These days in early June were as near to perfection as days could get, Maggie thought as she peered, sleepy-eyed, out her bedroom window at the long morning shadows that dappled the lawn below. There was a light morning mist rising above the distant fields and a pleasant coolness to the air. It would be hot soon enough. She got dressed, brushed her teeth, and ran a comb rather carelessly through her long yellow hair — just enough to prevent any snarls. She would do a more complete job after her chores. A few minutes later, she was sitting on a three legged stool, her head propped against the plump belly of Daisy, one of her father’s three milking cows. She squeezed two of Daisy’s teats in easy rhythm, sending fine streams of milk pinging noisily into the white enamel pail she held clamped between her knees. Her father was milking one of the other cows while her mother was back at the house readying a hardy breakfast of ham, eggs and toasted homemade bread. As her father finished milking, Maggie picked up a small wicker basket and headed for the hen house. After she had collected the eggs and placed them in the cool dampness of the apple cellar to be candled later in the day, she returned to the house to clean up and join her parents for breakfast.

   Now, finally, it was time to start the day.

   Just before noon, Maggie tore off a piece of waxed paper from the Cut Rite roll and laid it neatly on the kitchen counter. She sliced two pieces of bread and some cold chicken to make herself a chicken, lettuce and mayonnaise sandwich, which she wrapped in the waxed paper and stuffed into a one quart berry basket. She removed the milk bucket from the ice box on the back porch and, after sniffing it to be sure it was still fresh, filled a one pint mason jar, then tore off another piece of waxed paper to use as a seal before screwing on the lid.

She broke off half a carrot, washed it in the sink and tucked it under the waxed paper that wrapped her sandwich.

   “Okay,” she thought aloud, “I’m ready.”

   A few minutes later, the three boys came around the side of the house. “Hey Maggie, you ready?” Tom called out.

   “Just waitin’ on you guys.”

   “If yer waitin’ fer us, yer just wastin’ your time,” Gordie’s deep voice drawled.

   Maggie grabbed the jar and the basket from the counter. “See you later, Mom,” she shouted over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply, which was just as well since her mother was working in the garden at the front of the house and didn’t hear her anyway.

   The four set out across the rolling fields of timothy and clover to the stone wall that separated Maggie’s father’s farm from Jim Kocher’s. A sense of privacy prevailed there because of the way the hills came together. All the farm buildings and houses were blocked from view by trees, hedge rows and the natural slope of the countryside. The only possible intrusion would be from the train whose tracks wound around the hill. The bend was so sharp that the trains barely crept along. On the day Tom rode Old Man Kocher’s Holsteins, heads appeared from both the engine and the caboose cheering him on. There would probably be no such riding today, however, because the cows were in another part of the pasture — a part too open to view.

   So to Maggie’s relief, the four lounged on a large rock in the shade of a mature maple tree surrounded by a hedge row. They ate their picnics leisurely, then ambled down to rinse their jars in the creek and set them on the big rock to dry.

   Alfie and Gordie climbed to the top of the towering maple while Tom strolled out into the pasture to find a buttercup for Maggie.

   “Come here, Maggie, I want to find out if you’re going to heaven.” He held the little yellow flower under Maggie’s chin. “If this buttercup reflects under your chin, you go to heaven. If it doesn’t, you go to the other place.” He bent down to look up at Maggie’s chin. “Oh-oh,” he said.

   “What do you mean ‘oh-oh’?”

   “No reflection.”

   “Give me that.” Maggie grabbed the flower and held it under her own chin. “You weren’t holding it close enough. There.”

   “Sorry. Still no reflection.”

   “Whaaat?” Maggie held the buttercup under her forearm. “See, there’s a reflection on my arm. So there has to be one under my chin.”

   Tom took the buttercup back and held it under her chin again. “Sorry,” he said. “You don’t get to heaven by getting a reflection on your arm. Just under your chin.” He returned her skeptical gaze with “It’s hard to explain these things.”

   “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Maggie pulled the buttercup from his hand. “If it reflects under your chin, that means you like butter.”

   “Oh, is that what it means?” Tom shrugged. “Close enough.”

   “Close enough? Liking butter is close enough to going to heaven?” She sat, leaning against the trunk and put the buttercup through the top button hole in her shirt. Tom leaned against the trunk, and lowered himself so he was sitting very close to her. He then slid his arm around her waist.

Maggie looked at his hand clutching her waist. She looked away for a moment then looked Tom straight in the eye. “Are you trying to feel me up?” She said.

   “No,” Tom proclaimed, quickly removing his arm and sliding away. “No. Of course not.”

   “Then what were you doing?”

   “Well, I guess I was snuggling. There’s nothing wrong with snuggling, is there?”

   Maggie didn’t reply.

   “Well, is there? You smell good. Like a flower. And I just sort of snuggled up to you, that’s all. Nothin’ wrong with that.”

   “Come on, Tom. A flower? On a hot, sweaty day like today? My shirt’s about soaked with sweat. Even weeds smell better than I do. Maybe you weren’t feelin’ me up, but you weren’t far from it. And flowers have got nothing to do with it.”

   “Yes they do. Well, maybe not flowers, exactly, but I like the way you smell. It makes me want to snuggle.”

   Maggie lifted her arm and sniffed the moist crescent beneath it, then grimaced.

   “Besides, Maggie, I would never feel you up.”

   “Ho ho. Not much, you wouldn’t.”

   Just then, Topsy, the old hound dog that had attached herself to Maggie’s family, waddled through the high grass, her tail whipping it as she came. “Come here, Topsy. Come on girl,” Maggie called. The old dog ambled over and lay on her back sprawled across Maggie’s lap. “She likes to have her belly scratched,” Maggie said, rubbing Topsy’s underside. “My goodness, Topsy girl, you’ve got a big ol’ bloat bug on you. Two of ‘em.” Maggie began inspecting Topsy’s underside and pulling off bloat bugs.

   Then, after a moment and without looking up, she said, “What if I wanted you to?”

   “Wanted me to what? Pick bugs off your dog?”

   “No, what if I wanted you to feel me up?”

   “Shhh. Maggie, keep your voice down.” He looked up into the branches where Alfie and Gordie were, thankfully, high in the tree and obscured by the branches. “Holy smokes, Maggie, the things you say. I would never . . . Come on, Maggie, don’t ask me questions like that. It’s bad enough that you’re so fetchin’ . . . and you smell so good. You shouldn’t be sayin’ stuff like that.”

   “Well, would you?”

   “Absolutely not.” he said, adding after a moment, “I don’t think so.” He thought for a moment. “It wouldn’t be right, you know. I don’t guess it would.” A few moments passed. “Maybe I would do it. Probably. Yeah, I guess I would.” He still didn’t look at her. “Yeah, I would,” nodding his head vigorously. “Okay. For sure if you wanted me to.”

   “I thought so.”

   Tom looked straight ahead and Maggie continued searching through the fine hair on Topsy’s belly. Neither spoke for an awkward moment.

    “Well,” Tom said, looking at her at last, “does that mean you want me to?”

   “Of course not.”

   “Then why did you ask, for cryin’ out loud?”

   “Just wondered.”

   Tom got to his feet and sighed heavily. He picked up a small, flat stone and threw it low across Jim Kocher’s field, watching it curve for a moment before dipping into the tall grass at the far end of the pasture.

   “You’re done,” Maggie said as she dumped the contented dog from her lap. Topsy, casting a slightly annoyed backward glance, re-entered the tall grass, tail whipping as before.

   “And speaking of smells,” Maggie said climbing down from the rock, “it’s time to slop Mrs. Moss’s pigs.”

   Tom called up into the branches of the maple tree, “Come on, you guys, we’ve got some pigs to slop.”

   Two voices called back in unison, “Okay.” Then Gordie’s added, “We’ll catch up to you.”

   As Maggie and Tom walked down the hill away from the tree, they met Jim Kocher’s small herd of Holsteins grazing its way back toward Kocher’s barn. In their midst was the high backbone and regal bearing of Echo.

    Saying nothing, Tom looked at the cows, then caught Maggie’s gaze. He raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the herd.

   Maggie smiled broadly and tugged on Tom’s arm. He bent toward her, thinking she was going to refuse again to ride one of the cows. Instead, she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and, looking back to be sure she wasn’t overheard, said, “I like the way you smell too.” Then she turned abruptly and walked among the grazing cows, petting them lovingly as she did. She walked along side Echo and put her hand on the big cow’s back. Echo began walking faster. Maggie kept up with her as she picked up speed. Soon the cow was walking faster and Maggie had broken into a slow jog. To keep up, she kept her hand lightly touching the cow’s side. Then, to the boys’ amazement, she reached to the top of Echo’s back and, with both hands, tightly grabbed the loose leathery skin at the cow’s shoulders and whooped, throwing herself on Echo’s back. Echo stopped in her tracks, throwing Maggie’s prone form farther forward than Maggie had intended. The cow put her head down and took short choppy jumps, swaying to and fro trying to dislodge Maggie. Tom watched flabbergasted as the large cow hopped and bucked awkwardly farther into the pasture with Maggie clinging to her back.

   But Maggie was getting better situated. Using both hands, she grabbed loose skin high on Echo’s neck and, clamping her legs at either side, shimmied back to a better balanced position. Finally, she grabbed onto the shoulder skin with just one hand and threw the other in the air, laughing and whooping as Echo bucked and swayed.

   Alfie and Gordie saw her and joined Tom to catch up with the runaway Echo as the other cows scattered, unnerved by Echo’s distress.

   “How do I get off here?” Maggie called back to Tom.

   “Just jump,” he said. “But look out for the . . .”

   She jumped.

   “Cow plop,” he finished.

   Maggie got up and dusted herself off as the boys approached.

   “Did you get any cow plop on you?” Tom asked, beginning to inspect her clothes.

   Maggie gave him a quick elbow in the ribs, then started running toward Mrs. Moss’s with all three boys in pursuit.

   When she got to the railroad tracks, the slow moving train was blocking her path so, with barely a thought about it, she ran along side the train, grabbed the edge of the sliding boxcar door the same way she had grabbed Echo and, in one motion, flipped herself up and onto the floor of the empty boxcar.

   This delighted the boys. They giggled and yahooed, increasing their paces until they caught up with the boxcar and each in turn flipped himself inside just as Maggie had done. Getting to their feet, Tom and Maggie started to do a somewhat wobbly Virginia Reel while Alfie imitated a banjo player strumming “Turkey in the Straw”. Gordie laughed and danced by himself, then with Maggie, then with Tom, and soon all four were do-si-do’ing, spinning, elbow swinging, and stamping their feet to Alfie’s musical beat.

   The train began to pick up speed.

  “Guess what, you guys,” Maggie announced abruptly. “Unless you guys want to dance clear to New York City, this hoedown is over.” She jumped out the open boxcar door, rolled on the ground, and looked up in time to see the three others jump out too.

   She ran over to where the three boys were and found Tom and Gordie still laughing over the adventure, but Alfie was staring soberly into the distance.

   “Alfie, what’s the matter?” she asked. “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”

   “No, I’m okay. I just have a funny feeling.”

   “Oh oh, what’s the matter?” Tom asked. “Is something wrong? Shall I get Dad?”

   “No,” Alfie said. “It was the jump. There’s something really funny about that jump. It’s really important.”

   “What?” asked Maggie. “The jump was important? Why?”

   “Shhh,” Tom said. “Wait a minute, Maggie. Let me handle this. That jump was important?”

   Alfie seemed to be in a trance. Maggie had never seen him this way before.

   “No. It’s not that jump. It’s another jump.” He looked at Maggie. “It’s your jump.”

   “My jump?” Maggie was surprised. “What was the matter with my jump?”

   “I’m not sure. It’s very confused. It’s very sad,” Alfie said, looking far into the distance. “Very, very sad. And really happy. But it didn’t happen yet.”

   “Oh brother.” Maggie said, looking over her shoulder at Tom.

   Tom threw his hands in the air in a gesture of frustration. “Oh swell. What’s that supposed to mean?”

   Gordie watched in silence.

   “What is this?” Maggie asked. “What’s going on? Are you sure you’re not hurt, Alfie? Get up and walk.”

   “No. I’m okay. Honest. I can walk okay. It’s just that I had this funny feeling.”

   Maggie looked at Tom again.

   “The preacher says that Alfie is — what’s the word, Alfie?”

   “Sensitized.”

   “Yeah, sensitized. He sees things that nobody else can see.”

   “Actually, I don’t `see’ them either. I just sort of feel `em,” Alfie said.

   “And most of the time, he’s right,” Tom said.

   “All the time,” Alfie corrected.

   Tom tossed his head. “Yeah, right. You’re always right because nobody can understand what the heck you said.”

   Maggie was watching the two brothers. “You mean Alfie knows things that haven’t happened yet?”

   “Yeah.”

   “And Alfie knows they’re going to happen?”

   “Sometimes.”

   “Aw come on you guys. That’s spooky,” Maggie said. “Alfie can tell the future? I’m having a hard time swallowing that one.”

   “Now look, Maggie — and you too Gordie — I don’t care if you believe it or not, you got to promise you won’t tell a soul about this. Especially not Mom and Dad. They don’t want us tellin’ anyone about Alfie’s, ahh . . .”

   “Sensitivity,” Alfie volunteered. He seemed fully recovered.

   “Right. Most people just don’t understand. Now let’s go slop us some pigs.”

   The four young people headed across the fields toward the village of Cobblers Eddy. Maggie hung back, knowing Tom would follow suit. She wanted to talk with him privately.

   “Tom, that was really strange. I never saw Alfie act like that before. Does he do it often?”

   Tom was uncomfortable. “No. Not very often.” He pulled out a stalk of timothy and stuck the stem in his mouth, glad for an excuse to have his mouth occupied. He could still talk, of course, but the timothy seemed to make it less easy.

   Maggie persisted. “Tell me about it.”

   Tom pulled out another stalk of timothy and tried to stick it in Maggie’s mouth.

   She pushed it away. “Tell me,” she said.

   “You already know about all there is to tell. Mom and Dad really don’t like us to talk about it.”

   “Why not?”

   “I don’t know. It’s my dad, mostly. He doesn’t like the mumbo jumbo.” He looked at Maggie and smiled self consciously. “I guess it’s not the way he likes things to be. He wants them more simple. Calmer. He doesn’t want to become known as the father of the boy wonder who sees and hears things that no one else can.”

   They walked in silence for a while. Tom hoped it was the end of that topic. He would have changed the subject, but at the moment, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

   “What kind of things?” Maggie asked, “What kind of things does Alfie see and hear?”

   “Oh that. Well, he doesn’t see things. Not with his eyes. He sort of feels them — and sometimes he hears them. He knows things he couldn’t know — like things that haven’t happened yet. And he hears all kinds of stuff. Like funny sounds coming from things. And it always means something even though most of the time he doesn’t know what. Boy, Maggie, you better not tell a soul about this. My dad would get so mad, I just hate to think about it. This is our family’s biggest secret. Even my dad’s brothers don’t know about it.”

   “I won’t tell, Tom. Honest I won’t. I won’t let it slip out, either.”

   They walked in silence for a while.

   “What kind of things has he known about?”

   “Geez, Maggie. Don’t keep askin’ me.”

   “I gotta know, Tom. I won’t tell anybody, but I gotta know. I’m part of whatever it was he felt back there in the field. He said it was my jump that was important. I’ve got a right to know.”

  “He knows when supper’s ready.”

   “C’mon, Tom. Lots of folks know when supper’s ready.”

   “But he knows all the time. Every day. Within a minute. No matter where he is. No matter how much my mother is off schedule.”

   Tom looked at Maggie. She didn’t seem convinced.

    “My dad got a flat tire on the concrete road last week. I was with him. When he went to fix it, he found there was no jack. Someone had taken it out of the car at home and forgotten to put it back. Along comes Alfie on horseback with the jack. How’d he known?”

   “What did your father say?”

   “He got mad. He said we could have walked home to get the jack. An’ he yelled at Alfie for taking a chance that people would guess his secret.”

   Tom continued: “He’s always doin’ stuff like that. Remember that kid, what was his name? The one that almost drowned last winter? What was his name?”

   “You mean Bobbie LaRue? Fell through the ice? Your father arrived in the nick of time and pulled him out.”

   “Right. Do you remember who was with my dad?”

   “No.”

   “Alfie. He and Dad were ridin’ along a mile or two from the pond and all of a sudden Alfie starts screamin’ that Bobbie LaRue fell through the ice. So my dad turns around and steps on the gas. And all the time Alfie is saying, `Hang on Bobbie. We’re comin’, Bobbie. Hang on.’ And when they talked to Bobbie later, he said he thought he was a goner because no one saw him fall in. But do you know what else he said?”

   Maggie bit her lower lip and stared at Tom.

   “He said he could hear a voice telling him to hang on.” Tom said.

   A shiver went up Maggie’s spine. She let out a long, low whistle and looked ahead at Alfie, who seemed terribly small and ordinary walking next to the considerable bulk of Gordie. “Golly,” was all she could say.

   “Can you imagine what Alfie’s life would be like if people knew?” Tom asked.

   “Golly.”