The kid—they call him Spud—sees it while walking the mile to where he catches the school bus every morning except Thursdays when his mom pulls a shift at the school cafeteria and drives him there at seven sharp. But this is a Tuesday, and Spud is taking his time, doing his best to kick every stone, every discarded can, every clump of dandelions between his family’s potato farm and the intersection of Maple and Cedar, where the bus will most likely wait if he’s running just a little late. On the days he misses it, he walks the three miles to school alone. It’s a hike his father refers to as a “righteous lesson,” although it’s one the boy has yet to learn fully.

He’s just kicked a perfectly round stone a distance that surely must be some kind of rock-kicking record when he spots it. A goat. Atop Uncle Henry’s barn. Chewing at the mounds of moss that collect there until Uncle Henry pays some cash-hungry teenager to scrape them off. The misplaced animal is ripping out a chunk, chewing, and occasionally looking around as if it’s grazing in a normal way, like in a field or some other situation that’s not as odd as the roof of a barn.

The boy watches for a minute, thinking maybe he’s overslept again and this is just a dream, when the sound of bus gears shifting down activates his brain enough to get his feet going. He makes it to the corner just as the bus comes to a full stop.  

The doors open, but Spud pauses, looking back and pointing. Mrs. Hargreaves, the bus driver for over thirty years, bends low to see what’s grabbed this dim-witted child’s attention. She lets out a long and low whistle, alerting every kid to move to the right side of the bus to see what’s creating a response in a woman who never reacts to anything, not even spitballs. She lets the kids appreciate the spectacle for a minute, then forces the old heap back into gear. She’s a woman with a schedule, and no goat on a roof is going to keep her from it. The bus lurches, coughs, and lets out an exhale of black.

 

The story doesn’t take long to circulate through a school with only four rooms. Questions and theories abound, mostly concerning where the goat might have originated. Uncle Henry has no goats, not even a sheep that might be confused for one at a distance. He owns one horse and one dog, neither of which resembles a goat in the least. Then, of course, there’s the question of how a goat could find its way to the roof of a thirty-foot-high barn. Had it come from above, dropped by a plane or a helicopter? 

“A spaceship,” Miss Pierce, the home economics teacher, says. She, Mrs. Bean, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Johnson, and Mrs. Hargreaves have gathered in the teachers’ lounge between first and second period. “I’ve heard of such things on one of my podcasts,” she says. “The aliens test animals and then just drop ’em. Poor thing’s probably pregnant with some alien-goat horror.”

“I say we shoot it down,” Mr. Johnson says. “Who knows what contagion it might be carrying? Or if it’s even a real goat at all. Some horrible mutation or something. Shoot it, I say. Just in case.” He’s a lover of all instruments of aggression. His collection of antique guns and swords is a prideful display at his annual holiday party. It’s also why most of the other teachers avoid lengthy conversations with the man; he steers all topics toward war and other hostilities. 

After a lively back-and-forth between the staff, resulting in every theory involving our realm and beyond, it’s agreed that a field trip is in order. After the students are corralled into the cafeteria for lunch, the faculty—Mrs. Bean, Mr. Holmes, and Miss Peters—file onto the bus with Mrs. Hargreaves. Mr. Johnson, thanks to a bit of trickery by Mrs. Bean, has drawn the short straw and grudgingly agrees to stay with the kids. 

“I have a .22 in my truck,” he calls after them. “You should grab it. Just in case.” 

The offer is ignored.

 

The scene is as it had been described. The animal is happily chewing on the moss and the roof tiles that cling to it. A few cars are stopped on the road parallel to the barn, and a group of gapers has gathered along the grassy gutter. 

“Are we sure it’s a goat?” Miss Peters says. “It’s awfully small.”

A man from a neighboring car yells out, “Definitely a goat!” He’s hanging from the passenger window with a pair of binoculars. “It’s a doeling, I think.”

“That’s a young female,” Mr. Holmes explains to the women who surely do not know of such things.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, we know,” Mrs. Bean says. “I grew up on a farm, in case you’ve forgotten. But I’ve never seen a goat on a roof. How would it even get up there?”

“It’s a prank,” Mr. Holmes says. “Some fraternity initiation or something. Just kids being wild.” He chuckles the way men do when they know things others do not.

“What fraternity?” Mrs. Bean pulls a wrinkled tissue from her sleeve cuff and wipes at her forehead. It’s only 10:30 a.m., but the September sun is already beating down as if it’s mid-July. “There isn’t a college near here for . . . geez . . . maybe eighty miles?” 

Mr. Holmes laughs. “Those crazy kids will go a long way to pull a prank. You got no idea, Gladys.”

Mrs. Bean gives him a flash of reprimand to remind him not to use her first name around the others. It’s a rule they’d agreed upon at the beginning. Mr. Holmes shrugs an apology.

The goat isn’t doing much, just lowering its head for the next batch of moss then chewing . . . and chewing . . . and chewing. The teachers watch, barely talking. The other onlookers get bored with the goat’s repertoire. Doors slam, gravel is kicked up, and a cloud of beige dust envelopes the teachers. Miss Peters coughs and pulls a hanky from her purse to cover her face.  

“What should we do?” she says through cloth. “We can’t just leave her there.”

“We need a plan,” Mr. Holmes says, his eyes squinted as if he’s devising one.

“Well, we’re not going to solve anything by standing on the side of the road,” Mrs. Hargreaves says. “Let’s get over there, and we’ll figure it out.”

“Will the bus make it through that field?” Mr. Holmes imagines it bouncing over the acreage like a cartoon truck. He’s excited.

Mrs. Bean rolls her eyes. “How about we take the driveway like the intelligent people we’re supposed to be?” She points toward the dirt road a hundred yards to the right. 

“Sure,” Mr. Holmes says. “Not exactly a straight line, but we can do it your way.” 

 

The drive is a dusty one. Due to the heat of the day, the windows are all down, and clouds of sandy smoke fill the compartment. Miss Peters waives her hanky at it, coughing dramatically. She moves to put up her window, but Mrs. Hargreaves sees her in the oversized rearview mirror and yells out, “Don’t you touch that window, Sylvie. Takes me nearly an hour to wrestle the rusty things down. It’s a hot one, and I don’t intend to do it again.” 

Miss Peters has learned over the years not to challenge the older woman. She coughs again and leans back, covering her nose and mouth.

The farm seems deserted. Uncle Henry’s truck isn’t visible, and his dog, the Buckster, would be barking and snarling like Cujo if he were there. He’s a gentle dog, but he knows his job.

“It’s Tuesday,” Mr. Holmes says. “I bet he’s at the farmer’s market in Thomaston.” He points toward the far side of the barn. “Keep going, just drive around the back.”

Mrs. Hargreaves doesn’t move, staring back through the rearview at Mr. Holmes.

He catches her eye. “Please,” he adds, remembering that look from when he was a regular passenger on this very bus.

“That’s better, Gavin,” she says, and then follows the dirt track that leads past the house and outhouse, ending at the rear of the barn.

“There’s a ladder,” Mrs. Bean says, excited. “I’ve heard about goats climbing ladders.” 

“So have I,” Mrs. Hargreaves says. “Saw it at a circus when I was a kid. Over in Bangor, back when they made animals do stupid stuff for laughs. They climb pretty fast, too.”

“But how do they get down?” Miss Peters’s voice is trembling. “It could die up there with this heat.” She’s on the verge of a larger emotion, one that she’s known for.

Mrs. Hargreaves turns in her seat and points an index finger at the young teacher. “There’s no crying on my bus, Sylvie. You button that up right now. Hear me?”

Miss Peters wilts and nods.

“Well, I guess someone’s going to have to go up there and figure it out,” Mr. Holmes says, swallowing hard. The large man of fifty-five has only one phobia: heights. Very few people are aware of it. His parents knew. His wife, as well. And he’d once shared his fear with Mrs. Bean. They were in his car on one of their long, clandestine rides when both of them confessed secrets in the hope of deepening whatever their fresh bond was.

“I’ll do it,” Mrs. Bean offers. “I’m a climber, always have been. All I need is something to wrap around the goat.” She stands, straightens her skirt, and pulls her knee-highs up as far as they’ll go. She looks to Mr. Holmes for just a second. The man looks away. “Jeanie? Do you have a blanket on the bus?”

“I have a fire blanket,” Mrs. Hargreaves says. “Will that do?”

“Nah, too heavy. It’ll suffocate the little thing. Nothing else, huh?”

“Here,” Mr. Holmes says, already unbuttoning his shirt. “I’ll be fine in a T-shirt.” He holds out the striped button-down to Mrs. Bean. She accepts it without eye contact.

“Okay, let’s do this.” She exits the bus and starts for the ladder.

But Mrs. Hargreaves, a woman of the church with a keen understanding of how men’s minds work, considers Mr. Holmes and his unchecked adoration for the biology teacher. She will not allow a woman to climb such a long and steep ladder in a skirt. “Take my pants,” she says. “We’ll change in the barn.”

Their sizes are different. Mrs. Hargreaves is considerably taller and wider. Mrs. Bean rolls up the legs, but the waist requires a belt. Mr. Holmes offers his, despite his confusion about its necessity. Mrs. Bean nods her appreciation. 

With the shirt over one shoulder, she starts up, testing every rung of the old wooden ladder before applying her full weight. The others are standing at the base, watching each step, arms bent as if to catch her. She can feel their eyes, and she’s grateful for Mrs. Hargreaves’s concern. She’s not wearing the undergarments she usually wears with Mr. Holmes. They’re less colorful and more tattered, like most of the underwear that fills her top drawer.

She leads with her left, bringing her right to meet it. The rails groan, and she occasionally looks down at the three small, encouraging faces. When she reaches the last rung, she sees that the goat is watching her too, munching on a bit of shingle, her head slightly cocked as if this woman, and not herself, is in a place she doesn’t belong.

“Hey, girl.” Mrs. Bean offers a hand, palm down, as if to a dog. The goat goes back to the roof, already having lost interest in the woman who is now crawling toward her. “You’re a small one, aren’t you? You climbed that big ladder all by yourself?” She stands and takes slow, careful steps toward the doeling, mindful of the mounds of moss that could send her sliding off the edge. “Wouldn’t you like to come down, sweetie?” She’s holding out the shirt now, shaking it like a novice bullfighter. A breeze catches the fabric, and the scent of Mr. Holmes’s aftershave drifts into her. It’s a common brand, one that smells like spice and earth. She’d hated that scent a couple of years ago, but it’s grown on her. It brings up memories of their early meetings in hotels and cars and out-of-town restaurants. She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply, and doesn’t notice the goat’s approach until it’s too late. The shirt is ripped from her hands, and the animal bucks with pleasure as it shakes and chews the polyester. 

“Oh, no!” she screams and pees a little into the old underwear. “Bring that back, you little beast!” She starts after the animal, but her right foot lands on a clump of moss, sending both feet out from under her. She claws at the shingles, some of which slide past her and soar off the roof. Digging in her heels and palms, she manages to stop less than a foot from the edge. 

“Are you okay?” The call comes from below. It’s her lover, and she will not answer. There’s been a thought humming in her brain for weeks, and it’s buzzing loudly now. She’s in love with a married man who remains on solid ground while she takes all the risks. 

Scrambling on all fours, she manages to get back to the goat. It’s lying down now, panting heavily, in obvious need of water. 

“How the hell am I gonna get you down, girl? You won’t let me carry you, will you?” She moves closer and attempts to put an arm around the animal. It wriggles and kicks. “You need to calm yourself, missy, if we’re gonna make it down in one piece.” 

But how? She’s a strong woman by any standard. A woman who can hold her own on any court or field, even in a ring, which she’s done a couple of times. But goat wrangling is a new sport for her. She assesses the conditions. Slanted roof. Mossy surface. Heat. Dying goat.

Mrs. Bean understands what she needs to do—for the animal and for her. She will later describe it as a flash of sanity. Or clarity, she’ll say. The goat is part of it, of course. The poor thing needs to be saved, but so does she. 

“One thing at a time,” she says. The goat bleats. She looks around for something to wrap it in, but, of course, there is nothing but the remnants of a mostly eaten shirt. It takes a minute to recognize the only possibility. “Shit, I’ve already lost my pride. What do I care?” She removes the belt and wriggles out of the heavy jeans that cling due to the sweat on her legs. “You’re not gonna like this, honey, but it’s the best I got.”

The doeling has quieted as if it knows it must, or it’s become too tired and hot to care. Mrs. Bean wraps the jeans around the middle of the goat, folding in her legs and securing them. She binds the bundle with the wide belt. Mr. Holmes is a thick man, and the leather winds around the animal’s waist twice. It stretches from below the goat’s neck to its hind legs, and she cinches the buckle at the top of the animal’s back. 

“I’m gonna haul you down, honey, but if you start bucking and wriggling we’ll both break our necks.” The goat responds with a soft, pleading maa.

Gripping the belt at the goat’s middle, she slowly scoots them both to the ladder. As she swings a leg onto a rung, the doeling lets out a desperate cry. It bucks when Mrs. Bean lifts her off the roof and into the empty air, but the teacher holds tight to the ladder, leaning into it. When the animal calms, she starts down, leading with her right foot and bringing her left to meet it.

She can feel the breeze against her underwear. It plays with the bits of thread that are barely holding the fabric together, and she’s surprised at her lack of modesty. The progress is slow, and just once she looks over her shoulder. Mrs. Hargreaves is watching, standing a little off to one side to avoid the possibility of a fall. Mr. Holmes is gaping, arms folded tight into his chest, his jaw moving as if he’s praying on each of her steps.

The spectacular descent of woman and goat seems to take hours. In reality, it’s less than ten minutes. Miss Peters stretches her arms to meet the duo and takes the goat from Mrs. Bean. Mrs. Hargreaves helps undo the bundle of pants and belt and then turns to Mr. Holmes. “Gavin, you give the poor girl some privacy.” She points the man toward the other side of the bus. He protests but obeys. 

“Is she okay?” Mrs. Bean says to Miss Peters, who is coddling the doeling and whispering in its ear. “She needs water. I saw a bottle in the bus.” She starts but Mrs. Hargreaves stops her. 

“Nope. Let Sylvie get it. We need to get you decent.” She takes the younger woman’s hand and leads her into the barn. “How are you feeling after that?” She waves the jeans violently to get the hair and any lingering critters from it. 

“I’m okay, I guess. Relieved we made it down. It could have been worse if she weren’t so tired and thirsty. I think the poor thing had no idea she’d ventured into a place she didn’t belong.”

“Yeah, goats aren’t that different from people, are they?” Mrs. Hargreaves sits on a bale and pats the spot next to her. “Rest for a second, Gladys.”

Mrs. Bean says nothing. She pulls on her skirt and buttons it before sitting beside the older woman.

“You deserve better,” Mrs. Hargreaves says. 

The younger woman is silent. She rubs at the dirt on her knees, her head lowered, her heels banging against the hay bale like a child.

“I see everything. You get to my age, you can’t help it. How many years since your divorce?”

“Four.”

“Probably a little lonely, ain’tcha?”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Bean says. “And I’m feeling a little stuck lately. Not atop a roof, but maybe down a well. Think I might need some rescuing, Jeannie?” She shakes out the dark curls from the knot she had forced them into that morning. 

Mrs. Hargreaves barks a laugh. “What the hell you talking about? You don’t need no rescuing, Gladys. You’re plenty strong enough to get out of any well or off any miserable roof all on your own.”

“Am I, though? I’m not so sure. I don’t get it, why we girls get so stuck, holding out for what? A promise? Jesus, we can be weak, can’t we?”

“From where I’m sitting, you’re the strong one. That man out there? He’s not making any decisions. He likes it just the way it is with this sweet girl holding out for a dream. You take charge, honey, and you’ll be fine.”

 

The goat is drinking eagerly from the bottle. Mrs. Bean takes over from Miss Peters, kneeling next to the doeling, petting her sides, murmuring encouragements. When the bottle is drained, she says, “Okay, little girl, time to go home.” She makes shooing gestures, but the goat doesn’t move. It stands in the middle of them, looking from one to the other, before settling on Mrs. Bean.

“I think it likes you,” Mr. Holmes says.

“A lot of people like her,” the older woman says.

The inference is not lost on the man. He locks eyes with his lover and then looks away. “We should probably get back.”

“What about her?” Miss Peters says, her voice quivering again.

Mrs. Hargreaves dismisses the concern. “She’ll find her way home once we leave. Come on, pile in. Poor Mr. Johnson must be going nuts by now. Hopefully hasn’t shot a kid.”

As they head toward the bus, Mr. Holmes leans into Mrs. Bean. “That was amazing, Gladys. You’re really something, you know?”

Mrs. Bean looks at him, his tousled brown hair, the tilt of his too-large head, the cleft in his chin that always hosts a few unshaven hairs. She starts to smile, but then it falters. She climbs onto the bus without a word.

They’re halfway down the dusty driveway when Mrs. Hargreaves calls out, “That damn goat is following us. Must be lost.”

Mrs. Bean leans out the window and sees the doeling trotting behind them through clouds of dust. “The poor thing’s gonna get a heatstroke or a heart attack. Do goats get heart attacks?”

“Hell if I know,” Mrs. Hargreaves says. “What do you want me to do, Gladys?”

“Don’t do anything,” Mr. Holmes says. “He’ll get tired eventually and go home.”

Mrs. Bean turns on him. “First of all, the goat is a she. And finding your way home isn’t always that easy.” She rises slowly, feeling the effects of the roof in her muscles, and moves past Mr. Holmes to the front. “Pull over, Jeanie. Please.”

Mrs. Hargreaves slows, pulls to the side, and opens the door. 

Mrs. Bean steps out of the bus and bends a dirty knee to the road, her arms open wide.

 

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This story is co-featured on the Emerson Review, a Boston-based literary magazine dedicated to publishing diverse and compelling works of fiction, poetry, and nonfiction.