The Last Shepherd

1. BAT

« summer 1980 » | 3 »« Nahi nin—I wanted. “Now, then,” Dad said as he shifted the truck into a lower gear. “Clean out sheep pens. Bat—one on list.” And my wanting was something more than the stupid sheep that were ruining my life. “Paint sheep corrals,” Dad said. “Bi—two on list.” Wanting chewed at my gut as lightning splintered the air, and I watched a monsoon erase Phoenix. In the valley below, clouds rushed forward like a flock of startled sheep; a coyote-colored wall of dirt pursued them— suburban houses were swallowed, downtown buildings engulfed, and the road we were on devoured. I hunched down in the truck’s passenger seat and pressed my knees up against the dash and picked strands of wool from beneath my fingernails and wanted and wanted and wanted. “Patch fence around sheep pasture,” Dad said. “Hiru—three on list.” I tried to shrug out the ache in my shoulders—a “gift” from the 534 sheep we’d unloaded up at the summer etxola—sheep camp. The sheep would remain in the mountains, tucked beneath the oak trees, until the triple-digit temperatures of Phoenix broke. Luis and Diego were stuck watching over the flock for the summer. Which gave me three months of freedom to find a way to get what I wanted onto Dad’s list. “Drain sheep pond,” Dad said. “Lau—four on list.” Thunder rumbled as the first grains of the monsoon’s wall of dirt struck the truck’s windshield. “Sharpen sheep clippers,” Dad said. “Bost—five on list—” 1 b at 4« » “What number on that list is my going to U of A?” My father’s grip tightened on the truck’s steering wheel. The scab on his knuckle cracked open. Blood oozed out. “Now, then, Mathieu, you know that sheep and the university can’t be on the same list.” “Maybe it’s time for a new list,” I said. “Mathieu, I can’t—” “It’s Matt,” I said. “My name’s Matt. That’s what my friends call me— would call me—if they all hadn’t already left for the university.” The downgrade steepened as wind worked its way through the truck. Unsealed windows whistled. Slack door hinges creaked. “I can’t sell the ranch,” Dad finally said, as if he were stating a fact that couldn’t be changed and not a choice that could. “I want you to try—” “What about what I want?” I said as my hands clenched into fists. “Now, the—” “I hate sheep—I hate the damn ranch—I hate—” “Enough!” A gust of wind rocked the truck. It was no use. I would never get what I wanted. Not as long as sheep were on my father’s list. I unclenched my fists and looked down at my empty hands with their stubby fingers like sausage links that had rolled off the plates of my palms. On those fingers, I counted all the things I hated: One—I hated sheep. Two—I hated the ranch. Three—I hated my father. Four—I hated my fingers . And for five, I decided not to just hate my fingers but to hate every part of my Basque hands because the skin was too callused and the palms too fat and the wrinkles too deep. But mostly, I hated my hands because they were just like Dad’s and Aitatxi’s and Oxea’s. “God’s hands,” Aitatxi had called them on a Sunday morning nearly ten years before. “God doesn’t even have hands,” I said from where I sat on the Farmall tractor eating strips of bacon and watching Aitatxi and Oxea load bales of hay onto a trailer. Dad had dropped me at the ranch after church. When Aitatxi asked me how church was, I told him, “Boring.” When he asked me what the apeza—priest talked about, I said, “Adam and Eve and that stupid snake.” 5« » And he said, “Sure, no, you learn Basque history.” Which didn’t make any sense. Then Oxea said that Adam and Eve were Basque, which made even less sense. Then Aitatxi said that it was a scientific fact since they both had Basque hands—God’s hands. And when I pointed out that the only thing “scientific” about anything they said was that it was...