Chapter 11
ELEVEN
THE brAND
A blanket of clouds stretched over the afternoon sky, casting a shadow over the valley. It had rained all week, and there was still some residual dampness hanging in the air.
Marlowe and Nora were alone in the house, while the adults were off shopping for a new piece of furniture in a nearby town.
The two of them were sprawled languidly across the twin beds in Marlowe’s room, more often called the “girls’ room,” because Nora slept over most weekends.
Henry and Nate shared the “boys’ room” down the hall.
A little while ago, the boys had lit out to work on their weekend project: a lean-to fort made of sticks and fallen branches in the woods behind the Gray House.
Marlowe and Nora had been told in no uncertain terms that they would be banned forever if they weren’t going to participate in the work of gathering and building.
“You don’t get to enjoy it if you’re too lazy to help build it,” Nate had said.
Nora traced the soft, raised edges of the embroidered daisies covering the quilt on the bed.
“I’m bored,” she said, rolling over onto her back and peering out the window toward the red barn across the street.
Marlowe looked up from her sketchbook. She knew Nora got bored more easily than she did, but then, Nora always had a remedy for her boredom; an idea was brewing.
“Let’s go pet the Gallaghers’ cows.”
“Pet them?” Marlowe laughed at the thought.
Cows were foreign beasts, and besides, they belonged to the Gallagher brothers.
Playing around in the hayloft was one thing, but interfering with the cows was something different.
Just as Marlowe knew not to touch the paperwork strewn about her father’s desk, she also knew not to mess with the Gallaghers’ dairy cows.
“I bet you’ve never touched one,” Nora said. “Cows aren’t scary, trust me. You could even ride one if I give you a leg up.”
“People don’t ride cows.” Marlowe was resistant, but she could already feel the corners of her mouth curling into a smile. Nora was going to convince her; she always did.
“Come on, let’s go. It’s not raining anymore, and we can’t let the boys have all the fun.”
Giggling mischievously, the girls ran down the stairs, pulled on their galoshes, and headed out to the pasture. The Gallaghers were nowhere in sight, and their old green truck was gone, which meant they were probably in town, purchasing supplies.
The field was so saturated their boots sank up to the ankles in the mud, making loud squelching noises. They only giggled more and clasped hands to keep their balance as they trudged in the direction of the lingering herd.
Marlowe grew hesitant as they drew near.
The cows seemed bigger up close. One of the black-and-white heifers plodded right toward her, and Marlowe steadied herself and slowly lifted her hand to pet its nose.
The cow huffed through its wide nostrils—its breath was warm and slightly damp on Marlowe’s fingers.
Feeling brave, she stepped closer and gently slid her hand along its smooth, muscular neck.
The cows remained placid as the two girls wended among them, patting their rumps and stroking their velvety soft ears.
“I thought farmers always branded their cattle, like in the Old West,” Marlowe said. “Right here on their flanks.”
“No brands on these,” Nora said.
“Guess the Gallaghers aren’t scared of cow thieves.”
Nora’s eyes lit up, the way they did when she had a spectacular idea. “We should brand them!”
Marlowe raised her brows. “You mean like with a hot iron? We can’t do that.”
“No, no, you could design the mark,” Nora said. “You could sketch something cool, and then we could paint it on.”
“I don’t know. They’re not our cows.” But even as she spoke, Marlowe was dreaming up possible designs.
“The Gallaghers won’t care; we’re not hurting them. Anyway, nothing ever happens around here—they’ll probably think it’s hilarious,” Nora said.
That was all the urging Marlowe needed. The girls ran back to the Gray House, where Marlowe dug out her art supplies.
Nora leaned on her elbows and grinned over Marlowe’s shoulder as Marlowe started to sketch.
Some of Marlowe’s school friends in the city teased her about how serious she was about art, or worse, they seemed to resent the attention she got for her drawings and watercolors.
Lately, she’d become more guarded about drawing at school, but she didn’t need to pretend she wasn’t talented around Nora, who would brag to her parents or anyone who would listen: “You should see how good Marlowe is!” It was one of the reasons Marlowe couldn’t wait for weekends in the country, where she could be herself.
“It’s perfect!” Nora said, as Marlowe put down her charcoal pencil.
She’d sketched a simple circle, about the width of a hand, with an infinity sign in the center.
Intersecting the middle of the sign was a rudimentary tree, its branches stretching up to the top of the circle, with thinner lines at the bottom to indicate roots.
“I thought about doing a lion or something like that, but I think this will be easier to paint,” Marlowe said.
“I agree,” Nora said. “I’m the branches, and you’re the roots.”
Marlowe flushed with pleasure. That was exactly what she had intended; somehow, Nora always knew. They understood each other so well.
They took the sketch and walked up the road to Nora’s house, where they grabbed a can of bright blue paint and some brushes from the garage and headed back to the pasture, so delighted with their plan that the mud and distance were hardly a bother.
“How many city blocks do you think we’ve walked?
” Nora asked as they plodded by the southern hayfield and the Gray House came back into sight.
This was a game they played. Nora was obsessed with hearing about the city and liked to guess at the number of blocks they would have walked if they were in New York instead of trampling through woods and fields.
“Maybe forty—I feel like we could have walked from our apartment on East Seventy-Fourth all the way to the Empire State Building by now,” Marlowe said, though it was hard to judge. Blocks were flat, and no distance in the country was ever on even terrain.
Luck was on their side that afternoon. The Gallagher brothers were still off-site when the girls entered the cow field.
Nora picked out a lazy-looking cow and patted its neck, whispering soothing things in its ear, while Marlowe dipped the brush into the thick blue paint and began to work her magic.
The heifer didn’t seem to notice or mind as Marlowe made quick brushstrokes over its coat, making sure to angle the brush in the direction of the cow’s bristles.
The blue paint glistened against the cow’s white flank. Even with the rudimentary brush, the etching of the tree intersected with the infinity sign was clear as day. Nora squealed with glee when she saw, and grabbed her own brush.
They were meticulous in their mission. They didn’t miss a single cow.
When they were done, the whole herd of milk cows bore Nora and Marlowe’s brand, shining bright and blue on their black-and-white bodies.
The girls turned and ran back to the Gray House, the dripping brushes dangling from their hands.
Even from across the road, the circles were still visible.
They hurriedly washed the brushes in the sink before hiding them with the empty paint pail in the back of Marlowe’s closet and then threw themselves onto their twin beds as if they’d never moved.
Later that evening, after the Fishers had returned home with a new set of living room chairs, the family gathered for dinner. Nora stayed, as she always did, confidently taking her usual place next to Marlowe at the dining table.
“Tom Gallagher’s up in arms,” Frank announced. “Someone’s been messing with his cows.”
Nora and Marlowe gave each other a quick sidelong glance but stayed silent. They’d become good at that, communicating with their eyes.
“What happened?” Glory asked. “Don’t tell me there are a bunch of hooligans out tipping?”
“Someone painted brands on the cows, made a crazy symbol with a tree,” Frank explained. “I’m sure it was someone’s idea of a joke, but Tom was yammering on about Wiccan nonsense. Devil worshipping, if you can believe it.”
Nora cast her eyes down at the table, and Marlowe tugged on a lock of her hair so as not to laugh.
Glory chuckled. “Those old men sure do spook easily. I suppose they should just count themselves lucky that cow tipping has gone out of style.”
“It wasn’t any of you who messed with those cows, was it?” Frank asked.
He surveyed the children with eagle eyes, and they all shook their heads vehemently.
If Marlowe had a sheepish tilt to her mouth, or Nora had a twinkle in her eye, no one noticed. They would never be the suspects. Pranks were a boy’s domain.
“Let me remind you, those cows and fields are not for fun for the Gallaghers,” Frank said. “It’s their livelihood.”
Everyone nodded, and the issue was forgotten as they dug into their meal.
Marlowe clasped Nora’s hand under the table. The cow prank didn’t feel like a crime. If the Gallaghers were silly enough to cry witches or satanism, that was hardly Marlowe and Nora’s fault. It was their secret. Their own brand. Harmless mischief just between them, tying them closer together.