Oh, no doubt there are stranger people around here. What about that man with those cows, she says. The cows who live in the man’s basement? How’s he ever going to get those cows out in the springtime when they’ve grown so big they won’t fit up the stairs?
WHAT I SAY: The man with the cows?
WHAT SHE SAYS: Yes, you know, old Greg Springer, wears overalls all the time with the straps down and his gut pouring out.
WHAT I SAY: Ah, yes, old Greg Springer.
WHAT SHE SAYS: Now there’s some guy I wouldn’t trust as far as I could throw him. And what he’s done to those cows, letting them stand up to their necks in their own shit every day. I think that’s criminal. He’s a criminal, she says.
WHAT I DO ON DRIVE HOME: Realize that in order to spell “Springer” out of grated orange peel I need an s, but that maybe the recipe I was given for scones was really asking for “grated orange peels.”
WHAT I NOTICE WHEN I DRIVE HOME: That I have not seen the spacecraft in days and that I will never know now who shot my son if I cannot ask the pilot in the spacecraft if he saw anything.
WHAT I DIG THROUGH THE JUNK DRAWER FOR IN THE KITCHEN: The scone recipe, to check and see if it really asks for “grated orange peels.” I find the rabies tags for Nelly and Bruce, I find a magnifying glass (which I think might come in handy and slip it into my pocket even though it’s a kid’s cheapo magnifying glass, the quality no better than a cereal box trinket). I find wildflower seeds whose envelope is torn and the seeds litter the bottom of the drawer, I find a dried-up glue stick and a turkey call and an owl call, I find receipts for dental work done years ago, but I do not find the scone recipe.
WHAT I AM BEGINNING TO THINK: That my son will never awaken, even though his score on his Glasgow coma scale was a 14, even though his SPECT scan showed normal cerebral blood flow, even though his foot, according to the day nurse, has moved now and then, approximately a millimeter to the right, and another millimeter to the left. I look up while driving home on our driveway at night. I’m looking up the whole time, seeing if I can see it, and then because I’m not paying attention, I drive off the driveway and partly down the side of the road.
WHAT THE WIFE SAYS IN THE MORNING: Some drunk kids from town must have driven down our driveway last night and gone off the road.
WHAT SARAH SAYS: Oh, those must be the same kids who changed the sign to COME TO THE FALL BOOB FEST.
CALL: A cow with milk fever, down and doesn’t want to get up.
ACTION: Drove to farm past huge old maples that lined the road. Met farmer and his son out behind the barn, where the cow was lying on a mixture of frozen mud and ice. In the barn, on some hay, was her newborn mooing for her, and the farmer’s wife was trying to feed the calf colostrum from a bottle. Clipped to the side of the stall was a heat lamp, shining down on the calf. Outside, though, the mother would not get up. I had brought my bottle of calcium with me and stuck a needle in the vein in her neck to inject her with some. This might take a few minutes, I said to the farmer and his son. But the farmer could not hear me, and he yelled, What’s that? and held the top of his ear, red from the cold, and pushed it out toward me so that I would know he could not hear so well. I leaned up close to him. I could see where the yarn from his sweater collar was coming undone and hung in a loop of scalloped waves. It will take a while for the calcium to take effect. She may not get up for a while, I said, loudly. The farmer nodded. In the meantime, I asked the farmer’s son if there was a flat board around. I wanted to drag the cow onto it so that when she did try to stand up, she wouldn’t slip on the ice. He brought me a sheet of composite board, and then the three of us, the farmer and his son and I, all tried to push the cow onto the board. She was a heavy cow, and I was pushing from her rear, which was all bloody from birthing her calf and expelling her placenta, so that if I pushed too hard, my hands would slip. I had to find the right strength to push her with, not too hard so that my hands would slip off her hind, and not too easy so that she wouldn’t budge. The farmer, though old, was strong and his son even stronger, so the three of us were able to get her onto the board. Once she was on it, she seemed appreciative to be off the cold frozen mud, and she lifted her head and looked around, taking in the sight of me and the farmer and his son, but her interest didn’t last long, and maybe the dry surface beneath her was too much of a comfort, because she suddenly lay down and sprawled across it and closed her eyes. Doesn’t look like she wants to get up now at all, said the farmer, loudly. His wife, who was still in the stall in the barn with the newborn calf, thought he was talking to her, and I could hear her yell from the stall, What’s that, Michael? But the farmer didn’t answer her.
It was true, the cow didn’t look like she wanted to get up. She looked like she wanted to take a long nap instead. Come on, old girl, I said, and I pulled on her rope halter, but she just opened her eyes and looked at me. I hope she won’t be a downer, the farmer said. She’s my best milker, he said.
Let’s give her a few more minutes, I said. There was not much to do but look at the cow and then look out across the farmer’s snow-covered hills. On the closest hill there was a sugar shack.
How many trees do you tap? I asked.
Oh, about fifteen hundred, the farmer said.
That must keep you busy in the spring, I said.
The farmer nodded. We sell the syrup here. Between that and the cows, we stay alive.
Then the farmer’s wife came out of the barn. She held the empty bottle of colostrum. She didn’t wear any gloves, and I could see how red her fingers were from the cold.
How’s it doing? the farmer said.
Okay, for now. It needs its mother, though, she said.
The farmer nodded. We’re working on that, he said.
I hope she ain’t a downer, the farmer’s wife said. She’s our best milker, she said.
The doc already heard all that, the son said, shaking his head and then spitting on the icy mud. I didn’t want to hear the family squabble. I interrupted with a little conversation.
You have a nice place here. Nicer than I’ve seen in a while. I recently heard of a guy named Greg Springer. I heard he keeps his cows in his basement. Can you believe that? I said.
The farmer nodded.
You know Greg Springer? I said. The farmer spat. I looked at the wife and she turned away. I looked at the son and he spat then, too, right on top of where his father had spat. It was enough of a clue for me. I would head to Greg Springer’s. I would see if he was the man who shot my son.
I’ll get her up, I said. I went to my truck. From the back I pulled out my bullwhip. I had ordered it from Australia. It was made of braided kangaroo hide. I knew how to crack the whip so that it sounded like a gunshot. When the farmer saw me walk back to the cow with the bullwhip, he didn’t say anything. He just put his hand on his chin and felt some gray stubble that was growing there. The farmer’s wife stuck the empty bottle of colostrum in her back pocket, and then she folded her arms in front of herself and watched.
RESULT: I pulled the whip back and laid it right next to the cow, so that the tassel end struck by her ear. When the whip made the crack, the cow jumped to her feet. The minute she was up, I pulled her off the composite board. I didn’t want her getting comfortable again on it. Put the board away, I said to the son, and he did, quickly. I wished that my whip could wake Sam up the same way and I pictured myself cracking it in his yellow pastel hospital room beside his ear on the stiff white pillowcase and him rising from his bed and holding out his arms to me.
When she was up the farmer said to her, Come on and take care of your youngun’, and then he walked in front of her and she followed him into the barn. The calf was mooing for her and she mooed back and when she was close enough, the calf came up under her and started nursing. She turned to it and started licking it, turning the hairs on its backside into a wet swirl.
The farmer’s wife called to me from the porch of their house. “Come inside so I can write you a check,” she said.
We stood in the kitchen. The only stove in there was a wood cookstove. The floors were beautiful old wide planks that had begun to slant with age and time and made me feel as if I could lose my balance any second and fall over. This is a nice house, I said. The farmer’s wife nodded. It’s been in the family for four generations. My son was born in the room above our heads, and Michael was born there, too, and his father before him and his father before that.
I looked up at the ceiling. It was tin. The pressed shapes in it had a leaf pattern.
