unison.

Moo, mooooo.

What do you think they're saying, Reena?

Are they talking to themselves or to us?

Maybe
, I said,
they're talking
about
us
.

Maybe they're saying

‘Look at those two over there

staring at us like that.

What are they staring at?'

Mooooo.

In the area by the barn stalls

three cows in halters were tied

to the fence

their heads held high

their necks outstretched.

The redheaded boy named Zep

came up behind us as Luke asked me

Why are they tied funny like that?

Doesn't it hurt their necks?

Naw
, Zep said, startling us both.

It's stretching them

getting those muscles strong.

Gonna be good show heifers:

heads held nice and high,

ayuh.

Zep held his own head high

admiring the heifers

as I stood there

wanting to say something

wanting to keep him there

a little longer

this gangly Zep boy

but no words came out of my mouth.

Zep repeated
ayuh

and moved on

ducking into the feed room

as we climbed back on our bikes

and rode down the winding road.

Ahead of me, Luke's neck was outstretched

like the heifers

and as he pedaled

he spoke to the retreating cows.

Moo, mooooo.