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Dennis was fourteen years old, and doing the evening feeding, when he discovered the two-headed calf. It had just been born, still wet with amniotic fluid, though the mother had licked the sac off.
He knew it wouldn’t live long, the unusual and strange rarely did here on their farm in rural Nebraska. He knew if he called his father or older brothers, they would kill it. Let him out of his misery, they would say.
But they were all up at the house, and they would not come to check on him. Evening duties belonged to Dennis alone. He walked over to the gate and opened it. Kneeling beside the calf, who stretched a curious head towards him, he scratched him softly behind the ear.
When he stood up, he did not close the gate behind himself. The cow and the calf walked behind him out into the fields. The stars had never shone as brightly as it did that cold Nebraska night. The soft breeze rustled Dennis’ hair and eyelashes, taking with it a perfect teardrop.
The two-headed calf walked on unsteady legs, new and unused and wobbly. But it walked, it lived, it looked into the starry night not knowing what lay beyond.
When Dennis walked down to the barn next morning, he found the calf dead, curled up in the pen next to his mother. His brother was right behind him, and he too stopped at the sight.
“It’s got two heads,” his brother exclaimed, “wicked!”
He ran up to the house, sure to inform the others and Dennis felt nauseous at the spectacle of it, like it was something meant only for him, something only he could see the beauty in.
When Dennis looked at Park lying spent, eyes closed, chest expanding as he drew big, gulping breaths, Dennis was reminded of that night half a life ago. He did not know why, Park was the exact opposite of the short-lived calf. He was the picture of strength and resilience and Dennis was sure, not entirely human. There was something of a God in Park. And yet he couldn’t get the image of the two-headed calf out of his mind when looking at him.
Perhaps it was that like the calf, seeing Park like this was something Dennis knew was meant only for his eyes, that any other eyes would taint it forever.
“You’re staring.” Park’s eyes opened lazily. They were less sharp in the dim light of Dennis’ bedroom than they were in the Pitt.
“Do you mind?”
“Not really.” He shrugged, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed his jeans.
“You’re leaving?” Dennis asked.
Park looked at him for a second, his eyebrows pulling together. “Obviously.”
Dennis pressed his lips together and gave a short nod. Perhaps this was why he was reminded of the calf, knowing that whatever he had going on with Park it was destined to be beautiful but short-lived, doomed from the very start.
When Park had left Dennis walked over to his bedroom window. The stars were not as bright as in Nebraska, but he could still make them out dimly in the black velvet skies.