The Silver Star(75)

Not only did Liz love the emus, she also fell in love with the word “emu.” She pronounced it “emyou” and also “emooo,” drawing out the sound like a mooing cow. She pointed out that “emu” was “youme” backward, and she came up with a whole list of neat words that rhymed with “emus,” everything from “refuse” to “snooze” to “blues” to “choose” and “chews.”

That night, she looked up emus in Uncle Tinsley’s Encyclopaedia Britannica and kept bombarding us with information about them, how they came from Australia, how they could run forty-five miles an hour, how the males sat on the nest, how they had these unique double feathers with two plumes growing from each quill.

“They’re so weird and so beautiful,” she said.

“Like you,” I said.

I meant it as a joke, but Liz nodded. She felt that she was sort of like an emu herself, she said. Maybe that was why she’d had flying dreams ever since she was a little girl—at heart, she was an emu. She was sure the emus also dreamed of flying. It was another thing they had in common. Both she and the emus wanted to fly—they just didn’t have the wings they needed.





CHAPTER FIFTY


On Monday morning, I went back to school. The trial had been over for two days, but we still hadn’t figured out what we were going to do next. Mom was set on clearing out of Byler. She kept talking about that harebrained road trip and also about going to the Catskills, or maybe Chincoteague Island to see the wild ponies. Liz, meanwhile, kept refusing to go to school. When she wasn’t watching the emus, she was in our room, obsessively writing emu poetry. One poem went:

Never fight with emus

Because emus never lose.





Another one went:

When they sneeze,

Emus choose

To use

Tissues.





And then there was:

Emus do peruse

The news,

Sometimes alone,

Sometimes in twos.

But,

Asked what they think,

Emus just blink.

Emus rarely share their views.

They don’t refuse.

They use a ruse,

Pretending to be quite confused.





On Wednesday afternoon, Tater and a couple of buddies arrived in a pickup with an empty cattle trailer attached to it. Tater was a small, slope-shouldered guy with sandy hair and a tight, unsmiling mouth. He barely thanked us for keeping his emus, and immediately started complaining about those stupid birds, what a trouble they were, worst deal he ever made. Some guy up in Culpeper County sold them to him as a breeding pair after convincing him that emu meat and emu eggs would be the next big thing, but this pair wouldn’t breed or even lay eggs. He’d have barbecued them a long time ago, only he’d learned that the meat was gamier than hell—tasted like shoe leather—so all the damn birds did now was walk around scaring the cattle and shitting those big emu piles everywhere. Good for nothing but bear bait.

With Uncle Tinsley directing, Tater backed the trailer up to the pasture gate. We all trooped into the field, though Mom hung back, complaining that she wasn’t wearing the right shoes. Besides, she didn’t trust those emus—they could turn on us in an instant.

Liz had brought some bread along and tried luring the emus into the trailer, but when they got near the ramp, they peered into the dark, confining interior, gave Liz one of their funny cross-eyed looks, and scurried off. We spent over an hour hollering and waving our arms, trying to shoo the emus toward the trailer. It didn’t work. Whenever we got them close, the emus screamed and flapped their stunted little wings and dodged away. Once Tater managed to get a hand on Eugene’s neck, but the bird kicked out with one of his huge taloned feet, and Tater had to jump back. “Goddamn birds,” he said. “They’re so stupid. I should just shoot them.”

“They’re not stupid,” Liz told him. “They just don’t want to do what you want them to do. And why would they?”

“Well, I hate the ugly buggers,” he said.

“You hate them?” Liz asked. “I love them.”

Tater stopped and looked at Liz. “You love them?” he asked. “You can have them.”

“Oh my God,” Liz said. And she actually fell to her knees and held her arms out. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Tater looked at Liz like she was insane.

“Wait a minute,” Uncle Tinsley said. “We can’t just take these emus. Who’s going to look after them?”

“Me,” Liz said.

“I’ll help,” I said.

“Please,” Liz said.

“We’re talking about a serious long-term commitment here,” Uncle Tinsley said.

“That’s right,” Mom said. “Anyway, we’re not staying in Byler. We’re moving. To the Catskills. Or wherever.”