The Strange Guests
They were back. At first, I was going to drive straight past the house, hoping that they didn’t notice the blue pick-up truck. But then, I saw what they were doing. The cow hanging, suspended, from the wooden arbor in a sling, it’s feet cut off, still mooing. The little girls grouped together in the yard. I couldn’t see my mother or father, but I knew they were in the house somewhere, with the rest of the family.
So I stopped the car, which I had used to buy supplies in town, and got out, careful not to slam the door. Silently—at least I hoped—I dropped to the ground, on my belly, right there on the asphalt road above the driveway. Underneath the body of the truck, I peered, trying to get a better sense of what was going on.
