Moo Read online

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

  high

  and

  light

  and

  gentle.

  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

  hisssssssssssss.

  Our father ushered us up the walk.

  Pay no attention, he said. It’s just a cat.

  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.

  A face appeared at the window beside the door:

  a pale

  thin

  old

  wrinkled

  face.

  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.

  INSIDE

  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.

  DON’T YOU TOUCH ME

  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.

  BEAT AND ZEP

  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.

  EMPLOYMENT

  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.

  MISTY MORNING

  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.

  ROCKS

  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

  BACK TO TWITCH STREET

  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 em 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

&nbs
p; a

  longgggggg

  black

  snake

  slithering along the gutter

  its head

  dip

  ping

  over the

  E

  D

  G

  E

  o v

  b e

  just a

  the door.

  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.

  THE BOOKS

  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.