she turned and shook her head at him. “Animals don’t live as long as us, Josh. That’s a hard, God-given fact.”
The search resumed in the morning, Annalee and Harrison hollering for Semolina on their cow farm while Josh, sick to his stomach, looked for her in the woods. Everyone called it the woods, but it wasn’t big, no more than five acres of county land between the chicken farm and a loop in the river. The trees were mostly young, oak and sycamore, beech and elder and a few mountain ash already red with berries. The undergrowth was soft and trodden down in paths that wandered without purpose.
“Semolina!”
A blue jay flew off a low branch.
“Semolina? You there?” His voice was thick and wobbly.
Here there was no answering echo. The green was like a thick sponge that soaked up even his footsteps. He bent over, looking on the ground for animal sign, fox or raccoon, but he didn’t see a thing except some deer prints in the wet nearer the river.
“Semolina!” This time her name was almost a whisper.
The worst thing was not knowing. His mind wrapped itself around the emptiness, and he felt a great hurting heaviness in his chest. This was absolutely the worst worry wrinkle of his entire life.
When he arrived at the house, they were out front, Grandma with her knitting on the porch chair and Tucker standing on the step, one hand holding the pole. They’d been talking but stopped when they saw him.
He trailed his feet over the near bald lawn. “Nothing in the woods.”
Grandma put down her knitting. “About your age, I had a cat called Smithy. My father backed the car over him.”
The suddenness of her words shocked him. “Was he all right?”
“What do you think?”
He had to know. “Did he die? Grandma, was he killed?”
The sun glinted on her glasses, and he couldn’t see what was going on in her eyes. “You’ll get over it.” She stood up,one hand on the middle of her back, and went in the house, walking awkwardly as though her legs had gone to sleep.
Tucker let go of the pole and took a couple of slow steps toward him. He hooked his thumbs low down in his suspenders and breathed deep through his nose. After a while, he said, “You okay?”
“I just wish I knew where she was,” Josh said.
“She’s gone, son.” Tucker bent down. “Sorry. It’s bad news.”
Josh stared at him.
Slowly, Tucker unhooked his thumbs and put both hands on Josh’s shoulders. He looked hard into his son’s face and then said, “You better come with me.”
Tucker led Josh to the straw pile at the back of chicken barn three. Walking sideways, Tucker pushed through to the back of the pile, where the egg nest had been. He beckoned Josh to follow.
On the ground, below the nailed-up board, lay a puddle of dark blood mixed with reddish brown feathers. In the middle of it, bent out of shape, lay the silver ring.
Chapter Eight
T UCKER HELD A PLASTIC BAG open while Josh scooped up the feathers with a trowel. Some of the feathers were small and soft, breast feathers, like Tarkah’s snow except they were brown. He got every one, picking bits of fluff off straw, put it all in the bag. His eyes and nose were running, but he paid no heed to that. He needed to get every part ofher, blood too, even if it meant digging up the ground under the little blood spots that led away from the puddle.
Tucker didn’t mention blood. He didn’t need to. Chickens had white flesh and their blood came from deep inside.
“I think it was quick,” was all Tucker said.
Josh said nothing. It had happened. Semolina had been eaten by the fox.
He carried the plastic bag back to the house. The lawn, clothesline, porch all shivered and swam in his tears, but the terrible feeling in him had gone. Now there was no feeling at all. He walked like a robot up the steps and across to the porch swing. In silence, he held the bag out to show Grandma.
She did a very strange thing. She lifted the bottom of her apron and put it over her
The search resumed in the morning, Annalee and Harrison hollering for Semolina on their cow farm while Josh, sick to his stomach, looked for her in the woods. Everyone called it the woods, but it wasn’t big, no more than five acres of county land between the chicken farm and a loop in the river. The trees were mostly young, oak and sycamore, beech and elder and a few mountain ash already red with berries. The undergrowth was soft and trodden down in paths that wandered without purpose.
“Semolina!”
A blue jay flew off a low branch.
“Semolina? You there?” His voice was thick and wobbly.
Here there was no answering echo. The green was like a thick sponge that soaked up even his footsteps. He bent over, looking on the ground for animal sign, fox or raccoon, but he didn’t see a thing except some deer prints in the wet nearer the river.
“Semolina!” This time her name was almost a whisper.
The worst thing was not knowing. His mind wrapped itself around the emptiness, and he felt a great hurting heaviness in his chest. This was absolutely the worst worry wrinkle of his entire life.
When he arrived at the house, they were out front, Grandma with her knitting on the porch chair and Tucker standing on the step, one hand holding the pole. They’d been talking but stopped when they saw him.
He trailed his feet over the near bald lawn. “Nothing in the woods.”
Grandma put down her knitting. “About your age, I had a cat called Smithy. My father backed the car over him.”
The suddenness of her words shocked him. “Was he all right?”
“What do you think?”
He had to know. “Did he die? Grandma, was he killed?”
The sun glinted on her glasses, and he couldn’t see what was going on in her eyes. “You’ll get over it.” She stood up,one hand on the middle of her back, and went in the house, walking awkwardly as though her legs had gone to sleep.
Tucker let go of the pole and took a couple of slow steps toward him. He hooked his thumbs low down in his suspenders and breathed deep through his nose. After a while, he said, “You okay?”
“I just wish I knew where she was,” Josh said.
“She’s gone, son.” Tucker bent down. “Sorry. It’s bad news.”
Josh stared at him.
Slowly, Tucker unhooked his thumbs and put both hands on Josh’s shoulders. He looked hard into his son’s face and then said, “You better come with me.”
Tucker led Josh to the straw pile at the back of chicken barn three. Walking sideways, Tucker pushed through to the back of the pile, where the egg nest had been. He beckoned Josh to follow.
On the ground, below the nailed-up board, lay a puddle of dark blood mixed with reddish brown feathers. In the middle of it, bent out of shape, lay the silver ring.
Chapter Eight
T UCKER HELD A PLASTIC BAG open while Josh scooped up the feathers with a trowel. Some of the feathers were small and soft, breast feathers, like Tarkah’s snow except they were brown. He got every one, picking bits of fluff off straw, put it all in the bag. His eyes and nose were running, but he paid no heed to that. He needed to get every part ofher, blood too, even if it meant digging up the ground under the little blood spots that led away from the puddle.
Tucker didn’t mention blood. He didn’t need to. Chickens had white flesh and their blood came from deep inside.
“I think it was quick,” was all Tucker said.
Josh said nothing. It had happened. Semolina had been eaten by the fox.
He carried the plastic bag back to the house. The lawn, clothesline, porch all shivered and swam in his tears, but the terrible feeling in him had gone. Now there was no feeling at all. He walked like a robot up the steps and across to the porch swing. In silence, he held the bag out to show Grandma.
She did a very strange thing. She lifted the bottom of her apron and put it over her
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