The Sweet Spot (11 page)

C
har closed the mudroom door behind her. A chilly wind lifted her hair. She hesitated,
hand on the knob. The setting sun spotlighted spectacular yellow-white thunderheads
to the north. Purple-black ones roiled behind them, like a portent of evil. She considered
exchanging her denim vest for something more substantial, but the remainder of the
sky showed a vivid cerulean blue, and she didn’t smell rain in the air. Yet.

Fumbling with the zipper, she trotted to the battered white ranch truck. It would
only take a few minutes to drive to the pasture and dump the evening feed. It better
not take longer; she’d left a pressure cooker full of red beans hissing on the stove.
She opened the truck door and settled in, smiling, remembering Rosa and her father
at the kitchen table, working a jigsaw puzzle.

These past weeks, Rosa taught him to navigate the widening gaps in his memory and
calmed him through
his frustration. He looked forward to the nurse’s visits and accepted her help without
protest. He quoted Rosa to Char daily, and every time, it bit with a ridiculous wasp-sting
of jealousy. Char couldn’t dislike the nurse. Her gentle ways eased her into the current
of their lives with barely a ripple. Char could now work outside, knowing her dad
was safe and happy. But it came at a price; she missed being the only woman in her
daddy’s life.

“You are one pathetic creature, Charla.”

She drove to the pasture gate and opened it. Pulling in, she repeated the gate exercise
in reverse, scuttling into the cab as the herd converged. The truck bumped over the
uneven ground, trailing cows like the Pied Piper. A few hundred feet into the meadow,
she shut off the ignition.

Putting on canvas gloves, she looked down and lifted the door handle, jumping when
a wet nose appeared in the crack of the door. “No, no!” She swatted at the invader,
then slammed the door shut. The startled cow gave her an indignant stare, and Char
yelled through the closed window, “Humans inside. Cows outside.” The cow lowed and
continued the stare-down. Char waved at the interior of the truck. “Cow-free zone!”
The heifer licked the window, her huge tongue smearing drool over half of it. Char
grimaced. “Oh, yuk.”

“First, I’m jealous of my father’s nurse, and now I’m arguing with a cow. I’ve got
to get a life.”

The cab darkened as the cattle surrounded the truck, their huge bodies filling the
windows. After thinking a moment, Char twisted in the seat to slide open the back
window. Crouching, she wriggled through the narrow
opening. After a dicey moment when her hips hung up, she squirmed until she fell in
a contorted ball into the truck bed.

Not a graceful entrance, but only cows witnessed it. Pulling a pocket knife from her
jeans, Char slit a bag of feed on the tailgate. “Such demanding broads.” She waited
for the flow to stem to a trickle before upending the rest onto the ground.

Char noted a few new calves in the herd. What she didn’t see was a black-and-white
spotted hide. “Dang that Tricks. If she’s out again, I swear, the minute she drops
that calf—”

As she straightened, a tail of wind, harbinger of the front, hit her like a slap.
She glanced up. The advancing army of black, bruised clouds obscured fully half the
sky. Brushing wind-blown hair out of her eyes, she scanned the rolling pasture and
caught a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. That suspicious white bulge
under an oak, on the distant rise; were those black spots?

Char slit the second bag and dumped it on the ground. Eyeing the crowd surrounding
the truck bed, she decided on the prudent exit, squeezing through the back window
once more. It was harder this way; she ended up between the seats, parking brake poking
her kidney, one leg stuck in the window. “Danged useless animals.” She squirmed, tugging
at her leg. “If they’re not running away, they’re drooling on you or trying to die.

Finally settled in the driver’s seat, she fired the engine and left the herd behind.
Nearing the hill, the white spot coalesced into a downed cow. Tricks, in labor. Had
been
for some time by the look; her flanks were slick with sweat. Char pulled up, shut
down the engine, and stepped out. Tricks seemed unaware of her approach, head flat
on the ground, eyes unfocused. The massive side shuddered, and the cow strained, eyes
rolling. Something was wrong.

Char reached into the pocket for her phone. Nothing. She slapped her chest, looking
for pockets. Hands over boobs, the truth sank in. The cell phone sat in the charger,
plugged into the bathroom socket.

“Rats! Of all the gol-durned, brainless—” She shot a hopeful glance to the house,
then back to the cow. By the time she drove there, phoned the vet, and he got out
here, it would be too late.

Whoa up, Charla Rae. What are you considering here? You know zip about animal husbandry.
Even if you were strong enough, which you aren’t.

Tricks lowed as another contraction hit, but nothing was happening at the business
end.

Heart jackhammering her ribs, Char wrenched her gaze away, taking one hopeful scan
of the darkened meadow for the cavalry. Only a golden laser of sun remained at the
horizon, ominous smoky-black clouds loomed overhead. Another gust of wind whipped
through the trees, new leaves rattling in wild protest. Tension permeated the ozone-scented
air. She felt the hair on her arms rising.

The death of this calf would be devastating financially. A heavy blanket of dread
bowed her shoulders. A tremor began in Tricks’s back leg. Not to mention the loss
of their best bloodline cow. How much more calamity could one family stand?

She threw her head back and yelled at the scuttling clouds. “Who am I to do this?
I’m a
housewife
!” Tricks lifted her head, and her eyes reflected the light like a cat’s. Spooked,
Charla shuddered, rubbing the gooseflesh on her upper arms.

She shot one last hopeful glance to the house in the distance. The kitchen light had
come on. Leaning into the truck, she pulled the headlight switch. If Rosa or her dad
looked out the window, surely they’d recognize the stationary headlights as odd and
come investigate. Hopefully, with a cell phone. She searched the truck for anything
that could help. Grabbing a hank of rope from behind the seat, she backed out, slammed
the door, then retrieved the two empty feed sacks from the truck bed.

After laying the sacks at the end of the cow, she knelt, trying to remember everything
she’d ever heard about cow birthing. A calf should be born with its head nestled between
the two front feet. Obviously that wasn’t the case here.

She glanced to the black clouds, almost close enough to touch. “Watch over me, Lord—I’m
going in.”

After removing the canvas gloves, she skinned her right sleeve to her shoulder. Bracing
her left hand on the cow’s hip, she paused, swallowing the acid at the back of her
throat. No time for the luxury of getting sick.

Tricks flinched at Char’s intimate touch. “Relax, sister. At least you’re not in stirrups,
freezing your tail off in a paper gown.”

Closing her eyes, Char envisioned the picture her fingers relayed. The calf’s neck
was bent back, head facing its back feet. She could only feel one hoof, the other
was
folded back as well. “Double crap.” Withdrawing her hand, she sat back on her heels.

This is hopeless.
Her heart sank. This valuable cow and calf, the brightest spot of hope for their
future, were going to die. She should be in the house, cooking dinner. Where she belonged.

Lightning zipped across the black sky. A boom of thunder followed on its heels. Damp,
rain-scented wind slammed into her, rocking her on her knees, blowing her hair straight
back. She ought to be perfecting her pecan pie recipe for the county fair, not up
to her shoulder in the back end of a cow.

“
Damn
you, James Benton Denny!” she yelled into the wind. “This isn’t my problem!”

Tricks groaned as another spasm ripped through her. Her hind legs shook and her hide
rippled in a shiver.
Good lord, is she going into shock from the long labor? I’ve got nothing to lose.
I might as well try.

Lying on the feed bags, she flinched when the first fat raindrop spattered her face.

An hour later, Char lay shivering, soaked to the skin, every speck of energy gone.
She knew she should be using the lull between contractions to try once more, but she
had to rest. The bones in her arm ached from the crushing. The feed sacks had sunk
into the mud during the wrestling match.

She had managed to slip the hank of rope over the tiny hoof and, between contractions,
to pull it alongside the other. But the head was wedged tight—and she wasn’t strong
enough to straighten it. The cow seemed to be weakening, and Char wasn’t even sure
the calf
was alive; it hadn’t shown any signs of life since she’d begun.

How long had she been at this? An hour? Two? Felt like eons. Why hadn’t anyone come
looking for her? She’d never felt so sapped. So raw. So
alone
.

The closest she’d felt to this was in her twenty-hour labor with Benje. Near the end,
disheartened and exhausted, she’d given up. The doctor took pity, offering the oblivion
of anesthesia and a cesarean section.

She’d have taken it too—but Jimmy got in her face. He cajoled, shouted, coaxed. He
did everything but push that baby out by sheer force of will. Jimmy convinced her
she could do it, and a half hour and five mighty heaves later, Benje was delivered
into their lives: healthy, beautiful, perfect.

Jimmy’s the strong one. I like following. It’s not like I’m some diva, eating bonbons
and expecting to be waited on. I work hard. In fact—

But I don’t see anyone around to lead. Do you, Charla Rae?

She groaned. Oh great, Mom, thanks. Your gentle, wise words are just what I need right
now. She sat up and pulled her foot from the mud. It let go with a gross sucking sound.

At her movement, the cow lifted her head. Her brown eyes shone with acceptance—of
whatever would come next. Tricks let go, and her head fell to the ground, so hard
it bounced off the grass.

Something clicked in Char’s sluggish brain. Tricks may be a cow, but she was a mother.
And she was giving up, just as Char had, all those years ago.

Her body jerked, anger flaring. “I am
not
losing
another baby.” Scorching heat surged in the blood pounding in her ears. Resolve barreled
down her nerve endings, melting the shivers as effectively as a flame thrower. She
threw her eyes heavenward. “Do you hear me, God? You are not getting this one.”

Dragging mud-laden legs, she twisted to her knees. She slapped Tricks’s hip, and the
sound snapped like a pistol shot in the night-quiet meadow. “If
I
can do this, then, by God, you can.” The cow barely flinched.

Char pushed her hand down the calf’s bowed neck once more, to the head. Still an inch
short—even with her armpit snugged against the cow, her fingertips barely grazed the
chin. Straining every muscle fiber, she pushed those fingers forward.

“Come on, God, a little help here…”

There!
The toe of her sneaker hit something solid, in the mud. A tree root. “Thank you,
Lord.”

Ten minutes later, the motionless calf slid into Char’s lap so fast she sprawled on
her back in the mud. She lay stunned a moment, staring up at the few stars winking
between the blackness of clouds. The calf’s legs jerked under her hands. Joy rose
like a fountain of sparks in her chest as a sobbing laugh burst from her throat.

Tricks lowed. Probably as relieved as Charla.

She struggled to sit up, tears streaming. In the weakening truck lights she looked
down at her lapful of bull calf—gray, with black spots, gummy and wet—the most beautiful
thing she’d ever seen. As it struggled to right itself, she pushed it out of the mud
pit, onto the grass. Lifting its head on a wobbly neck, it bawled.

Char crawled away on her hands and knees and, once clear of the mud, pushed herself
to her feet. She stood,
swaying, breathing heavily. The cow lowed once more, and the afterbirth was delivered
where Char had been sitting a moment before.

She stepped to the cow’s head. “You did it, Mama! A strong baby boy.”

The cow lay still, eyes closed. Char frowned. “You rest. I’ll take care of him.”

She walked on needle-prickling legs to the truck. A laser of light flashed in her
eyes and danced over her. Headlights bounced through the field toward her.

“Now the cavalry shows up,” she grumbled, opening the truck door. In the dome light,
she dug in the mess behind the seat until she came up with a grease-stained towel.
She carried it to where the calf lay shivering, struggling to collect its long legs
beneath it. Her back creaked as she leaned over to clean out the nostrils, then scrubbed
the towel over the calf’s body to dry and warm it.

Rosa’s ancient El Camino truck pulled up, the headlights spotlighting the tableau.
She started babbling before she got out. “Oh, Charla, I’m so sorry!” Her pale scrubs
flashed in the light as she trotted over. “I was teaching Ben to make bread, and you
know how you can get wrapped up in that—”

“This woman could talk gum off a wall, I swear.” Her dad walked up. “Well, whadya
got here, Charla Rae?” They watched the calf struggle to its feet. It stood, tottering
on wobbly legs, turned its face to them, closed its eyes, and bawled. Rosa laughed,
took the rag from Char, walked over, and rubbed down the calf.

“He had his head and one leg turned back, but he seems okay now, Daddy. But I’m worried
about Tricks.”
Char took his hand and led him to the cow, lying still, right where she’d left her.
“Shouldn’t she be up, so the calf can suckle?” Her father leaned over, lifted the
cow’s eyelid, then straightened and strode to the truck.

She followed. “Will she be okay?”

“She’s plumb tuckered, hon.” He rummaged in the area behind the seat. “I always kept
sorghum in here, just in case…” He extracted an aluminum gallon can, set it on the
grass, then dug some more. He straightened, a baseball cap in his hand. “This’ll do
for a trough.”