GOOD NIGHT, SWEETHEART

One calf. This is the only help I’ll ever receive from my father.

The barn that is her birthplace is large enough to house a handful of cows and their calves. We have four cows right now, an extravagant collection for our family, and these lovely ladies supply us with milk to drink and to sell to our neighbors. The barn is more cramped now with the addition of four new little lives, the byproducts of yearly freshening, bred for no greater purpose than to keep the milk flowing.

One of the calves—a mewling red-brown creature—is still unsteady on her feet. She clings to her mother’s side but watches the people and animals around her with open curiosity. She’s lucky she’s not male; she’d be dinner within a few months. As it is, we can’t afford to keep her for long. She’ll be sold by year’s end, though whether for butchering, breeding, or milking, I can’t say.

My father points to the one I’ve been eyeing. “That one’s yours.”

I beam. “Thank you, sir.”

He frowns at my smile. “Don’t name it,” he warns.

I let my smile drop and fight the urge to roll my eyes—I’m not foolish enough to invite a beating.

My self-control must be slipping, because his own eyes narrow at my expression. “I mean it, Belva Jayne. Don’t name that calf.”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, and he lets me go.

I make my way to the little creature. Her curious eyes widen at my approach.

“Well, hello there,” I croon, reaching for her head.

She jerks away from my unfamiliar touch, her nostrils flaring.

“It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.”

I try again, more slowly this time, letting her sniff my fingers ‘til she’s satisfied before I finally reach for her head. The calf closes her eyes as I scratch behind her ruddy ears.

“He doesn’t want to give you a name,” I murmur, “because he doesn’t know what a sweetheart you are.”

As if she understands, she sticks out her tongue and gives my arm a lick—a little kiss.

“Sweetheart,” I repeat. “That name’ll do you fine.”

***

“What’s for dinner, Belva?”

I glance down at my sister, the baby of the family and the only one of us my father likes. Carolyn Elaine stares up at me, her blue eyes wide.

“Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.”

She grins. “Really?”

I return the smile easily. “Sure.” Why not? Mother’s already wrangled up a young rooster, near full-grown from the last batch of chicks—she’s not much of a cook, but she can sure wring a chicken neck. Our cellar is stocked with enough potatoes to keep us for a few months more. We’re running low on green beans, canned from last year’s harvest, but we’ve got a fresh crop growing now. Might as well make the best of what we have.

“Better than rolls and potato soup again,” another sister, Vesta, mutters from the living room.

Confusion draws Elaine’s eyebrows together; she doesn’t have a problem with our usual fare.

I glower at Vesta but let it go. Despite my irritation with her—really, if you refuse to cook, you shouldn’t complain about the food—I can’t judge her too harshly. Our menu options are limited, and monotony gets old fast.

“You workin’ tomorrow?” Elaine asks, changing the subject.

“Every day after school.”

She snags a flake of breading from the edge of a fried chicken leg. “You ain’t got a lotta free time since you started working for Old Pottorff.”

I shrug. Free time is for children. Best she enjoy hers while she can.

“Get washed up,” I command. “And get the rest of the family. Dinner’ll be ready in five minutes.”

***

The doorbell rings as I step into Old Pottorff’s tailor shop.

The place is even more of a mess than usual, but it takes a moment before I realize why. Heaps of newspapers are shoved against the walls, leaving just enough space for a walkway from the door to the desk.

I weave through the stacks of papers and stray scraps of cloth, making my way to his workspace. My eyes glance down at the scrawled notes strewn across his desk. In-seam measurements, heights and widths—I’ve done enough clothes-making and mending to know what they mean. But Old Pottorff knows his craft; it’s not the tailoring he needs help with. It’s… everything else.

I look again at the newspaper stacks and groan. No telling what new scheme Old Pottorf has cooked up—or what new tasks will be piled onto me. Then again, better to be working here, indoors, than out in my father’s field.

Chagrin washes through me at the thought. I should be happy to help my family wherever and however I can, even if that means sweating in the fields. Besides, our family is lucky in a way—we have our own farm. We may be dirt poor, but at least we own our dirt.

“Ah, Miss Dauber!”

I turn to see Old Pottorf smirking in the doorway, holding another pile of papers.

“New project?”

He hauls his armful to the desk. “The news business is a sound investment.”

My eyes flick to the stack of papers next to a hotplate.

“Well,” I finally say as I walk over to move them. “I suppose you’ll need a paper boy to bike the routes… Think you could use Lyle?” My kid brother could certainly use the income.

Old Pottorff grins, showing a gap in his teeth. “Splendid idea, Miss Dauber! What would I do without you?”

Lose business. Burn down the building. Starve.

“Only the good Lord knows, sir.”

***

The days blur into a new rhythm. Some of it’s more of the same—wake the siblings, cook breakfast, make sure everyone’s ready for school. But now, there’s a new chore—feed the calf. And then, of course, there’s school, then work at Pottorf’s, and back home to cook dinner. But now, there’s a calf looking for dinner, too.

When I finally make it home each evening, I call her name as I walk by the field. At the sound of my voice, her red-brown head pops up, and she trots toward me like an oversized puppy.

And every night before bed, I slip out to the barn and sing to her:

Goodnight, sweetheart

Well, it’s time to go

Goodnight, sweetheart

Well, it’s time to go

I hate to leave you

But I really must say

Goodnight, sweetheart, goodnight

***

Sweat drips down my brow and my back as I drive the plow across the field, back and forth, back and forth. The temperature dips, and I gaze up from the naked earth to see clouds gather on the horizon. But there’s still half a field to cover—surely, I’ll have time to finish.

I’m nearly done when the Kansas squall rips through the farm, soaking me in seconds. I grit my teeth. Just one more row…

That’s when the hail starts to fall.

The frozen pellets pound me. I abandon the plow and I dash for the barn. My arms are raised, protecting my head the best they can, until I reach the fence at the field’s edge. I drop my hands to spread the barbed wires and duck between them. The sharp edges bite my skin—or is that another hailstone?—and I hear my clothes rip and tear beneath the metal spikes, but I don’t slow.

My father waits in the barn, arms crossed, eyes unimpressed as he stares at the gashes in my clothes and bruises on my arms.

He says nothing as I catch my breath. How long has he been watching? Since the storm hit? Before then?

And why didn’t he care enough to warn me?

***

She grows bigger and bigger, transitioning from mewling calf to solid heifer, but her sweet heart remains the same. But the bigger she gets, the more hay she needs—and the more expensive she becomes.

Still, every morning, I shovel hay into her trough.

Every afternoon, I see her head pop up as she greets me from the field.

Every night, I feed her again before I sing her to sleep.

And every “goodnight” becomes closer to “goodbye.”

***

$104.

It’s a small fortune. Between that and my pay from Portoff’s, I might have enough to cover my first semester at university, if I make it stretch. My stomach twists at the prospect of living on crackers and peanut butter. At least I have practice with menu monotony.

Guilt wells through me as I stare at the corral. Sweetheart’s easy to spot, even in the sizable herd. She appears lost in the crowd, and her familiar head pops up. She looks around—looking for me, I’m sure.

When the rancher cracks a whip over her head, I feel it lashing at my heart.

I swallow back the tears that threaten to spill over. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

And then she’s gone.

Gwo-Mei Chang, a Texas native, is a former teacher and lifelong learner. She is passionate about literature and, when not writing her own pieces, delights in assisting other writers in polishing theirs. When not writing, she can be found gaming online, baking sourdough bread, or wrestling with her Great Dane/Argentine Dogo mix.