Berkeley

THE SAILOR IN CHARGE of the animals allowed him to milk. “Sure, guv. She’s all yours.” During the final week at sea, Henry went to the animal pen twice daily. “They don’t care for surprises,” said the sailor. “Pick the side of her you prefer and stick to it.”

Henry chose the right side, resting his head against the warm agreeable flank as instructed. The stomachs gurgled in his ear. The cow chewed wetly, pissed hot streams, produced copious clods of yellow dung. By the third session he was milking with ease, falling a bit in love with the whole ripe enterprise. It was a world made up of just himself and an animal, a world he could somehow make sense of. The sailor in charge said he was born to it. Henry took it as a compliment.

Willy regularly looked on. “You’ve got the hang of it, Hank!” Henry let the nickname pass; he could afford to be tolerant. Their days together were numbered. Willy followed him everywhere now, as if in fear of losing him, or the twenty-four American dollars to come. He was at Henry’s side the morning California appeared on the foggy horizon. Above them, a herd of first-class passengers trampled to the bow.

“There she is, Hank! Do you see her?” Henry nodded. There was land certainly, hilly and gray this far out. They might be anywhere. Willy threw open his arms, his eyes filming over. “America! Home of the brave, brother.”

Willy had shaved his odd little beard and done something to quiet the halitosis, which may well have been what drove his Polly away in the first place. Henry hoped she’d receive Willy with open repentant arms. He wished them a long, happy life and a houseful of healthy children. He thought well enough of the boy, but would not miss his gregarious company. The youthful energy fatigued him. At thirty-three Henry felt too old for it all. He desired peace, only that. It was not asking too much.

Once docked, the passengers poured off the ship, all vying and pushing, including Henry. He was glad to be quit of the ship, and the men aboard her. A cold rain fell. His aching leg shook like a drunk’s in bad weather.

“Hank!” Willy darted and weaved through the throng, calling over his shoulder. “This way. Follow me.”

He and Willy carried only one satchel each. Within the first hour ashore they were on the ferry, crossing the bay to Berkeley. Henry sat in silence, huddled inside his greatcoat. He stared straight ahead, thinking of Meg, of arriving in New Zealand, the chaos, the peaked children, his ailing, useless self. How strong she was that day, how competent. She’d been gone from him nearly fifteen months now. At the moment it felt as if she’d just stepped out. Other times it seemed a century had passed.

“Don’t fall asleep,” said Willy, nudging his arm. “You’ll sometimes see whales in the bay. A big launch was nearly overturned by one once.”

Henry turned from him, feigning an interest in watching for whales. The world was solid gray outside the window. He could not tell which direction they were headed. It was impossible to get his bearings in a new place without her.

After a while he thought to ask, “Is there lodging nearby in the event something goes awry?”

Willy laughed. “You say the damnedest things, Hank.”

“Your uncle may not be hiring.”

“I told you the job’s waiting. He’ll have no choice.”

Henry turned back to the monotony outside, miserable with doubt. Mexico may have been the better choice. Or perhaps he should have stayed put. There was always that faint chance. No, there wasn’t. They were gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

“HER HAIR IS reddish gold,” said Willy, on the way to the uncle’s. “She wears it up like the grown-up ladies, but I prefer it down. She used to let me comb out the knots.”

They’d leased a little rig and horse, which Willy planned to turn right around tonight. The lad drove too fast on the narrow road. He was afraid of missing the evening train to St. Louis, where he would surprise Polly. The promiscuous girl had sprouted wings and a halo. She was the prettiest by far of four sisters; her pies had won prizes. Not once since they had arrived had Willy goddamned her or threatened to harm her. Not once did he mention the other man, the skunk who stole her.

“You can think me nuts all you want,” said Willy. “I can tell you do. She loved me once, you know. A man doesn’t forget that, doesn’t just say the hell with her.”

“I don’t think you nuts, lad.”

“A good woman makes it all worthwhile,” said Willy.

“It’s true,” said Henry. “It would behoove you never to forget the fact.”

THE UNCLE’S two-storied house was set far back from the road. Flowering trees made a bower leading up to a porch in need of repair. A floor plank was missing. The green paint was chipped and peeling. Willy rang the hanging bell, whispering, “Tell him you love the Lord if he asks.”

The bald-headed uncle came to the door in his stocking feet. “Well, well,” he said, baring a menacing set of false teeth. “The prodigal nephew has returned, has he?” There was no discernible affection in his voice, only sarcasm. Henry disliked him on sight. Willy greeted him with a hearty handshake.

“Good to see you, Uncle Ned. I won’t be staying long. I’m taking the nine o’clock train to St. Louis. There’s no use trying to talk me out of it. This here’s your new man, Hank Oades. He’s top-notch, milks with the best of them.” He pointed to the gap in the porch and said, without knowing the first thing about Henry’s abilities, “He’s handy with a hammer and saw, too. You won’t be sorry.”

The old man looked up at Henry, cocking his head like a sparrow. His beady eyes were the same cloudy blue as the boy’s. “Do you love the Lord, son?”

Henry had not given the Lord a great deal of thought lately and would not take up the subject with the old bloke in any event. “I do, sir,” he said, keeping all doors ajar for now.

They were invited in and seated for refreshments. Henry was introduced to Portia, the girl of all tasks, a spindly woman of thirty or so. She stammered a shy hello and then left the room, returning after a bit wearing a different frock and a yellow ribbon in her brown hair. She served tea and plain shortcake, and then disappeared again. Henry had not eaten since early morning; it was half past three now. He devoured the dry cake and accepted with gratitude the old man’s offer of more. The uncle shuffled off to the kitchen, humming a jolly tune under his breath. Willy grinned, slurping tea from his saucer. “He’s taken a shine to you. We might as well settle up. A deal’s a deal.”

The uncle did not attempt to dissuade Willy from leaving. On the contrary, he congratulated the boy for going after what was rightfully his, for staking his proper claim. He slapped his armrest and turned village vicar. “For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the Church!”

“Amen, Uncle,” said Willy, nodding solemnly. He excused himself and went to wash up.

The uncle pushed himself to a stand, beckoning to Henry. “I’ll give you the nickel tour while there’s still light.”

Henry presumed himself hired. He followed the uncle out the door. He didn’t much care for the pious old man. But he was the head of himself. He could always leave, expensive lesson learned.

Outside, the damp ground was mush in places, uneven. Henry struggled some.

“Something wrong with your leg, Hank?”

“It was injured in a fall,” said Henry, breathing hard. “Pay it no mind.”

The spry old man slowed, allowing him to catch up. “I’ve got a turpentine liniment that’ll bring some relief. We can go back now if you want. The cows will still be here tomorrow.”

They’d come to the entrance of the barn. Henry craned to see inside. He could hear the animals, a contented mingle of nickers and snorts. “I’m all right,” he said.

“You remind me of another Englishman I knew once,” said the old man. “His name was Joseph Abbott. You wouldn’t happen to be acquainted, would you?”

Henry smiled at the absurd improbability. “No, sir.”

“He was a righteous man,” said the uncle, crossing two fingers. “He and the Lord were like this.” Henry nodded. They went inside.

The uncle introduced the cows one by one, telling little stories. Pansy socialized with the pigs, preferring their company over her own kind. Iris mooed in her sleep. Petunia was completely blind in one eye, partially so in the other. Hyacinth was in heat. The uncle stroked the blind cow, scratching beneath her black ears.

“She’s not much good to me anymore,” he said. “But I don’t have the heart to beef her. She was my wife’s favorite.” He looked up at Henry, tears rising. “Belle…my wife passed last year.”

Henry’s throat clogged with sadness. “Mine as well,” he said.

“It’s a hard thing.”

“It is.”

The bereft uncle turned his back. He pulled on Petunia’s wet chin and examined her slick yellow teeth, turning back composed. “I’m pleased you’re here,” he said. “The mule-headed nephew would just run off again. I’ll pay fifteen dollars a month, plus a room of your own in the house. It’s got a picture window.”

“I’m new to this,” said Henry.

“It doesn’t take a college degree,” said the uncle. “Hard work is all that’s called for.”

Henry petted Petunia. “All right, then,” he said. “I’ll have a go at it.”

This life without them had to begin somewhere.