Read Online Etta and Otto and Russell and James by Emma Hooper - Free Book Online
Authors: Emma Hooper
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not. I trust your mother, Otto.
. . . But, you’ll help me? Still?
Yes, yes of course.
Otto’s mother loved all her children ferociously, and Russell like one of her own, except that she loved Russell just a bit more softly. She knew what her children were made of, she knew they could be handled roughly and would live and learn through it, but Russell was made of something unknown; he could break, or, perhaps, was already a little bit broken. This was why Otto needed his help, specifically. His mother, if she was going to bend at all, would never do it for him, but she might do it for Russell.
The thing was, the radio, made as it was from scrap parts and just the little bits of time Otto’s father could fit between the duties of farm, father, husband, was impressively functional, but lacked certain refinements, such as volume control. If someone in the house was listening, the whole house was listening. It was quieter upstairs, but, still, it slid up through the ceiling, the floorboards, it could be heard. Especially by Otto’s mother, it could be heard. So, what Otto needed was to get his mother out of the house altogether, and, preferably, out of the yard too, for long enough that he could find and hear from the radio whatever it was he was trying to find and hear.
So, how do I do that? said Russell. They were almost home now; the other Vogel students, whom they’d let pass them, were already walking up the drive.
The chickens, said Otto.
The chickens?
Yes. I’ve got a plan.
They were going to put a chicken in a tree. One of the wind-break trees, one near the end of the row, away from the house. Pretend it escaped, flew up there, terrified, and could not get down.
Mother has a way with the chickens. She’s the only one. She’ll understand, she’ll come and help, if you ask her.
So you’re asking me to ask her?
Yes. Please.
Okay. Okay, Otto.
Thank you. But, first, now, we have to get the chicken up the tree.
Because of Russell’s leg, Otto did the climbing. Russell carried the chicken under his coat as nonchalantly as he could from its yard, past the house, down the line of wind-haggard trees to the second-last one, his arms clutching in such a way as to try to minimize, as much as possible, the scratching and pecking damage to his chest and stomach. Otto was already up in the tree.
This animal is not happy, Russell called out and up as he approached. This animal wants to kill me.
It won’t. Just don’t kill it. Don’t squeeze too hard. Don’t suffocate.
I’m not.
Okay.
By this point Russell was standing under the tree, under Otto, whose legs dangled down just above his head.
Okay, said Otto. Pop her out and pass her here.
I t wasn’t difficult at all for Russell to convince Otto’s mother to leave the house, to come and help the stranded chicken in the tree.
I call it, ma’am, he said, and it just hops up, to a higher branch. But I reckon you could call it down. I reckon it would listen to you.
Of course, Russell, it will. Chickens, children, they’re all the same. Give me one minute and I’ll be out with you.
Russell waited just outside the front door. One minute later, Otto’s mother appeared. She was carrying two bundled blankets. In case we need to catch it, or wrap it up for stress, she said, and strode past him, toward the trees. Once they were ten steps away, Otto, quiet as a fox, slipped into the house and closed the front door behind him.
The radio was a beautiful thing. It was hodgepodge and patched up on the outside, but on the inside it was filled with voices, filled with people and music and ideas from away, from far away. Otto took a breath and turned it on.
And it did nothing.
Otto twisted the dial-in knob all the way around and back again. He turned the whole thing off and back on again.
And it did nothing. Otto looked at the radio and it looked back at him, silent, stony. He didn’t have much time to begin with, and now he had less. He ran his hands over
. . . But, you’ll help me? Still?
Yes, yes of course.
Otto’s mother loved all her children ferociously, and Russell like one of her own, except that she loved Russell just a bit more softly. She knew what her children were made of, she knew they could be handled roughly and would live and learn through it, but Russell was made of something unknown; he could break, or, perhaps, was already a little bit broken. This was why Otto needed his help, specifically. His mother, if she was going to bend at all, would never do it for him, but she might do it for Russell.
The thing was, the radio, made as it was from scrap parts and just the little bits of time Otto’s father could fit between the duties of farm, father, husband, was impressively functional, but lacked certain refinements, such as volume control. If someone in the house was listening, the whole house was listening. It was quieter upstairs, but, still, it slid up through the ceiling, the floorboards, it could be heard. Especially by Otto’s mother, it could be heard. So, what Otto needed was to get his mother out of the house altogether, and, preferably, out of the yard too, for long enough that he could find and hear from the radio whatever it was he was trying to find and hear.
So, how do I do that? said Russell. They were almost home now; the other Vogel students, whom they’d let pass them, were already walking up the drive.
The chickens, said Otto.
The chickens?
Yes. I’ve got a plan.
They were going to put a chicken in a tree. One of the wind-break trees, one near the end of the row, away from the house. Pretend it escaped, flew up there, terrified, and could not get down.
Mother has a way with the chickens. She’s the only one. She’ll understand, she’ll come and help, if you ask her.
So you’re asking me to ask her?
Yes. Please.
Okay. Okay, Otto.
Thank you. But, first, now, we have to get the chicken up the tree.
Because of Russell’s leg, Otto did the climbing. Russell carried the chicken under his coat as nonchalantly as he could from its yard, past the house, down the line of wind-haggard trees to the second-last one, his arms clutching in such a way as to try to minimize, as much as possible, the scratching and pecking damage to his chest and stomach. Otto was already up in the tree.
This animal is not happy, Russell called out and up as he approached. This animal wants to kill me.
It won’t. Just don’t kill it. Don’t squeeze too hard. Don’t suffocate.
I’m not.
Okay.
By this point Russell was standing under the tree, under Otto, whose legs dangled down just above his head.
Okay, said Otto. Pop her out and pass her here.
I t wasn’t difficult at all for Russell to convince Otto’s mother to leave the house, to come and help the stranded chicken in the tree.
I call it, ma’am, he said, and it just hops up, to a higher branch. But I reckon you could call it down. I reckon it would listen to you.
Of course, Russell, it will. Chickens, children, they’re all the same. Give me one minute and I’ll be out with you.
Russell waited just outside the front door. One minute later, Otto’s mother appeared. She was carrying two bundled blankets. In case we need to catch it, or wrap it up for stress, she said, and strode past him, toward the trees. Once they were ten steps away, Otto, quiet as a fox, slipped into the house and closed the front door behind him.
The radio was a beautiful thing. It was hodgepodge and patched up on the outside, but on the inside it was filled with voices, filled with people and music and ideas from away, from far away. Otto took a breath and turned it on.
And it did nothing.
Otto twisted the dial-in knob all the way around and back again. He turned the whole thing off and back on again.
And it did nothing. Otto looked at the radio and it looked back at him, silent, stony. He didn’t have much time to begin with, and now he had less. He ran his hands over
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