James Patterson: Gone

Mary Catherine laughed.

“Well, just don’t tell Chrissy. You know how much she loves our fine feathered friends.”

“How could I forget?” I said, laughing myself.

Chrissy, the baby of our massive brood, had taken a liking to one of our landlord’s chickens, whom she immediately named Homer, for some inexplicable reason. She’d even sworn off chicken nuggets after one of her ever-helpful older brothers informed her she was probably dipping a member of Homer’s family into the sweet-and-sour sauce.

“So, what’s on the agenda today?” she said.

“Well,” I said, “I say we grab the paper and some bagels down at Murray’s, then hop a Two train down to MoMA for the latest installation. Afterward, we could go to John’s on Bleecker for lunch. I’m thinking a large, with everything on it, and some gelato for dessert. No, wait-we could go to Carnegie for a Bible-thick pastrami sandwich. It’s like butta.”

Mary Catherine shook her head at me.

“MoMA?” she said. “Really?”

“Sure, why not? You’re not the only one interested in culture around here.”

“You never went to MoMA in your life. You told me yourself you hate modern art. And the Two train! Of course. I love taking the kids on the subway. It’s so much fun. Look, Mike, I love-and miss-the Big Apple as well, but don’t you think you’re laying it on a tad thick? Why do you continue to torture yourself?”

I gestured out at the endless space and sky all around us.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “There’s nothing else to do.”

“That’s it,” my nanny said. “Less moping, more roping, as Mr. Cody likes to say. You’re coming with us this morning. No more excuses.”

“No, that’s OK,” I said when I realized where she wanted me to go. “I have plenty to do. I have to go over today’s lesson plan.”

Due to the truly insane circumstances, we had decided to homeschool the kids. I was handling the English and history, Mary Catherine the math and science, while my grandfather-priest, Seamus-big surprise-tackled religion. I had never taught before, and I was actually getting into it. I wasn’t smarter than a fifth-grader yet, but I was getting there.

“Nonsense, Mike. You don’t think I know you have your lessons planned at least two weeks ahead? You need to give in to it, Mike. I know you don’t like being here on a farm, but face facts. You are. Besides, you haven’t even given it a chance. When in Rome, you have to do as the Romans do.”

“I would if we were in Rome, Mary Catherine,” I said. “The Romans have pizza.”

“No excuses. Now, you can warm up the cars or wake the kids. Your choice.”

“The cars, I guess,” I mumbled as she turned to head back inside. “If I have to.”

“You have to,” my iron-willed nanny said, pointing toward the shed at the side of the house as she creaked open the screen door.

Twenty minutes later, we were rolling up the road toward our landlord’s farm.

Seamus, Brian, Eddie, and the twins took our new Jeep, while Mary Catherine and I piled the rest of the kids into the vintage station wagon that Cody insisted on loaning us. Cody’s awesome wagon was an old Pontiac Tempest muscle car that reminded me of my childhood in the seventies, when seat belts were optional, the cigarette lighter was for firing up Marlboro reds, and even station wagons could haul it off the line.

I was truly impressed with Mary Catherine when I saw all the teens up and about so early. The kids were even talking and joking with each other instead of fighting. Which was saying something, since no one had eaten breakfast yet.

“What’s up with everybody? They seem excited,” I said to Mary Catherine as we rolled up the half mile of dirt road for Cody’s farm. “Seamus hasn’t even insulted me once. What gives?”

“They don’t seem excited. They are excited,” Mary Catherine said. “They love this, Mike. So will you. Watch.”

Cody was already outside his huge modern barn. He was waiting for us by his old green Ford tractor. Behind the tractor was a hay-bale-littered trailer that the kids immediately started piling into after we parked.

“Howdy, Mike. I see you decided to join us this morning,” Cody said, smiling as he shook my hand.

I liked Cody. His son was the special agent in charge at the FBI’s Chicago office, so he knew and respected our whole situation with Perrine. He had actually offered his secluded ranch as a witness protection sanctuary a few times before. We really couldn’t have asked for someone better to hide us and watch our backs than the friendly former marine sergeant and decorated Vietnam vet.

“We can always use another cowpoke in the gang, isn’t that right, kids?” Cody said, squaring his Colorado Rockies baseball cap. “But, of course, we’ll have to see how you do. We like to take on hands on a day-by-day basis around these here parts. How does that suit you?”

“Sounds fair, Aaron,” I said, as everyone laughed at Daddy. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

“Enough yappin’ to the greenhorn, Cody,” Seamus said, smacking the hood of the old tractor. “Time to saddle ’em up and move ’em out.”

We all piled into the trailer, along with Cody’s three black-and-white border collies. I watched as my kids and the super-friendly dogs couldn’t get enough of each other. Mary Catherine was right. The kids really couldn’t have been happier as we rolled out over the fields, bouncing around like a bunch of jumping beans.

We saw the cattle ten minutes later. There were about sixty head of them, milling along an irrigation ditch.

“See, Dad? Those over there are cows,” my seven-year-old son, Trent, said, showing me the ropes as Cody opened the cattle gate. “They’re girl cattle, big but actually kind of nice. You can control ’em. Also, see that wire running along the other end of the field? That’s electric, Dad. Don’t touch it. It’s for keeping the cows in.”

I smiled at Trent’s contagious energy. Back in New York, at this hour, he would have been-where? Stuck in class? And yet here, he was outside, learning about the world and loving every minute of it.

As Cody got us going again, Trent suddenly pointed to a pen we’d passed that had a couple of truly enormous red-and-white bulls in it. They looked like oil tanks with fur.

“Those guys there are bulls, Dad. Boy cows. They’re, um … what did you call the bulls, Mr. Cody?” Trent called up to the farmer.

“Orn-ry,” Cody called back.

“Exactly. Bulls are orn-ry, Dad. Real mean-like. You gotta stay away from them. You can’t even be in the same field as them. Once they see you come over the fence, you have to get back over it real quick, before they come runnin’ like crazy to mow you down!”

“Why do I think this information comes from personal experience, Trent?” I asked.

“Eddie’s the one who does it the most, Dad,” Trent whispered confidentially. “Ricky, too. I just did it once. Cross my heart.”

The trailer stopped. Cody climbed down from the tractor. The border collies, whose names were Flopsy, Mopsy, and Desiree, immediately jumped over the rim of the trailer as Cody whistled.

“Check this out, Dad,” my eldest son, Brian, said, putting his arm over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Jane, as the dogs made a beeline for the cattle. “Step back and watch. This is the coolest.”

My kids weren’t kidding. The cattle turned to watch as the three dogs ran in a straight line along the opposite side of the large field. Before the cows knew what was happening, the collies had followed the field’s perimeter and were behind them, with an occasional bark or nip at their hooves to urge them along.