C’mon, hurry up.
The driver makes a face that says
stupid-new-to-this-country-boy.
But Hannah, I say,
I can’t take more money from you.
Hannah tips my glove over the box
and the quarters slip in with a
happy jangle.
She grabs my arm as the bus
rushes forward.
We pile into a seat near the back.
See, my mom sends me money sometimes, Hannah says.
Her nose and cheeks are red as sunset sky.
Just, you know, out of the blue.
No explanation, no letter.
It just shows up.
I used to write her and say thanks,
but now I don’t bother.
She never writes back.
Anyway, my foster mom always
hands the money over to me.
I give her some and then the rest
I put in a box under my bed.
But it’s yours to spend, I say.
Not mine.
Hey, you get a job,
you can pay me back.
Meantime, keep your eyes open.
I blink. But they are—
I mean, look out the window for this farm.
I’m not sure if Dave’s got
the right stop or not.
I never noticed a farm out this way.
It’s a very small farm, I admit.
After much snow and many buildings,
I see at last the little farm.
The bus pulls over and
we step into a pile of snow
as high as our knees.
There she is, I say.
The cow is standing near a shed.
She looks bored. And cold.
I thought she was a girl, Hannah says.
She has horns.
Girl cattle can have horns, I explain.
Really? Hannah asks.
Way to go, girl cow.
So now what?
When I take a deep breath of icy air,
it is like swallowing an arrow.
Now, I say, I get my job.
LOU
It’s a hard walk to the house
where the owner of the cow lives.
Much snow makes a home in my boots.
When we get to the door,
Hannah shows me a button
that makes music happen,
and soon the door opens.
The old woman standing there
doesn’t seem surprised to see us.
Well, hello, she says. May I help you kids?
I am Kek, I say, from Africa.
And this is Hannah.
From Minneapolis, Hannah adds.
I’m Louise, the woman says.
From the wrong side of the tracks.
Call me Lou.
Weren’t you here the other day,
talking to my cow?
I nod. I just wanted to say hello to her.
Lou thinks about this for a moment.
It’s bitter out there. C’mon in.
We step into safe, warm air
and sweet cooking smells.
So, are you two selling something? Lou asks.
Raising money for school?
I’m here about your cow, I say.
I see. Lou nods slowly.
I think that she is
not so happy, I say.
I try to say it gently so that
my words will not sting like an insect.
Lou puts her hands on her hips.
She’s wearing jeans like mine and a big shirt.
Her hair is short and silver
like a fresh moon.
She has many wrinkles
to show her great knowledge
of the world.
You two better sit. This may take some time.
Lou points to the kitchen table.
I was unaware that my cow’s depressed.
Although I’m not entirely surprised.
She’s seen better days.
Lou pushes a plate of cookies
in front of us.
Chocolate pieces tease
like jewels in sand.
Please, she says, have some.
I don’t want to be impolite,
so I take five.
He’s big on chocolate, Hannah explains.
Lou laughs. Now tell me, Kek,
how you come by your
knowledge of cows.
COWS AND COOKIES
Of course I want to answer,
but I know it’s important to
eat all the cookies first,
so that Lou won’t be offended.
Hannah helps. See, Kek just got here from Africa.
He’s staying with his aunt and cousin,
and he accidentally put her dishes
in the washing machine
and now he needs some money
to buy new ones.
And since in Africa his family had lots of cattle,
he thought maybe you could use some help.
She pauses to take a bite of cookie,
and now she can’t talk, either.
Hmmm, Lou says.
She goes to the cold tall box to get some milk.
I’m a little sad to see that the milk
is not the chocolate cow kind.
She pours the milk into glasses
and watches while we drink.
My husband’s family came here from Norway, Lou says.
And my great-great grandfather came to the U.S.
on a boat from Ireland.
She pours herself a glass of milk.
But Africa. Wow. How are you handling winter?
The cold … hurts, I answer.
But the snowballs are good.
Lou smiles. So tell me why you think
my cow is unhappy.
It isn’t because you don’t care well for her, I say quickly.
Not as well as I should, Lou says.
My husband died last year, and with my
achy old bones, I’m having a hard time keeping up.
She picks up a cookie, but doesn’t eat it.
I may have to sell the place soon. I had an offer,
a good offer. And I have a lot
of hospital bills to pay off.
I don’t know. We’ll see.
We’re all quiet for a moment.
So, Lou says at last, what is it
you think my old cow is in need of?
She needs to be brushed, and fed the finest hay.
And without other cattle, she’s lonely, I answer.
She needs someone to talk to her.
In my old home they would laugh at me,
but when I talked to the cattle,
they would grow calm and easy to herd.
I wait. Maybe my words are
broken like my aunt’s dishes,
chips and shards
that will not make a whole.
Maybe this Lou will think
I am a moron boy.
Have another cookie, Kek, says Lou.
NIGHT TALK
That night I wait far into the darkness
for Ganwar to come home.
He stumbles a little when he crosses the room,
and he carries the bitter smell of smoke.
Where were you? I ask.
With some friends, he says,
and he plops onto the sofa
like a sack of grain.
I’ve been waiting for you, I say.
I wanted to tell you my news.
I got a job!
Ganwar lifts his head
to stare at me. A job?
Doing what?
Helping a lady take care of her farm.
For a while, at least.
She’s old and her husband died last year.
She can’t pay me very much,
but I think I’ll
make enough to buy new
dishes
for your mother.
Ganwar’s eyes say I am telling a lie,
or maybe a joke.
How did you get a job like that?
I lift my shoulders. I just went to her door and asked.
Her cow didn’t look good. Father would never
have owned such a sad-looking animal.
Ganwar drops his head
and covers his eyes with his hand.
Amazing. You just went to her door?
I nod.
I’ve been here a year and a half.
Ganwar sighs. You’ve been here—what?
A week?
We’re quiet for a while.
I can hear the cold box humming.
I do not want Ganwar to be angry with me.
I want him to understand,
because he is the only one who can.
I miss the cattle, I say at last.
I miss moving them,
watching them graze.
The sun so hot on your back.
Father singing.
Ganwar doesn’t answer.
I think maybe I should not talk of days past
with my cousin.
I cringe, waiting for the heat of his words.
Ganwar rubs his eyes.
When he speaks,
his voice is sad, not angry.
I always knew what to do, he says.
Morning they’d graze,
noon we’d lead them to a stream,
afternoon we’d head for home.
We always had somewhere to go.
Not like here, stuck in the apartment
or at school.
He sighs. It all made sense.
Here, nothing makes sense.
Maybe it will, I say.
Maybe if we’re patient.
I hear the fear and hope fighting in my voice.
We don’t belong here, Kek, Ganwar says.
This isn’t our country.
It never will be.
Lots of people come to America from other countries,
I say. Ms. Hernandez taught us that.
Ganwar rolls his eyes.
Poor immigrants. Illegal immigrants.
Maybe someday we can go home again, I say.
The war is older than our fathers were.
The war is forever, Ganwar replies.
He closes his eyes.
Then where do we belong? I ask.
I can see that he’s sleepy,
but I want Ganwar to tell me this one thing.
I wait a long time
for Ganwar to reply,
but he’s asleep, snoring softly.
I watch his untroubled face.
I cannot seem to get up.
Ganwar’s words lie in my lap
like huge rocks
I am not strong enough to move.
I sit and sit,
waiting for the sleep
my cousin has found,
wishing for dreams of our old life,
of fine, strong cattle
gently complaining
like tired children
as we guide them safely home.
PART THREE
One doesn’t forego sleeping because of the possibility of nightmares.
—AFRICAN PROVERB
COWBOY
In ESL class
we learn a new game
called Interview.
Ms. Hernandez says it makes us
more confident
when we use our English words.
Plus it’s a good way to learn
about our classmates.
First we have to hold a cardboard tube
and pretend that it’s
something called a microphone
to make our voices loud.
I saw one once on the TV machine
with a lady singing into it.
She howled like a sick animal
till my ears wanted to run away.
I’m the first to go.
I have to stand up and say five sentences.
I say, I have a new job.
I help Lou with her farm.
She has a cow, three goats, many chickens and a pig.
I will go there after school sometimes and on the days
named Saturday and Sunday.
Lou says I can name the cow.
I take a deep breath. I’m weary from my long speech.
Next comes the Interview part.
That is where each student asks you a question.
If they run out of questions,
then the teachers can help.
Nishan is first.
Why does the cow not have a name?
I take another deep breath.
I like the questions best
with yes or no for an answer,
but this time I’m not so lucky.
Lou says her husband called the cow
The Cow.
She didn’t think that was
such a right name.
Very good answer, Kek,
says Mr. Franklin.
Aisha is next.
You could call the cow “Mr. Franklin.”
The class thinks this is a good joke,
and there is much laughing.
She’s a girl,
so she needs a girl name, I explain.
Now each person has an idea
for a name. This isn’t exactly how to play
Interview, but the teachers
don’t seem to mind.
Ms. Hernandez writes the names on the board.
Some are very silly:
Mr. Franklin
Milkshake
Ms. Hernandez
Kek, Jr.
Kitty Kitty
Salama
Rover
Chiku
Angelita
Zlata
Big Mac
When they’re done, Mr. Franklin asks me
if I have a name in mind.
I think for a moment.
We have a word in my language, I say.
Gol.
And what does it mean? Mr. Franklin asks.
I feel my face heat.
It means family, I say.
Ms. Hernandez says it’s up to me.
But I say I would like to have a vote,
because Ms. Hernandez taught us
that’s how things are decided
in America.
We vote.
Gol wins.
Hamburger gets two votes.
Nice job, Cowboy, Mr. Franklin says
when I sit down
at last.
The rest of the day,
everyone calls me “Cowboy.”
It’s a good day.
The cow has a new name.
And I have one, too.
WORKING
The snow and muck yank at my boots.
The wind slaps my cheeks.
In my heavy coat I plod like an old donkey
on market day.
So why am I so glad in my heart?
The work at Lou’s is simple:
feed the animals, clean the stalls,
shovel the front porch.
But when I am working, my mind doesn’t travel
where it shouldn’t go.
I’m only here,
with the chickens underfoot
and Gol nudging for an ear scratch.
Sometimes I talk to her softly.
I tell her of my father’s great herd
and how they would graze each day,
walking for miles,
the sun in our bones,
the grass whispering its shy music.
I sing her one of my father’s songs
and listen for an echo of his voice in mine.
She nuzzles me and flicks her ears
and chews her cud.
When I bury my face in Gol’s old hide
I smell hay and dung and life.
She shelters me like a warm
wall,
and that is enough for this day.
GANWAR, MEET GOL
On Saturday Dave comes to pick up Ganwar.
They’re going to fill out paperwork
asking for a job
at the places that sell fries.
Dave says he can drop me off
at Lou’s on the way.
Ganwar doesn’t talk on the way to the farm.
His face looks frozen,
but his eyes are hot.
He keeps rubbing the place
where his hand once was.
When we get to Lou’s, I say,
Would it be all right if I showed Ganwar the farm?
He hasn’t seen a cow in a long time.
I wait for Ganwar
to spit out the word no,
but he gives a slow nod.
Dave looks at his arm clock.
Ten minutes, he says, tops.
We go to Lou’s door and when she opens it I say,
This is my cousin, Ganwar.
He’d like to see the farm.
Be my guest, Lou says.
There’s a new bag of chicken feed
in the shed, Kek.
Ganwar follows me
through the thick, crunching snow.
It isn’t much of a farm, he says.
Hardly any animals, and the big road so near.
Still, it isn’t so bad
if you don’t think about it,
I say. I shake my head.
I’m getting very good at
not thinking about things.
We enter the gray, sagging barn.
Sun and angry wind sneak through the broken spots.
There she is, I say, pointing.
Ganwar groans.
Are you sure that’s a cow?
Our fathers wouldn’t think so, I admit.
I stroke her flank while Ganwar watches.
She has old eyes, tired but patient.
Gol is her new name, I add.
Ganwar takes his glove off his good hand
with his teeth.
He strokes her, too.
I meet Ganwar’s eyes.
Don’t worry about the job too much, I say.
What another man takes two hands to do,
you can do with one.
Ganwar puts his head
against Gol’s neck.
You’re lucky to have found this job.
But you made the luck happen.
I wish I could be herding, I say.
I don’t know anything about farms, really.
Except that they have cows.
We stand there,
watching the cow’s breath
come in soft puffs.
Suddenly another big idea
jumps into my head.
I think that if I knew where such ideas come from,
I would be a wealthy man
with a thousand cattle
and a flying boat.
Stay here, I say.
Keep her company for me.
AN IDEA
A few minutes later I race back to the barn,