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With extreme care, Benny went
to the separator. The milk was nearly gone. He refilled the reservoir from the
five-gallon crock. The last few drops of buttermilk hung from the rim. Benny
swiped them off with his finger and brought them to his mouth. Gross, but
supposed to be good for the wolf-in-stomach. The wolf agreed and begged more.
Benny took a cup and dipped out some. With distaste evident on his face, he
drank it.
"Benny-"
"Lay off."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't
have-"
Benny turned a fierce eye on
him and John blanched at the hate, the wolf-like stance, the scarred fist that
hovered, trembled, far too close to the knife for John's comfort.
With a hesitant nod, John
returned to his coffee and Benny, slowly, to the cream separator.
"I . . . ." No.
better not ask anything about the Manse. "Just how did you manage to floor
Bull?" John gave the stiff back a wane smile. "He's as big as this
house."
"He kneed me in the
balls," Benny said in hoarse, chilling tones. "No-body, no guy,
touches me there, never again."
"Oh."
John dug the ashes out of his
pipe and refilled it. Millie wouldn't like it, but if ever he needed a smoke it
was now. He should leave, go to bed. But his training wouldn't allow him to, no
matter how his stomach churned, his every instinct demanded he flee.
The milk done, Benny dumped
the skim back in the crock and poured the cream in a gallon jar that had a small
electric motor on its lid. He turned it on. A gentle hum filled the kitchen.
Benny took apart the separator and washed the dozens of parts.
Benny's gaze on the churn, he
said, "Mind watching this for me?"
"No, I'll watch it."
Benny hunted through the
cabinets. Fascinated, John watched him. Even when relaxed the kid moved like a
cat, prowling around the kitchen. Benny opened the last cabinet in the kitchen
and grinned at his quarry. He pulled a quart of distilled vinegar from the
shelf.
Mystified, John asked,
"What are you going to do with that?"
With a gesture that
encompassed the house, Benny took a stack of newspapers from the recycling tub.
"Windows. Millie ain't going to feel much like working. I'll do it for her,
so she can set back and enjoy spoiling the grandkids, y'know?"
Half amused, John muttered,
"Are all the men where you come from like you?"
"You mean helping out
around the house?"
John nodded.
"Yeah. If they are
men."
John frowned. Did Nat-Ams act
differently from most men? He opened his mouth to ask and the churn sputtered.
Instead it seemed safer to ask, "By the way, what am I supposed to do with
that?"
Benny smiled at the question.
"City dog, huh? When it starts to sound like it was dying, strain the milk
and put the solids in the press." He patted a small wooden box. "Press
out the milk and refrigerate what's left."
"Then?"
"You'll figure it out. Us
hicks did a long time ago." He stared humming a men's joke. 'Better to be a
country wolf/ than a city dog that can't make up its mind/ which tire to hide
its head under.'
Twenty minutes later John's
shout woke up the house.
"Eureka! I made
butter!"
Benny laughed quietly and
moved to the next window.
©2003 StoriesByEmail.com
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