John was forty-five and hardy; his old age was only a flicker in the dim future, but it pleased him to think he would spend it with a son like Homer, who, like his tough forebears, could provide through his own skills everything he and his required.
Homer put the wheelbarrow away and went into the house, to his room, and got the syringe and bottle of hormone he kept hidden there. In the pasture, he pierced the stopper and drew the liquid into the cartridge, injected the hormones into a calf, which, eating, did nothing more than grunt and step to the side. He reloaded the syringe and went to the next calf. His father would have been furious. Homer loved him, but John McPhee was a man who lived in the past. He wouldn't use chemical fertilizers, and thus harvested only a small portion of what he could have otherwise. He wouldn't modernize his chicken coop-"It's not natural for a creature to live in a wire cage from birth to death and never even touch the ground" or automate the feeding. He refused to force the growth of his cattle. Homer had clandestinely injected all of last year's calves, and they averaged 200 to 300 pounds more at sale time, profits up substantially, which was all the reason Homer needed.
John marveled and praised the soundness of his stock. Homer smiled and kept his silence. There were many things his father wouldn't do, almost as many as Homer would.
Bauer picked up his children from Janie, Ursula's neighbor, early Saturday morning. Janie had trouble meeting his eyes. She was always that way when Ursula had gone off with a man.
Bauer took the boys shopping and bought them sneakers and shortsleeve shirts. At the hardware store, he picked up some things he'd put off buying until today. Both boys loved to wander up and down the aisles and neither of them was greedy, they were happy with an occasional inexpensive item that caught their fancy. Jeff was green eyed like his mother, features as fine as a steel engraving, and had lustrous chestnut hair. He held his father's hand and chattered on. He was four years old, verbal and animated.
Michael was seven, subdued and concerned with dignity, a boy of restraint who had been hurt more by the separation than his brother and still resented Bauer for it. He needed a few hours to warm up to his father.
Bauer knew that and was patient.
They lunched at McDonald's, which the boys considered a special treat, and Bauer took them to a movie. They emerged in high spirits.
Orph made a fuss over Bauer when they got home. He gave Michael a lick, then stood unhappily, but stood because Bauer held him with his eyes, for hugging and petting from Jeff. Orph wasn't fond of children.
He put up with Bauer's sons because he had to. He favored Michael, who usually left him alone. Jeff was enamored of the dog and would have been all over it if Bauer had allowed him.
In the afternoon Bauer hauled the grill from the garage, filled it with charcoal and got a fire going. He brought out a card table and chairs and started ferrying the meat, rolls, soda and plates from the house.
The boys were playing in the front yard, Orph was lounging nearby.
In the kitchen Bauer put the condiments on a tray, cracked open ice and began dropping cubes in glasses.
Jeff shrieked. Michael screamed. Bauer ran outside.
Jeff was on his knees shaking violently, hands raised as if to push something back. He keened in terror. The left side of his face was awash in scarlet. His cheekbone was visible. A flap of flesh that had been his cheek hung from his jaw like a long bloody jowl.
Michael stood between Jeff and Orph gripping a branch. He was chalky-faced.
The crotch of his pants was wet.
Orph's hackles were raised. His teeth showed.
"Orph!" Bauer shouted.
The dog swung its head, but remained braced.
"Goddamn you!" Bauer roared. "Get inside!"
The dog took a step toward Bauer, tail sinking in supplication. Bauer swept Jeff up in one arm and gathered in Michael with the other. The dog stared at them, hackles fluttering up and down, like ferns in a gusting wind. It backed away. Bauer cursed at it.
Orph was caught by countering surges. He moved toward the house, stopped, drew away, looked at Bauer and dropped to his belly. He trembled and came to his feet. His ears clicked forward, he shook himself mightily, as if trying to throw something off, or wrench free, then he turned and ran toward the woods.
Jeff moaned.
THE DOGS
Michael buried his face in Bauer's side. "He bit him," he sobbed.
"Orph bit his face." He clawed at Bauer. "He's going to kill us!
Don't let him,
Daddy! No!"
Jeff went limp. His head fell back, his mouth slacked open. His eyes were dull. He breathed shallowly. The blood had soaked his clothes and stained down Bauer's shirt.
"Michael." Bauer dug his fingers into Michael's shoulder and shook him.
"Michael!" Michael raised his hands to his mouth. He turned an ashen face up. "Listen carefully," Bauer said. "Can you understand me?" The boy nodded. "All right. Now I want you to go into the kitchen. Take four clean dish towels. Fill one with ice and fold the corners to make a bag out of it. Bring them to the car. I'll be waiting there with Jeff. Everything's going to be all right. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Michael whispered.
Bauer drove with one hand and held the icepack against Jeff's face with the other. Jeff's head rested in Bauer's lap, his legs were elevated across Michael's. Michael changed the towels as the blood and melting ice soaked them. Bauer held his speed at an even 65. He talked calmly to Michael, and tried to reawaken Jeff's numbed mind.
Chapter 4
KATHY LIPPMAN parked her Volkswagen at the end of the dirt road, next to an old Chevy van.
A multihued evening, sky was painted on the side of the van, an orange sun sinking behind the jut of a mountain, and a cute little aardvark on the driver's door.
Kathy didn't bother locking her car. The overgrown road was still rutted from wheels of years ago, when there'd been some logging in here, and maybe even farther back there were old foundations in the woods and long stone fences, from a time no one alive remembered.
Kathy took her sandals off and put them in her tote bag. She started up the trail, swinging the bag from its drawstring. The soles of her feet were tender and she hopped and said "Ouch" to herself and stopped to balance on one leg and examine her foot for blood (there wasn't any). She stayed barefoot, wanting to toughen the skin again after a long winter in shoes.
She picked some wildflowers along the way and twined them in her hair.
She wore a light summery dress which swirled about her legs in the breeze. The straps were low on her shoulders. The breeze slipped between her breasts, just a little too deliciously cold, teasing her nipples to hardness. She turned her face up to the sunlight, closed her eyes, and poked her tongue between her lips to taste the spring.
She shook her head, shimmering her hair. Heaven, Heaven-oh what a day!
She was wincing at the end of the trail, a quarter mile up from the car, but pleased with herself. She put her sandals back on and stepped into the clearing. She felt a pang. School seemed suddenly vulgar and stupid. She should have dropped out last term when Josie had and come to live here.
Well, not really. She liked plumbing too much for one thing, and all that implied. But sometimes she was wistful.
Josie and Harriet and Billy were digging over the garden behind the chicken-wire fence. Ed was on the roof nailing tarpaper down. Ellen was sitting naked in the sun with Ananda, her baby, and Hero, Harriet's little boy. Hero was three. He wore one of the guys' old tie-dye T-shirts, the bottom flopping about his ankles, the sleeves down to his elbows. He was bouncing a handmade puppet that hung from a stick by a string. A bearded guy Kathy didn't know sat next to Ellen playing a flute.