(A Short Story by Bill Ryan) The coil springs that held the old feather mattress squeaked as Timmy rolled from his back onto his elbow and shoulder, his ear searching the darkness for any sounds, wondering what time it was and if any other children in the house were awake yet. He knew it was highly unlikely; Grandma and Grandpa of course were up, but no one under the age of ten.
The holidays spent at his grandparent’s farm on his mother’s side were glorious events, the house filled wall to wall with siblings and cousins and various other relatives two or three times removed from the main family tree.
Homesteaded originally by his great great grandfather, it was located about four hours west of his home in Lincoln and still a bit more after turning off the highway. They always stopped in a little town that Timmy had difficulty pronouncing called Ogallala for a final grocery run before making the last short leg of the trip. Every adult used the same descriptive instruction for nervous navigators; "Go five miles north until the tar road ends and then right – that’d be east, for seven more on the gravel. We’re the only ones out here.”
His button nose was like that of a champion hunting dog, he had an extra keen sense with it, even when fishing or looking for mushrooms. The first scent Timmy caught this morning was that of bacon frying in a pan and it brought a smile to his face. The second smell was the slight aroma of propane burning in the hallway heater, making the ceramic bricks glow orange and offering a little light and the third was that of coffee gurgling in the tall aluminum West Bend percolator, complete with the see-through glass knob handle on top.
Quietly sliding from underneath the well-worn quilts layered over him, he found the clothes he had strategically laid on the floor while going to bed and got dressed. Every step toward the top of the staircase created a snap or a crackle or a pop in the tongue and groove flooring, but that was a part of the charm – the whole house made noises, yet it was solid as a rock. Slowly descending the steep staircase and then into the kitchen; Grandma was preparing for the day.
“Good morning, Grandma,” he whispered.
“Mornin’, Timmy,” she replied loudly with a quick glance before returning her attention to the black iron skillet.
Slices of hickory smoked pork lay on white butcher’s paper next to the stove, brown eggs formed a pyramid in a large bowl, and a bag of Wonder Bread with its blue and red polka dotted sack sat nearby. Timmy stood on the tips of his toes hoping to watch the hot bursts from within. “It’ll be ready in a little bit, you best be gettin’ on,” Grandma said.
On the wall of the kitchen adjacent to the door leading outside were two horizontal rows of coat hooks, several coats stacked one on top of the other. A pile of shoes and boots in no particular order were heaped below. Finding a pair he thought were maybe his or at least fit, he pulled the slack from the laces and circled the extra lengths around his ankles before tying. Any old coat would work just fine as long as it didn’t belong to a sister or any other female. He preferred coats that had once belonged to an uncle, nicely broken in with a few patches on them and maybe some other manly type of stain. The sleeves were always in need of being rolled up several times at the wrist; else they dangle down at about the knee.
He stepped onto the concrete porch with its rugged lean-to style roof attached to the American foursquare house, a porcelain light socket screwed to a rafter; a bare bulb jutting out to the side. Timmy joyfully raised his nostrils to the air, breathing deep, becoming familiar again with the farm smells he found so peaceful and pleasant.
The air was still and the world was silent. A dense fog, the thickest he had ever seen wrapped around him. It was mysterious and wonderful all at the same time, a shroud that seemed to eliminate both space and time. The usual items that had always been just a few feet away were no longer visible as if they had vanished; the bench glider, the galvanized wash tub for the adults beer or for making homemade ice cream, a BB gun with a bent barrel; they were now gone. The bare bulb created a circular halo around itself and nothing more.
Having walked this walk dozens of times before and knowing the terrain beneath his feet, Timmy headed toward the barn. The only other available means to navigate his way would be the yard light, affixed at a slight awkward angle to a tall wooden pole that was buried and secured at an equally slight awkward angle, almost but not quite centered in the middle of the semi-circle drive. It also glowed with a circular halo, only larger. And then it began, the noises, nearby yet far away, unnatural and ghostly.
“Mmmmm,” it started low and slow, whipping itself up an octave at a time, and then finishing rapidly with a whooping string of random consonants and vowel sounds. He froze in his tracks, nervous although not afraid. Looking back toward the direction of the house, even the light from the bare bulb on the porch had been swallowed. A mild panic began to settle in, his imagination conjuring up devilish thoughts. He was alone, abandoned, lost forever. Again the moans and groans repeated, over and over, their vibrations penetrating the cloak of the grayish overcast and fading quickly. He wanted to run, but where.
As he tried to collect his wits and dreams of finding safe shelter, the oily aroma of diesel fuel caught his attention. “Yes!” he thought to himself, “the tank, I can hide behind the tank.”
With the slight downward slope of the gravel drive, he knew he was headed in the right direction. And with his keen nose, it took no time at all to locate the sanctuary of the greasy rusty thousand gallon cylinder, supported by short thick metal legs; the ground beneath it darkened black by years of spills and overfills. He waited patiently, judging any next possible action.
The whoops and wails have stopped now, they’ve been over for a fair amount of time, but still he remained quiet, motionless, contemplating his situation. Various visions of violence or valor flashed through his mind. And then he heard it, the sound of rocks crunching under foot, one step, then two and then a regular cadence, left right left right; it was getting louder, closer. His heart began to race wildly.
Timmy had to see what this was, what creature haunted and hunted in the soupy Nebraska morning; he peered from behind the rounded corner toward the crunching of the stones, and it appeared, blurry at first and then more into focus, growing larger as it drew near. The demon was carrying a pail and wore overalls. The reaper was upon him.
“Timmy, what the heck are you doin’?”
“Grandpa?” Timmy asked. “Yes its grandpa, who else is comin’ out here at 4:30 to milk the cow?”
“I heard screaming and hollering like I’ve never heard before. It was coming from over that way,” Timmy said, pointing.
“Like this?” his grandfather demonstrated, “Mmmmm wup wup wup!”
“Yes,” Timmy said excitedly, “just like that.”
“You’re a knucklehead, you know that? I was callin’ the cows in.” Timmy and his grandfather looked at one another for a moment or two when grandpa asked, “Would you like to learn how to do it?”
“Sure!” he replied, anxious for the lesson.
His grandfather turned, walking back toward the direction from where he first appeared, back to the fence line and the gate, instructing Timmy to follow. He also kept the pail of fresh milk as he walked, lest the cats and dog catch wind of it and ruin his earlier labor.
“Okay boy,” his grandfather said, “you gotta make it deep, from way back in your throat and from inside here,” he said as he patted his chest. “Mmmm. And then it gets louder and higher until you go wup wup wup.”
Timmy's first few attempts at the eerie summoning of the bovine in the field were admirable, and it didn’t take long before he had a good handle on the call. A return reply from the still unseen cattle in the pasture reassured him that he did it; he can now talk cow talk. “Listen to ‘em,” his grandfather said, “you got their attention. Let’s keep going, we’ll see how many more wanna have a conversation with you.”
Side by side they stood there, Timmy and his grandpa, hoopin’ and hollerin’ in the fog, the cows answering back, deep raspy inhales of oxygen with tremendously loud bellows. The noises echoed and amplified into a mountainous roar; Timmy’s grandpa looking down and Timmy looking up, both laughing.
“What in the name of all that is holy are you both doin’?,” came a voice approaching from the rear. As Timmy and his grandpa turned, they could see grandma emerging from the fog with fire on her heels. "You got the whole house awake and awunderin’ what the heck is goin’ on out here!”
Timmy’s eyes were wide as pie plates, waiting for whatever additional scolding was headed his way next. “We were just talking to the cows, sweetheart,” grandpa said.
"Timmy's got a real good fix on how it’s done.”
“Don’t you sweetheart me,” grandma said as she reached out to take the pail of milk. “I’ve gotta lot of hungry mouths to feed.” She turned with the pail and headed back toward the house, shouting over her shoulder, disappearing into the nothing, “now go back to the barn to your friends and get us some more milk. And stop talkin’ to the cows!”
“Uh oh, she’s mad,” Timmy said as he looked at his grandpa.
“Mad?” his grandpa replied. “No, she loves us. She's just flirtin'."
“Are you sure,” Timmy asked. “Positive,” grandpa relied. As the two began to head toward the barn, a lone cow let loose with one final barrage of 'Mmmm wup wup wups.’ Timmy looked at his grandpa who was laughing, but the boy felt like he needed to hedge his bet. Cupping both hands around his mouth like a megaphone, he calls to grandma, “That was not us! It was not us!”
Grandpa said, “Come on boy, let’s get some milk.”
“But she’s gonna think…,” he begins saying before being cut off. “No, Timmy, she’s smilin’ ear to ear and as happy as she could ever be.”
“You sure?” Timmy asks. “ Oh, yeah,” grandpa said confidently. "She's in heaven."
