Big-city doorman ready to please, Gregory steps on and pulls up the barbed wire for us to trespass Mr. Truett’s cow-pied pasture, to short-cut, bee-line our way to Errand Run. In this July heat, occasional clouds bless us with momentary shade like a mother’s cautionary encouragement and flexible discipline.
It is our summer joy to stalk water snakes sunning in bushes above the minnows, to wade in pudding smooth silt. We work to dam the flow with rocks we can barely lift, thinking that weight alone could stop it. Among the calculations and tease, we exaggerate gestures to deflect embarrassment, proclaim our innocence. Chim’s father says our creek has a mild personality, by which he means it is not big enough to rearrange islands or straighten itself out. Chim points out that someone’s great, great-grandfather must have had a sense of humor in naming it. He sounds like his father, a chemical engineer with a walrus mustache.
Popsicle is a surly pony. His paddock includes a hundred yards of this creek. Bobby, whose pony he is, doesn’t want to admit it, but saddling the animal frustrates him. Rarely ridden, the beast wants to keep it that way. He sidles his hind end away so the saddle blanket slips to the muddy ground before Robbie can lift the saddle. Bobby is barely as tall, afraid he’ll be kicked or stepped on.
The rest of us are disappointed, discouraged, and envious. We know his father requires him to feed Popsicle every afternoon after school. When Bobby complains about this chore, Gregory says, in less than a helpful tone, that at least he doesn’t have to haul water, the bucket banging his leg and soaking his shoes. It does not occur to us that Popsicle may be a rescue pony. Mostly, we ignore him; he keeps to himself. We marvel when his penis hangs down, aware of our own growing in our pants. He has large black puzzle-piece patterns on white, mane and tail mostly black, and sad eyes of apprehension.
On occasion, the girl who lives next to Chim, at the corner of Northgate and Greenway Avenue, shows up by herself. When she is not around, we argue about her, whether her address is actually Northgate or Greenway Avenue, whether her name is really Patsy or Patricia, whether she belongs to some religious sect, though we are not sure what a sect is, mistaking it for something else. She is in Bobby’s algebra class and Gregory’s English class. Her excuse is that she wants to say hello to Popsicle. We do not ask her about our out-of-hearing disagreements, her perfect grades, or her angst-filled poetry that the teacher once made her read to the class. We imagine her naked.
This Saturday, after Gregory’s family has gotten back from visiting the cowboy country of his father’s upbringing, he announces he’s met a girl. We snicker. We all know Susan is his cousin, though he denies it. Patsy joins us after she has patted Popsicle and has talked soft secrets in his ear. Gregory is describing his new ‘ten-gallon’ hat that, of course, he left home because he doesn’t want to get it dirty. To catch her up, we explain the girlfriend news to her, with commentary for her benefit. She wades into the stream and gouges some fine clay from the bank, seemingly indifferent, and starts kneading it, forming it into a small bowl shape.
Before we know it, a darkness has infiltrated the clouds to the west; we hear thunder. We debate among us, but ignore the warning. Chim predicts the storm will go south of us. But hard and fast, slanting rain soaks us. We run to Popsicle’s shed, bungling into the smell of sour hay and acrid manure and slimy air. The percussion on the tin roof is deafening, but we don’t have much to say anyway. Patsy stands by the opening, uncomfortable with the dark corners where we huddle.
Popsicle, used to threatening weather, wanders under the overhanging roof, close enough to Patsy to sniff her. She puts out her hand beyond the dripline to touch his nose. He does not pull back. I can see, but cannot hear, the words between them. Girls who know how to talk to animals are somehow gifted.
For some long minutes, the rain fills hoof prints and puddles of the paddock. The creek rises just out of its banks and combs the grassy weeds flat in long curves. After a while of stupid superlatives, the clouds lighten, and the dark tails trail off east, the sound from the roof fades like a stampede receding to history.
The water slowly recedes, and there on the grass is a stranded crayfish. Chim calls it a crawdad, trying to sound like his old man. We gather around to taunt it as if an evil robot in a video game or an ancient gladiator about to die. Bobby looks around for a big enough stick, and Gregory stomps the sopping dirt but misses it. Patsy steps into our circle, plucks the creature by its body, its pincers reaching up as if in praise, and, without ceremony, throws it back into the roiling waters. We stand shivering in puzzlement, in jealousy. Popsicle watches from the heart of his domain.