Chapter 1: The Farm
The first thing you learn growin' up on a farm is never to stand behind the cows.
They don’t look it, but they’re meaner than Pa when he’s drinkin' and a hell of a lot tougher. They look all soft and pit’ful, with those big brown eyes and soft pot bellies, but I been kicked more than once by Sissy and Maybella, and none of ‘em have been gentle and polite like you might think.
I dodge up and away from Sissy’s foot as she tries to get a ‘nother good swing in, barely brushin' past her dirty old hoof and savin' myself a bruise in the gut. “Ole shit,” I mumble, cus that’s what she is and everyone ‘round here knows it. She’s so old that she ain't even good enough to make a pale of milk. All she does is poop, eat, and kick.
I think she’s a waste of good space and good feed, but Jenny loves her and Pa is soft on Jenny, which means we have to keep her or Jenny will cry and then Pa will get all flustered and then we’ll have a big ole mess on our hands which I’ll have to deal with, and the good Lord knows I don’t want that.
I already have enough to deal with. I’m only fifteen and I’m already lookin' after all the cows and chickens and pigs and horses, while Pa and Greg, who should be doin' this cus he’s the oldest son, don’t do shit with the money my work makes but buy more whiskey and get drunk in front of the kids every night.
Sissy lets out a pissed moo, like she hears my thoughts and she agrees with my words. Sissy don’t like Pa treatin' the kids like that. She like the kids better than me cus the kids are the only ones that take the time to come on out to the field and pet her and brush her scraggly, matted pelt. ‘Specially Jenny. Don’t know if Sissy and Maybella would stay clean if it weren’t for Jenny.
She’s here now, runnin' up the hill in her ratted out boots that are hand-me-downs. She got them three sisters after Rachel, the oldest girly. She’s lucky they haven’t fell apart yet.
By the time she’s up the hill, she’s huffin' hard, face red and splotched. Her blues eyes shine out a that red face like the stars in a clear night sky.
Normal kids wouldn’t get all tired out from runnin' up one measly hill. But Jenny is ‘fragile’, which is codespeak for sick in the body.
She’s a skinny one cus of it. Her arms stick out like bones from her dress, tentin' the dirty fabric up round her armpits and waist cus it’s least two people too big on her tiny body.
I watch her gasp in air, and don’t say nothin'. Jenny don’t like it when people talk about her bein' ‘fragile’.
When she’s done huffin', she walk over to Maybella, takin' out her special brush and comin' down Maybella’s hide so that it look halfway presentable. She don’t say nothin' to me. I reckon she’s embarrassed about her ‘fragileness‘. Even tho she’s only six, she knows when to keep her mouth shut bout things.
‘Nstead, she hums to fill the empty words. She’s got a nice voice. It’s the way a kid’s should be -- nice and sweet and clear. She don’t sound anythin' like Pa and Greg, after they get busy drinkin' and start singin' cus they be so happy. It ain't nothin' like that.
“Heard any news in the market?” I ask her, half to just say something’ and half cus I want to know what folks are sayin’.
She smiles up at me, as if she was waitin’ for me to ask. “Mrs. Mindy’s chickens are layin’ faster than she can collect eggs, so she sellin’ ‘em cheap. Only a nickel an egg. Mr. Cane finally has to close down his farm. Couldn’t pay without no crops growin’. An’ the Petersons’ got a new rope swing for their lake. Saw ‘em playin’ on it when Rachel and I were walkin’ back here.”