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Addison knew the shirt was gone before she turned around because the washing line had changed shape. A moment earlier the black cotton had been hanging between one of Glenda’s faded sleeveless tops and a pair of tiny shorts, heavy with water and pulled into a long dark rectangle by its own weight. Now there was an empty stretch of line, two wooden clothespins swinging uselessly from it, and behind her came the quick, irregular clatter of hooves over the hard summer ground. She shut her eyes for half a second. The damp sheet she was holding rested against her forearms, cool enough to feel good in the afternoon heat, while Toyah stood at her knee with three clothespins clutched in one fist and another held importantly between both hands. Addison didn’t need to look. She looked anyway. Lizzie was halfway across the yard with the Candlemass shirt hanging from her mouth.
“Lizzie.” Addison said it without raising her voice. Lizzie’s ears flicked backward at the sound and then forward again as though the name belonged to another goat. The shirt dragged beneath her chin, the bottom hem brushing the grass while one sleeve twisted around itself. Its blackness had gone darker from the wash, and the pale lettering across the front had vanished into a fold somewhere below Lizzie’s mouth. She wasn’t chewing yet. Addison could tell the difference. Chewing involved that slow, absent side-to-side movement and an expression of complete peace. At present Lizzie was carrying. Carrying meant there was still time. Toyah had followed Addison’s gaze and become very still. Her fist tightened around the clothespins until two of them poked between her fingers. “Lih-zee got shirt,” she said, not alarmed so much as astonished by the clarity of the offense. Addison shifted the wet sheet into the basket. “I see that.” Toyah looked up at her. “Your shirt.” Addison nodded. “I see that too.”
Lizzie had stopped near the patch of shade beside the fence and was deciding what came next. She lowered her head, dropped the shirt, sniffed it, placed one front hoof squarely on the fabric and began nosing along the sleeve. Addison started toward her at an ordinary walking pace. Running after Lizzie was useful only if the intended result was to persuade Lizzie that everyone had suddenly agreed to play a very exciting game. Toyah came after her, taking twice as many steps and losing one clothespin in the grass almost immediately. “No, baby. Stay by the basket,” Addison said, looking back long enough to make sure the words had landed. Toyah stopped, although every part of her seemed to continue leaning toward Lizzie. She held up the remaining clothespins as evidence of her occupation. “I help.” Addison glanced at the line, the laundry basket, the goat now beginning to mouth the wet shirt, and her daughter standing in the middle of all three with fierce readiness written across her face. “You help by keeping those with you.” Toyah drew the fist against her chest. “Keep ’em.” Addison nodded. “That’s right.”
Addison approached Lizzie from the side. The goat looked at her, lowered her head again and closed her lips around the shirt. “Don’t.” Lizzie lifted it. “I mean it.” Lizzie’s tail flicked. Addison reached for the cloth and Lizzie stepped backward. It wasn’t fear or even deliberate refusal. She had something in her mouth, Addison wanted it, and therefore the object had acquired value. Addison took another step. Lizzie took another backward step and nearly put her hind hoof through the neck hole. “You are not gonna make me negotiate over Candlemass.” Toyah, several yards behind, repeated the one word that sounded important. “Candle-mass.” Addison’s hand caught the wet end of the sleeve just as Lizzie shifted her jaw. For one brief second there was a tug-of-war that neither participant had intended to begin. Addison held steady instead of pulling. Lizzie held steady because Addison did. They stared at each other. Lizzie’s horizontal pupils gave her the grave look of an animal considering a difficult moral question. Then her mouth opened. Addison drew the shirt free and immediately lifted it above shoulder height.
The front was intact, wet and grassy, speckled with two bits of leaf and decorated across the lower edge with a translucent streak of goat saliva, but intact. Addison turned it over, checking the seams and then the print. Toyah abandoned her assigned position at the basket once it became clear the rescue had succeeded and came hurrying across the yard, one sandal slapping more loudly than the other. She stopped against Addison’s thigh and craned her neck. “Lih-zee eat it?” she asked. “No.” Addison pinched a blade of grass from the black cotton. “She thought about it.” Toyah frowned at Lizzie, who had already lost interest in the dispute and was investigating Addison’s other hand in case the retrieval of clothing traditionally involved a food reward. Toyah pointed at her with one clothespin. “No eat Mama shirt.” Addison looked down. “Don’t poke her with that.” The pointing hand dropped at once, although Toyah kept the stern expression. “No eat.” Lizzie nosed Addison’s hip. Addison moved the shirt farther away and scratched beneath the goat’s jaw with her free fingers despite herself. “She doesn’t know it’s a shirt.” Toyah stared at Lizzie as though this represented a serious educational deficiency. “It Mama shirt.” Addison nodded. “I know.” Toyah continued, “Black shirt. Candle-mass.” Addison’s mouth twitched. “Candlemass.” Toyah tried again with great care. “Can-dle-mass.” Addison conceded, “Close enough.”
She returned to the line and considered the two clothespins that had failed spectacularly at their only purpose. They were old wooden pins, smooth from years of handling, their springs strong enough for ordinary laundry but apparently not rated for determined livestock. The lowest point in the line sagged whenever a heavy sheet went up, and the shirt had been hanging too close to the end where Lizzie could stretch her neck and catch a sleeve if the breeze helped her. Addison shook the fabric once, more to free it from grass than from water, then moved it several feet toward the middle. Toyah appeared beside the basket again, having remembered the job she’d been assigned, and held out a clothespin. Addison took it with a quiet, “Thank you,” and Toyah immediately offered the second. “Need two.” Addison glanced toward Lizzie. “Probably need about eight if Lizzie gets a vote.” Toyah’s eyes went to the clothespin bag hanging from the line. She understood numbers mostly in terms of enough and not enough, and eight clearly sounded like not enough. She plunged both hands into the bag.
Addison had the shirt spread over the line before she noticed what Toyah was doing. One clothespin appeared beside her hand, then another, then another clipped directly beside the second with no fabric between them. Toyah worked with her tongue caught at one corner of her mouth, using both hands to squeeze the wooden ends apart. The spring fought her. She grunted softly, got the jaws open, pushed the pin onto the shirt and released it. It landed crooked, gripping half fabric and half nothing. She stared at the result, satisfied. Addison watched a fourth pin go up within an inch of the others. “You know we can spread those out.” Toyah looked at the row, then at Addison, then decisively added a fifth. “Strong.” Addison accepted the argument. “Strong. Sure.” Toyah went after a sixth. By the time she finished, one shoulder of the Candlemass shirt was secured by a dense little congregation of clothespins while the rest of it hung free. Addison clipped the opposite shoulder herself, then looked toward Lizzie. The goat stood beneath the fence-side shade, chewing something that was probably supposed to remain attached to the fence-side vegetation.
Toyah stepped backward and admired their work. “Can’t get it.” Addison followed her gaze. “That’s the theory.” Toyah lifted both arms toward the shirt, perhaps imagining the physics from Lizzie’s perspective. “Too high.” Addison agreed that it ought to be, and when Toyah added, “Pins strong,” she answered, “Very.” Toyah nodded, pleased with the contribution, then walked to the laundry basket and leaned so far over its rim that both feet nearly came off the ground. Addison caught the back of her romper before gravity finished the job. Toyah dangled for a second, legs scrabbling, and then found the ground again. She looked over her shoulder with mild annoyance at having been interrupted. “I get clothes.” Addison kept a hand near her back. “You ask me for clothes.” Toyah insisted, “I can get.” Addison glanced meaningfully into the basket. “You almost got yourself headfirst into the basket.” Toyah considered this and touched the rim. “I fit.” Addison stared at her. “That is not the point.” Toyah persisted, “I fit in there.” Addison sighed. “I know you fit in there. You have demonstrated that before.”
The basket contained the remnants of a household wash assembled without much respect for ownership: children’s clothes, Glenda’s shirts, Addison’s shirts, socks belonging to several different feet, kitchen towels, a pillowcase, and one pair of jeans so heavy with water that Addison had left them at the bottom. Toyah reached in again, this time keeping both feet flat, and caught a little pink sock between two fingers. She held it up. “Jess.” Addison corrected, “Jess’s.” Toyah repeated, “Jess sock,” then brought it to the line herself and looked expectantly at Addison. Addison lowered one hand. “All right. Give it here.” Toyah did not. She held the sock against the line, pinched it there with her stomach, and began wrestling with a clothespin. Addison waited. The pin opened, snapped shut on Toyah’s finger instead of the sock and produced a shocked silence. Toyah stared at it. Addison crouched immediately, but Toyah had already pulled the pin free. A pale little pressure mark crossed the pad of her finger. Her mouth trembled once, more from insult than pain. Addison took her hand and looked at it. “That got you.” Toyah nodded. “Pin bite.” Addison rubbed the fingertip between hers. “Little bit. You okay?” Toyah looked toward the clothespin lying in the grass and frowned at it. “Bad pin.” Addison shook her head. “Pin did what pins do. Fingers went where clothes go.”
Toyah flexed the finger. The disaster had not developed into anything worth crying about, and curiosity was already replacing outrage. Addison picked up the clothespin, demonstrated slowly by squeezing the back while keeping her fingers clear of the jaws, then clipped it to the sock. “Hands back here. Clothes up here.” Toyah leaned so close that her forehead almost touched Addison’s wrist. “Back here.” Addison nodded. “Right.” She removed the pin and handed it over. “Try it.” Toyah accepted the challenge with immediate solemnity. She put the sock against the line, squeezed the clothespin by its rear ends and stopped when the jaws opened. Her eyes widened at the visible mechanism. She slid it down. The jaws caught only line. She released, looked, realized the sock remained unsupported, and tried again. The second attempt trapped a tiny edge of pink cotton. The sock hung. Toyah drew both hands away as though the result might collapse if touched. It stayed. “I did.” Addison smiled. “You did.” Toyah’s face lit slowly, pleasure beginning in her eyes before it spread through her cheeks. “Jess sock stay.” Addison glanced at the little pink shape on the line. “Jess’s sock stays.”
Lizzie noticed the sock too. Addison saw the change before Toyah did. The goat’s chewing slowed, her ears turned, her head lifted, and the long line of washing moving lazily in the warm breeze became interesting again. Addison straightened. “Don’t even think about it.” Lizzie stepped out of the shade. Toyah turned around. “She thinkin’?” Addison watched the goat cross the grass. “Always.” Toyah moved closer to the line, putting herself between Lizzie and Jess’s sock with the natural conviction of somebody prepared to defend a family possession against an animal several times her weight. Addison caught her gently by the shoulders and moved her behind one leg. “You’re not the fence.” Toyah tried to peer around her. “She get Jess sock.” Addison kept her there. “She is not getting Jess’s sock.” Lizzie came nearer, muzzle tilted upward. The pink sock was too high. She sniffed beneath it, stretched and discovered nothing. Her attention wandered along the line, and Addison watched it happen with the resignation of somebody seeing a problem make an informed decision.
The Candlemass shirt stirred once in the breeze. Lizzie’s eyes fixed on the dangling lower edge. “No,” Addison said. Lizzie reached anyway. “Lizzie.” The goat rose lightly onto her hind legs, planted one front hoof against nothing, missed the fabric and dropped down. Toyah gave a relieved little laugh. “Too high.” Addison’s own relief lasted three seconds. A breeze pushed the shirt outward, one sleeve floated away from the line and then drifted back, and Lizzie stretched again, this time not rearing, simply extending her neck to its astonishing limit. Her lips closed over the sleeve cuff. Addison moved at once. “Oh, come on.” The sleeve stretched and the shirt pulled sideways. Toyah’s six carefully clustered clothespins held with magnificent loyalty while the single pin on the other shoulder surrendered immediately. The shirt rotated around its anchored side, turning the entire garment into a black flag attached to Lizzie at one end and a wooden barricade at the other. Lizzie stepped backward because the shirt had moved toward her; the shirt tightened because Lizzie stepped backward. The unexpected resistance startled her and she jerked her head. Six clothespins fired into the yard. Toyah screamed with delight. The shirt came free, and Lizzie landed on all fours with several feet of wet black cotton in her mouth and, perhaps encouraged by Toyah’s reaction, trotted away.
“Lizzie!” Addison went after her, faster this time without quite running. The goat heard pursuit and upgraded from trot to an absurd bouncing canter, the shirt flapping beneath her chin. One clothespin remained somehow attached to the hem and knocked lightly against her foreleg with each stride. Toyah came behind both of them, laughing so hard that her steps became unreliable. “She got it! She got it again!” Addison circled rather than following directly, trying to cut Lizzie off before she reached the patch behind the old garden bed where she liked to squeeze between the fence and anything trying to retrieve her. “I am aware!” Lizzie saw Addison coming, changed direction and headed toward the porch. Addison called back, “Don’t encourage her,” while Toyah’s laughter continued. “I not!” Toyah protested. Addison did not look back. “You absolutely are!”
Lizzie reached the porch steps, stopped as if suddenly remembering she possessed an object, and lowered her head. Addison shortened the distance between them. The goat dropped the shirt and put both front hooves on it. “Move your feet.” Lizzie instead began chewing the clothespin. Addison abandoned the shirt for the greater emergency and reached down. “No. Definitely not.” She slipped two fingers beneath the wooden pin and pulled. Lizzie tightened her lips around it. Addison pulled very gently in the other direction. “Wood is not lunch.” Lizzie’s jaw shifted. Addison narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare.” The pin slid from her mouth with a wet little scrape. Addison tossed it toward the laundry basket and caught the goat’s collar before Lizzie could decide to take the shirt again. Toyah arrived beside them, cheeks flushed, hair damp at the temples from heat and exertion. She bent over with both hands on her knees, still giggling. “Lih-zee run fast.”
Addison kept one hand on Lizzie’s collar and picked up the shirt with the other. “Lizzie runs fast because people laugh when she steals things.” Toyah straightened, instantly serious. “I no laugh.” Addison looked at her. Toyah pressed her lips together to support the claim. A tiny sound escaped through her nose. Addison raised an eyebrow. Toyah covered her mouth with both hands, her shoulders beginning to shake. Addison tried not to smile. “Very convincing.” Toyah’s eyes disappeared into crescents above her hands. Lizzie, caught securely and uninterested in human hypocrisy, turned her head until the collar tightened and attempted to reach a weed growing between the porch boards. Addison guided her away from it. “We’re putting you on the other side for five minutes.” Toyah lowered her hands. “She in trouble?” Addison shook her head. “No. She’s a goat.” Toyah considered that and decided, “Trouble goat.” Addison gave Lizzie a look. “Those can both be true.”
Lizzie objected to confinement mainly because confinement existed. Addison led her toward the small side enclosure, and Toyah followed carrying the rescued clothespin, which had become damp enough from Lizzie’s mouth that she held it by one dry corner. When they reached the gate, Lizzie planted her front feet and stretched backward. Addison waited. Lizzie waited too. Toyah stood beside the gate and said, “Go in, Lih-zee. You steal Mama Candle-mass.” The goat looked at her. Toyah pointed through the opening. “In.” Lizzie turned her attention back to Addison. Addison touched the side of her neck. “You heard the boss.” Lizzie still refused. Toyah searched the ground, found one broad leaf near the fence and picked it up. Before Addison could ask what she intended, Toyah held it through the gate. “Look.” Lizzie’s entire argument dissolved. She stepped forward after the leaf and Toyah backed through the opening, leading her.
Addison caught Toyah around the middle before goat and toddler could end up inside the enclosure together. “You stay out.” Toyah dangled briefly against her hip while Lizzie went after the leaf now fallen inside. Addison closed the gate and latched it. Lizzie lowered her head, ate the leaf in three bites and then turned around to discover treachery. She approached the gate, pushed her nose against it and bleated. Toyah answered immediately with her own approximation, “Meeeeh.” Lizzie bleated again and Toyah did too. Addison checked the latch while mother and daughter—one human, one not—continued an exchange neither could understand. She turned Toyah around and set her on the ground outside the gate. “She stays there while the laundry goes up.” Toyah looked through the slats. “She sad.” Lizzie had already wandered away from them toward a low branch. Addison followed Toyah’s gaze. “She’ll survive.”
The shirt required another rinse. Addison could smell goat on it now beneath the soap, a warm grassy animal smell made stronger by the wet cotton. She draped it over the side of the laundry basket rather than putting it in with the clean things. Toyah followed the movement with concern. “Dirty?” Addison answered, “Again.” Toyah frowned. “Lih-zee dirty it.” Addison repeated, “Again.” Toyah looked toward the pen. Lizzie had risen on her hind legs and was stripping leaves from the branch with remarkable efficiency. “She eat tree.” Addison gestured toward her. “That’s what she should be eating.” Toyah thought about this. “Not shirts.” Addison nodded. “Right.” Toyah continued, “Not socks.” Addison nodded again. “Right.” Toyah finished with, “Not pins.” Addison glanced at the wet wooden pin. “Especially not pins.” Toyah crouched and began collecting the scattered clothespins from the grass. The explosion had spread them surprisingly far. She found one beside the basket, another beneath the line and another several feet away. Each went into the front of her romper, which she pulled outward like a pouch. Addison watched without interrupting until Toyah tried to collect one that had landed beside a dark mound in the grass. “Not that one.” Toyah froze. “Why?” Addison pointed. “That isn’t dirt.” Toyah looked more closely, recoiled with sudden understanding and backed away. “Lih-zee poop.” Addison nodded. “Yep.” Toyah stared at the stranded clothespin. “Pin by poop.” Addison decided, “That pin can wait.”
With Lizzie temporarily separated from the operation, the remaining laundry progressed. Addison shook out the sheet and hung it broadside to the sun. Toyah handed her clothespins one by one, sometimes before she needed them, sometimes after, occasionally losing track and clipping one to the side of the basket for storage. A row of little clothes followed. Toyah wanted to identify each item before allowing it onto the line. “Amy shirt.” Addison nodded. “That one is Amy’s.” Toyah produced another item. “Mary-K shorts.” Addison agreed, “Yep.” Toyah held up the next pair. “Jess shorts.” Addison glanced down. “Those are yours.” Toyah looked at the shorts she was wearing, then at the nearly identical pair in Addison’s hands. “Mine?” Addison nodded. “Yours.” Toyah accepted this with a small noise and supplied two clothespins. A kitchen towel received four because Toyah judged it large. One washcloth received three because she liked the pattern. Addison gradually realized there was no connection between object size and clothespin allocation beyond whatever private aesthetic her daughter had developed.
Toyah was especially interested in underwear. Every pair had to be named by owner where possible, a practice Addison regretted permitting almost immediately. “Mama underwear,” Toyah announced at full volume while holding up a black pair. Addison answered, “Yes.” Toyah examined them. “Mama black underwear.” Addison accepted this with, “Thank you.” Toyah reached into the basket and produced another pair. “Glenda underwear?” Addison took them quickly. “Laundry doesn’t need biographies.” Toyah stared at her. “What?” Addison shook her head. “Nothing. Hand me a pin.” Toyah handed her one, and a second later asked, “Whose sock?” Addison looked at the small white sock. “Could be anybody’s at this point.” Toyah frowned. This was an unacceptable answer. “Whose?” Addison reconsidered it. “Probably Jess’s.” Toyah brightened instantly. “Jess sock.” Addison clipped it beside the first one. “There. Reunited.” Toyah pushed the two little socks together on the line until they touched. “They sisters.” Addison looked down at her daughter and then at the paired socks. “Of course they are.”
The heat had built against the yard while they worked. Sunlight pressed white onto the top of the fence, and the wooden boards beneath Addison’s bare feet had become too warm to stand on comfortably for long. Cicadas rasped from beyond the houses. The sheet began drying almost as soon as it went up, its wet lower edge losing some of its weight and moving more freely. Toyah’s curls had tightened damply around her face. Addison stopped long enough to take her to the porch, hand her the plastic cup of water waiting there and make sure more of it went into Toyah than down her front. Toyah drank solemnly, then held the cup toward the enclosure. “Lih-zee water.” Addison pointed toward the shade. “She has water.” Toyah checked with her own eyes. The shallow container sat where it should. Lizzie stood beside it, drinking as if summoned by the conversation. Toyah relaxed. “She got some.” Addison nodded. “She does.”
Addison took a drink herself, then sat on the porch step for what she intended to be one minute. Toyah sat beside her because sitting beside Addison was temporarily more important than laundry. Their knees pointed toward the yard. Lizzie finished drinking, lifted her head and stood with water shining on her lower lip. The line moved above the grass. Shirts and towels breathed in and out with the breeze. Addison’s Candlemass shirt lay over the basket rim looking like evidence from a crime scene. Toyah noticed where Addison was looking. “Wash it.” Addison nodded. “Again.” Toyah continued the sequence. “Then hang.” Addison answered, “Again.” Toyah leaned against Addison’s bare arm. “Then Lih-zee take.” Addison turned her head slowly. Toyah’s expression was innocent. “No,” Addison said. Toyah smiled. “She take two.” Addison corrected the future implicit in it. “She is not getting a third.” Toyah held to the important fact. “Two times.” Addison gave her a dry look. “I was there.” Toyah raised two fingers, although she had to use the other hand to arrange them correctly. “Two.” Addison touched the raised fingers. “And two is plenty.”
Toyah lowered the hand but kept leaning against her. For several quiet seconds she watched Lizzie. The goat wandered to the enclosure fence and rubbed the side of her neck along one board. The pentagram on her collar knocked faintly against the wood. Toyah’s gaze followed it. “Star.” Addison murmured, “Mm-hm.” Toyah pointed. “Lih-zee star.” Addison nodded. “Yep.” Toyah considered the shirt and the goat together. “She Candle-mass goat?” Addison looked at her again. Toyah had no hint of a joke in her face. She had connected the black shirt, the strange white lettering she couldn’t read, the dark little star at Lizzie’s throat and the goat’s obvious interest in possessing the garment, and reached a conclusion. Addison considered correcting it. Instead she asked, “You think she likes them?” Toyah nodded firmly. “She like shirt.” Addison looked toward Lizzie. “That much is undeniable.”
A little movement came from the screen door behind them, followed by the faint thump of something inside, but no one emerged. Toyah glanced back automatically and then returned to the yard. Addison rubbed a thumb over the damp mark on Toyah’s shoulder where the drinking cup had missed. “Ready to finish?” Toyah nodded and stood. “I do pins.” Addison glanced toward the clothespin bag. “That has become very clear.” Toyah ran back toward the basket, then remembered halfway that Addison disliked running under the washing line because the wooden supports had several unpleasant corners at toddler-head height. She slowed abruptly into an exaggerated walk. Addison saw the effort and said nothing. Toyah reached the basket safely, turned around to make sure it had been observed, then raised one clothespin in triumph.
Addison carried the Candlemass shirt inside to the sink, rinsed the lower half under cool water, rubbed the damp area lightly between her fingers and wrung it carefully enough not to twist the print. Toyah stood on the kitchen floor beside her and narrated most of the procedure. “Water. Shirt water. Lih-zee spit.” Addison squeezed another stream into the sink. “Thank you for preserving the dignity of the moment.” Toyah did not know what dignity meant and therefore ignored it. “Black water.” Addison shook her head. “That’s just the shirt.” Toyah watched closely. “Soap?” Addison answered, “Doesn’t need another full wash.” Toyah rose onto her toes, trying to see into the basin. Addison lifted the shirt. Water streamed from its hem. Toyah touched one falling drop with a fingertip. “Cold.” Addison nodded. “Good in this heat.” Toyah wiped the finger on Addison’s shorts. Addison looked down. “Helpful.” Toyah smiled and reached for the shirt. “I carry.”
Addison hesitated. The route from kitchen to line was perhaps fifteen yards. Toyah could carry a wet shirt. The question was what else she would do with it on the way. She gave it over. “Two hands. Keep it off the floor.” Toyah hugged the wet bundle against her chest. Most of the shirt disappeared behind it. “Two hands,” she repeated. Addison pointed toward the door. “And outside.” Toyah turned toward the screen door. Addison opened it for her. Toyah stepped carefully over the threshold, paused to adjust her grip, then carried the shirt onto the porch with slow, concentrated steps. Addison followed closely without touching. At the steps Toyah stopped. She looked down at the drop, then at the shirt, then at Addison. “Help.” Addison held out one hand. Toyah took it, still hugging the shirt with the other arm, and negotiated the steps. At the bottom she released Addison and continued toward the line.
Lizzie saw the shirt, and Addison saw Lizzie see the shirt before Toyah noticed anything. The goat left the branch she had been chewing and came directly to the enclosure gate, her body rising with sudden interest, ears forward and nose pressed between the slats. Toyah reached the basket, still carrying the black bundle, and turned toward the line. Lizzie bleated. Toyah turned toward Lizzie, the shirt shifting lower in her arms, while Lizzie stretched her neck through the largest gap she could find. “Keep walking,” Addison said. Toyah stood still. “She want it.” Addison answered, “I know she wants it.” Toyah looked between goat and shirt. “Her shirt?” Addison said, “No.” Toyah considered this. “She like it.” Addison folded her arms. “That doesn’t make it hers.”
Toyah started toward the enclosure anyway, and Addison intercepted her in two steps, crouching between child and goat. “No. We do not reward theft.” Toyah stopped. “What reward?” Addison translated. “It means she doesn’t get the shirt because she stole it twice.” Toyah’s brows drew together. “She not keep it.” Addison nodded. “Correct.” Toyah offered a compromise. “Just see.” Addison shook her head. “She has seen plenty.” Toyah looked around Addison at Lizzie. “She wanna sniff.” Addison counted it out with mounting disbelief. “She has sniffed it. She has carried it. She has stepped on it. She has drooled on it. She has had a full relationship with that shirt.” Toyah thought about the list before deciding, “She love it.” Addison looked at the goat pressing her nose between the boards. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Toyah hugged the shirt tighter, perhaps protectively now, and turned away from Lizzie. “Mama shirt.” Addison nodded. “Exactly.” They crossed to the line together. Addison took the garment back, shook it out and selected a place so high and central that Lizzie would have needed engineering equipment to reach it. Toyah prepared the clothespins. This time Addison let her dictate the arrangement. One went on the left shoulder, one on the right, a third beside the first, a fourth beside the second. Then Toyah wanted one halfway along each sleeve, which accomplished nothing because the sleeves did not touch the line. Addison showed her why. Toyah moved them to the lower hem, discovered that pinning the hem to nothing also accomplished nothing, and stared upward in irritation at the laws governing laundry. “Pins gotta hold shirt to line,” Addison explained. Toyah pointed. “There.” Addison followed the finger. “Right there?” Toyah nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Addison lifted her. Toyah’s legs wrapped instinctively against Addison’s waist while one small hand caught her shoulder, and Addison steadied her with an arm across her back. From the higher position Toyah could reach the middle of the shirt where it folded over the line. She clipped one pin there, then another beside it. Addison shifted her a few inches and Toyah added a third. The shirt now had enough hardware to survive weather more serious than northern Alabama could reasonably provide. “Done?” Addison asked. Toyah surveyed it. “One more.” Addison accepted the inevitable. “Of course.” She shifted again. Toyah placed the last clothespin with enormous care directly between two others and announced, “Now done.” Addison lowered her. “That shirt may never come off the line again.” Toyah looked pleased. “Strong.” Addison glanced up at their work. “Very strong.”
They collected the basket, leaving the laundry to dry. Addison would ordinarily have let Lizzie out again immediately, but she looked at the goat and then at the black shirt. Lizzie looked at the black shirt too. Addison pointed at her. “You stay there until I find you something less sentimental to destroy.” Lizzie’s ears moved. Toyah copied the gesture, pointing through the fence. “You stay. Mama Candle-mass.” Lizzie gave a short bleat and Toyah replied with one of her own. Addison carried the basket toward the porch. “Don’t start negotiating.” Toyah remained by the gate while Addison set the basket down and watched her. Toyah did not reach through. She had learned that much. She stood close enough for Lizzie to bring her nose near the slats. “You bad?” Toyah asked softly. Lizzie sniffed at her hair. Toyah shook her head. “No. Goat.” She had absorbed Addison’s distinction more exactly than Addison expected. Her small fingers wrapped around one fence board. “You don’t know shirt.” Lizzie’s lips reached toward a curl. Toyah leaned away. “No eat hair.” The goat withdrew. Toyah considered her. “Mama love shirt.” Lizzie blinked. “I love Jess.” The comparison seemed to occur as she spoke it. Her face became grave. “You no take Jess.” Addison, standing several yards away, had to cover her mouth with the back of her wrist.
Toyah looked toward her. “What?” Addison answered, “Nothing.” Toyah narrowed her eyes. “You laugh.” Addison conceded, “A little.” Toyah pointed toward Lizzie. “I say Lih-zee no take Jess.” Addison nodded. “I heard you.” Toyah explained patiently, “Jess not shirt.” Addison kept her mouth under control. “No, baby. Jess is not a shirt.” Toyah turned back to Lizzie. “No take Jess.” Lizzie lowered her head and began licking the fence. Addison sat down on the porch step. “I think the message got through.”
Toyah came back to her, dragging one fingertip along the fence as she walked until the boards ended. She climbed onto the step with both hands, turned and sat against Addison’s side. The yard had returned to its ordinary summer pace. Nothing was being stolen. Nothing required rescue. The washing stirred overhead. A drop fell from the freshly rinsed shirt and darkened the dirt beneath it. Somewhere beyond the fence, a child called to somebody down the lane. A screen door banged. The cicadas seemed louder whenever everything else quieted. Toyah rested one foot over Addison’s bare ankle and picked at a loose thread on her own sandal. After a while she asked, “Why you like Candle-mass?” Addison looked down. “Candlemass.” Toyah repeated dutifully, “Candle-mass.” Addison considered the question. “Because they sound good.” Toyah was not satisfied. “Why?”
Addison leaned her forearms onto her knees. Explaining doom metal to a two-year-old had not been on the day’s list. “Because they’re heavy.” Toyah looked immediately at the shirt. “Heavy wet.” Addison shook her head. “Different heavy.” Toyah frowned. “Heavy music?” Addison nodded. “Yeah.” Toyah asked, “Like boom?” Addison thought about it. “Sometimes.” Toyah slapped both palms softly against her thighs. “Boom boom?” Addison slowed her hands. “Slower.” Toyah repeated the motion slowly. “Boom… boom.” Addison smiled. “Closer.” Toyah leaned forward, absorbed now. “Loud?” Addison said, “Can be.” Toyah considered another possibility. “Scary?” Addison answered, “Some people might think so.” Toyah’s eyes went toward Lizzie and her pentagram. “Lih-zee scary?” Addison shook her head. “No.” Toyah pointed. “Lih-zee got star.” Addison agreed. “She does.” Toyah asked, “Candle-mass got star?” Addison glanced down at her. “Not everything I like has to have the same accessories.”
Toyah accepted perhaps one word in four. “Music heavy.” Addison echoed her. “Music heavy.” Toyah began patting her knees again in slow rhythm. “Boom… boom… boom.” She lowered her voice on each sound until the last became a gravelly little growl that made Addison laugh. Toyah smiled but kept going, pleased that she had apparently discovered the correct technique. “Booooom.” Lizzie lifted her head toward the noise. Toyah immediately pointed. “She like it.” Addison allowed, “Maybe she does.” Toyah nodded with satisfaction. “She Candle-mass goat.” Addison gave up. “Fine. She’s a Candlemass goat.” Toyah beamed.
The truce lasted until late afternoon. The washing dried fast enough that the smaller things came off the line first. Toyah helped again, this time carrying the empty basket while Addison removed clothes and dropped them in. Carrying the basket meant Toyah could see almost nothing in front of her. Addison therefore walked backward several feet ahead, guiding her around the porch post and away from the place where the hose crossed the grass. “Little left.” Toyah turned dramatically left. Addison corrected, “Not that much. Straight. Straight.” Toyah adjusted herself. “I straight.” Addison nodded. “You’re doing fine.” The basket bumped her knees with each step. When they reached the line she dropped it deliberately and announced, “Here.”
Lizzie remained in the enclosure because Addison had become curious about how long the goat could sustain her grievance. The answer appeared to be indefinitely. Each time Addison glanced over, Lizzie was either chewing or standing at the gate waiting for injustice to end. Toyah had visited twice with reassurance and once with a cup that Addison stopped her from pouring into the already full water container. Now she watched Addison take down shirts and towels, her eyes repeatedly drifting toward the pen. “Lih-zee come out?” Toyah asked. Addison answered, “In a minute.” Toyah assured her, “She done stealing.” Addison glanced sideways. “You sound very confident.” Toyah nodded. “She done.” Addison asked, “Did she tell you?” Toyah nodded again. “She say meh.” Addison pulled a pillowcase from the line. “Of course she did.”
The Candlemass shirt had dried almost completely. Only the folded strip over the line remained slightly damp, and Toyah’s extravagant collection of clothespins still held it with military discipline. Addison began removing them. Toyah insisted upon taking each pin as it came off and placing it in the bag. One, two, three, four. She counted imperfectly, repeating four twice and skipping six entirely. Addison reached the last pin and paused. “You want this one?” Toyah raised both hands. “Mine.” Addison gave it to her, then lifted the shirt from the line. Lizzie bleated. Both of them turned. The goat stood with her front feet against the gate. Toyah looked from Lizzie to the shirt, and Addison said, “Don’t.” Toyah’s eyes went wide with innocence. “I not.” Addison folded the shirt. “I can see the idea happening.” Toyah protested, “No idea.” Addison looked at her. “You have an idea face.” Toyah pressed both hands over her cheeks as if that might conceal it.
Addison folded the shirt once lengthwise. Toyah watched. Lizzie watched. Addison folded it again. “The shirt is going inside.” Toyah lowered her hands. “Show Lih-zee?” Addison answered, “No.” Toyah tried, “Little?” Addison repeated, “No.” Toyah offered, “She say bye.” Addison looked toward the pen. “She can say bye from there.” Toyah turned and called, “Bye shirt!” while waving on Lizzie’s behalf. Lizzie bleated. Toyah gasped. “See? She say bye.” Addison tucked the folded shirt beneath her arm. “Touching.”
Toyah went to the gate before Addison could stop her and carefully lifted the latch. “Toyah.” Her hand froze and she looked back. Addison asked, “What do you do before opening Lizzie’s gate?” Toyah stared at the latch, then at Addison. Her excitement drained into concentration. “Ask.” Addison nodded. “That’s right.” Toyah immediately asked, “Can I?” Addison looked down at the folded shirt under her arm, then toward the porch. “The shirt goes inside first.” Toyah’s mouth tightened with impatience. “Mama.” Addison knew exactly what that tone meant. “I know. Five seconds.”
Addison carried the shirt to the porch and laid it on the back of the chair, well beyond goat height. When she returned, Toyah still had one hand resting beside the latch but had not opened it. Addison touched her shoulder. “Thank you for waiting.” Toyah immediately asked, “Now?” Addison nodded. “Now.” Toyah lifted the latch, and Lizzie pushed the gate before Toyah had fully moved clear. Addison caught it with one hand and guided Toyah back with the other. “Let her come. Don’t stand in front.” Toyah retreated. Lizzie emerged at a brisk walk, paused just outside as though astonished to discover the rest of the yard still existed, then trotted in a loose circle. Toyah ran after her for three steps before Addison said, “Walk,” and she reduced herself with visible effort to a fast, bouncing march.
Lizzie crossed the yard, sniffed the empty laundry basket, investigated the grass beneath the line and found one forgotten clothespin. Toyah saw it at the same moment and shouted, “Pin!” She reached Lizzie first, not because she was faster, but because Lizzie had paused to inspect the object before deciding whether it was food. Toyah crouched and snatched the clothespin from beneath the goat’s nose. She stood with it clenched protectively in both hands. Lizzie followed upward and nosed her stomach. Toyah squealed and twisted away. “No! Pin not food.” Lizzie followed again. Toyah backed toward Addison. “Mama, she get pin.” Addison held out her hand. “Bring it here.” Toyah walked backward until she reached her and transferred the clothespin. Lizzie came too, predictably interested in wherever the object had gone. Addison put it into the hanging bag. Lizzie sniffed the bag. “No.” Addison moved it higher. Lizzie stretched. “No.” Toyah copied her. “No.” Lizzie looked between them, perhaps determining that the household had become unreasonable during her imprisonment, and wandered away. Toyah watched her go. “She listen.” Addison decided not to damage the moment.
They carried the basket inside together. Toyah held one handle and Addison the other, which meant Addison bore nearly the entire weight while Toyah walked sideways and believed otherwise. At the porch, Toyah remembered the shirt before Addison did. “Candle-mass.” Addison glanced toward the chair. The chair was empty. For one terrible second she looked at the yard. Lizzie was across it, chewing grass. Addison looked beneath the chair. Nothing. Toyah looked too. “Gone.” Addison’s eyes went to the screen door, which stood slightly open, and she stepped inside.
The shirt lay in the middle of the kitchen floor, and Jess sat beside it with one small hand resting on the black cotton while the other held a wooden clothespin. Addison stopped in the doorway with the laundry basket still in one hand. Toyah pushed around her leg, saw Jess and immediately understood the scene according to her own logic. “Jess save it!” Jess looked up. “Shirt fall.” Addison glanced back at the porch chair, then at the shirt. A breeze had probably caught it through the partly open door and pushed it inside, or one of the girls had moved it earlier without her noticing. The exact explanation mattered less than the sight of Jess sitting guard beside the twice-stolen, twice-washed, over-pinned black shirt while Lizzie grazed innocently outside.
Toyah dropped her side of the basket and hurried to her. “Lih-zee take it two times.” Jess’s eyes widened. “Again?” Toyah held up fingers. “Two! She run. Mama run. Pins go pffft!” She flung both hands outward to demonstrate the explosion. “Everywhere.” Jess looked toward Addison, seeking confirmation. Addison set the basket down. “That is more or less accurate.” Toyah knelt beside the shirt. “Then Lih-zee Candle-mass goat.” Jess accepted this immediately. “Candle-mass goat.” Addison rubbed both hands over her face. Toyah touched the print with one fingertip, careful now that the garment had been through enough. “Mama love it.” Jess looked at Addison. “You love shirt?” Addison crouched beside them. “I like the shirt.” Toyah shook her head. “Love.” Addison sighed. “Apparently my feelings have been decided for me.” Jess stroked the sleeve. “Soft.” Addison nodded. “It’s old.” Toyah looked suspicious. “Old like Glenda?” Addison choked on a laugh so abruptly that she had to turn her face away.
Jess began laughing because Addison was laughing. Toyah laughed because Jess was laughing. Outside, Lizzie heard the noise and came trotting toward the porch, bell sounding beneath her throat. Addison recovered just enough to see her appear through the screen. “No,” she said immediately. Lizzie stopped. Three small faces turned toward the door. The goat stood on the porch, looking through the mesh. Addison picked up the Candlemass shirt and held it against her chest. Lizzie’s ears lifted. Toyah pointed. “She want it.” Addison tightened her hold. “She is never touching this shirt again.” Toyah looked at Lizzie with sympathy. “Sorry.” Lizzie bleated. Jess answered with a bleat of her own and Toyah joined in.
For several seconds the kitchen filled with goat noises coming from both sides of the screen. Lizzie answered once more, longer this time, and Toyah nearly fell sideways laughing. Addison remained crouched on the floor with the black shirt gathered safely in her arms, watching her daughter and Jess bleat at a goat who had spent the afternoon stealing Swedish doom metal from a washing line and now appeared completely certain that she had been denied something rightfully hers.
Later, once the laundry had been folded into uncertain piles and redistributed across the house, Addison found the shirt on top of her own stack. It still carried the clean outdoor smell of sun-dried cotton, although if she pressed the sleeve close enough she imagined there was a trace of grass beneath it. The print had survived. The collar was a little stretched where Lizzie had caught it the second time, but not badly. Near the bottom hem was one faint rectangular mark where a clothespin had dried against the fabric. Addison ran her thumb across it and thought of Toyah’s tiny hands fighting the spring open, the row of pins clustered together because strength, in Toyah’s mind, meant putting every available defense in the same place.
Toyah wandered in while Addison was still looking at it. She had shed one sandal and acquired a cracker. Crumbs dotted the front of her romper. She stopped beside Addison’s knee and looked at the folded shirt. “You wear it?” Addison answered, “Not today.” Toyah asked, “Tomorrow?” Addison allowed, “Maybe.” Toyah’s next question was inevitable. “Lih-zee see?” Addison gave her a look. Toyah took a bite of cracker. “No touch.” Addison agreed, “Definitely no touch.” Toyah swallowed and leaned against her leg. “I put pins.” Addison nodded. “You did.” Toyah emphasized, “Lots.” Addison looked at her. “A frankly irresponsible number.” Toyah smiled around another bite. “Strong.” Addison looked at the shirt once more and then down at her. “Very strong.”
Toyah reached up. Addison expected her to touch the fabric, but Toyah instead opened her hand. One wooden clothespin rested in her palm. She must have carried it inside without either of them noticing. Addison took it and turned it between her fingers. One side had a faint set of shallow tooth marks near the end. “Where did you get this?” Toyah pointed toward the yard. Addison asked, “Lizzie?” Toyah nodded. Addison examined the pin. “Of course.”
Toyah climbed against her knee until Addison lifted her onto her lap. She settled immediately, cracker in one hand, the other pressing against Addison’s forearm. Through the open window came the faint clink of Lizzie’s bell somewhere outside, followed by a single abrupt bleat. Toyah’s head turned toward the sound. “Candle-mass goat,” she said. Addison rested her chin briefly against Toyah’s hair. She could have corrected the pronunciation again. She could have corrected the entire idea. Instead she put the chewed clothespin on the table, folded the shirt once more and moved it to the highest shelf she could reach. “Yeah,” she said. “But the goat’s getting her own shirt next time.”