“Dahrrrling, I’ll be there with bells on!” Miss Hastings said. “I’ve got my best duds all laid out, ready to roll!”
For some reason, however, Mike Hobart showed up at the old Russell homestead an hour earlier than scheduled. Lila, who had been excitedly bringing her followers on Twitter up to date with the latest on The Egg Ladies, was freshly showered but still dressed in her bathrobe. Her wet hair, slicked back behind her ears, looked blacker than ever and once again reminded Hobart, when she opened the door, of a chickadee’s cap.
Lila’s heart fluttered wildly at the sight of him. “This is awkward,” she said, pulling the pink fuzzy robe closer about her slender frame to keep out the damp chill from the April morning.
“Not for me,” Hobart replied. “But I can see how Wendell might be embarrassed.”
“You’re an hour early, Mike!”
“Yes, but I would have been an hour late if I hadn’t run into the truck driver with your chickens asking for directions here while I was getting my coffee at Gilpin’s.”
“Omigod! He’s HERE already?!”
“On the way up the hill, even as we speak. Why don’t you call Wendell while I run up and get Miss Hastings. Oh, and you might want to put some clothes on, darling.”
Lila shut the door, totally flummoxed. The chickens are finally here! she thought, doing a little dance on the way to the bedroom. But it was when she was dressing that she registered the other reason why her heart was singing. Did he just call me DARLING?
The farmer from whom Lila had purchased the laying hens turned into her driveway only moments after she’d pulled on her Muck™ boots. She dashed outside and directed him to back the truck up to the lower entrance to the hen pen. The chickens, New Hampshire reds, were confined in wire cages stacked three-deep on the truck. Despite being packed generously, only four to a cage, the chickens were understandably excited by their trip up from southern Maine and squawked and jostled for position as though they were passengers on the Titanic.
“Hey, girls! Welcome home!” Lila called to the hens at large. She laughed happily. “Omigod, I didn’t know you were so big!”
While the truck backed up, Wendell ambled over the mushy spring ground from Bud’s place in a gait slightly faster than usual. He pulled his plastic comb quickly through his hair in a final finish to his morning toilet and returned it to the back pocket of his jeans. “Ain’t they shaap-lookin’,” he said to Lila, in a voice loud enough to override the cacophony of cackling chickens.
“You think so?” asked Lila, eagerly, seeking reassurance from the veteran chicken farmer. “They don’t look too beat up by the trip?”
“Nah, they git ovah thet pretty quick,” he said. The truck came to a stop four feet from the lower entrance and Wendell leaned in to examine the birds more closely. “They’re jest the size they should be for one year olds,” he said; “and they still got plenty of good color.” He directed Lila’s attention to a particular hen in the cage nearest to them. “Course you want to see thet yellow in them legs; means they still got a lot of egg-layin’ left in ‘em.”
Before the hens were unloaded Lila dutifully paid the farmer, who scribbled her out a receipt on the back of an old grain slip he scrounged up from his truck. By that time, Hobart had returned with Miss Hastings, dressed in her Sunday best.
Miss Hastings was as excited as Lila. “Dahrrrling, I’m so happy for you!” she exclaimed, squeezing Lila’s hand. “I knew you’d be much better off up here with us than staying at that stuffy old insurance agency in Boston!”
Miss Hastings’ words momentarily transported Lila back to that February morning when Rebecca had been fired and she’d walked out on Joe Kelly. It seemed a lifetime ago to her now. “You were soo right about that!” she said.
Mike Hobart and the farmer ferried the 25 cages of chickens into the hen pen, where Wendell cheerfully released one bird at a time, tossing them lightly into the rejuvenated coop. Hobart had completely rebuilt most of the nest boxes, and Lila had covered the boxes with a white primer and then painted the entire hen pen with a red-mite paint that was approved for certified organic use. Four new galvanized poultry feeders hung down from the high ceiling like stalactites and were strategically situated near the grain chutes for easy refilling. Two large waterers rose up like stalagmites from the floor of the coop, which was now ankle-deep in a pine-scented mixture of organic sawdust and sweet straw that MOGG regulations required.
After the farmer departed, the four friends gathered in the hen pen with mutual satisfaction to watch the birds adapt to their new home. The newly-liberated red chickens fluttered and squawked and flew a short distance about the hen pen before flapping to the ground or alighting onto the spruce polls that Hobart had installed in a raised, theatre-seat style for the roosts. The feathers on the large-breasted birds were a consistent chestnut color, except for the short tail feathers, which looked as though they had been dipped in a pail of black paint.
“What DAHRRRLING birds!” said Miss Hastings, who – not much taller than the poultry waterer and dressed in a fringed yellow shawl – looked much like a chicken herself.
“New Hampshire reds are not the best egg-layers,” Lila confided to Miss Hastings; “they’re more of a dual-purpose breed, both egg AND meat. But they were the only organic flock I could find that was for sale.”
Miss Hastings patted Lila’s hand reassuringly. “They are simply wonderful, dahrrrling; WONDERFUL!”
“Ayuh, you done good,” agreed Wendell. “And look! – you got one settin’ in a nest box already!”
As Wendell pointed out the lone setting hen to Miss Hastings, Mike Hobart took the opportunity of the diversion to lean over and place a light kiss on the nape of Lila’s neck. She shivered at the featherweight touch of his lips. “Good job, darling,” he whispered.
Lila’s face flushed with pride. Tears of joy filled her eyes. She brushed them away with her hand, and sniveled slightly.
“What, no handkerchief?” he said, searching his jacket pockets for his replacement blue bandanna. “This is getting to be a regular habit.”
No further work occurred during the rest of the day, which seemed like a merry holiday to Lila. The four friends celebrated the arrival of the chickens by going out to lunch at Ma Jean’s restaurant, where they cheerfully shared the particulars of the day’s event with several other interested patrons. Word passed around quickly that The Egg Ladies of Sovereign, Maine, was now open for business. After lunch, each went their separate way. Hobart dropped Miss Hastings at her house, then proceeded down to Troy to put together a quote on a post and beam horse barn for a family named Shorey. Wendell went back to Bud’s place to work on one of his many tinkering projects.
Lila herself spent most of the afternoon in the hen pen, observing her chickens and photographing them so that she could post new pictures to Twitter. She had provided herself in advance with a small, red plastic pail half-filled with organic scratch corn, and soon found herself overrun with the friendly, clucking creatures.
“Whoa! Hold up—there’s plenty for everyone! There’s plenty for everyone!” she cried, feeling like a Mardi Gras float participant dispensing loot as she tossed handfuls of coarsely-ground corn to the milling hens.
Lila hardly slept that night, so eager was she for the arrival of Rebecca to complete The Egg Ladies operation. Although Lila had missed her best friend, she also recognized how much she had matured during this time that she had been making her own way in Sovereign. She slept with the bedroom window open several inches – as she had slept every night since the dinner party at Maude’s – and since that evening, as Mike Hobart had predicted, the initial solitary peeps from the tree frogs had swelled exponentially into the soothing sound of distant sleigh bells.
Rebecca and the caravan from Massachusetts arrived mid-afternoon the next day. The two friends hugged, and exchanged warm greetings.
“I’m soo glad you’re here, Becca!” Lila enthused.
“I can’t wait to
see the house again!” said Rebecca, her pretty face flushed with excitement. “But Amber just wants to see her new bedroom!”
“You get your pick of three upstairs rooms,” said Lila, turning to Rebecca’s young daughter. Amber, a slim 21-year-old with gorgeous waist-length hair the burnt-brown color of her mother’s, was accompanied by two female college classmates. “I haven’t been beyond the bottom of the stairs since your mother was here,” Lila added.
“Oh, my goodness!” said Rebecca. “That was quite a while ago!”
“Eggs-actly,” joked Lila.
Lila respectfully restrained herself as Rebecca gave Amber and her friends a thorough tour of their new home. Rebecca pointed out highlights from every room, such as the huge soapstone sink in the kitchen, the white porcelain claw foot tub in the bathroom, and, of course, the precious copy of Grammie Addie’s cookbook shelved in the kitchen cupboard just like in Addie’s time. Rebecca’s pretty blue eyes shone with proprietary pride as the young people “Oh-d” and “Ah-d” over the antique farmhouse and all of its comfortable furnishings.
“It’s amazing—just what I’d imagined!” Amber exclaimed, twirling around the cheerful front upstairs bedroom that she had selected as her own. “I can’t wait ‘til summer!”
Rebecca beamed with satisfaction and pleasure. “You like it?”
“I love it!” Amber pulled her mother down onto one of the twin beds, and wrapped her arms around Rebecca’s neck. “I’m so happy for you, Mom!” she cried. She laid her head on her mother’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Overjoyed, Rebecca stroked her daughter’s hair lovingly.
Lila watched the affectionate interplay between mother and daughter with dueling pangs of loss and envy as she remembered her own mother. She turned away to hide her tears, and a flickering sensation of shame darted out like a hungry flame from her subconscious.
Back in the box! she commanded her emotions. I will NOT let the past ruin my future!
Lila quickly regained her composure. “When are you done school?” she asked, turning back to Amber.
“May 24th – and I’ve already got my bus ticket for Bangor! That’s the closest city to Sovereign I can get.”
“One of us will drive down and get you, if you want,” Lila offered.
“Thanks, but I’m pretty used to public transportation.”
“Well, don’t get TOO used to it, ‘cause up here ‘public transportation’ is catching a ride from a neighbor!”
Lila was somewhat disappointed by Rebecca’s lack-luster interest in the chickens and the hen pen, especially since that had been the focus of Lila’s efforts during the prior six weeks. Bemused, she reminded herself that their partnership was likely to be that much MORE successful because of their separate interests. Already, Rebecca was making lists of necessary purchases for the kitchen and bedrooms, and had even suggested a dinner party – to include Miss Hastings, Wendell, the Gilpins and Mike Hobart – for the following weekend.
Amber and her college friends departed early the following morning, in order to return the rental truck on time and to ensure that they didn’t miss any more classes than necessary. Rebecca and her daughter exchanged tearful hugs goodbye, and then Amber clambered up into the truck.
“I’ll see you in a little more than a month!” Rebecca cried, as the trio backed out of the driveway.
Amber stuck her head out the window. “I forgot to tell you, Mom – all my friends are following @TheEggLadies on Twitter!” she called.
“Don’t forget to text me when you get back!”
Both Lila and Rebecca waved until the empty rental truck disappeared down Russell Hill. The early morning in Sovereign was then still, except for the sounds of awakening birds eagerly going about their work. Three robins hopped eagerly across the side lawn, looking for worms. A phoebe called from a nearby cedar fencepost: “Phoebe! Phoebe!” A mourning dove crooned hauntingly from a high limb in the Staircase Tree. The musky scent of spring and a hint of sweet grass filled the soft country air.
Rebecca, feeling the familiar sadness creeping in, took Lila’s arm companionably. “Looks like it’s just you and me now, partner,” she said, with an extra attempt at cheerfulness.
But Lila’s thoughts had already wandered off to revisit with pleasure yesterday’s light kiss from Mike Hobart and she barely noticed Rebecca’s touch. When will I see him again?!
“Lila?”
“Mmmm?” she said, feeling a warm spot of sunlight on her back.
Rebecca, whose own chick had just flown the nest once again, turned her motherly eyes back to her friend. With a little shock, she registered the change in Lila – the glow of inner satisfaction that had replaced the hurt and anger; the perpetual smile that replaced the scowl and frown; the happy lilt to her gait that replaced the purposeful stride. This was certainly a far cry from the young woman who had stalked out of Joe Kelly’s office in February!
Rebecca had also been reading between the tweets with some accuracy of the developing relationship between Lila and the handsome carpenter. “Hmmm,” she said aloud. “Maybe it’s not just you and me!”
“Maybe not,” said Lila, lazily. “Maybe not!”
Chapter 16
Mouse Motel
Lila was awakened in the middle of the night by an awful screech. At first, because her window was open, she thought the noise that disturbed her slumber must have been the blood-curdling shriek of a prowling owl. However, when the ceiling above trembled and the cries continued, Lila realized that the distress was emanating from Rebecca’s bedroom directly above her.
Not knowing what to think, Lila tossed the down comforter aside and leaped out of bed. In her flannel pajamas she rushed to the bottom of the stairs, grabbing an antique cane along the way, liberating the crutch from its 40-year hiatus by the corner of the brick fireplace. “Are you alright?!”she called up to Rebecca. She took the stairs two at a time.
“Naooo!” screamed Rebecca; and Lila heard what sounded like a struggle on her friend’s bed.
“What IS it?!” she cried, bursting into Rebecca’s bedroom, brandishing the maple cane.
Her friend, pale-faced and trembling – long brown hair disheveled – stood upright on the bed in her white cotton nightdress, with the sheet pulled up nearly to her chin. Lila’s anxious eyes scanned the room but found nothing out of the ordinary! There was no prowler, no rapist, no terrorist, no marauding vigilantes—not even a wayward bat!
Lila turned her gaze back to her friend in wonder. Rebecca did not appear to be having a nightmare or sleepwalking. “What IS it?” Lila repeated, lowering her weapon. “What’s wrong?!”
“There!” shrieked Rebecca, pointing to a dark spot on the painted floor near the stenciled pine dresser.
Lila followed Rebecca’s finger and saw—a tiny gray mouse scrunched up on its haunches looking as harmless as a plastic computer mouse! The rodent evidently thought that its odds were diminished by Lila’s arrival, however, and took the opportunity to shoot across the floor in a beeline for the door. Instinctively, Lila raised her bare right foot and brought it down with a fierce stomp. She felt a warm bulge beneath her sole and knew that her timing had been accurate.
“EEeewww!” Rebecca said, covering her face with her hands. “How could you, Lila?!”
“It’s just a mouse,” said Lila, lifting her foot. Sure enough, the flattened gray rodent lay lifeless on the ginger-colored floor. She leaned down, picked the mouse up by the tail and quickly moved the bitty carcass behind her back so Rebecca couldn’t see it. “There’s quite a few of ‘em around here,” she continued. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I will not !” exclaimed Rebecca, opening her eyes and stiffening up for battle. “That, that … creature ran right up over me in bed! I will not have mice in the house, Lila. I will not !”
Lila fought back the urge to laugh aloud. “Umm, haha – where’s Mr. T?” asked Lila, biting the inside of her lip. “Your cat should take care of these critters in a few days.” She glanced once
again around Rebecca’s neat bedroom. “Where IS Mr. T? I thought he always slept with you?”
Rebecca dropped the white sheet she had been holding, and there, curled up in bed with her, was the 13-pound, four-year-old tiger cat. Exposed to the cool air, Mr. T yawned, and rolled over on his back, showing off his spotted belly. The tabby reached out with one white boot and lazily touched Rebecca’s bare leg.
This time Lila did burst out laughing. “Haaahaaa! Mr. T is not gonna carry his weight around here, I can see that!” She laughed so hard she had to sit down in the oak rocking chair situated next to Rebecca’s window. The cane she had been carrying for protection fell on the wooden floor with a clack. Mr. T didn’t even flinch.
Rebecca giggled, and relaxed her defiant stance on the bed. “I won’t have mice in the house, Lila,” she repeated, in a diminished tone. “We’ve got to do something. I hate mice!”
“Oh, I get that,” said Lila, taking care to keep the dead mouse out of Rebecca’s line of vision. “Haaahaaa! Too funny! I totally get that!”
After disposing of the mouse down the toilet, Lila tried to convince Rebecca to return to her bed for the balance of the night. However, her stubborn friend insisted on holding vigil on the living room couch, covered up with a spare quilt from the blanket chest in Amber’s bedroom. The quilt, which had been packed away for decades, smelled like moth balls, and Lila was glad to return to her own bedroom, where the fresh evening air seeped in from the partially-open window.
Lila awoke late the next morning to the tantalizing scent of frying bacon. She hurried into her jeans and oversized sweatshirt, and popped into the kitchen. She discovered Rebecca cooking away and regaling Wendell – who had ambled over early to see how the new hens were laying – with the night’s adventures. Lila repressed her greeting and slid into a chair. She gratefully accepted the cup of coffee that Rebecca poured and set on the table in front of Lila without missing a beat in her story.
“And then,” Rebecca continued; “the poor mouse tried to escape out the door, but Lila stomped on it!”
Hens and Chickens Page 13