Little Joe (8 page)

Eli tiptoed over the lawn past the apple orchard like he was walking on eggshells. He lifted the heels of his Billy boots every so often to see if he’d squashed anything.

A thick veil of fog covered the valley in a tarp of chalky white, weaving threads of mist around Grandpa and Eli. It carried with it the smell of green—the newness coming to life in the brush nearby.

Lemony green ferns splayed out below, their leaves in tight fists, refusing to break through the hairy skin until it warmed up.

Eli was surprised how cold forty-something degrees was. The cool mist uncurled in swirling bits, dipping in and out of the sky ahead of them. He strained to hear a spring peeper or even a bullfrog, but the night was quiet. Just the rhythm of the rain tapping lightly on their shoulders, following them as they reached pavement.

It was a steady rain, the kind of wetness that comes from all over, like the sprayers you walked through to keep cool at the fair. It got into places regular rain didn’t. Eli could already feel it seeping down the back of his neck in the gap between his hat and the slicker. His face was moist and clammy, too, but it didn’t bother him. He knew something was about to happen. Something hardly anyone got to see.

“They’ll be crossing the road over the top of the hill if they cross at all,” Grandpa called out.

Eli’d gotten ahead of Grandpa, stretching his footsteps farther and farther as he aimed for the crossing. He’d seen the spot during the day—Grandpa pointed it out plenty of times—but he’d never been to a crossing.
Too young to stay up half the night
, Pa used to say.
And get soaked right through
, Ma would add.

Not tonight.

Eli hesitated when he heard the sound of wet tires skimming over the slick pavement behind them. Was it coming toward them? He turned to look at Grandpa.

“Uh-oh.” Grandpa shook his head. “Stay on the side of the road, Eli. He might be turning.”

But the car whooshed straight instead.

“I see something!” Eli ran up to the yellow lines on the pavement covering the hill.

“Careful, Eli.” Grandpa beamed the flashlight on it.

“It’s a big one, Grandpa!”

“That’s a spotted salamander, Eli.”

Eli watched its slimy orange body creep over the yellow lines. The salamander’s long, spotted tail swished behind four tiny legs. Eli wondered how those legs got it this far. He knelt on the other side in the gravel to catch it.

“Just like in a dinosaur movie, ain’t it?” Grandpa smiled.

Eli watched its slimy orange body creep over the yellow lines
.

“He’s longer than my hand, Grandpa. And there’s another one right behind it.”

“Those’d be the males. They come first. The females follow.”

“There’s another one, wiggling through the grass. They keep coming, Grandpa!”

“Let’s help them along, Eli. Fill the bucket.”

Eli loaded his bucket with salamanders, trying not to squeeze too hard but holding them long enough to feel their rubbery bodies.
Just like Tater’s chew toys
, Eli thought as they squirmed along the pink ridges where his stitches had been.
But slipperier and wet
. Eli dumped the bucket of salamanders on the other side of the road. He listened to the rustling of grass as they slithered through, scurrying to get to the pond.

A brightness far stronger than Grandpa’s flashlight struck the side of Eli’s face as he knelt, blinding him for a moment. A motor rose higher than the hum of the rain as the swish of tires came closer.

“Can’t we make ’em stop?” Eli asked.

“And get us all killed? Get up, Eli.” Grandpa clutched Eli’s chest against his. “We can only hurry so many of them along.”

Grandpa and Eli stood on the side of the road, holding their buckets while the high beams came toward them, then past. As soon as they’d gone, Eli rushed onto the
road again to scoop up more salamanders. He went to lift one up and noticed another splayed on the pavement, its tail flattened and lifeless. Eli put it in the bucket anyway, just in case he was wrong and it had a chance.

“How come they cross the road, Grandpa? Can’t they go another way?”

“You mean a safer way?” Grandpa clutched two salamanders. “Been crossing this way for hundreds of years, Eli. Maybe thousands. It’s what they were born to do.”

The salamanders squirted out of Grandpa’s hands and onto safety in the grass. “They follow the path their ancestors took,” Grandpa said. “And no road’s gonna stop ’em. They cross it. If they go, they go. And that’s the end of it. Good night. You can’t beat a truck. But you know what, son? Enough of them do. Then they head to the pond and find themselves a mate.”

Before Eli and Grandpa got to the pond, Eli could already hear the high-pitched shrill of peeper frogs.

“They’re calling for a mate, Eli. That’s what brings ’em to the pond.”

Once they’d made it to the clearing, Grandpa shone his flashlight over the water. “Go on now, get closer, Eli.”

Eli gazed into the pond and caught his breath. Salamanders covered the water, swimming forward and backward and in circles. Some looked like they were hugging, others chasing each other in a game of hide-and-seek. Two
salamanders looped around. Eli caught a glimpse of their wrinkly white bellies before they broke the surface with their spotted faces, then swam away.

“Look at the branches, Eli.” Grandpa pointed to some sticks jutting out of the pool.

Eli stared at the see-through blobs slick as marbles building on the branches. Right before his eyes they grew thicker—like cotton candy—as if spun by invisible hands. Swirling thicker and thicker, the egg clusters sparkled until the brown of the branches could barely be seen.

“Those’ll be tadpoles in a few months. Or sallies. I can’t tell from here,” Grandpa said, squinting. “There’s hundreds of ’em.”

Plop plop
, just like kernels popping, Eli heard frogs leap into the water, while others called for a mate. The screeching sound pierced right through him. On any other day, Eli would’ve pressed his palms against his ears to drown out the noise. But tonight it sounded perfect. It didn’t seem too loud at all.

“Funny, ain’t it?” Grandpa sat on a moss-lined stump and smiled. “How you don’t hear a lick of a frog for five months. Then all of a sudden, one night, there they are, peeping like they’ve always been there.” Grandpa pointed at a peeper clinging to a log. “Tryin’ to impress the females.” He rolled his eyes as the peeper’s throat
puffed out to bursting. “From now on, Eli, you can keep your bedroom window open. You’ll hear them calling.”

“How do you know, Grandpa?”

“’Cause it used to be my window. I remember the house was so still at night, you couldn’t hear one breath. So I listened for their peeps. That’s how I knew the rest of the world was still out there.” Grandpa reached for the eating bucket. “How ’bout toasting the night with a sandwich?” He handed Eli the biggest one. “Grandma liked coming here, too,” Grandpa said. “She called it one of nature’s little miracles.”

They both watched a salamander crawl over Eli’s boot to get to the water.

“Put them in the bucket and keep the rhythm of life going
, she’d say. They got the same right to be here as we do. We just happen to be in charge most days.” Grandpa wiped off the Salisbury steak sauce on Eli’s cheek with a finger. “At least we think we are. Times like this, when they remind us Mother Nature’s in charge.”

Eli smiled and watched a salamander swirl up to circle another, then back down again to the murky bottom of the pond. “It’s like they’re spinning eggs,” Eli said. “Magical eggs clear as glass.” Everywhere he looked, there were branches coated with eggs. “And there’s so many of them, it just don’t seem real.”

“Sometimes we ain’t used to real,” Grandpa said. “So when we see it, we don’t even recognize it.”

“They don’t notice we’re here, do they?” Eli smiled as a peeper hopped onto his coat and dove into the pond.

“Naw. They’re so bent on finding a mate, for one night, we don’t even exist.”

“Don’t they get tired?” Eli asked.

“Will you be tired when you win the blue ribbon?”

Eli knew he wouldn’t be.

“You wouldn’t even feel how heavy the hay bale was at the end of the day, would you?”

Eli smiled and shook his head.

“I expect they’ll go on even longer,” Grandpa said. “Maybe for a few more nights yet.”

“Then what happens?” Eli watched a salamander slip into the water.

“The big ones go back to their homes under the leaves, and the eggs hatch in a couple weeks without ’em.” Grandpa put the wax paper back in the bucket. “From now on the valley won’t be silent. Until we forget again and one morning in the fall, we wake up late thinking,
What’s wrong? Why’s it so quiet?
And remember the peepers have buried themselves in the ground and gone to sleep half froze.” Grandpa turned to Eli. “You must be cold.”

Eli’s teeth were chattering, but he didn’t want to leave.

“Time for us to go back, too, Eli.”

When they reached the road, a set of headlights came toward them. It was Pa’s pickup.

Eli stepped into the road and waved his hands to flag down Pa. “You can’t go no further, Pa. The salamanders need to cross.” Eli looked at the pavement. “You already squashed two.”

“Oh, fer cryin’ out loud.” Pa stuck his head out of the truck.

“I would’ve dropped him off, Chet.” Grandpa cupped his hands to cut out the glare from the high beams. “Is it time already?”

“It’s nearly ten.” Pa’s jaw was tight as he stared down Grandpa. “When was the last time a boy his age stayed up this late?”

“When you were nine, Chet.” Grandpa lifted up his bucket. “It’s salamander night. Don’t you remember?”

“It’s a school night. Get in the truck, Eli.”

Eli looked at Pa, then up at Grandpa.

“Go on, son,” Grandpa said.

Eli handed him the bucket.

“Careful backing up, Chet.” Grandpa spoke louder than Eli’d been used to. “Those Silverados haven’t been the same since that recall.”

Eli hopped in the truck and Pa backed up. The rain
sounded tinny bouncing off the hood. Beyond it, Eli tried to focus on Grandpa, but Pa’d switched the wipers to high. Eli could only see him in flashes, dipping in and out of the windshield.

Pa U-turned it home and Eli swung near him. Through the rearview mirror he saw Grandpa just standing there, holding both buckets and grinning.

Missing Mama

All kinds of birds Eli’d forgotten about warbled and cooed outside the barn. They made nests in the river maples that were so thick with buds, it was as if winter never happened. A cluster of downy chicks snuck out of the barn chasing cottony strands of willow dander. Even drowsy flies buzzed to life, pesking around Little Joe’s ears. He stood tied up beside Fancy, filled out and high as her chin and past Eli’s shoulders.

It was still early. The peepers made noise in the swollen creek nearby. Eli knew they must be the little eggs he’d seen with Grandpa all hatched and swimming in the water.

“Their mamas lay eggs just like jelly beans,” Eli said, feeding Little Joe an apple slice. “And they don’t take long
to hatch. Not nine months like you, Fancy. It only takes a couple weeks.” Eli gave her a slice, too.