Jewel's Unexpected Friends

D. A. Blankinship

I have never hurt or killed an animal just to see it suffer. That’s as honest as I can be about it. I have never wanted to be cruel to any living thing, though I know every living thing is cruel to other living things. That’s the way of the world. It is the order of things. To keep living, all animals must kill and eat other living things; it is a necessity of life.

My Dad liked the idea that killing, butchering, and eating animals are natural acts. He set traps to snare rabbits, squirrels, or groundhogs, and he didn’t always keep what he caught; sometimes he just killed it and threw the body into the bushes. He enjoyed hurting and killing animals. He thought he was tough, a mountain man; other people thought he was wise in the ways of the world. I thought he was mean.

We lived in a cabin made of yellow pine and lodge-pole pine timbers. The place smelled of pine all the time and Dad told people he built it. He told them he cut the timbers and hauled them into place all by himself. No one believed him; I didn’t either.

My Mom died when I was four or five years old; I’m not exactly sure how old I was, I just know that’s when Dad got even meaner.

The day after Mom’s funeral, Dad burned her Bible, smashed her crucifix, and cursed the sky. He said he was sending God a message, putting God on notice. Dad wasn’t going to do anything God wanted him to do. Dad was angry with God and God had better watch out, because Dad would get even with Him someday.

I hid for most of that day. In the evening, I listened to my Dad cry himself to sleep. Sometime during the night, I heard him asking, “What am I going to do with a worthless little girl? The animals will get her or something.”

I was awake all night wondering what kind of animals would get me and where they would take me.

My Dad kept me at home until I was seven years old. Then one day, the Sheriff came to the cabin and told him I had to go to school. Dad told the Sheriff he was home schooling me. He had told that lie to everyone for more than a year.

The Sheriff asked to see the books Dad was using. Dad got mad, but he didn’t let the Sheriff see how mad he was—he just whipped me after the Sheriff left. Dad couldn’t read or write, I couldn’t read or write, and neither of us owned a book. Dad knew that when I showed up at school, everyone would know he was an ignorant man.

When I was ten years old, my Dad’s sister came to visit us and for a few days, Dad did not shout at me or hit me. He called me his “little Jewel,” and helped me gather firewood and on one night, he even washed the dishes and swept the kitchen.

I thought he had changed, but after my aunt left, he went on a drinking binge. He came back two days later, still drunk and cursing the world. He scarred his cheek the first night he was back. He tried to use a burning stick to light a cigar. He missed the cigar and pressed the fiery end of the stick against his cheek. At the time, he laughed, dropped the stick on the floor, and slapped his cheek. Later, when he sobered up and saw his face, he began throwing things and accusing me of burning him in his sleep. I ran out of the cabin and stayed gone for the rest of the day.

My Dad and I never had good times together, just a few times that were less bad. I never knew when he was going to start yelling and throwing things, or just sit in his chair and cry all night. On most days, he was mad at the world and I just happened to be in it; on other days, he was mad at me, specifically—those were bad days, they were terrible days.

If I had to pick a day that changed my life, it would be my twelfth birthday, the day I burned supper.

I had gone to school that day, so I knew it was the first day of May. We read stories about May Day and we sang a song about springtime and little animals being born and flowers blooming.

When I got home from school, Dad had a piece of meat on the counter—cow meat: a roast. At first, I thought he had remembered my birthday, but it turned out that someone had brought it by for us. Maybe someone else had remembered my birthday.

Dad told me to cook the meat and wake him when dinner was ready. I started the fire in the stove and put the meat into a pan. I kneaded dough to make biscuits and put some green beans in a small bowl. I guess I was trying to do too much and I was thinking too much about my life, my future. I shouldn’t have been doing all that and thinking, too. I lost track of time.

I had thought I had enough wood for the stove. I didn’t. I had never seen a piece of meat so big. The fire started to die down before the meat started to brown, so I went out to get more wood. Dad woke up and started shouting for his dinner. He had been drinking and his eyesight wasn’t very good, either. He tried to pick up one of the raw biscuits on the tray on the counter. He got mad because the biscuit was raw and he threw the tray on the floor. He started shouting for me. When I came back into the kitchen with the wood, he wanted to know why I hadn’t started dinner yet. I knew I needed to be careful. I told him the roast was almost ready, I just needed more wood in the stove.

Sometimes when he was very hungry, he would leave me alone. I think he knew that if he started hitting me I couldn’t fix dinner at the same time.

I opened the oven door and pulled the roast out a little bit, so the aroma of the meat would fill the room. That should make him hungrier; it worked. He said he was going outside to smoke and he didn’t want to be bothered.

As I picked up the biscuits, I realized they were too dirty to bake, so I started mixing another batch. I guess that’s when I got distracted and didn’t notice the fire had started to blaze and the oven was getting too hot. I was kneading the biscuit dough when I saw the smoke and smelled the meat burning.

I was pulling the roast out when Dad walked back into the kitchen. He saw the smoke and then he saw the meat burning. It made him mad. He started shouting about how I had ruined his dinner and how he never had anything good to eat. I had ruined it, but I wasn’t going to waste it. I would eat it, every bite: in the yard, like a dog.

Using some kitchen rags to keep from burning my hands, I grabbed the roasting pan and ran out the back door. I knew if he got that meat first, he would throw it at me. He threw some things and then he slammed the door, still shouting; but I couldn’t hear the words very clearly. I thought I’d just sleep by the back door. It was springtime. Maybe it wouldn’t be too cold tonight. If it did get cold, I could sneak in later and get some more rags to keep me warm.

For a while, I could hear him cursing and throwing things. It got quiet, then it got noisy, then it got quiet again. I sat by the back door, listening as carefully as I could. Each noise let me know he was still up and making a mess. He was probably trying to cook something. Maybe he was trying to eat the green beans. That would be funny; they still had the ends on them and I hadn’t sorted out the bad ones.

Yeah, he tried to eat them, and then he threw the bowl across the kitchen. I would be outside all night.

I sat, leaning back against the wall and smelling the pine. I liked that smell. It was from the earth. There’s something comforting about the smell of pine and dirt. It grows more intense as the day’s light fades. Twilight is a wonderful time. It brings the promises of night; promises that he will pass out, fall asleep, or not be home at all.

The breeze shifted slightly and I smelled the aroma of the meat. It smelled wonderful. I pulled a small piece of fat from the roast and pressed it against my lips. It was good, very good. Burning had not hurt this meat; it had made it better.

I pulled off another piece, nibbled it, and then I began to worry. Would he smell the meat and demand to have it back? I began to eat faster, tearing off larger pieces and chewing as quickly as I could.

My hands were wet with the fat of the meat. My dress was dirty from the juices that ran down my chin. The world was dim, the land was silent, and then I saw her.

Forty or fifty feet away, a shadowy figure paused. I saw the profile of pointed ears against the pale light of the new moon. She moved silently, a big dog, perhaps a stray. I sat still, studying her. She must be able to smell the meat. She must be trying to decide when it would be safe to get closer.

I was afraid, but I wanted to see her, too. I would share this meat with her; maybe she is the animal that will take me away from this.

I pulled a small piece of meat from the roast and tossed it about halfway to her. Then I waited. I knew I could out-wait her because I was going to be here all night.

It took a long time. The moon was higher in the night sky. The cabin was silent and a cold chill was descending on the land when I saw her emerge from the shadows. She approached cautiously, took the meat, and returned to the shadows. There wasn’t enough light to tell what color she was, but she still looked big: a very big dog.

The remaining part of the roast was large enough to cover both of my hands. I tried to pull it into two pieces, but I could only pull off smaller chunks about the size of a small fist. I crawled across the ground and put one piece at about the same place the other piece had been. Then I put another piece halfway between that piece and me. I had a third piece that I would put at my feet. I wanted a friend.

I returned to the cabin and sat with my back against the wall, waiting.

Hours passed.

The moon was almost overhead when I saw her re-emerge from the shadows. She walked a bit faster, but she was still cautious. She grabbed the first piece of meat, bit at it two or three times, and then swallowed it quickly. She walked toward the second piece of meat, took a few steps, paused, took a few more steps, paused, and then laid down on the ground, looking at me.

I looked at her. I stared into her eyes as she gazed into mine. She was a special, magical dog. She was big, she was covered in a thick coat of hair, she had a beautiful long, bushy tail, and she had eyes the color of gold. For a few moments, I wondered if I was dreaming: Could any dog be this beautiful?

She nudged the piece of meat with her nose. “Go ahead,” I whispered, “it’s yours, take it.” She bit down on the meat, turned, and ran back into the shadows.

I tried to stay awake all night. I sat up straight, with my back against the timbers. My head kept nodding and my eyes burned as I tried to keep from closing them. At sunrise, the breeze picked up and I heard Dad stirring around. The meat was still at my feet.

Dad started shouting and I knew he was in a foul mood. I grabbed the piece of meat and threw it as far as I could. It landed near the trees where the dog had been. If Dad saw the meat, he would be angry that it was dirty or he’d start in on me for allowing it to burn. Maybe the dog would get it before Dad found it out there.

I cooked breakfast for Dad, cleaned up the kitchen, and swept up some broken glass. He had thrown a picture frame and the glass in it had broken. There were pieces of glass scattered all over the floor. It was the last picture frame we had that had glass in it. In some ways, I was glad. I had been waiting for this one. Now it too, had been broken, but the picture was all right. My aunt had given my Dad that picture. It was a picture of my Dad and Mom when they were happy, before I was born.