Page 47 of Upstate

“I’ll make you a deal.” Sam’s eyes are shaded by the brim of his sun hat, but he can’t hide his teasing half smile. “I’ll shear them for you if you promise to give the sheep a chance. I won’t ask for the whole year. Let’s say through summer? You can always have them processed before winter if you still hate them.”

“I don’t hate them, I just—wait, you can shear sheep?”

He shrugs. “I took a class, and I keep a trimmer in the truck just in case. What do you say, Audrey?” He holds up his hand in a Vulcan salute. “Will you let them live long and prosper?”

“I didn’t have you pegged as a Trekkie,” I say, rolling my eyes. The truth is, though, Star Trek was one of my dad’s favorite shows. During the last months of his life, the two of us used to watch William Shatner’s episodes on late-night reruns. Grateful to Sam for conjuring the memory, I mimic his salute, fingers spread strangely apart. “I promise to give them a chance.”

Sam’s half smile spreads across his whole face. “Okay, then, I’ll go get my gear.”

He does make it look easy. Sam’s using a cordless trimmer, which he says is not how a professional would go about things but which he prefers for the small jobs he’s sometimes called on to do. He narrates the entire process, as if I’m a student who might one day do this on my own. After setting the blade in the trimmer, he grabs a sheep’s head and twists it sideways, shifting the animal’s balance until it rolls onto its back. Once down, the sheep becomes docile, though the strain on Sam’s face tells me this is hard work. The way he bends over the animal makes my own back ache. When the sheep starts to struggle, ropey muscles stand out on Sam’s forearms as he grabs its legs. I’m entranced by the choreography of his long, smooth strokes as he follows the contours of the sheep’s body with the clippers. It’s like a magic trick, how the wool falls away to reveal the dainty creature hidden beneath.

By the second animal, though, the story’s been told. Silently, Sam gets on with the task, shearing one of the pregnant ewes, whose belly is round as a swallowed basketball.

“A professional can shear a sheep in under two minutes,” Sam says half an hour later, when he finishes the last of the five ewes. After bending backward to stretch his spine, he takes off his floppy hat and flicks sweat off his forehead. I’m surprised by his severe haircut, so short on the sides his scalp shows through. “I’m trained in shearing, but I’m hardly better than an amateur. That’s why I saved the ram for last, to get in some practice first.”

Sam switches the battery on the clipper for a fresh one, then puts on a mask and asks me to do the same. “I may need you to lend a hand, but unless I ask for your help, the best thing you can do is stand back.”

“Okay,” I say, desperately hoping my help won’t be needed.

Sam herds the ram into a pen in the barn and turns its head to roll it onto its back. The ram resists.

“I’m going to have to flip him,” Sam grunts. With a great huff, he lifts the ram off its front feet and sits it down like a dinner guest. Tucking the animal’s head under one arm, Sam squats behind, easing its weight back into his embrace.

“That’s right, my man, just relax,” Sam coos, clippers making quick work of the ram’s underbelly. The testicles, shorn of their woolly pouch, sag like bagged ostrich eggs. Sam pulls up on the ram’s snout, shearing its neck and jowls, then moves on to the shoulder, wool falling away in a familiar pattern.

Everything is going smoothly until Sam reaches behind the ram’s back with the clippers. Leaning to the side, the animal’s hoof makes contact with the barn’s floor. Sensing resistance, the ram straightens the leg and pushes, scrambling to get upright. Sam holds the clippers aside so as not to injure the animal. Pinned by only one human arm, the ram bucks, catching Sam under the chin with its skull.

“Oh, fuck!” Sam falls back on his ass, blood staining his mask. The ram trots out of the barn dragging its half-shorn wool like a tattered cape.

I run over and grab Sam’s arm, pulling him up. As soon as he’s steady on his feet, he waves me away, then tears off his mask, blood spilling down his shirt. Walking his fingertips gingerly along his jawbone, he declares it unbroken. “No loose teeth, either,” he says, his words wet and slurred. “I bit my tongue, though, and he split my chin pretty good. I need some water.”

“Sure, wait here while I—”

He shakes his head, then grimaces. “I’ll come with you.”

Sam trails me to the house like a wounded soldier limping off the field of battle. When we reach the side porch, I say, “You can go inside if you want, all the windows are open.”

“Does that hose work?” he asks.

“It does.”

“Then I’ll be fine.” He turns on the spigot and slurps cold water from the end of the hose, spitting gobs of bloody mucus. “I’d take some ice, though.”

I dash into the kitchen and fill a plastic bag with cubes from the freezer. Back outside, I toss it to him. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He takes a cube out and pops it in his mouth, then holds the bag to his chin. “Would’ve been worse if he weren’t a polled Dorset.”

“Polled?”

“Bred without horns.”

I imagine the damage a curled horn could have done and cringe.

“Anyway,” he says, sucking on the ice cube, “I’ll just rest up a bit before I finish that bad boy off.”

“You’re going to finish shearing the ram?”

“This is my fault, not his.” Sam spits again. There’s less blood this time. “Besides, he can’t walk around with that wool hanging off him.”