The Cheese Maker
He got the ropes and had her hold the cow’s tail while he stuck one arm up to his shoulder inside her. The stench from the cow and her agonized grunting made Helen’s head spin and stomach writhe, but she held on, twisting the tail and watching George who stared sightless, letting his fingers find their way as he struggled to catch the calf's legs.
“There,” he said triumphant, and started to pull.
Helen thought the cow would split, her bellowings on one side, George straining to free her calf on the other. Finally, he gave up, heaving and glistening with sweat. At the same time, the cow fell on her knees and rolled to her side, her eyes bulging and her tongue hanging out into the straw.
“Watch out!” cried George, and Helen jumped back as the cow kicked convulsively, her hooves beating against the stall boards, ripping out chunks of wood. Saliva frothed at her mouth and flung out like a fountain as she twisted and beat her head on the floor. And then her eyes rolled up into her head and she was still.
For a moment neither of them moved. Somewhere an owl called and Helen could faintly hear the rustle of mice in the hay.
“Get the butcher knife” George pushed her toward the door. “And be quick. The calf’ll die soon.”
Helen ran, slipping on the icy snow. She was more careful on the way back, the big knife thickly wrapped.
George had spread the cow so her belly was exposed and had brought in a bundle of fresh straw, some which he had Helen pile up against the cow, “to catch the blood,” he said.
“Stand aside and be ready to jump in when I need you.” Taking the butcher knife he bore down high on the cow’s flank, grunting with the effort to get through the thick hide, then ripped a line across with the knife. Helen expected blood to gush and was ready to be sick, but just a trickle showed where he was cutting. With his second, deeper cut, blood ran down the cow’s side and soaked into the straw. Helen gritted her teeth and fought the nausea.
“Here.” George gestured to the upper skin of the long cut. “Pull that away as I open her up.”
The skin was slippery with blood and yellowish fluids and the soft layer of fat slimed her fingers like mud. But she held on, breathing in quick shallow gasps to ward off the thick stink of blood and intestines.
George reached in and pulled the calf out, laying it on fresh straw. He cleaned out its eyes and blew into its mouth. Helen was amazed when the calf staggered to its feet and stood swaying in the dim light of the barn.
“She’s pretty one, don’t you think?” said George, as he dried the calf in the rough-tongued way a cow might.
Helen nodded.
“We’ll take her into the kitchen and fix up a bed for her. And she’ll need to be bottle fed.”
“I can do that,” she said.
He picked up the calf. “You did good,” he said over his shoulder as they made their way to the cabin.
Helen was tucking the calf into a bed of old quilts beside the wood stove when the sun rose over the distant hills. She straightened, arching her back and flexing her shoulders.
“It’s a fine morning,” George called from the front room.
She joined him at the window. Low fog shielded the valley, but the yard was bathed in sunlight. In her belly she felt a slight roll. She stood still, her hand above the place. Then something moved again, this time a knock, an announcement: I am here. She swallowed and tears blurred her vision.
“You all right?” George touched her arm and leaned down to peer into her face.
She stared fixedly at the distant hills blanketed with snow. “I’m pregnant,” she said.
When he spoke his voice was soft. “When?”
“August.”
“He’ll need things: clothes, a cradle. I can make the cradle.”
She smiled inwardly at the male’s assumption of a son. “I can sew him clothes.”
“Never thought I’d…” He cleared his throat. “Got to butcher that cow.”
She turned to go.
Behind her George spoke, his voice husky, “Kid’ll be a help to us around here.”