Moo (4 page)

Never saw so many rocks:

boulders and stones and pebbles

tall
as a bus

small
as a pea

craggy and rough and speckled

smooth and lumpy

mossy and pocked

            
piled along

            
the water's

            
edge

stacked

            
in walls

                    
along the roads

jutting
out of yards

gray and brown and silver and green

a jumble of rock stone granite

            

you feel the energy

beneath your feet

coming
up
through your toes

and your legs and your spine

and
out
the
top
of your head

            
into

                    
the

            

Dad sent us back to Twitch Street

me and Luke

on our own this time

on our bikes

with more books for Mrs. Falala.

Can't you come with us?
Luke asked.

She's too scary. She might eat us.

Don't be silly
, Dad said.

You and Reena can handle it.

And remember: be respectful.

Down along Limerock Street

zig right onto Chestnut

knowing the streets now

knowing what leads where

knowing where the big brown dog lives

and the little yappy ones

waving at the life-size bear sculpture

swooping under low branches

along the river wall

up over the hill

with the wide, wide view

            
fields and valley and mountains beyond

stop and turn around

look back:

            
OCEAN!

                    
a wide silk of bluesilver

                    
spotted with treegreen islands

                               
beneath

                    
a banner of bluewhite sky

            
OCEAN!

We kick off again

round the loop

skidding to a stop

by the tilting house

of Mrs. Falala

with the open attic window

and the

        
f l u t e
    
m u s i c

            
drift

                    
ing

    
                        
d

    
                        
o

    
                        
w

    
                        
n

and then abruptly stopping.

No pig

no alligator

no parrot.

            
I N S T E A D: : :

            
fourteen seagulls white and gray

            
perched on the rooftop

            
beaks pointed

            
down

                    
toward

                               
a

                                  
longgggggg

                                            
black

                                                    
snake

            
slithering along the gutter

            
its head

                
dip

                    
ping

                        
over the

We froze.

We stared.

Then the door opened inward

and the long, old thin arm

snatched Luke

then me

and yanked us

inside.

What you was staring at?

What you was spying on?

The voice full of honey

but the words . . . not.

On our second day in our new town, my mother had met Mrs. Falala in the eye doctor's office. My mother had gone there because a sudden, angry red blotch had appeared on one eyeball.

The waiting room was crowded; the wait was long. My mother had been a reporter and could not help asking questions. She would talk with anyone about anything, and people told her things they might not even tell their family or
friends. I don't know how willing or unwilling Mrs. Falala was to talk at first, but apparently she did talk, because my mother came away with a great interest in Mrs. Falala.

She's from Italy
, Mom said,
but met her husband
in Africa and lived there for many years and they
had no children and they came here to Maine after
Mr. Falala's brother visited here and bought the
place on Twitch Street and then the brother died
and—

I said,
Wait. You got all that out of sitting in a
doctor's waiting room?

Yes
, Mom said.
I'm a good asker of questions and
a good listener to answers.

The first books we had taken to Mrs. Falala's house (
wrong books, wrong, wrong, wrong!
) were about drawing:

                    
Figure Drawing for Beginners

                    
Perspective

because Mom must have somehow learned that Mrs. Falala was interested in that and did not know how to use the library.

When we'd returned home with these
wrong
books, my mother said,
Hmm, I'll try again
. This second batch, which she'd also borrowed from the library, included

                    
The Art of N. C. Wyeth

                    
Landscapes of Maine

When we offered this new batch to Mrs. Falala, she said,
Put on table
. Her neck and her long arm stretched toward the pile. One long, bony finger flipped open the book on top.
Flip, flip
, through several pages. Then she skidded that book off the top and flipped open the next.
Flip, flip
, through pages. She did not open the third.

Better
, she said,
but not . . . best
. To one side and then the other, she jerked her head, swishing the long, white braid that hung down her back. She leaned forward, zeroing in on Luke, who was pressed against my side, his thumb lodged between his teeth.

You get horse teeth that way!
Mrs. Falala said, and with one finger she snapped at his thumb.

Don't you touch me!
Luke said.

Mrs. Falala snapped at his thumb again.
Horse
teeth!

Luke was quivering, his elbow vibrating against my side, his chin wobbling.

Horse teeth!

Stop it!
I said.
Leave him alone!

Oh, Mrs. Falala did not like that, not one little bit. She flicked that long braid clear around her head like a whip and glared at me.

You rude!
she accused.
Out, out! Go!
She flung herself against the door, pushing it open.
Go!
Out! Go!

We did not wait.

We jumped on our bikes and pedaled across the lawn and down the walk and into the road and round the bend. Luke was leaning so far forward he looked like a turtle splayed out on his bike. We sailed down the hill, and only then, at the bottom, did Luke wave his arm to the side and we pulled over and stopped by the iron bear.

That lady is a kookoo head!
Luke said.
That lady
is a nutto!

His chin trembled and his shoulders shook.

It's okay, Lukey, it's okay. She
is
a nutto! She
is
a
kookoo head!

We sat by the side of the road until he calmed down.

Stupid nutto kookoo
, he said.
And I do
not
have
horse teeth!

Of course you don't.

News of our adventure made it home before we did. Both Mom and Dad were sitting on the front steps waiting for us. Luke dropped his bike and raced to Mom and buried his head against her shoulder.

Hm
, Dad said,
seems like you've had an adventure,
you two.

That lady's a nutto! A kookoo head!
Luke said, before hiding his head again.

Dad patted the step beside him.
Reena? Have
a seat.

And so I told him what had happened, and when I finished he said,
Mrs. Falala phoned
here already. Her version is a little different from
yours—

What? What'd she say? What was different?
Honest, that's what happened.

Her version is that you were disrespectful.

                    
This was not a good word in our family.

But she was so mean to Luke! She was flicking at
him and insulting him and—

Luke sobbed against Mom's shoulder.
We didn't
do anything! We were good kids. She said I had

horse teeth!

She flicked at him. She insulted him.

Dad nodded.
And you? What did you do then?

I told her to stop it. I told her to leave him alone.

Your tone of voice—?

My tone of voice? I said it like this: I said, ‘Stop it!
Leave him alone!'

Hm.

I was disrespectful?

Hm.

Well, maybe I was, but she was rude, rude, rude.

Mom said,
Not a good way to start, with Mrs.
Falala. My fault, probably, but I didn't realize she
could be so prickly.

You go next time
, I said.
You'll see.

Good idea, Reena.

And Mom?
I added.
Watch out for the hog—

Luke jumped in.
And the mad cat—

And the snake—

Oh
, Mom said.
Oh, my.

The next day, Mom went to Mrs. Falala's

                               
by herself.

No Dad, no me, no Luke

                               
by herself.

Horse teeth, I guess.