crazy for sure, but in a too cheerful, hokey sort of way, which is the opposite of Kay’s sort of crazy. Most days I can’t take the either of them.
“Libby, cow number is 56-X. Write it down,” Kay says.
I move the syringes and bottles that are sitting on the edge of the stock tank so there’s room for me to sit down. I push my glasses up, open the record-keeping book, and take the pen from the edge, where it’s jammed in those rows of metal circles. I glance at the writing above to remind myself what it is I’m supposed to be writing down: cow number, sex, sire, vaccinations. Baxter needs these records so he can keep track of everything, even though he says the drought’s gonna cause him to sell off the herd anyway, and pretty soon there’s gonna be nothing left for him to record. In the notebook, he keeps a line called Miscellaneous Notes, which is my favorite thing to read, because it’s here that Baxter keeps track of things like who he’s treated for foot rot, who got a rattlesnake bite, what sort of coloring the calves from such-and-such a bull have, or even stuff like, “This cow looks downright sad,” or “Prone to mastitis,” or “Hooliganish,” or “Good mama.”
The notes I leave for him; the rest I’m in charge of and so I get busy writing. Maybe this isn’t the most exciting way to be spending a morning, but Derek’s at work, Tess is suddenly gone, and standing at home with the baby was no good, so I guess it’s better than nothing.
Baxter says, “Live so hard that you give your guardian angel gray hair, that’s how I see it. I like to imagine mine sometimes, blond hair streaked with gray, shaking her head at me and wishing she’d gotten assigned to someone else.”
Kay gives a shot of 7-Way and dusts for mites, and Baxter punches a fly tag in the cow’s ear and rubs some ointment on a ringworm circle. As he works, he leans toward me and talks. “That’s what my mama always said. ‘Child,’ she’d say, ‘Your guardian angel must be exhausted by now. I know I am.’”
I try to give Baxter a real smile, because he deserves that at least, and when he’s satisfied that I’ve been listening he and Kay get to work. For a long time there’s nothing but numbers being voiced into the air, flies buzzing, cows thrashing against the chute. One of Baxter’s peacocks comes walking in the corral, his tail floating out behind him, and Baxter’s donkey he-haws from somewhere far off. I think Baxter might have too much time on his hands; this place is always filled up with weird animals and it basically feels like a small zoo in the middle of nowhere.
When I’m not writing, I watch Amber. She’s just a face, poking out of a blanket and mostly covered in a bonnet. She’s sleeping and her mouth is in the shape of a little O and I hope she won’t grow up ugly and stupid like me. And maybe that blond hair will fall out and grow in dark—that’s what I’m hoping for. But I’d like it if her eyes stayed blue, even though the nurse at the hospital said they’d probably change.
I try to catch the feeling going on inside me. Because catching feelings is something I try to do. I get real quiet and find what I’m feeling and then feel it. Sometimes it’s like, Fuck this!, and I let the zigzag anger crash through my whole body, even in my pelvis and feet and behind my eyeballs, and I feel like I’m going to fly apart. And sometimes it’s the opposite and I think I’m going to sink so deep into myself, like I’m empty, and I start to collapse into this nowhere space that just goes on and on and on. But this time I’m watching a new baby girl asleep, a red face and a white blanket, and the problem is I can’t tell what I feel. I want it to be a Yes, yes, yes! and a Love, love, love! but it’s not. But neither is it Oh shit, shit, shit! or Please no, please. Whatever it is, is darting around so fast that I can’t catch it, I’m just not fast enough.
“Goddamnit, Baxter, hurry up here,” Kay says.
“Guardian angels,” Baxter says. “Pay attention to them.”
“She’s not listening to you,” Kay says. “So will you please give this cow her shot?”
I turn and look at Baxter and wait until he’s pinched the skin on the cow’s shoulder and stuck in the needle. “Baxter,” I say. “Get serious. You don’t really believe in guardian angels. You don’t believe in that stuff.”
I see a half smile flash across Kay’s face, because she’s always wondering too if Baxter is as dopey as he sounds or if he just wants to believe all the happy jabber that comes out of his mouth. It’s a fact of life: It really bothers people when somebody is just too damn cheery; pretty soon you’ve got to wonder about the depth of their thoughts.
“Naw,” Baxter says after a while, his face falling a little. “But I used to. And I wish I did, because I sure could use one right about now.” His body pauses for a second, and then his eyes light up as usual. “And so could you. And so could that baby.”
“And so could Tess,” Kay says.
“And so could Tess,” Baxter agrees. He’s watching Kay walk across the corral with a whip in her hand, ready to chase in the last cow that’s backed out of the chute and is standing by herself in a corner. Baxter’s amused because of what Kay’s mumbling, which is her usual rant about Baxter’s damn corral system and he’s such a cheapskate, it wouldn’t take much to fix it up so things could run smoothly for a change and why’s she always dealing with idiots? Everybody’s pulling her into stupid situations and what the hell did she do to deserve to be surrounded by people without a glimmer of sense?
“Now, now,” Baxter says to me, “Now, now, now. Kay’s got it made and she knows it.” He means that his cows are downright famous for being so calm and that Kay is lucky to be working with such a herd. There’s nobody who loves his cows like Baxter. Everybody wonders why they’re so cooperative and easygoing, and Baxter says it’s an extension of his own calm disposition. That’s how I learned that word, disposition. He’s so darn proud of those cows, and even though he only rounds them up a few times each year he calls lots of them by name.
Kay finally catches this rare ornery cow and she and Baxter prod it forward, through the alley, and Kay twists the cow’s tail and Baxter pounds her on the butt until she steps into the squeeze chute, where they catch her head. The cow stands pretty good after that, getting her shots and tags, though her eyes are rolling backward a bit and she looks not bitchy-mean, like Kay is saying, but downright scared.
Now the cows are done and it’s time for the calves, and while I’m waiting for Baxter and Kay to bring them in, I try some quick sketches in the back of Baxter’s book. First the corral fences from far away, and then a close-up, one weathered fencepost, and I try to capture the way the wood looks with cross-hatching. Then I draw Baxter’s old white farmhouse, and then the eyes of a cow, and then Amber in her car seat, but none of these are good so I tear the pages out and crunch them up and jam them in the pocket of my jeans.
Finally the calves are in, and, as Kay likes to say, calves are a different experience altogether. They twist and back out of the chute, their legs get stuck between bars, and they snort and bawl and scramble out of everyplace they get put. Plus they have to go through so much. Ear tagging isn’t so bad. But if they’re not polled, they got to be dehorned, and right as they’re coping with the pain of that, they’re getting their shots. Then comes the worst part for the young bulls that Baxter don’t want as bulls, and they’ve got some real thrashing to do.
Quite a few of the calves are jammed in one of the corrals and most are pretty big, though a few look new and flimsy and teetery . Kay flicks the whip in the air above the whole mess of them, moving them into the alley. When she gets one group in, she jams a manure-stained fencepost behind the last one’s butt to keep them all from backing out. Then she pats the first one on the rump, trying to make it walk forward, but this bugger is going sideways and backward and Kay’s cussing and I duck my head to hide my smile because it’s nice to see Kay suffer now and then. Baxter’s not helping her either, he’s just leaning against the fence post and watching, a little amused too.
“Libby,” he says. “You’re pretty quiet. You okay?”
I shrug at that.
“Though