Heart of a Shepherd Read online

  It's just the Sunday night e-mail from Frank. Maybe he knows what to do for lamb cough. Dad can cure any animal he sets a hand on, but it's not fair to worry him about ranch stuff when he can't do anything to help. Grandpa sends him a weekly update with all the good news. If there's bad news, he just says The weather's about right for the time of year or Beef prices are about what we were thinking they'd be.

  I bet Dad sees right through Grandpa's messages. Still, a rule's a rule. If I'm going to get advice, it's going to have to be my brothers.

  Probably Frank will just tell me something depressing like Half of all bum lambs die in their first week, and a bunch more don't make it past a month. Just don't get too attached. I know he's right. Nobody fusses about death except me. They always shrug and say “That's life,” in exactly the same tone of voice that they say “That's baseball” when I strike out.

  The thing is, I hate striking out and I hate death. I hate it every time. Nobody teases me when I get all sad, but I see them shake their heads at each other like they're wondering, How am I ever going to be a real rancher? And what else am I going to be? Ranching and soldiering is what men do around here.

  Frank's e-mail is the usual boring gripes about too much homework and the usual annoying questions about how the Grands are doing. Does he think Grandpa's going to forget how to run a ranch after doing it for fifty years? I give him the usual yeah-everything's-fine so he can go back to his usual I've-got-everything-under-control frame of mind. It's not like he can help me from a high school dorm room fifty miles away.

  Besides, I remember what I really need. I head down the hall to Dad's bedroom and open the night-stand drawer. There's a big bottle of Advil in there, and a tube of Ben-Gay, his wedding ring, the harmonica, a bunch of pictures, and underneath that a black leather book. The cover is scratched and the edges curl. It's labeled RECIPES, REMEDIES, FORMULAS. The main part is in my great-grandpa's curvy writing. Some of the really old remedies are written in Irish. There are some remedies in Grandma's tidy cursive, and toward the end, Dad wrote a few new formulas. I find what I need between the recipes for glue and house paint.

  I read it twice to memorize it and head back toward the kitchen. Grandma's asleep in her recliner, but Grandpa's still awake, mending a bridle and frowning over the weather report. I tell him my plan and right away I can see he doesn't like it, but he just bobs his head up and down and says nothing. Grandma says it's a Quaker thing to think before you speak. You wouldn't catch any of the Irish in the family doing it.

  “You will take the big flashlight, be back in twenty minutes, and wear your woolies.”

  I hate my woolies.

  “Yes, Grandpa.”

  I'm such a liar. Grandpa will be asleep by the time the medicine is cooked. He'll never know I went out without my wool underwear.

  The recipe's pretty easy but I measure everything level and time the boiling so it's perfect. Outside, the stars are gone and the clouds are low. I sprint for the barn. The squeak of the door is swallowed by cold night air.

  The heat lamp makes a yellow circle of warmth in the corner of the barn. I cozy up to the light and lift Merry's head to drink. At first he doesn't want any but once he gets a taste of it, he's slurping it down like a drunken sailor.

  Pippin wakes up and starts calling for his mama. He can hear the rest of the sheep outside, and I bet he thinks she's still out there, looking for him. I try my best to make a mama-sheep sound for him. After a while, Pippin quiets down and comes close, where I can stroke him.

  “jHola!” a deep voice barks from the door. “Who there?”

  I hear a rifle being cocked.

  “No!” I shout, diving over the lambs and trying to tuck their heads and legs under my body.

  “Ignacio?”

  It's Ernesto. I'm so relieved I could throw up. He walks over, and suddenly it seems silly to have dived over my lambs like we are soldiers in a foxhole. Who else would be clear out here in the middle of the night? At the edge of the lamplight, all I can see are his boots.

  “Medicine?” Ernesto asks, nodding at the bottle.

  “Sí.”

  “Cough?”

  “Sí.”

  He leans over the rail and rests a broad, callused hand on my shoulder. “Heart of a shepherd,” he says, like he's pronouncing a blessing. Then the boots turn, and I hear him walk out to the sheep pens to check for more newborn lambs.

  It's a funny thing to say. Sons grow up to be ranchers. Shepherds come from South America. But I like the way he said it.

  I stroke Merry's chest while he drinks. Pippin falls asleep with his chin on my knee, and my head is bobbing by the time the bottle's empty. I trudge up to the house. Grandma is still asleep, glasses way down on her nose and a book of poetry sliding off her knees. Grandpa is snoring steadily. So I turn off the news and haul myself into bed.

  “Heart of a shepherd.” I try it out a few times as

  I'm putting on pajamas. It has a solid ring to it, like Purple Heart or Medal of Honor. I've read all the dragon books on my shelf, so I tiptoe down the hall to Jim and John's room and hunt up something with sailing ships to read myself to sleep.

  The first thing I see in the morning is snow on the hills. Yes! The best part of going to a two-room school is that we get to go sledding for PE.

  Grandpa is already heading into the winter pasture with a load of hay for the cows. I hustle into my clothes and pick up an armload of lamb bottles on my way out the door.

  The barn door is open a few inches. Weird. Who was in the barn this morning? I'm the one who goes in there first thing. I slide the door open a little wider. Did I close it last night? I search my memory. Damnation! I run to the lamb crib.

  Gone. Pippin is gone. I look all over the barn for him, but it's obvious what happened. The straw is pushed away from the corner of the crib nearest the door, and the bottom board is pushed out.

  That feeling I get when something dies grabs me by the throat. I set down the bottles and pull Merry into my lap. I want to say, It's all right, buddy, I'm here. I'll take care of you. My throat is squeezed so tight, I can't get a word out. I stroke his knobby little head and pick up the bottle. Merry dives for it and starts gurgling it down. I can still feel that rattle in his breathing, but it doesn't seem so bad. He's not leaking goop out of his eyes or ears, either. That's a good sign. The squeeze in my throat eases up just enough for me to breathe steady. Now I'm mad.

  “All right, God,” I say, tucking Frodo in for his bottle. “This is not making you look good. It's not like I'm asking you to look after a hundred sheep here. I just wanted your help with these four. Plus, I'm not asking you about ostriches or llamas or some animal you never heard of. Sheep are in the Bible, you know.”

  Ernesto comes in and goes to the workbench to strap on a carpenter's belt. He sticks in a hammer and a handful of nails, and pulls on work gloves.

  ¿Dónde está la otra oveja?” he asks, leaning on the top rail.

  I try to explain, but that catch in my throat holds the words back. I point to the loose board. He kneels and pushes the board back in place. His frown makes him look old.

  “I fix,” he says. For some reason, seeing Ernesto sad makes me feel better.

  “Maybe he's still out there.”

  Ernesto shakes his head, still frowning.

  “You to school. I to find.”

  “But he knows me. I could call him.” I can hear how stupid this sounds. You can't call sheep. They just don't come.

  “I look. I find.”

  I swallow that worried lump down into my stomach. I put on half a smile, say “Gracias,” and trudge up the porch steps. I bet there's not even enough snow for sledding.

  School drags on for centuries. I coast through the whole explanation of decimals. I keep looking out the window, thinking about wolves and coyotes and that cougar up on the ridge. I head for the computer lab on the girls’ side of the room for online Spanish. I don't even bother to tug on Rosita's braid or dump glitter in the
hood of her sweatshirt on the way over, even though she's been sitting right across from me, making faces all morning.

  After a few minutes, she comes and works at the computer beside me. “Hey, Brother, what's the matter? Mom and Dad called me last night. Nothing bad has happened lately.”

  I just shrug and look away.

  “Really, they would have said if something happened to your dad.”

  “It's nothing,” I mumble, and turn my chair away from her.

  She flicks bits of chalk at me to cheer me up.

  It doesn't help.

  I settle in for online Spanish and an e-mail pops up. It's from Dad! I ditch the Spanish and pull up his message.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  Son,

  I'm going to be away from phones all week, so I'm going to miss your birthday. Sorry about that, but I want to know, what's really going on at home? Is everyone healthy? Any problems with the stock? How's Ernesto working out? Thanks for all your hard work.

  Love,

  Dad

  His e-mails are all like this, ever since he landed in Iraq. It's like he's briefing a general or something. I read it over four times, in case there's a secret code in it. I'm dying to tell Dad about Pippin. He knows what it's like. He used to raise the bum lambs when he was a kid. And he's the one person who really gets it when I'm upset about the animals. He always used to take me for a walk up by the reservoir to look at the stars, and he'd put his heavy arm over my shoulder and say “Brother, if it was one of my soldiers, I'd feel exactly the same way.” Sometimes he'd ask me to pray for some soldier of his who was becoming a new father or taking a tough exam, and we'd pray with a nice stretch of silence. And then I'd ask him to pray for one of my animals, or for all the animals not fast enough to outrun a wildfire. He would pray just as long for animals as people.

  Sometimes he'd tell me the myths that go with the constellations, or we'd talk about who was a better general, Odysseus or Patton. I imagine Dad all gritty and sweating in a truck somewhere in the Iraqi desert, praying for his soldiers, all alone. I count backward on my fingers. It's an hour after midnight out there. I hope he has stars to look at.

  From: [email protected]

  To: [email protected]

  I love you, Dad.

  Everyone's healthy at home. We got a bit of snow last night, so good thing Grandma got the heater on the truck fixed. Ernesto's great. He doesn't let Grandpa lift any of the heavy things. He was good at the lambing last week, very clean, and he's nice to me. The stock is all fine. About where you'd expect them to be this time of year. Be careful, Dad. I miss you. Brother

  I hit Send fast, before I think of what I really want to say.

  Rosita stares at me with those serious brown eyes like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. Girls are so nosy. I nibble off my eraser and flick it at her to prove I'm fine.

  When the bell finally rings, I'm on the school bus first. Paco sits next to me. One thing I like about him: he never bugs me when I don't feel like talking. Fortunately, the bus driver doesn't believe in speed limits. When he hits our driveway, brakes squealing, I don't even wait for the little red sign to pop out. I jump down the steps and push the door open myself. The driver waves to Grandma, working on the tractor by the corral, and then backs the bus out to the road to turn it around.

  Ernesto is walking up from the creek. It's not a happy walk.

  “Did you find my lamb?”

  He nods. No smile. I quick-check his hands and clothes for blood. Nothing.

  “Is he dead?”

  “Sí”

  “Was it wolves? The cougar?”

  Ernesto shakes his head. “No lobos, no puma. Cold.”

  There isn't really anything to say. We stand there for a bit, looking at the gravel driveway making breath-smoke in the cold air. Ernesto reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pipes. He holds them out to me. They look like a row of thick wooden straws tied together.

  “For you,” he says. “To lift up.”

  I shake my head. “That's for you and your niños. You must miss them.”

  “I must work for them. This”—he holds his pipes close—”this is good for my heart. And you, you miss your papa?” He looks away from me so I know I don't have to say anything if I don't want to. “What is good for your heart?”

  “I dunno. I don't really think about it, I guess.”

  Ernesto puts his pipes back in his pocket and goes to the sheep pens, and I head for the house.

  “More lambs today?” I call after him.

  “More lambs, one week.”

  That's life, I guess. I dump my backpack in the kitchen and go down the hall to Dad's room. We are going to lose lambs every year, and I don't know how to not care.

  I open Dad's nightstand drawer and pull out the harmonica. I shine it up a bit on the edge of my sweatshirt. I don't know how to play it, but just the shape of it in my hand makes me feel better. I slip it into my pocket, just in case it turns out to be good for my heart, and head out to take care of my flock.

  DECEMBER

  If animals could really talk on Christmas Eve, like they do in all the legends, they'd be saying, “What the heck are you still doing in the barn? Your chores are already done, kid.”

  Dad's horse, Ike, shakes his big head at me as I go back and forth with the push broom. Patton and Bradley, our cutting horses, make worried snorts as they watch me hide all the unfinished fix-it-up jobs on the workbench. I've been at the barn chores an hour longer than Grandpa, and the extra sweeping works open a tear in my leather glove. Cold air whispers across my palm. I walk over to the bare lightbulb by the barn door. The rip is straight down, from my thumb to the wrist, just like the one I got in the other glove last month. Grandpa will help me stitch it up. He used to be an army medic, so he does all the stitching around here, clothes and injured animals, too. I fish around in the workbench drawer for the roll of green army duct tape. It's not pretty, but it will keep me from getting a blister while I haul the last of the muck out of the barn. I should probably sweep up the sawdust and get the wood scraps out to the woodpile. Custer, the barn cat, weaves himself between my legs and looks up at me like I'm a crazy person.

  I can't help it. All my brothers will be here tonight, and I just want them to see that Grandpa and I are doing things right; we aren't too old or too young. I want to show them that I'm putting in a man's day even though I'm a full-time sixth grader.

  I hear Grandma's truck pull into the driveway, so I run out to see my brothers. Frozen mud-ripples crunch under my boots, and breath-smoke trails behind me. In a second, I am in the swarm of my brothers, and each one has a go at cracking my ribs with a big bear hug. Pete's carrying a box with stamps from Italy, my Christmas box from Mom. It'll be the same as always, I bet— a sweater in a color I wouldn't wear if you held a gun to my head, and a big stack of the coolest books ever. Grandma sweeps us all up the front porch, with the good smell of roast beef, biscuits, and apple pie helping us along.

  She stops at the flag by the front door, like she has every day since Dad left for Iraq, to give it a stroke and whisper a prayer for him. The rest of the brothers pile into the kitchen while I lurk in the front hall and watch her. There are lumps of ice all along the edge of the flag. She slips off her gloves and cups her hands around the frozen edge, blowing to melt it. My mind zooms to Dad out in the gritty ghettos of Baghdad, where Christmas is just another day and nobody will touch him gentle like Grandma would. I can't think about him alone on Christmas. I won't. He wouldn't even want me to. Grandma lets the melted flag go, and I duck into the kitchen so she won't know I watched.

  The brothers are all stomping around, giving each other directions on how to set the table, like this is somehow tricky and needs a four-man consultation. The house seems small with all of them in it, and I feel like the little kid I used to be when they all lived at home.

  Once dinner is
ready, Grandma gets the Baby Jesus figure. We all follow her as she carries it to the Nativity scene on the mantel, and we sing “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Then we stand around the table and sing some more carols. I love it when we sing together, but the brothers can't carry a tune in a bucket. Grandpa has a great voice, but he just doesn't sing out the Hosannas with the same gusto Dad does. Musically, we are in deep trouble without him. Nobody even complains when we cut the singing short and get down to the business of eating.

  Usually Grandma runs the conversation at dinner, but she's quiet today, and the brothers work through the beef, potatoes, gravy, biscuits, and cranberry sauce with silent devotion. Grandpa's hand shakes a little, like it does sometimes at the end of the day, and he hardly eats, which is nuts, because he works harder than me, and I'm starving!

  Once the boys move into seconds, Grandpa gets news out of them: the weather and the soldiers in Pete's platoon in Texas, Jim and John's final exams at Boise State, and the dorm pranks Frank is in on at the high school. Nobody asks me about my news because everything I'm doing, they've already done. Finally, Pete asks about the lambs, and I mumble that I lost one because we're all being very careful not to say anything about death.

  And then Pete says, “Well, how many have you saved?”

  “Seven,” I admit, because after Frodo, Bilbo, and Merry, there were four more.

  “Seven—well, that's a good start. You'll get eight or ten pounds of wool from each one starting in the spring, and if you take good care of them, they should double in a year. You'll have a good-sized flock pretty soon.”

  “Now, that's a solid start to your college,” Grandpa says. “You build yourself a good flock to sell and you won't have to worry about getting one of those army scholarships.”

  “I guess one of us better plan on staying with the land,” Pete says. “If we all go on active duty, who will run the place?”