“It’s raining,” the little girl said as if city slickers like us couldn’t tell. “What’s wrong with your eye?”
Before I could answer, Chester explained that I had got something in it and then rubbed it.
“She should know better,” the girl said.
Chester agreed. Then he made the introductions. The children were alarmed when they heard my name.
“It’s just a nickname,” I explained.
“Why?” The girl was suspicious.
“Because my real name is Whitney, and I don’t seem like a Whitney.”
“Because you like whiskey,” the boy concluded.
“No! As a matter of fact, I don’t like whiskey.”
“And whiskey doesn’t like her,” Chester chuckled.
The joke bombed. But Rachel and Jacob shook his hand, anyway. When I extended mine, they tucked theirs in their pockets. I’m quite sure they would have backed away if there had been room in our corn row.
At least the rain was letting up. And the natives knew the lay of the land.
“This is our farm,” Rachel said. “Our house is that way.”
She pointed in the direction from which they’d come.
“Great,” I said. “Where are your goats?”
Jacob said, “Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m looking for my lost doggie, and I think she ran away with your goats.”
“Our goats didn’t run away,” Jacob said. “We have new goats.”
“Yes! And if you look real close, you might see that one of your new goats is a doggie.”
I smiled as warmly as I knew how. Maybe I showed too many teeth. Or too much gum. Or maybe I was just too tall. Something about my approach wasn’t working. Jacob and Rachel shrank back like I was everything English they’d ever been warned against.
“It happened like this,” Chester interjected and proceeded to tell the tale of Abra jumping on the wagon with the goats, omitting only the part about the teenage driver being drunk.
Jacob and Rachel conferred quietly. After a moment, Jacob said, “Our cousin Nathaniel was driving that wagon. He’s in a lot of trouble.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Most people who get involved with my doggie are.”
“Nathaniel’s in trouble because he’s like you,” Rachel said. “He likes whiskey!”
“I don’t like whiskey. I am Whiskey.”
For some reason, that made her cry.
“If you want to see our goats, come this way,” Jacob said, one arm around his sniffling sister.
“I’d rather see your cousin. He might save us some time.”
“Naughty Nathaniel,” Rachel said. “He’s being punished.”
I wondered how that worked in Amish Country. I mean, if you don’t have a car, TV, cell phone, or Ipod, what can your parents take away?
Jacob supplied the answer: “Nathaniel can’t go to town for a whole month. And Uncle Noah’s making him rake the manure out of the goat pasture. That’s where we’ll find him.”
That wouldn’t be good for my shoes. But maybe the field would be clean by the time we got there. At any rate, it was our best shot at tracking Abra. We were probably closer to her now than we’d been since she took off.
The rain had completely stopped, but my right eye throbbed fiercely. I kept my hand cupped over it. Either my reptilian brain was telling me to protect it, or my vanity was telling me to hide it.
The Amish kids sure knew how to navigate a cornfield. We trod purposefully behind them. Jacob waved to us to follow as he cut kitty-corner across a couple dozen rows. The next thing I knew, we had emerged into open air within a few feet of a white rail fence.
“Is that the goat paddock?”
I couldn’t see a single goat.
“They’re at the other end. Come on!”
The Amish kids were already scrambling over the fence. Even with short legs and a long skirt, Rachel managed to scale it before I could figure out quite how to begin. I gave silent thanks that the only audience for my performance was three kids, two of already disliked me.
“She’s a little out of shape,” Chester told Jacob and Rachel.
“On account of the whiskey?” Rachel whispered.
The long trek across the goat pasture did not improve my mood. If, as his cousins had said, Naughty Nathaniel was on punitive muck duty, then he hadn’t gotten very far. Goat shit was everywhere. Brown pellets half the size of my thumb stuck to my shoes like, well, shit. About every fifty steps I stopped to survey the mounting debris on my soles. It was like an extra layer of insulation but not the kind anybody wants. What I couldn’t understand was why nobody else was picking up half as much of it as I was. Chester pointed out that my soles weren’t made of leather like his, Jacob’s, and Rachel’s. Mine were made of some inferior petroleum-based composite intended for exclusive use in goat-free zones.
“City slicker,” one of the Amish kids murmured. Probably Rachel. She was a pretty little girl but hostile to all things civilized.
“Look out! They’re going to butt you!”
“What?”
I glanced up from the sticky sole of my shoe to see Rachel pointing toward something behind me. Before I could check it out, I received a hard shove in the derriere. Since I was standing on one foot only, the impact sent me sprawling. I landed on my knees and elbows, which might have been mildly amusing had it not been for the goat shit and the three-count ‘em, three-aggressive long-haired goats now in my face. I was down; they were up. And they were in the mood to head-butt.
Adrenalized, I reached into my bag and pulled out the closest thing to a weapon that I possessed: the Afghan hound mystery, courtesy of Odette. Without thinking, I aimed the book’s solid spine at the muzzle of the nearest goat and swung with all my might. The impact sounded like a ball cracking a bat. The goat stumbled sideways, his eyes crossed. When the next goat came at me, I swung the book in a sharp uppercut. Although the sound of the connection was less satisfying, the angle of my blow peeled the goat’s front feet from the ground and sent him reeling. Right behind him, the third goat left me no time to strike, so I flattened myself to the ground and let him sail over me.
Chester cheered. Cautiously I lifted my chin; the first goat was charging back this way, head down for the power-butt. I was adrenalized and inspired. Taking aim, I launched the book; it ripped through the air like the potentially lethal Frisbee that every trade paperback is. When it collided with the crown of the goat’s head, he grunted like a fullback and fell.
Chester helped me to my feet. My clothing was sticky and smeared; I expected the Amish kids to snigger. They didn’t, however. They merely stared. Chester whispered something about their culture opposing combat in any form. Great. Now I was all about whiskey and violence. Maybe Nathaniel would like me.
He did, as it turned out. Though not immediately. I met him while running away from yet a fourth angry goat. This one clutched what was left of the projectile novel in his jaws. The book looked half-eaten, and the goat looked pissed off. Why oh why did the hoofed demons attack only me? Although Chester was just the right size to knock down, he probably spoke goat and thus talked them out of it. I did the next best thing: I unleashed a stream of expletives that should have been clear in any language. But the damned critter kept up the chase, forcing me to run in ever wider circles toward the far end of the pasture. I caught sight of a muscular young man with a blonde bowl haircut wielding an oversized old-fashioned rake. Nathaniel for sure.
“Help!” I cried. “That goat has got me in his sights and he won’t quit!”
I tried to position myself so that Nathaniel was between me and the goat, but he didn’t stop raking, and the goat kept circling.
“Can you help me out here?” I panted.
Nathaniel said nothing.
“Hey, I know about your mess with the wagon,” I said. “It’s why I’m here. I think you saw my dog! If you help me, I’ll make it worth your while!”