Liberty Biscuit, page 12
I hadn’t driven there to tell him that, so I wasn’t sure why I did. It was something that just sorta came out. “But I didn’t come here to tell you that,” I said. I scratched my head.
“Uncle Henry,” I hollered again as a way of starting over. “I came here to thank you for getting that rope off my horse’s neck. So…thank you! And I also came here to tell you I sure would like to know how you did it.”
Suddenly his dog appeared in the doorway of the barn. I offered him a friendly wave, then went back to my speech. “I also came here to tell you,” I continued, still yelling, “that there is a very long list of things we have in common. There are many reasons for you and I to be friends. Mostly, ‘cause we love horses. Wouldn’t that be a nice thing? Teaching your niece about horses? I believe it would be.”
Uncle Henry’s dog backed up, retreating into the shadows. “Humph,” I muttered. Clearly Uncle Henry must have called to him. Which also confirmed that Uncle Henry knew I was here and could hear what I was saying.
“Uncle Henry,” I shouted as I stomped my foot. “When you figure out a way to be smarter than a donkey, and you want to be friends, I’ll be waiting.” I stopped to listen. Nothing. “I’m right over there,” I said and turned to point in the direction of the Homestead. “Every day. Taking care of my horses and that donkey. Who is. Smarter. Than. You.” I felt compelled to punctuate the last few words.
I started to leave, then stopped. “One more thing,” I yelled. “I would like to know the name of your dog. He’s precious.”
I went to the ATV and brought the engine to life. My breathing was slightly ragged. Some of it from shouting. Some of it from feeling emotional. Just as I was about to shift into drive, I thought of something else. I turned the key back to off, then stood up on the seat and peered over the roll bar.
“Uncle Henry?” I shouted. “One more, one more thing. Maybe this life you’ve been given isn’t about yourself. Maybe it’s about finding ways to give back.” I wanted to add, Put that in your pipe and smoke it, but decided my little diatribe was beginning to get carried away.
In a calmer tone of voice, and reduced volume, I said out loud, “The word of the day is benevolence.”
“Antares,” said a voice behind me.
To be specific, Uncle Henry’s voice. I was lying on my stomach in the yard outside the barn. My arms were crossed above my shoulders, cradling my head. I was watching the geldings and Liberty Biscuit as they peacefully grazed.
I rolled over and sat up. “What?” I said. I tried to appear unfazed over the fact that Uncle Henry was standing in front of me, as though he and I frequently met here at the barn to chat about life and horses. But my heart was pounding in my chest.
He didn’t answer me. From where I sat, it looked like he’d forgotten how to talk. At the same time, I felt like I’d forgotten how to breathe.
“What did you say?” I repeated, trying to blink casually.
“You said you wanted to know what my dog’s name was,” he said, pointing to the little mixed breed sitting sweetly at his feet. “It’s Antares.”
When he heard his name, the pup looked up at Uncle Henry and panted his approval. Uncle Henry appeared uneasy. Nervous. He stuffed his hands in the front pocket of his khaki work pants. He kept turning toward the path leading back to his house as though he wanted to be sure it didn’t disappear, in case he felt the need to make a hasty retreat.
I decided to shift all my attention to his dog. “Well, hello, Antares,” I said. He instantly closed his mouth, cocked his head to the side and stared at me. I got to my knees and patted my legs with both hands. “C’mere, sweet boy.” He didn’t budge. “C’mon.”
Uncle Henry whispered, “Antares.” Antares looked up at him, then Uncle Henry tipped his head in my direction. The dog’s body language instantly and completely changed. He came bounding over, plopped himself in my lap, and started licking my face.
Laughing, I tipped my face up to the sky to dodge his tongue while I hugged him close.
“Oh, my,” I said. “What a sweet boy you are!” I looked over at Uncle Henry. “And so well behaved. I haven’t been around many dogs, but that was darn incredible how he waited for you to tell him it was okay to come say hi.”
“Not really incredible,” said Uncle Henry. “It’s simply treating an animal with kindness, and taking the time it takes during training to create a relationship of respect.”
“Take the time it takes,” I repeated. “You sound like Grandpa Joe.”
“Well, he raised me.”
“That’s a good name,” I said getting to my feet. “Antares.” We both watched as the pup wandered a few feet away and sniffed along the fence line of the pasture, then marked a post. “A star in the constellation Orion, right?”
“Mmhm,” Uncle Henry said with a nod. “How’d you know that?”
“Daddy and I love the nighttime sky. We study the stars. I’m a curious sort. And I read. A lot. When I love something—or someone—I want to learn all I can. The woods, for instance. I love the woods. Consequently, I know more about the flora and fauna around here than a kid my age ought to.”
Uncle Henry laughed. I noticed he was keeping his right side turned away from me. Self-conscious of his scars, I figured. This was something I’d have to work on if we were going to be friends. But today wasn’t the day. Take the time it takes.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“That wasn’t really a laugh, as in ‘ha, ha,’” Uncle Henry replied, still chuckling. “It was more a laugh of disbelief. I’ve never heard a child talk the way you do.”
“See what you been missin’?” I said as I pointed a finger at his chest.
He laughed again. This time it was a ‘ha, ha’ laugh.
“And I’m not such a child anymore. I’m almost fourteen.”
“I know. September sixteenth.”
“When is your birthday?” I asked.
Uncle Henry set his mouth into a straight line. He shook his head, just slightly, then it became a nod and he said, “Same. Same as yours. September sixteenth.”
You might think I’d be pleased to hear this. And I was. But I was also shaken to discover another link he and I shared as family that had been denied because of all this foolishness. I thought maybe Uncle Henry agreed by the look on his face. I decided not to say anything. It wouldn’t get back the years we’d lost.
Antares stopped sniffing along the fence and stood up tall with his head in the air. He barked, just once. He was looking at Liberty Biscuit, who was way out in the pasture. My donkey lifted his head at the unfamiliar sound.
“That your donkey with the PhD in human psychology?” Uncle Henry asked.
“The very one,” I replied. “But his smarts are probably more deserving of a double masters.”
Liberty finally noticed someone besides me was up at the barn, which to him translated into potential treats. Thanks to Mama. He came flailing across the pasture, braying his precious head off.
Uncle Henry looked taken aback. And, in fact, he took a few actual steps back, even though Liberty was safely behind the fence. When my little white tornado came to a skidding stop at the gate, his bray tapered down to a few moaning grunts and Uncle Henry muttered, “Wow.” Then, “You know,” he added, still looking a bit overwhelmed by the sounds Liberty’s beat-up body was able to produce. “I can hear him braying all the way over at my place.” Then Uncle Henry looked at me. He was smiling. “That’s how I know you’re over here. He sounds the alarm.”
“Well, come say hi to him.”
“How did he lose his eye? Get all these scars?” Uncle Henry asked while he scratched Liberty’s neck.
I didn’t answer right away. I was watching my uncle and my donkey. Their injuries were almost identical. I swallowed the lump in my throat, then told Uncle Henry all about the man who used to own Liberty and the geldings.
Uncle Henry was, of course, deeply troubled to learn of the abuse they’d suffered. Mine was a family that loved animals. We stood quiet for a moment.
“So, what’s this little fella’s name?” Uncle Henry asked after a bit.
“Liberty Biscuit,” I replied. “’Liberty’ ‘cause I found him on the Fourth of July. Or he found me, I should say. And ‘Biscuit’ ‘cause that’s the first thing I fed him.”
Uncle Henry smiled as he continued to scratch Liberty’s neck. “Did I see you crying earlier?” he then asked, seemingly right out of the blue. “It looked like you’d been crying when I walked up.”
I sighed. “Yes,” I said. “You’ll discover that, if you hang around with me for any length of time, I cry easy. I’m a cryer.” I looked at Uncle Henry to gauge his reaction. He didn’t look horrified, so I continued. “I have chosen to accept this about myself and I’m not ashamed. I’ve reasoned that if it’s trying to get out—the crying, I mean—it can’t be healthy or sound to try to hold it in. And I am what I am.” I ended that little speech with a decisive little stomp of my foot.
“So, what were you crying about? If I may ask?”
“You, sir, are partly to blame.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Daddy found out Mama told me about you. All that…you being alive stuff.” I looked over at Uncle Henry and added, “It seems the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated.”
Who would’ve ever thought I’d get to use that old Mark Twain quote? Not me, that’s for sure. Not in a million years. But there it was in all its glory.
Uncle Henry opened his mouth to speak, then looked speechless, and in the end, said nothing.
“Grandpa Joe returned home early,” I continued. “Mama told them how I’d trespassed on your land—”
“I’m not sure I’d refer to it as trespassing.”
“And that I confronted you and called you dumber than a donkey—”
“Well, that’s not exactly what you said.”
“And so now they’re all up there at the house bickering and snapping at each other about what to do now, and how this should be handled. This should be a happy time. Grandpa’s knee doesn’t hurt. He’s finally back home, and boy, did I miss him. We were planning on spending the day over here at the barn. We were finally gonna name the geldings. But everything’s in a tailspin.” I paused. “Sorta pretty much because of you.”
I’ll confess right here and now, I embellished the retelling of what happened when Grandpa Joe returned home. Mama didn’t really word things quite that way—for example, I don’t believe the word “trespass” was mentioned—but I felt compelled to shake things up a bit. It was time for Uncle Henry to step into his own life.
Uncle Henry stared at me for a minute. Then he looked over at Antares and said, “Antares! Home!” Without an ounce of hesitation, that sweet pup turned and ran toward the path that led to the house hidden away in the woods.
Then Uncle Henry said, “Kip,” as he tipped his head toward the ATV, “can you give me a ride up to the house?”
chapter 17
Before we got to the lane home, I slowed the ATV to a stop, then turned off the engine.
“Uncle Henry,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” He stared straight ahead. We could catch a glimpse of the house from where we sat.
“What made you come talk to me?”
“Huh,” he sorta half-laughed. “You got a way about you, Kip. It was kinda hard to deny just about everything you said the last few days.”
I, too, stared straight ahead. My hands were on the top of steering wheel. I drummed my fingers, thinking. “Why didn’t you ever come around for Grandma Pearl?” I asked.
“I did. Somewhat. When everyone was off, busy with the farm and Elise worked in town, I’d come to the house, sit with Mama—your Grandma Pearl. Have lunch. Talk.”
“I don’t mean come around the house. I mean…come around to living.”
Uncle Henry looked off toward the woods. He swallowed hard. I wasn’t trying to make him feel bad. And I wondered if I should have just kept my mouth shut. But, as I’ve said, keeping my mouth shut wasn’t something I’d ever be renowned for.
“She never pushed me,” Uncle Henry replied. “After the accident, she knew I needed time. And then…my…my desolation became a habit. And Grandma Pearl’s tender heart grasped at whatever mercy she could find. It all just became a habit.” Uncle Henry was quiet for a moment. “Before you know it, life has passed you by. The years are just gone. Life…is over.” He sighed. It was a heavy sound.
I nodded, as though I understood. A slow, sorrowful nod. But I didn’t understand why anyone would put off life. Delay living.
I decided we needed a little levity.
“You’re not dead yet, ya know. Your life ain’t over. So…you know. Live.”
Uncle Henry slowly turned his head. He stared at me like I was a train wreck. One of those things you don’t want to look at but you can’t turn away.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m…I’m trying to comprehend you.”
“I’m not difficult to comprehend, Uncle Henry. You just need to get out more. You been talking to canning jars and heads of lettuce too long.”
Once again, he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“Mama tells me you like to read,” I said, changing the subject.
“I do,” Uncle Henry replied. He seemed grateful for a new topic of conversation.
“That’s five,” I said.
“Five what?”
“Five things we have in common. Horses…well, all animals, I reckon. Gardening. The woods. A birthday. And reading. Reading makes five.”
“Six,” Uncle Henry said. “We both love the nighttime sky. That makes six.”
“Uncle Henry?”
“Yes, Kip.”
“Will you help me work with my horses so they learn to trust? Will you teach me what you know about talking to horses?”
“I will.”
“Uncle Henry?”
“Yes, Kip.”
“I’d like to give you a hug. That is…if doing so wouldn’t put you off.”
Uncle Henry didn’t answer right away. We had both gone back to staring straight ahead. Finally he said, “I suppose it would not. I suppose.”
I turned and put my arms around his shoulders and rested my cheek against his. Uncle Henry put his good arm around me. I felt his chest shudder, and then he was holding his breath. This caused me a bit of concern, and so, wishing for Uncle Henry to start breathing again, I gave him a squeeze and then sat back.
Once again, I looked forward. Uncle Henry, once again, looked in the direction of the woods. I saw him wipe his good eye. We both pretended he wasn’t crying.
I stopped the ATV near the back porch. We could hear the muted voices of Grandpa Joe, Mama, and Daddy through the open kitchen window. The sound was calm and peaceful. I wished for a little more spirited dialogue so Uncle Henry wouldn’t know right off the bat that I had embellished what was going on up at the house.
I went to the door and looked back at Uncle Henry. Whether the family was bickering or not, I knew this would probably be difficult for him. Especially walking into the Keeping Room for the first time since Grandma Pearl passed away.
He took his time navigating the steps one at a time. It wasn’t easy with his bad leg. His heavy boots clomped on the pine boards.
“Kip!” Daddy called through the window from somewhere in the kitchen. “You’ve been told to leave that donkey at the barn.”
I froze. My eyes got wide and I clapped a hand over my mouth. Uncle Henry caught my eye. He put one finger against his lips, telling me not to say anything.
“Who you callin’ a donkey?” he demanded as we stepped into the kitchen.
Mama gasped. Then she cried, “Henry!” It was a joyful exclamation.
“Henry?” Daddy looked and sounded confused.
“Henry,” Grandpa Joe said, just like he’d say, “It’s about time.”
Uncle Henry looked happy and sad in equal measure. He said, “Now that we’ve established who I am, how about we figure out how to be a family again?”
Mama rushed to Henry’s side. She hugged him, then took his hand and pulled him farther into the room.
“Come sit down,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink? Lemonade?”
Uncle Henry shook his head. “I’m fine, Elise. I don’t need anything.”
Grandpa Joe went to him and they embraced. “It’s good to see you, son,” Grandpa said.
“We just saw each other before your surgery, Daddy,” Uncle Henry replied.
“I mean here. At the house.”
They both smiled. Uncle Henry pointed at Grandpa’s knee. “Everything went well?”
“Great,” said Grandpa Joe. He lifted his leg and bent his knee a few times by way of a demonstration. “Wish I’d done the surgery a few years ago.”
I looked at Daddy. He hadn’t said anything, aside from Uncle Henry’s name when we first walked in. There was a moment of awkward quiet in the room. We all just stood there.
Finally, Uncle Henry said, “Charlie.”
Daddy nodded toward his brother. “Henry.”
I rolled my eyes. “Good grief!” I exclaimed with a huff of frustration. “You two do realize you’re brothers, don’t you? You’re the only brothers you’re each ever gonna have. And I heard a reliable rumor that you used to be best friends.”
“Charlie,” Uncle Henry offered. “You’ve been blessed with a child who is wise beyond her years.”
“She’s too wise, sometimes,” Daddy said.
Uncle Henry paused, then said, “I’ve been ponderin’ some things since Mama died…the Bakers do a lot of ponderin’…and then, Kip sorta barged into my life…in a good way. And, well, she confirmed these things I’ve been thinking about.”
Daddy remained quiet. But he was listening.
Uncle Henry looked around the room. “I’m wondering…would everyone come over to my place? All of you.”
“Of course,” Mama said.
