long gone, but that morning he only watches warily as his uncle approaches the dresser and drawer by drawer empties its contents in a tattered brown gunnysack. When he has finished he slings the half-empty sack over his shoulder and turns to the boy.
Ladies won’t milk themselves, his uncle says. You can put your things away later.
After lunch his uncle burns his daughter’s clothes with the rest of the trash. Dumps them out of the sack and into the burn barrel, and folds up the worn burlap to use it again.
3
Now he knows the names of things. He knows the directions: not just the words, but the axes of the earth. The north hill that protects his uncle’s land from the worst of the winter winds and the Catskill vista twenty miles to the south, the ancient abandoned house buried in the overgrown cedar break just west of his uncle’s property and the hundred forty-five acres of pasture to the east. The pasture spans both sides of County Road 38, a hundred ten acres on this, the north side, and thirty-five more on the south, and on this late April morning there are sixty-seven Holstein and Guernsey and Ayrshire and Jersey cows in the north field—the ladies, his uncle calls them, but only among dairymen. The queen of the herd is a four-year-old Holstein whom his uncle has named, sheepishly but proudly, Dolly, and whose teats trail the ground when she walks and yield an average of forty quarts of milk each day. At six cents per, those forty quarts will bring $2.40 from his uncle’s distributor, Sunnydale Farms, assuming they pass bacterial and cream-ratio inspections. The boy knows also that the sharp knock-knock-knock his uncleraps on his door at four-thirty is called reveille, and is what he would have experienced had his mother gotten her way and sent him to military school. That’s all he knows about military school and, his uncle has told him, it’s all he’ll ever know, as long as he does his chores.
The bacon is done by the time the boy has dressed and washed his hands and face with cold water from the bowl on his bureau and tiptoed his way down the dark narrow stairs; and the boy sets the table while his uncle finishes at the stove. His uncle drains the bacon grease into a coffee can but leaves the meat in the pan, cuts it into pieces with the blackened end of the spatula, and cracks six eggs on top of it. The can with the bacon grease goes back on the counter, next to another can that contains cooking utensils and a third filled with silverware and a fourth that contains coffee and then the fifth can, the newest, the can that contains the boy’s shoe fund. His uncle started the shoe fund when he finished the last can of coffee a couple of weeks ago, and the boy knows without looking that it contains $3.10, and he knows also that a new pair of shoes costs $5.50 at Western Supply. His naked toes curl away from the cold floorboards as he sets three places at the table—three plates, three forks, three cups—and he places the third cup face down and lays a napkin on top of that plate to protect it from flies: the third place is for Aunt Bessie, who will sleep for another hour and be gone to her house by the time the boy comes down from the barn for his books. As he lays the paper napkin on Aunt Bessie’s plate he sees that his damp hand has left four fingerprints on it, and he is about to replace it when he looks up at his uncle’s back. A week after the boy arrived—when he could stillhear Aunt Bessie through the wall nearly every night, encouraging his uncle to let him stay on—he had run to the house with a double handful of eggs still warm from the hens’ bottoms; he had dropped one as he struggled to open the door and his uncle had smacked him and served him one fewer egg for breakfast. In just over three months it’s the only time his uncle has laid a finger on him, and he would sooner brave military school or run ten miles in Jimmy’s shoes than give his uncle cause to punish him again.
His
Ladies won’t milk themselves, his uncle says. You can put your things away later.
After lunch his uncle burns his daughter’s clothes with the rest of the trash. Dumps them out of the sack and into the burn barrel, and folds up the worn burlap to use it again.
3
Now he knows the names of things. He knows the directions: not just the words, but the axes of the earth. The north hill that protects his uncle’s land from the worst of the winter winds and the Catskill vista twenty miles to the south, the ancient abandoned house buried in the overgrown cedar break just west of his uncle’s property and the hundred forty-five acres of pasture to the east. The pasture spans both sides of County Road 38, a hundred ten acres on this, the north side, and thirty-five more on the south, and on this late April morning there are sixty-seven Holstein and Guernsey and Ayrshire and Jersey cows in the north field—the ladies, his uncle calls them, but only among dairymen. The queen of the herd is a four-year-old Holstein whom his uncle has named, sheepishly but proudly, Dolly, and whose teats trail the ground when she walks and yield an average of forty quarts of milk each day. At six cents per, those forty quarts will bring $2.40 from his uncle’s distributor, Sunnydale Farms, assuming they pass bacterial and cream-ratio inspections. The boy knows also that the sharp knock-knock-knock his uncleraps on his door at four-thirty is called reveille, and is what he would have experienced had his mother gotten her way and sent him to military school. That’s all he knows about military school and, his uncle has told him, it’s all he’ll ever know, as long as he does his chores.
The bacon is done by the time the boy has dressed and washed his hands and face with cold water from the bowl on his bureau and tiptoed his way down the dark narrow stairs; and the boy sets the table while his uncle finishes at the stove. His uncle drains the bacon grease into a coffee can but leaves the meat in the pan, cuts it into pieces with the blackened end of the spatula, and cracks six eggs on top of it. The can with the bacon grease goes back on the counter, next to another can that contains cooking utensils and a third filled with silverware and a fourth that contains coffee and then the fifth can, the newest, the can that contains the boy’s shoe fund. His uncle started the shoe fund when he finished the last can of coffee a couple of weeks ago, and the boy knows without looking that it contains $3.10, and he knows also that a new pair of shoes costs $5.50 at Western Supply. His naked toes curl away from the cold floorboards as he sets three places at the table—three plates, three forks, three cups—and he places the third cup face down and lays a napkin on top of that plate to protect it from flies: the third place is for Aunt Bessie, who will sleep for another hour and be gone to her house by the time the boy comes down from the barn for his books. As he lays the paper napkin on Aunt Bessie’s plate he sees that his damp hand has left four fingerprints on it, and he is about to replace it when he looks up at his uncle’s back. A week after the boy arrived—when he could stillhear Aunt Bessie through the wall nearly every night, encouraging his uncle to let him stay on—he had run to the house with a double handful of eggs still warm from the hens’ bottoms; he had dropped one as he struggled to open the door and his uncle had smacked him and served him one fewer egg for breakfast. In just over three months it’s the only time his uncle has laid a finger on him, and he would sooner brave military school or run ten miles in Jimmy’s shoes than give his uncle cause to punish him again.
His
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