I stopped by the farm on the way home, bouncing up the rutted gravel drive to the back door. A few goats rambled in and out of their shelter, pulling lazily on bales of hay. As the foliage died, my mother rotated the herd from the woodland perimeter to pastures by the barn.
I’d asked my mother once why she had decided to build a herd of dairy goats instead of finding a job in town.
“Goats are easier to keep than cows. I could do most of the work myself and be home for you girls.” That was our mother, always practical. She looked out over the herd, her face softening. “Besides, goats havepersonality.”
I’d nodded, but I didn’t get it. I mean, Aunt Phee had personality, too, but I didn’t want to spend all my time with her.
I parked, careful to avoid the puddles from last night’s rain. Daisy held up her arms to be released first.
I set her on her feet. “Stay next to Mommy,” I said, and ducked my head back in to unbuckle DJ.
Daisy took off toward the kids’ paddock, thick with grass, squishy with mud. Empty now, thank the Lord, except for a battered preschoolplayset my mother had purchased at the church yard sale years ago. “Goats!”
“No, Daisy,” I said. “No baby goats. Not until springtime.”
Undeterred, she toddled faster. “Slide!”
Hitching DJ and his blanket on my hip and my giant bag over my shoulder, I ran after her, catching her by the back of her full skirt. She stopped. Dropped. Fell on her bottom, right into a puddle. Shocked, she looked for my reaction, her little mouth comically ajar, wavering between tears and outrage.
I opened my mouth in an exaggerated O of surprise. Widened my eyes. “Splash!” I said with a big grin.
The storm cleared. She smiled back tremulously.
“Come on, baby.” I crouched beside her, still holding DJ, and helped her to her feet. Water drenched her little bottom, splotched her skirt and stockings. I lurched to my feet, balancing DJ and Blankie on one arm, taking her hand with the other. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Crisis averted, we picked our way through the puddles to the house. Daisy tugged against my hold. “Goats,” she insisted. “See goats.”
“We’re going to see the kitty,” I said. Weasley, my mother’s ginger barn cat, was almost twenty now and mostly retired to the house.
“Key?” Daisy asked.
“That’s right.” I glanced toward the kitchen door, surprised our arrival hadn’t summoned Momma. Her truck was in the drive. Where was she?
“Up the steps, sweetie. Here we go.” I opened the back door. Unlocked, as always. “Mom?” And then, more tentatively, “Dad?”
Not that he would be any help. My father loved his grandchildren, of course. Whenever he noticed them, he smiled and patted them on the head. But his attention was always fixed elsewhere—on his all-important work, his men, his mission.
A plaintive yowl answered me. Weasley slunk into the kitchen.
“Key!” Daisy yanked free.
The cat, no fool, bolted. My daughter, deprived of the object of heraffections, let out a wail of frustration. Poor baby. John and I had talked about getting the children a pet, but right now I wasn’t ready to take on responsibility for one more living thing.
“Momma?” I called again.
No answer. Maybe she was in the barn. I let DJ slide from my hip to the floor. Rummaging in my bag, I handed a toy truck to DJ and dug out dry leggings for Daisy. Since the twins started toilet training, I never traveled without a change of clothes. Stripping Daisy of her sodden stockings, I helped her step into dry panties. “Here we go, sweetie.”
DJ approached his crying sister to give her a kiss. My heart melted. My sweet, serious boy.
“No.” Daisy pushed him away.
He hit her in the face with his little Ford truck.
Daisy shrieked.
“Demi John!”I swooped DJ into time-out on a chair (“We donothit.Nohitting.”), grabbed a dish towel from a drawer and a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. I was at home in Momma’s kitchen. Maybe more so than in my own.
“Cold!” Daisy sobbed, twisting away.
