A Beardy Bonus

by Penny Reid

  My gazed shifted back to the man, moved over this new Mr. Badcock. I had no idea why he was behaving this way, but I couldn’t spare a thought to that. I was too much occupied by the great egg-dearth of the decade.

  “Just what I said, Ms. Sylvester. I’m plum out of eggs.” His voice was firm and hard and—if I wasn’t mistaken—laced with distrust. “But if you want some fresh chicken, we just butchered last—”

  “I can’t put a chicken thigh in a custard, Richard!” I wailed, unashamed in my anguish, my teeth chattering in the early-January cold snap. “It’s not a gelatin. Fat and meat and bones won’t do me any good.”

  Mr. Richard Badcock sighed, his eyebrows tenting on his forehead in an arrangement of both compassion—finally—and helplessness. “I am very sorry, Ms. Sylvester. If I had some eggs, I’d give them to you.”

  “I’m sorry too, but this doesn’t make any sense. You must have a hundred chickens back there, and—”

  “We have sixty-one chickens.” He sniffed, looking down his nose at me, once again hostile. “Unlike some folks, we believe our hens need space, autonomy, greens, and serenity to be good layers.”

  Good lord, now I’d offended his serene egg-laying chickens.

  “Of course, Mr. Badcock.” I tried to make my tone conciliatory. “And I can’t tell you how much I just love—and I do mean love—those eggs. Which is why, please pardon my outburst, I am feeling a great deal of desolation at the prospect of baking without your superior product.”

  His shoulders relaxed, apparently mollified, and he quit peering at me, instead sighing for maybe the tenth time since I showed up. “Ms. Sylvester, there aint nothing I can do. I am sorry. But we had two unexpected—and very large—orders late last night. I’m cleaned out for at least two weeks, and—”

  “Two weeks?” I shrieked, completely beside myself, and clutched my chest.

  He sighed again, taking off his hat and wiping his brow with the back of his flannel covered forearm, saying nothing. His old brown eyes moved over me with a look that seemed speculative, and I got the sense he was having himself an internal debate.

  Meanwhile, I was going to cry.

  I could feel it. The twinge in my nose, the sting behind my eyes, the unsteadiness of my chin. But I couldn’t go two weeks without Badcock eggs. I couldn’t. Folks would remark. They’d notice. We’d be asked if we’d changed our recipes, and not for the better. Once, I’d gone three days without the eggs and the church choir near pitched a fit about my coconut custard pie.

  “It’s fine.” Mrs. Seymore—the pastor’s wife—had said to my momma. “But what I don’t understand is, why didn’t Jenn make it? We specifically asked for Jennifer’s coconut custard pie.”

  My momma had hemmed and hawed and, in the end, she’d lied. She told them an under-baker had made it, and had eventually given it to them for free.

  The thing about the church choir was, it didn’t take much to get them to sing, if you know what I mean. In fact, one might even say they were gleeful about spreading unhappy news.

  Therefore, once I did have the eggs, I made coconut custard tarts with shaved coconut and dropped them off—in person—to the Saturday choir practice.

  All had been forgiven and my praises were sung once more.

  But . . . two weeks? With the church picnic coming up?

  Lord have mercy.

  I swallowed my panic and nodded for no reason. “Well,” I croaked when I found my voice, “I guess . . . I guess . . .”

  Mr. Badcock made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Fine, fine. How about this?” He sounded reluctant, and for some reason, the reluctance gave my heart hope. “I have four dozen eggs up at the homestead.”

  “Oh Mr. Badcock, I would—”

  “Now settle down.” He lifted is hands, even the one holding the hat. “I’ll give them to you, for double the price.”

  I swallowed again, because that was a tough pill to swallow. Double the price? His eggs were already ten dollars a dozen. Part of me wanted to argue. I told that part to hush. Serene eggs didn’t grow on trees.

  “O-okay.” I tried to smile and didn’t.

  “And from now on,” he continued, “the Donner Bakery needs to pre-order their eggs three months in advance, with a-uh . . . fifty percent down payment. That’s right, fifty percent.” He nodded as though agreeing with himself.

  I found myself momentarily at a loss for words, not because these were unfair terms, but because Mr. Badcock had never expressed any interest in pre-orders or pre-payments prior to right this minute.

  And it took me less than a second to respond, “But, of course. Absolutely, Mr. Badcock. In fact, I’ll be happy to place our order for the entire year right now.”

  He blinked at me, visibly startled. “You would?”

  “Yes. I most certainly would. I don’t want anyone’s eggs but yours.”

  He blinked some more, standing straighter. “You wouldn’t?” His voice cracked.

  “No.” On a whim, I reached forward and held his hand. He looked between my face and our joined fingers as I spoke from the heart, “Mr. Badcock, your eggs are. . . well, they’re magical. And I guess I should have told you prior to now, but all other eggs in comparison might as well be applesauce.”

  Applesauce being the low-fat, vegan replacement for eggs in baking recipes. In other words, a sad and inferior imitation.

  “Oh,” he was blinking faster now, and a bit of color touched his cheeks. “My goodness. I don’t—I mean, I don’t know what to say. This is all very unexpected.”

  I released his hand, stepping away as he watched me retreat. “Just, thank you. Thank you for your eggs. Thank you for taking the time to raise those chickens right.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Sylvester.” He sounded a bit breathless, a bit dazed, but also proud.

  As he should be.

  “Anyway,” I laughed lightly. “Look at me, getting all emotional. Again, I’m sorry for my outburst. Should I send a check over? With the deposit for this year? Or how do you want to handle that?”

  “Uh . . .” He glanced at the ground, looking like he was frantically trying to find his wits. “I guess, uh, a check is fine.”

  “Glorious!” I clapped my hands together. “I’ll send my momma over on her way home from the hotel.”

  Now he stiffened and his face blanched. “Your—your momma?”

  “Yes.” I tried to give him a reassuring smile. It was no secret in Green Valley that my momma was as well respected as she was feared, especially with the local business owners.

  “Mrs. Donner-Sylvester?” His voice cracked again and he pulled at his open shirt collar like it was too tight.

  “It’s just Ms. Donner now,” I reminded quietly.

  “Oh, yes. That’s right.” Mr. Badcock pushed his fingers through his sweaty hair, frowning as he glanced down at his clothes. “What time would she be by?”

  “About nine, I suspect. As long as that’s not too late or disagreeable to you.” Glancing at my watch, I saw it was now half-past three. This egg-encounter had taken much longer than I’d expected. I needed to get those four dozen eggs back to the bakery and in the fridge soon. Three new orders had come in—all for custard—and the way I made it, the mixture needed to rest overnight.

  Plus, I didn’t want to be late for the jam session.

  Oh no, I certainly do not want to be late for that.

  “Well, alright then.” Mr. Badcock, seeming both overwhelmed and resigned by the turn of events, motioned me forward. “Let’s go up to the house and get you those eggs.”

  I followed dutifully, happy to have avoided a disaster.

  At least, for now.

  Choking the Chicken

  * * *

  *Cletus*

  Why must people always talk?

  “What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our make-shift stage swarmed around my brother Billy, chattering good-naturedly and getting on my last nerve with their vociferous compliments.
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  Mind, the compliments didn’t ruffle my feathers, it was the talking and ensuing racket that had my back up.

  If folks could’ve communicated their praise via some other means—perhaps via a silent handshake and shared stare of admiration, or a hand-written note, or a mime routine, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized resource, for example.

  A silence ordinance, that’s what we needed. A day where folks would be forced to keep their voice boxes on the shelf or else pay a fine. I made a mental note to discuss it with the mayor, he’d always been pragmatic about new revenue streams.

  “Cletus?” Drew was still looking at me, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other.

  We’d just finished the last stanza of ‘Orange Blossom Special.’ I surmised my friend’s unbalanced brow and question was in response to the frown affixed to my features.

  I should have been pleased.

  I was not pleased.

  Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady XXX was on fiddle, and I’d talked my brother Billy into singing. A rare achievement as Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session.

  But Jenn was late.

  Correction, she wasn’t just late, she was late as usual on a night she’d promised to be early.

  “It’s time to take a break.” I didn’t look at my watch again, I’d already looked at it ten times. “I need to make a call.”

  Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared. And then he smirked a little, in that very Drew-like way of his. Which is to say, his mouth barely moved.

  “Ah. I see.” Drew nodded, returning his attention to his instrument and plucked out a C followed by a G. “Where’s Jenn, Cletus?”

  A person walked between Drew and I, side stepping and almost knocking my banjo with his knee in his eagerness to reach my brother Billy. Drew lifted the neck of his guitar to keep it safe, tracking the lumbering moron with his eyes.

  Usually I’d take notice, add this person to my list of affronters as, One who does not respect the sanctity of the banjo. But I didn’t, because I was fixating.

  Billy had finished the song with flourish, which earned a happy gasp from the audience. They’d begun their applause before the strings had ceased vibrating. Several of the spectators had even come to their feet to whoop and holler their appreciation. I wasn’t surprised. My brother had a stellar voice, I mean cosmically good.

  He should’ve been a musician. Or, he could’ve been one of those Ph.D. engineer fellas with a mohawk on the TV, telling folks how rockets work. If he hadn’t had his leg broken in high school, he also could’ve been a pro-football player.

  But no.

  Now he was the vice president in charge of everything at Payton Mills in the middle of Appalachia. And he’s probably going to be a state senator, next. And after that, a congressman.

  Good lord.

  My expression of displeasure intensified.

  I was officially fixating on my misaligned hopes for my brother, determined to be irritated with his course in life since I couldn’t be content with my present circumstances.

  She better not be working.

  I swear, if that dragon-lady mother of hers was keeping her late at the bakery yet again, I would . . .

  I would . . .

  I won’t do thing.

  Damnit.

  I took a deep breath, scowling at the bright red theater chair in the front row. Next to it was a wooden chair that my youngest brother, Roscoe, would’ve called mid-century modern, or something hoity-toity like that.

  “Where’s Jenn?” Drew repeated the question, apparently convinced the lumbering disrupter was no longer a threat, his attention coming back to me.

  “I don’t know, Drew.” I didn’t precisely snap at my friend, it was more of a nip than a bite.

  He ignored my hostility, strumming out a chord. “She working late again?”

  “Apparently.” I said this under my breath.

  It wasn’t my place to say anything to Diane Donner-Sylvester (soon to be ex-Sylvester) on behalf of her daughter. It was up to Jenn to stand up to her mother, set and enforce boundaries. Jenn needed to be the one to call the shots. I knew that.

  But I didn’t have to like it.

  Maybe once we get married. . .

  A knot of unease twisted in my stomach, adding a heaping helping of restlessness on top of my frustration.

  Over Thanksgiving, we’d—

  Well, I’d—

  Damnit.

  The truth was, we’d discussed marriage. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that. If or when she needed help planning the wedding, I surmised she would ask me.

  But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. And when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.

  Boy. Friend.

  Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? Good lord.

  Then again, in her defense, Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. And, unfortunately, her momma was going through a tough time, seeing as how Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester was a real pain in the ass.

  And yet, I’d hardly seen her for going on six weeks. When I did see her, it was either a Winston family affair where we had no privacy, or me showing up after work at the Donner Bakery. We’d fooled around a little—a very little—but mostly, Jenn had been exhausted.

  Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping and maintained her homestead, plus car maintenance and absolutely no expectations.

  That’s right. No expectations. Merely a heckvalot of hopes. Unfulfilled hopes meant I may have been frustrated by the lack of Jenn’s time and attention, but I wasn’t allowing myself to dwell on it. I looked to the future to a time when Jenn’s momma was less dependent, and folks hadn’t yet cheated on their New Year’s diets with baked goods.

  In the meantime, Jenn’s porch had received two new coats of lacquer, her shutters had all been cleaned, repainted, and rehung, I’d installed two ceiling fans in anticipation of the summer, and I’d replaced her garbage disposal.

  But now, the time was night. New Year’s was last week. I’d gathered all my hopes, stacked them in a pile, and stapled them to today’s date on the calendar. Tonight was the night, our night. Finally. She was supposed to leave work on time.

  Sitting as straight as my spine would allow, I craned my neck, lifting my chin and peering at the back row of the room, specifically the seats closest to the door. My attention flicked through the faces there. Mr. Roger Gangersworth was wearing unsurprising overalls; Posey Lamont was wearing a bright pink shirt heavy with unfortunate plastic beading in the shape of a rainbow, except it was a calamitous arrangement of RYOGBVI instead of ROYGBIV; and Mrs. Scotia Simmons wore a sour expression indicative of a woman who’d lived a self-centered existence and was thusly dissatisfied with everything and everyone.

  But there was no Jennifer.

  I needed to get away from the crowd and their talking.

  “Go on with the set if you want, I’m making that call and I can jump back in when I’m done.” Standing, I placed my banjo in its case, and then leaned it against the back corner, away from the threat of any future lumbering morons.

  “Fine. Once Billy’s fan club clears out, we’ll get started again.” Drew sounded unperturbed at the loss of my superior banjo skills, which meant he must’ve sensed the call was important. “Tell Jenn I say hi.”

  I grunted once, in both acknowledgement and aggravation. Great. Now I had to remember to say hi to Jenn from Drew on the off-chance she picked up her phone when I called. And if she didn’t pick up, I’d have to remember to say hi the next time I happened to see her.

  Why did people do that? Send salutations through oth
er people? I am not the post office, nor am I a candygram. Why not send a text message if one is so eager to impart a greeting? Why did I have to be a “hi” messenger? Another reason why a silence ordinance was needed. If today had been a no-talking day, the chances of Drew writing me a note, pointedly asking me to “say hi” to Jenn, would have dropped my chances of being an unwilling messenger precipitously.

  Talking, I was beginning to suspect, was the root of all evil. The ease of it in particular was an issue.

  Talk it out. Talk it over. Talk it through.

  Useless.

  If more folks thought it out, thought it over, and thought it through instead of talking, then the world would be less cluttered with opinions and assholes.

  Navigating the room easily, I made a point to give Posey Lamont a wide berth, careful to keep my beard far away from her beaded shirt. The last thing I needed was a beard-tangle with an ignorant representation of the visible light spectrum.

  Once free of the labyrinth, I strolled down the hall of the Green Valley community center, aiming for the front door and the parking lot beyond. It was cold, even for January, and the lot would likely be empty. My head down to avoid eye contact with passers-by and hangers-on, I typed in my password and navigated to Jenn’s number.

  I was just bringing the phone to my ear when I heard a woman shout, “Cletus!”

  I halted, only because the woman sounded like Jenn, and twisted toward the voice, anticipation filling my lungs before I could quell the instinct.

  And there she was.

  Well, more precisely, there was a version of her. She wore a blonde wig on her head, a yellow dress on her person with a brown collar and trim, and pearls around her neck.

  Frustration grabbed a shovel and dug a deeper well within me.

  Jenn rushed to close the distance between us while I stood stock still, her expression a mixture of guilt and hope, a bakery box clutched to her chest. My eyes moved from the bakery box to her shoes and I sighed quietly.

  She jogged to me in high heels.

  She must’ve just left work.

  As an aside, jogging in high heels really should be added to the Olympics as a sport, but I digress.