Page 34 of Outsider

“How long has the vice unit been on the take?” I ask, hating the words, the dirty feel of them as they come out of my mouth.

Gina takes the question in stride. “Too long. Years.”

“That’s a pretty damning answer,” I say.

“It started out the way bad things usually do. Small scale. You know, innocent things like concert tickets in exchange for not writing a speeding ticket. It didn’t stay small scale. The unit would do a raid and bust some scumbag. Said scumbag had a ton of cash laid out on a table. A kilo of cocaine. Cash never made it to evidence. I rationalized that he hadn’t exactly earned the money. He wasn’t going to be needing it where he was going, right?” Her gaze sweeps to mine. In the depths of her eyes I see shame. Regret. Most of all, I see what I can only describe as … grief.

“I thought: Why not me?” she whispers. “Why should some dregs of the earth get all that cash and not me?”

The back door bangs, startling us from our reverie. Gina sets down her cup. I’m getting to my feet when I hear the pound of footsteps. An instant later Sammy appears at the door. He’s breathing hard, his face red and speckled with bits of hay, snow stuck to his coat.

“Datt’s bringing in the baby calf!” he exclaims. “The mama cow doesn’t like him and she won’t let him drink any milk. I’m going to sleep with him tonight!”

The boy darts back into the mudroom. Beyond, I hear the girls and Adam enter, moving around.

Gina looks at me. “Seriously?”

“I’d say Sammy’s a little too wound up to be kidding.”

Leaving my coffee, I walk to the doorway and peer into the mudroom. Adam stands just inside the back door, a tiny black calf in his arms, both of them covered with snow. Next to him, Lizzie holds a two-gallon galvanized nipple bucket at her side. Sammy wrestles with a bag of milk replacer that’s nearly as big as he is. Annie can’t seem to keep her hands off the calf. Everyone is staring at it. The little animal is sweet-faced, shivering with cold, and not quite strong enough to struggle against the arms holding it.

“Looks like you have your hands full,” I say to Adam.

“Literally,” Gina murmurs.

The Amish man raises his gaze to mine. “Sei mamm verlosse eem.” His mother orphaned him. Kneeling, he sets the calf on the floor. The tiny animal wobbles and then collapses to its knees.

“He’s hungry, Datt!” Sammy exclaims. “Can I feed him the bottle?”

Adam sets his hand on the animal’s back, brushing snow from its coat, and addresses Lizzie. “Warm some water on the stove. Not too hot, just warm.”

“Ja.” Nodding excitedly, the girl ducks past me and trots toward the sink.

“Sammy, get that bale of straw and break it open,” Adam tells his son. “Get it spread out on the floor. Annie, get the door for your brother.”

The little girl opens the door and Sammy charges into the swirling wall of white. Annie mans the door, ignoring the snow blowing in. When her brother hefts the bale to the jamb, she reaches for a string, not helping much but trying, and the two children wrestle the bale into the mudroom.

Gina and I stand at the doorway, watching the chaos unfold.

“What could possibly go wrong?” she murmurs.

As the children mill about, chattering as they prepare the mudroom for the calf’s overnight stay, the uneasiness of the last hours melts away. This is Amish life, I think. It’s not perfect, but simple and straightforward, and for the first time in a long time, I miss it.

I enter the mudroom and look down at the calf. “Er is schnuck,” I say. He’s cute.

Adam gets to his feet. “Likely full of kedreck.” Cow dung. But he smiles.

I’ve always had a soft spot for animals, especially the babies. Growing up, I saw dozens come into the world—horses, goats, hogs, cattle, even chicks—and I spent many a winter morning mucking stalls, hauling water, and dropping hay. I was never fond of chores, but caring for the animals was the one task I never complained about.

“What’s not to love about that face?” Gina says. “It’s like having a giant puppy.”

Adam tilts his head at her. “You can pet him if you like.”

After a brief hesitation, she approaches the calf. Gingerly, she goes to one knee, reaches out with her uninjured arm, and runs her hand across the animal’s face and back. “How old is he?”

“A few hours,” Adam tells her.

“What happened to the mother cow?” she asks.