back the hatch the boy lays a rusty screen atop the opening to catch any flies that might have drowned in the milk pail. Of all the implements involved in themilking process, this screen is perhaps the most precious to the boy. Through it pass a thousand quarts of milk every morning and evening, and yet it is tiny, less than a foot across and nearly weightless. Even the grease guard Aunt Bessie lays over the top of the skillet has a handle and a metal rim, but the screen is unbordered, its edges unraveling like an old blanket. And yet it is indispensable, a vital link between the ladies and the vat. His uncle has spoken ominously of the one time his milk was rejected by the pump man for too much matter—flies mostly, and flecks of greenery that might or might not have passed through a lady first—and the entire contents of the vat had to be dumped in the barnyard.
The boy lays the screen carefully over the valve, then pours the pail through and leaves the seal open. By now the milking machine has finished the first ladies, and he and his uncle and Donnie unhook them from the claws and cart the oversized buckets of steaming milk from the milking alley to the vat room. The milking machine’s buckets are rectangular, with soft edges, like a suitcase stood on end. They hold ten gallons apiece and, when full, weigh seventy-five to eighty pounds—the boy himself only weighs a hundred thirty but, like his uncle and Donnie Badget, he carries them two at a time, for ballast. The work is backbreaking but over in just a few minutes, and when they are finished the boy dumps the screen and its dozens of dead flies and seals up the vat again. Immediately he grabs a shovel and wheelbarrel, and he’s about to clean the manure gutters when he sees his uncle standing in the open door of the barn looking down at the barnyard. The only time the boy has ever seen his uncle stand still is the day the old man dropped him off, and thesight is so unsettling that the boy sets his shovel down and goes to see what’s wrong. He hopes it is nothing he’s done, but his breath is tight in his lungs as he passes the black-faced lady and her half-full udder.
His uncle glances down at him when he comes up, then turns back to the fields. The boy relaxes then, but only a little. He knows his uncle is waiting to see if he can spot what’s amiss. But even though he scans the barnyard and the hill to the north and the pasture to the east he sees nothing but the sun, which has just cleared the stand of new-growth oak and chestnut and maple trees at the southeastern edge of the pasture. The boy watches its diagonal ascent for a moment, then turns back to his uncle.
His uncle remains silent another moment. Then:
Fence is down.
He points to a line of fenceposts just beyond the scrubby willows and poplars that clot the muddy crease between the barnyard and the hillside pasture. Several of the posts lean at angles as sharply pitched as the barn’s roof and two, defeated, lie flat on the ground. Slack ribbons of wire curl with the wild arcs and loops of some futuristic roller coaster, catching sparks of morning light.
Been so wet the ground’s a swamp. Gonna have to move the posts to drier land, rewire em. Means pasturing the ladies in the south field today. His uncle points again, this time at the rising sun. Best finish them gutters before the bus gets here and get your shoes on. You can help me and Donnie after school.
The boy returns to his wheelbarrel, fills it with manure he scoops from the narrow gutters with a square-bladed shovel. He works faster now, not because of the manure, whose grassy sweetodor he hardly notices, but because the task reminds him of the old man. Wheelbarrels full of shit, he’d said the day he took the boy away from his mother and his seven brothers and sisters. The boy tries not to think about any of them as he pushes the flat edge of the shovel across the concrete, the sound a mechanical rasp he feels in his ears and his
The boy lays the screen carefully over the valve, then pours the pail through and leaves the seal open. By now the milking machine has finished the first ladies, and he and his uncle and Donnie unhook them from the claws and cart the oversized buckets of steaming milk from the milking alley to the vat room. The milking machine’s buckets are rectangular, with soft edges, like a suitcase stood on end. They hold ten gallons apiece and, when full, weigh seventy-five to eighty pounds—the boy himself only weighs a hundred thirty but, like his uncle and Donnie Badget, he carries them two at a time, for ballast. The work is backbreaking but over in just a few minutes, and when they are finished the boy dumps the screen and its dozens of dead flies and seals up the vat again. Immediately he grabs a shovel and wheelbarrel, and he’s about to clean the manure gutters when he sees his uncle standing in the open door of the barn looking down at the barnyard. The only time the boy has ever seen his uncle stand still is the day the old man dropped him off, and thesight is so unsettling that the boy sets his shovel down and goes to see what’s wrong. He hopes it is nothing he’s done, but his breath is tight in his lungs as he passes the black-faced lady and her half-full udder.
His uncle glances down at him when he comes up, then turns back to the fields. The boy relaxes then, but only a little. He knows his uncle is waiting to see if he can spot what’s amiss. But even though he scans the barnyard and the hill to the north and the pasture to the east he sees nothing but the sun, which has just cleared the stand of new-growth oak and chestnut and maple trees at the southeastern edge of the pasture. The boy watches its diagonal ascent for a moment, then turns back to his uncle.
His uncle remains silent another moment. Then:
Fence is down.
He points to a line of fenceposts just beyond the scrubby willows and poplars that clot the muddy crease between the barnyard and the hillside pasture. Several of the posts lean at angles as sharply pitched as the barn’s roof and two, defeated, lie flat on the ground. Slack ribbons of wire curl with the wild arcs and loops of some futuristic roller coaster, catching sparks of morning light.
Been so wet the ground’s a swamp. Gonna have to move the posts to drier land, rewire em. Means pasturing the ladies in the south field today. His uncle points again, this time at the rising sun. Best finish them gutters before the bus gets here and get your shoes on. You can help me and Donnie after school.
The boy returns to his wheelbarrel, fills it with manure he scoops from the narrow gutters with a square-bladed shovel. He works faster now, not because of the manure, whose grassy sweetodor he hardly notices, but because the task reminds him of the old man. Wheelbarrels full of shit, he’d said the day he took the boy away from his mother and his seven brothers and sisters. The boy tries not to think about any of them as he pushes the flat edge of the shovel across the concrete, the sound a mechanical rasp he feels in his ears and his
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