Swing Sideways Read online

  “Only thing left are the antibiotics, but I’m not sure he’ll eat them.”

  “Let me see that bottle.” California shook out a chalky pill and broke it in half. Holding Field’s mouth open, she dropped each piece on the back of his tongue and jammed her finger inside, pushing them down his throat, then held his mouth closed until he swallowed. “That’s how we do it with calves.”

  We tucked the rags under the bad leg and pulled the soiled blanket out. “Tomorrow we should bring clean sheets. This blanket is nasty, and the flies are going to be horrible,” I said.

  “We have shoofly plants near the woodpile. I can chop up the roots and mix them with milk to dab around the wound. That keeps the flies away. I’ll bring some later. Grandfather’s going to be home soon. We’d better get back. He’s bringing me a baby chicken.”

  “For what?”

  “I thought about what you said, about there being other things to make it like it was when Piper was growing up. She had chickens, so I told him I wanted one for a pet. I’m gonna build a chicken coop, like she had when she was a kid.”

  A baby chick—I’d finally get to hold a baby chick in my hands.

  We said good-bye to Field and walked single file out of the woods, up the hill, and through the orchard, turning together toward the paddock. Gravel crunched in the driveway. Blue metal flashed on the other side of the barn. California’d seen it, too. We dodged behind a tree near the fence. Dad’s Volvo turned out of the driveway.

  “Oh, no!”

  “What?”

  I pointed at the car. “That was my dad. Why was he here?”

  California stared at the Volvo as it crested the hill and dropped out of sight.

  “I thought you told me they didn’t know you were coming here. Why would he be here? What was he trying to find out?”

  Before I could gather my thoughts, someone else spoke. Someone watching us from the paddock, his voice low and firm.

  “Catherine?”

  We both turned, and I inhaled sharply. On the other side of the fence stood Mr. McMurtry, holding a red chicken in his arms.

  THIRTEEN

  With a jerk of his chin, Mr. McMurtry told us to follow him. I whispered urgently to California that I had to go home before Dad said anything to Mom, but she barreled past, her chin stuck out and her fingers clenched around my sleeve. We traipsed across the driveway, past a square patch of dug-up earth, home to a jumble of green things and blossoms that smelled like peppermint and sage. Mr. McMurtry stopped to shove the squawking chicken into a crate near the back steps, then held open a screen door and waved us inside.

  The shock of seeing Dad drive away, and coming face-to-face with Mr. McMurtry, disappeared as soon as I stepped into the kitchen, if that’s what you’d call it. Except for missing a bed, the brick-floored space looked like all living happened in that one room. At the far end, a broom and hoe leaned against a stone fireplace. Old newspapers spilled out of baskets. A floral wing chair sagged under the weight of encyclopedias. A jug of Pepto-Bismol sat in the middle of a narrow wooden table, along with packages of paper plates and unopened mail. Toothbrushes in a jar and a Bible were propped on the windowsill over the sink. Every nook and cranny was crammed with bottles, mixing bowls, a vacuum cleaner, toilet paper, curtain rods—the mess went on and on.

  But the most obvious thing in that room—the one you couldn’t see—was a heavy sadness hanging thick, like a wet blanket. It was the saddest room I’d ever been in.

  California swung past the refrigerator and swiped a piece of paper off the front, suspiciously similar to one of Mom’s schedules. She plunked down in the nearest chair and stuffed it out of sight. Mr. McMurtry watched her, then cleared another chair of newspapers and socks for me. I perched on the edge, twisting a strand of hair around my fingers. California thrust her chin to her fist and stared at the table. Mr. McMurtry shuffled between the sink, the stove, and the fridge.

  He picked up a copper colander and pulled out a hammer, a container of nails, and a plastic bag of dried leaves and withered, yellow buds. A teakettle whistled, and he dumped the leaves into a sieve and trickled boiling water over them into a pitcher. When the pitcher was full, he put a plate over the top and let it sit while he sliced a lemon. After swirling the pitcher a few times, he set it on the table next to the lemons and a sugar bowl, and gave each of us a glass of ice with a sprig of mint and a spoon.

  “Chamomile and mint. Good for the nerves.”

  Sweat trickled along the edge of my hairline. “Thank you.”

  Mr. McMurtry tapped his heels together and nodded. “Catherine, would you offer your guest some of the oatmeal cookies you made?”

  She swirled her tea and studied the way the mint bobbed below the surface. Mr. McMurtry’s eyes sank at the corners. His cheekbones rose sharply above a hollow face, and when he skirted a glance and saw me watching him, he turned away. California got up and took two cookies from a glass jar, sliding one across the table to me. I held a paper towel underneath mine and pretended to nibble the edge. She didn’t bother pretending anything; she spun her cookie in circles on the table while Mr. McMurtry fussed with something by the stove.

  “Catherine is an excellent cook, Annabel.”

  She smacked the swirling cookie flat. “Her name is Annie, not Annabel.”

  Mr. McMurtry poured coffee from a carafe and sat down between us. “Annie, then.” He dipped his head toward the mug so hair fell over his eyes. I was sorry California had made an issue of my name. It didn’t matter enough to make everyone feel more uncomfortable. It was going to take a whole lot of happy tea to lift the spirits in that room.

  Whenever I took a sip, I stole a peek at him over the top of my glass. He didn’t seem too bad for someone who’d had cancer. His skin was rough, with jagged crevices running down the side of his cheeks, his arms muscled and tan. He rested his elbows on the table and wrapped enormous hands around his mug.

  “Catherine.”

  She barely lifted her eyes from her glass.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. His nose twitched, and he went back to his coffee.

  Don’t worry about what?

  California glanced quickly at me. The weight in the room slowly shifted. She took her first taste of tea. Mr. McMurtry sipped his coffee. I put my mouth against the cold glass and inhaled the spicy scent of fresh-cut peppermint. California poured sugar in her drink, stirred, and sipped.

  “You’re supposed to put the sugar in while the tea is still hot, remember?” she said quietly.

  “That’s only if you want sweet tea. Some people don’t like it sweet.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She got up, scraping her chair loudly on the brick floor, and brought three more cookies from the jar—another for each of us, and one for her grandfather.

  “Is it a Rhode Island Red?”

  Mr. McMurtry nodded. “There are three others,” he said. “There’s a Silver Spitzhauben chick, and two—”

  “You brought me a Silver Spitzhauben?”

  “Yes, a Silver chick, and two white Leghorns for laying.”

  California hit both hands to her chest and launched out of the chair. “A Silver Spitzhauben? I’ve never had a Silver before. Annie, Silver Spitzhaubens are one of the most beautiful chickens in the whole world!”

  Mr. McMurtry’s beard moved, and the corners of his eyes dropped farther. “You girls better get to work building a coop. Lumber and chicken wire are by the barn. I’ll be out to help.”

  “Annie, come on. We got a Silver!” California bolted from the table and threw the screen door open so it slammed against the house. I picked up my glass and napkin, but Mr. McMurtry put his hand on my arm.

  “You go with Catherine. I’ll clean this up and come out to help in a few minutes.”

  I started toward the door but stopped short. They were wrong, all those people who whispered about him being crazy. They were wrong. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t evil. He was sad. The only thing he was hiding was the pain
engraved on his face.

  I turned back and said clearly, so he knew I meant it, “Thank you, Mr. McMurtry. I think California is really happy about the chickens.”

  California and her grandfather faced off during the coop-building episode. We’d already pulled the chicken wire and lumber over by the kitchen door when he came outside to help.

  “Matilda will eat the chickens if the coop is next to the barn, Grandfather. You know that.”

  “I do, which is why I’ve been trying to get rid of that snake, but you keep bringing it back.”

  “Even if Matilda was gone, there’d be another snake. We need the coop near the house.”

  “Chicken coops smell.”

  “I know that. Back home Piper and I are in charge of the chickens and the cows, and they both smell.”

  Mr. McMurtry winced. “Build it wherever you want, but I expect it to stay immaculate.”

  California waited until he disappeared around the side of the house. “Works every time. I say Piper’s name, and he gives up.”

  “Maybe you should be nicer to him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s trying to be nice, and because he had cancer.”

  Mr. McMurtry came back with a box of supplies. “Where do you want these?”

  “Over here, Grandfather, by the door, please,” she answered, all sugary-sweet.

  Mr. McMurtry deposited the box on the ground. “Annabel, I told your father you would be home before six.”

  “Annie!” California scolded.

  “Annie, then.”

  I wanted to tell him it didn’t matter what he called me, and I wanted to ask why Dad had been there, but he was already walking away. He came back with two long wooden poles attached to curved paddles. California walked off three paces from the side of the house and slammed the paddles into the earth. She twisted and pushed and jiggled them back and forth, pulled out half a scoop of dirt, dumped it to the side, and went back for more.

  “This is called a posthole digger.”

  She was as natural a hole digger as she was a swimmer, a raspberry picker, an apple tree climber, a snake handler—an all-around farm girl. She was everything I wanted to be.

  “We’re going to make four holes for the posts. We’ll tack the chicken wire to them and have a shelter against the house. Oh, and a gate, I’m sure Grandfather got a gate. If not, we’ll make one. I know how. Have you ever had real, farm-fresh eggs, right out of the nest?”

  Slam, twist, pull, dump.

  “You’ve probably never seen how yellow they are.”

  Slam, twist, pull, dump.

  “You’ve only had store-bought eggs, right? Well, let me tell you, the difference is like nothing you’ve ever tasted.”

  Slam, twist, pull, dump.

  “I bet if I made that lemon pie with these eggs, it’d be so yellow you’d have to put on sunglasses.”

  California rambled on, digging, twisting, and dumping, digging, twisting, and dumping until late afternoon when we had a slightly crooked, six-by-eight-foot coop filled with sweet-smelling straw.

  Mr. McMurtry brought a pitcher of ice water, two plastic cups, and more cookies in a napkin. California gulped her water so loud Mom could probably hear her a mile away. When she was done and ready to defend the special baby chick, she pushed her knuckles into her hips and braced her legs.

  “The Silver isn’t going to like being cooped up, Grandfather. They like to wander and roost in trees. She might get depressed.”

  “These are your chickens. You care for them and give me fresh eggs for breakfast. But if I step in chicken droppings one time, they’ll be gone. Understood?”

  She stopped ranting. “Does that mean you’re going to eat breakfast with me from now on?”

  Mr. McMurtry pointed to the ground. “Chicken droppings.”

  She smiled and waved her finger. “You won’t even know they are here, except when I make you the best omelets you’ve ever eaten. Promise.”

  The Rhode Island Red went in first. She was short and fat, with beady, threatening eyes. California tossed a handful of cracked corn on the ground. The hen pecked, then deposited a load of black-and-white stuff behind her and burrowed into the straw.

  Next came the two white hens, knee-high, with elegant tails fanning out behind them. They jerked their heads forward and back when they walked. After pecking the corn, they pooped, drank some water, and settled side by side in the straw.

  Finally, Mr. McMurtry brought a cardboard box from the side of the house.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  California reached out with quivering hands. “The Silver?”

  He nodded. When she lifted the lid and said “Oooohhhhh,” Mr. McMurtry’s eyes sank again—like the happier she got, the more he hurt. She reached inside and brought out the tiny chick cupped in her hands.

  “My very own Silver. Isn’t she beautiful, Annie?”

  It wasn’t beautiful. It looked diseased and was uglier than California’s epiglottis. Part of her was white, part black, part fuzz, part feather, with black eyes that blinked nonstop and a puff of something like a mistake sprouting from the top of her head. California cradled it against her cheek.

  “Let’s name her Lacy, because when all her feathers come in, she’ll look like she has black lace over a white body.”

  So there was hope for the poor creature.

  “Catherine.” Mr. McMurtry pointed toward the coop.

  The Rhode Island Red was off her nest, scouting around for food. In the straw where she’d been sitting was one perfect café au lait–colored egg. California’s face lit up. She opened the new gate, crept past the chickens, and gently lifted the egg off the straw. When she was back out, she wrapped it in a paper towel and held it out to me, her face beaming.

  “Piper’s meeting us next week. I really should save this for her. But I want you to have it, Annie. It’s a gift. My very first East Coast egg for my very first East Coast friend.”

  FOURTEEN

  When I stepped into the kitchen at ten minutes before six, hiding that tawny first egg in a handkerchief behind my back, my stomach knotted. Why had Dad been at the farm? Had he told Mom about California? Was she going to be ballistic?

  Instead, it was like entering an alternate universe. Mom and Dad stood side by side, chopping vegetables on the butcher-block island. Dad wore a red-and-white-striped apron around his waist. A slightly off-center, starched chef hat perched on Mom’s head. Dad dumped a handful of red and yellow peppers into a bowl.

  “Hey, Pumpkin, how was your day?”

  “Fine.”

  Their knives chopped in unison. Chop-chop-chop. They chopped mushrooms, onions, and black olives, tossing them into the same bowl. The same bowl. Mom never mixed things in the same bowl.

  “What’s all that?”

  Mom straightened her chef hat and blushed. “We’re making homemade pizza.”

  “We flipped a coin. She wears the hat, and I wear the apron.”

  Mom giggled and sliced into a beautiful, red tomato. We never ate pizza at home. Pizza was for Casual Night Out. Emphasis on out. And even then we couldn’t simply go eat pizza. It had to be a cultural experience, where we talked about things like how the early Greeks made plantkuntos as an edible plate for stews that evolved into pizza crust.

  The only time I’d eaten pizza at home was when Mom was away. Dad came in with a wicked smile and made me pinky-swear I would never tell. We walked three blocks in the snow to the local pizza parlor and spent half an hour deciding on a pie to bring home. We put garbage bags over the couch and on the floor, so if anything dripped Mom would never know, and sat with our feet propped on the coffee table—barbarian style—the pizza box between us, dripping sauce all over our clothes, drinking Stewart’s birch beer, and laughing at My Cousin Vinny. That was the only time, and she still didn’t know.

  Mom stuck her head in the pantry, and Dad whispered out the side of his mouth, “She’s doing this for you. Just go with it.”

  �
��Why were you at Mr. McMurtry’s today?” I whispered back.

  She pulled her head out of the pantry. “What was that?”

  “Um, do I have time for a shower?”

  “Hurry, I heard thunder a minute ago.” I disappeared before the don’t-shower-during-a-thunderstorm debate started.

  I lay the egg on top of crumpled tissues inside a shoe box and hid it behind my suitcase in the very back of my closet. After a hot shower, I followed the aroma of tomatoes and basil through the kitchen to the dining room. The table was bare.

  “We’re in here.”

  I peered around the corner into the living room. Mom and Dad sat shoulder to shoulder on the love seat. Mom smoothed a red-and-white-checkered cloth on the coffee table. In the center, on top of a round, silver tray, was a magnificent, steaming pizza pie, loaded with veggies and cheese and sauce on a perfectly browned crust. Next to the pizza was a stack of white Chinet paper plates—paper plates!

  “Um . . . have you guys been drinking the funny Kool-Aid?”

  “Come sit. Let’s eat,” Dad said.

  “Is everything okay?”

  Mom lifted a shiny pizza-cutting wheel and the silver cake server from the table. “Of course. We thought you might like something a little less . . . well, a little more . . . um. Richard, would you like to cut it?” She handed him the utensils and spread two peach-colored linen napkins across her lap.

  She’d really made pizza. We were actually going to eat it in the living room. This was totally weird. But I didn’t say that. I said, “This looks great!”

  I ate the pizza with my hands like we did at school. Mom never said a word. She couldn’t, anyway, because Dad never stopped yakking.

  “Did you know I spent a summer in Italy after my sophomore year in college? It was right before I met your mom, and there was this girl I was trying to impress. . . .”

  He rattled on about the girl’s uncle teaching him to toss the dough and how the girl laughed like a hyena when he dropped it on the floor. “Good thing I heard that girl’s awful laugh or I might never have met your mom.”