Finding Tom

Running into the kitchen, Joel glanced around. ‘Hey Mom, where’s Tom? I can’t find him anywhere.”

Distracted, his mother replied, “Don’t worry about Tom dear. Go out and play.” Wiping her flour dusted hands on her apron, she went back to pounding on the dough.

“But Mom…”

“Sweetie, please just go outside. Mommy has a lot to do here.”

“Son, don’t forget to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. I already milked Bessie.” John Henderson ruffled his eight year old son’s hair and turned back to his cup of coffee.

“But, Dad…”

“But nothing, Joel. Your Mom’s busy and those chickens are hungry. Besides, so am I. We need those eggs if we’re gonna have breakfast.”

Desultorily, Joel mumbled, “Yes sir.” Picking up the egg basket he turned and headed outside. It was a beautiful morning, the Autumn air cool and crisp. Joel barely noticed as he stalked across the yard. “They don’t even care,” he mumbled. “Tom’s missing and they don’t care. He’s my best friend.” Squinting due to the rising sun, Joel turned left and headed toward the sprawling barn. Maybe Tom was playing hide and seek. Picking up his pace, Joel sprinted to the newly painted bright red building. The weather vane rooster on the roof was swaying gently in the breeze with a creaking noise.

Pulling open the high, wide door, made large so Dad could get the tractor in and out, Joel darted inside. Wilbur, the plow horse, knickered a friendly greeting. Pausing a second, Joel rubbed the old horse’s nose where he had pushed his head over the stall door. Wilbur let out a snort and pushed his head against the boy’s palm, sniffing for treats. Joel laughed and, reaching into the bin next to the stall, gave the horse an apple.

“Have you seen Tom, Wilbur?” Wilbur had eaten most of his fresh hay from when the stall had been mucked last night before dinner. Looking around, Joel didn’t see Tom anywhere. Grabbing the pitchfork, Joel tossed in a tine’s full of fresh hay. Wilbur snorted and turned to the treat.

“Moooooooooo.” Joel wandered over to where Bessie stood in her own stall. The milk bucket, freshly rinsed, sat next to the stall. “What about you Bessie? You seen Tom anywhere?”

“Mooooo.” Bessie replied, flicking her tail. Reaching into the stall, Joel patted the heifer between her large dark eyes. Bessie extruded her huge tongue and licked at his palm, tickling it. Joel chuckled. “Fine. And thanks for the fresh milk.”

The chickens were busily clucking and shaking their feathers. George, the rooster, strutted back and forth like a sultan in his harem. When Joel set the basket by the chicken enclosure, George threw back his head and crowed. Leaving the basket there, Joel ran over to the ladder to the hayloft. Maybe Tom was hiding up there. Clambering up the ladder, Joel perused the loft. The hay loading doors were open, sunlight streaming in. It was always warmer up here and Joel luxuriated a moment in the feel and smell.

Hearing a rustling in the corner Joel turned that way. There was a pile of hay there which shifted slightly. “Ah ha. I got you now.” Figuring Tom was playing hide and seek, Joel sauntered over casually, whistling. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to look nonchalant. When he got a foot away he pulled out his hands and dove into the hay pile. “Found you,” he cried. A large rat darted out from the pile and ran under another. No Tom. Joel stood and brushed hay from his flannel shirt and jeans.

Walking over to the hay loading doors he looked out. The view was wonderful. The mountains in the distance were topped with white off which the sunlight sparkled and gleamed. The stalks in the cornfield swayed and rustled. The cool breeze caressed his face. Looking down, Joel smiled. There was a large pile of hay on the ground beneath him. Maybe Tom was hiding there. Bending his knees, Joel launched himself up and out. “Geronimo,” he shouted, grinning as he plummeted into the stack.

Crawling out of the haystack, Joel picked hay out of his shirt and hair. No Tom. What the heck, he thought.

“Joel,” came a call from the house. Looking that way he saw his father, dark hair dropping over his eyes, leaning out the kitchen window. “We need those eggs,” his dad called.

“Fine,” Joel mumbled. He headed back into the barn. Walking behind the coop he reached into the hand holes behind each nest and gathered the warm eggs. Mom should be happy, there were fourteen of them. Hefting the basket, he headed back to the house.

Walking into the kitchen he said, “They’s fourteen eggs Mom.”

“There are fourteen eggs, sweetie.”

“That’s what I said. Fourteen.”

“No dear. I mean you say ‘there are fourteen eggs’ not ‘they’s.” His mother picked up the large roasting pan from the counter and turned to the oven.

“What you cooking Mom?”

Alice Henderson glanced at her husband who shrugged, looking chagrined. “Turkey sweetie. It’s Thanksgiving.”

Eyes wide with horror, Joel dropped the basket. Eggs splattered on the floor. “Tom?” he whispered.