Free Hunts in Dreams by Tom Drury Page B

anyway?” someone asked.
    â€œOur father,” said Lyris.
    The old man with the round glasses opened a flat tin and offered it to Micah. “Want a Sucret?” he said.
    A rowdy calf was sold, kicking and snorting, and then another pack of hogs. Charles reappeared from above and took a seat beside Lyris.
    â€œI don’t mind, Dad,” she said.
    â€œWhen you bid,” he said quietly, “just raise your hand.”
    The next animal for sale was a white cow, which no one bid on, and it was withdrawn. Then the man with the flat stick pushed the door open and dragged in a goat by a rope looped around its neck. It had a shaggy reddish coat that reached nearly to the ground. Once it saw the audience, it moved ahead of the man, strolling in a stately manner around the pen, like a float in a parade.
    â€œThis is a Toggenburg doe, two years of age,” said the auctioneer. “I’m looking for a bid of sixty-five dollars.”
    Charles nudged Lyris, who raised her hand.
    â€œSold,” said the auctioneer. “Young woman in the seventh row’s got herself a goat.”
    Lyris felt all the eyes in the auction house on her. Maybe that was an exaggeration. But she had not felt chosen in this way since the Home Bringers stole her from her ironing board.
    At a feed store on the way home they bought forty pounds of alfalfa pellets, a leather collar, and two metal pans. Charles pounded a stake into the back yard and tied the goat to it, leaving enough slack for her to get under the porch roof in case of rain. The goat’s eyes were slotted and lively, and she smelled like hot hay. Lyris set out a pan of water and another pan of the dark green alfalfa pellets. The goat showed no interest. Then Micah carried a lawn chair over next to the goat and sat down. This was a mistake. The goat butted the chair over, and Micah ran off. The goat walked over the chair with some difficulty. Charles cuffed her on her bony forehead and told her to cut it out, and she butted him. Then all three of them stood beyond the reach of the rope and watched the goat lower her head to the pan of water.
    â€œHow did you know they had a goat?” said Lyris.
    Charles smiled. “I know the auctioneer. I called him last night, set the whole thing up.”
    â€œBut then,” said Lyris, “why did you ask those men?”
    â€œBecause I knew what they would say.”
    There was a home football game that night, and the older 4-H girls went over to the field together in a club van. They would run the concession stand and earn the proceeds. The rival football players got off buses and stood around holding their helmets against their hips and blinking at the falling sun, their heads looking small and innocent above the platelike shoulder pads. It seemed to Lyris that any sport requiring so much padding had yet to arrive at an appropriate set of rules.
    The game started. The fans prowled the sidelines with leather flasks and thermoses, screaming for progress. The band members stood in goofy uniforms, playing their instruments, and occasionally one would take off after sheet music that had escaped its harp-shaped holder to skip over the ground in the fall wind. It was an absurd and lovely spectacle for someone raised in an orphanage and by suburban terrorists. On break from the concession stand, Lyris stood behind the end zone, watching the roving street brawl of the game and drinking hot chocolate with Octavia Perry and two other girls from 4-H. Suddenly Octavia was being nice to her, and what a blessing this kindness seemed, if somewhat sinister.
    â€œIsn’t this good cocoa?” said Octavia. “It’s so, like, chocolatey I could drink a barrel of the shit.”
    â€œYou’ve put something in it, haven’t you?” said Lyris.
    Octavia smiled at her. She had blazing dark eyes and coral beads in her hair. “It’s possible.”
    â€œOh, drink up, Lyris,” said a thin girl