Hens and Chickens

by Jennifer Wixson

  But where was he?

  Lila glanced around, pulse quickening, expecting (and secretly hoping) that Mike Hobart would step out from behind the old maple tree. Alas, her sweetheart was nowhere to be seen!

  When Hobart had completed his mission, he returned to his cabin in the woods. It was enough for him simply to give Lila joy. There would be plenty of time and opportunity – he hoped – to share joy together in years to come. Now, as much as he wanted to share her delight with his handiwork, he didn’t need to take advantage of her transitional state. Hobart had confidence that Lila would return to him when she was emotionally ready. He just hoped it was sooner rather than later!

  Rebecca and Wendell had no such impediment as Mike Hobart, however. Therefore, Wendell was keeping a sharp eye out for Lila’s return from the kitchen window. “Heah she comes,” he reported, when he spotted her black head of hair bobbing down the hill from Miss Hastings’ house.

  He bustled Rebecca out the door and they reached the Staircase Tree not long after Lila had discovered Hobart’s surprise. “Whatcha think?” asked Wendell, grinning.

  Lila examined the colorful papier-mâché chickens perched on the steps of the Staircase Tree with delight and wonder. “It’s so amazing! Where did Mike GET these crazy chickens?”

  “From the kindergartners and first graders,” replied Rebecca. “They’re supposed to represent Matilda. The students made them after your visit. Aren’t they adorable?”

  “Too much! And that sign? It’s perfect!”

  Wendell nodded in satisfaction. “Ayuh, Mike’s got a good eye and he’s pretty shaap with them woodworking tools.”

  “But WHY did he leave?” Lila wailed, once again glancing around for our hero.

  “He didn’t want to take advantage of you, dear. But he said he would stop by tomorrow after work, if it was alright.”

  “Oh, it’s more than alright!” she exclaimed. Lila once again beheld the Staircase Tree with perfect happiness and satisfaction. A notion came into her head as she looked at the tree, though, and she turned back to the old chicken farmer. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Wendell...”

  “What’s thet?”

  “What gave you the idea to carve steps in this old limb in the first place? It’s soo twisted!”

  “Oh, ‘twarn’t me. These steps been heah goin’ on 10 years now. Nobody knows who done it; and likely nobody ever will.”

  But for once, Wendell was wrong. There are some folks from Sovereign who know the imp responsible for – and the story behind – the Staircase Tree. But perhaps that is fodder for another tale …

  Chapter 28

  Brood Hens

  Friday morning dawned with the ominous darkness and heavy muggy air of an impending thunderstorm. For the first time during that spring the natural light emanating from the tall windows in the hen pen wasn’t enough, and Lila switched on the electric lights. The chickens seemed over-excited and irascible, and when Lila opened the pint-sized door to the outdoor run more birds than usual remained in the coop than exited to the grassy pen. One of the New Hampshire reds, normally a good-natured breed of bird, even refused to abdicate her nest so that Lila could collect the eggs on which she was setting. The hen actually sprang half-way up from the nest box like a jack-in-the-box, nipping Lila’s hand painfully with her sharp beak.

  “Ouch!” cried Lila, pulling back, momentarily startled.

  The hen glared at her. She shifted her chestnut-red body and settled her tail-end firmly down over the nest of eggs. She ruffled her feathers protectively, sending up a dry spray of sweet-smelling sawdust.

  Lila hesitated. The fierce look in the hen’s eye was off-putting, and she wasn’t sure she was up to what could be a nasty battle between bird and human. Lila recalled that the chicken had claws as well as a beak. She would no doubt win the battle, but at what cost to her hand, arm and maybe even eyes?

  Fortunately, Wendell had ambled across the way for breakfast per usual, and Lila went up and collected the old chicken farmer from the kitchen. He carefully followed Lila back down the tight spiral staircase into the hen pen.

  Wendell regarded the setting hen ruefully. “Ayuh, she’s gone broody,” he said. “Thet’s jest what I thought.”

  “What’s that mean?” asked Lila, worriedly. “Is she sick?”

  “No, she ain’t sick. She wants to raise up a brood of chicks. Some chicken breeds got thet natural motherin’ instinct bred out of ‘em by the scientists, but New Hampshires still make pretty good brood hens.”

  “But is having a brood hen a good thing or a bad thing?”

  “Wal, you know, she ain’t gonna raise up no chicks outta them eggs!” pronounced Wendell, grinning. “You ain’t got no roostah.”

  “Right,” said Lila. She shifted slightly and the hen cocked its head in order to keep a wary eye on her. “Should I keep her? Will she still lay eggs?”

  “Probably not. If Grammie Addie was heah thet hen would go into the soup pot. She’d grab thet chicken by the scruff of the neck – jest like a small dog – and haul her outta thet nest box so quick thet hen’d think she was nevah in theah.” He demonstrated a quick grab and thrust motion and the broody hen was momentarily distracted from Lila to eye Wendell suspiciously. “Course, you ain’t Grammie Addie,” he added, unnecessarily.

  Lila vacillated. She knew she should cull the broody hen from her laying flock, however, she wasn’t ready to relegate her first hen to the soup pot!

  The good-hearted Wendell, understanding the deliberation that was occurring in Lila’s breast, spoke up again. “Course, ‘twas me, I’d jest stick some fertile eggs under her to see what happens. You ain’t got nuthin’ to lose and you might git some baby chicks from it.”

  Wendell’s words reinvigorated Lila. “Hey, that’s a pretty neat idea! Where can I get fertile eggs?”

  “Wal, Trudy Gorse has got roostahs—she’s got them Araucana hens thet lay blue-green eggs, too. Some folks really like them Easter-egg-colored eggs.”

  “Maybe I’ll go over and see Trudy this weekend,” Lila mused. She was eager to secure the fertile chicken eggs to begin the experiment with the broody hen, but she didn’t want to be absent from the homestead that afternoon since Mike Hobart had promised to stop by after work.

  “Ayuh. Want me to change them eggs out for ya when you git ‘em? No sense bothering the old gal now.”

  Rebecca poked her head down the top of the spiral staircase. “Lila—Maude is here for her eggs,” she called, interrupting them.

  “Coming!” Lila called up. She turned back to Wendell. “I’ll change the eggs out when I get the new ones,” she continued, hastily. “Maybe the hen won’t be so feisty if she sees me GIVING eggs to her instead of TAKING eggs from her!”

  He grinned. “Wal, jest let me know if you need me.”

  Lila retrieved Maude’s four dozen eggs from the cold storage room, and wound her way expertly back up the spiral staircase. She discovered that Rebecca had invited Maude inside while she waited, and Lila removed her offensive-smelling Muck™ boots before entering the cozy kitchen. She wasn’t surprised to discover that the two older women were already knee-deep in conversation over a steaming cup of tea.

  “And then Bruce said he’d email for sure when he found out,” an exuberant Maude informed Rebecca. “He’s on Skype with Grayden but he hasn’t said anything to him yet.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t want to get his son’s hopes up only to be disappointed,” said Rebecca.

  “Oh, no!”

  “Here they are,” said Lila, setting the four gray cartons of eggs on the counter.

  “Thanks, Sweetie,” Maude replied to Lila, barely skipping a beat. “He never writes like that unless he’s sure about it,” she continued confidentially to Rebecca. “I think Bruce is coming home from Afghanistan, this time for good!”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful!” cried Rebecca. She was grateful her little chick was still in the nest and not off at war in the trench
es of a foreign country, like Maude’s son Bruce Gilpin.

  Lila automatically tossed a stick of pine into the wood cookstove. The black cover chinked as she returned the cast iron round to its nest on the stovetop, and a sliver of gray smoke escaped and permeated the kitchen. The sound, the scent, the impending thunderstorm were all unnoted by the two women setting at the table.

  Lila realized she was invisible as well. She smiled as she conceived that the two older women were much like her brood hen, lost in a world of their own, a world in which the hatching, raising and rearing of chicks was paramount. Normally, Lila, who was in a different stage of womanhood in her young life, would shrug this off. Now, however, she contemplated them with a growing sense of wonder and longing.

  She thought of Mike Hobart and felt an ache deep inside her, an ache that only he could fill. The yearning grew like a vine, thrusting itself up from her womb to her heart. Someday? Someday!

  I WILL get beyond this! she told herself. I WILL have a normal life someday!

  Lila thought of what I had said to her about her real father. Sadly, she shook her head. That will never happen. I’ll never be able to talk with him again.

  But, if only I could! How much I would have to tell him!

  “I’m bringing Grayden over after school, Lila,” said Maude, interrupting Lila’s reverie. “He wants to do some more target practicing, if that’s alright with you, Sweetie.”

  This turn in the conversation dispersed Lila’s doldrums. “It’s more than alright! I saw that fox again yesterday, so I’m glad Gray’s coming!” Lila heard a rumble of thunder and glanced out the window at the darkening sky. “But it could be pretty nasty this afternoon,” she added.

  “Well, I won’t bring him if it’s raining, or if it’s thundering or lightning at all.”

  “Oh, no; that wouldn’t be safe,” agreed Rebecca. “We haven’t lost any more hens since he’s been target practicing, though, and we do enjoy having Gray around!” She twisted in her chair toward Lila. “Would you like a cup of tea, dear? Maude and I are having a nice little chat.”

  Lila hesitated. She wanted to pull up a chair and join the two mothers, but she didn’t feel comfortable crashing the party just yet. Someday!

  “I’ve got to finish my chores,” she replied. “I’m behind schedule—I haven’t even collected all the eggs yet.”

  Rebecca laughed. “I didn’t know we had schedules around here! I thought that’s why we left corporate America!”

  Lila grinned wryly. “You’re right, as usual, Becca. I think I’m almost as tough a boss on myself as Joe Kelly was to us at Perkins & Gleeful.”

  “That’s probably why he fired me not you!”

  The three women laughed roundly. Despite their entreaties, Lila returned to the hen pen to finish her chores. Rebecca refreshed her guest’s tea, and the two women continued their conversation. After all, Rebecca had not yet had her turn to crow about her own little chick!

  Maude, a grandmother as well as a mother, understood the requisite give and take among brood hens. “When does Amber finish school?” she asked, politely.

  “May 24th – she’s got two more finals and one paper to write, and then she’s done. I can’t wait!”

  “Is your daughter looking forward to the summer here? I would think it’s quite a change from where you lived in Boston.”

  “We used to live in Roxbury,” Rebecca corrected lightly; “but you’re right, it’s very different! Amber is the one that got us into this whole organic thing, though, so she can’t wait to get here and become one of The Egg Ladies permanently!”

  “I thought she looked right at home during the picnic. She’s such a pretty girl!”

  Rebecca’s feathers fluffed up with motherly pride. “Amber is lovely, if I do say so myself!” She was about to remark how glad she was that Amber was thin where she herself was plump, when she recalled Maude’s rotund figure—and stopped just in time. “I love her waist-length hair,” she added, instead. “I’m glad she never cuts it.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Oh, not yet! She’s much too young—she’s only 21.”

  “I was married by the time I was her age,” said Maude, succinctly.

  Rebecca paused a moment for a quick mental calculation. “Me too!” she exclaimed, laughing in wonderment. “But things seem so different these days.”

  “My son Bruce got married young. He was 19 when Grayden was born so he’s 34, now.”

  Both mothers were silent a moment, reflecting upon the merits of their own special chicks. And if the truth were known, both were experiencing very similar thoughts.

  I’m glad Amber is too young for Bruce Gilpin! Rebecca thought. Otherwise, an Afghanistan war veteran might appear very romantic!

  While Maude was thinking, I’m glad Bruce is too old for Amber Johnson! Otherwise, a pretty young girl like her might seem very attractive!

  “I don’t regret that Bruce had Grayden for a minute,” Maude said, finally; “but I wish he hadn’t married the boy’s mother!”

  Rebecca was slightly shocked at this pronouncement from the old-fashioned Maude. “They’re not still married now?” she asked. She knew very little about Bruce Gilpin’s history.

  “No, no. She’s gone through two other men since him, and had a child with each of them. When she moves on, she leaves the children behind.”

  “Oh, my!”

  “Bruce has primary physical custody of Gray, but of course we’ve practically raised him since Bruce joined the Guard after 9-11. Would you like to see a picture of Bruce?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Maude clicked open the gold locket she regularly wore around her neck, and proudly held up the color photo of her son that was framed inside.

  Rebecca leaned forward to admire the dark visage of Bruce Gilpin in his military garb. “He’s very handsome,” she said, truthfully.

  “He takes after my side of the family,” explained Maude. “He looks just like my younger brother, Peter. There’s not a Gilpin bone in his body!”

  Rebecca realized that the conversation had switched back to Maude’s chick, and she smiled inwardly. She, too, understood the necessary give and take of brood hens!

  By the time Lila completed her egg collecting, cleaning and sorting, Maude had departed. She found Rebecca in the dining room, where her motherly friend was already back at work on her latest sewing project. A bolt of burgundy cloth was unrolled on the dining room table and Rebecca was pinning a rectangular paper pattern onto the stiff cloth.

  Lila switched on the light over the dining room table. “Want some light?”

  “Tharmnks!” mumbled Rebecca. She straightened up, and removed several straight pins from her mouth. “I wondered why I was having trouble seeing today.”

  “It’s dark out—that storm will be here before we know it. Is Maude still planning on bringing Gray over after school?”

  “Unless it’s raining. Maybe the storm will pass us by?”

  Lila shook her head. “I don’t like the way the wind is whipping. It blew out one of the window panes in the hen pen.”

  “Did you get it fixed? Should we call Wendell?” Rebecca asked anxiously.

  “I patched the glass back in with some putty. Those windows will eventually need to be replaced, though.”

  “Will it cost very much? I have some extra money, if you need it,” Rebecca offered.

  Lila regarded her friend with surprise. “I thought you saved all your unemployment money for Amber?”

  “This is extra money. I’ve been doing some sewing,” she said, indicating her work. “This is a set of dining room curtains for Miss Hastings and I sewed a tablecloth and napkins for Maude. Plus I hemmed three pair of pants for Ralph and sewed up two holes in his shirts.”

  “You are really into this homesteading thing aren’t you!”

  “I love to sew,” Rebecca said simply, her pretty blue eyes glowing. “Fortunately for me, it seems that nobody else does! I was saving the money for A
mber’s school books next year, but if we need it …”

  “We don’t need it, thanks. We’ve barely touched my mother’s life insurance money, and the eggs are selling really well.”

  At the mention of Lila’s mother and the money her daughter had collected from her awful death, Rebecca shuddered. Her pretty face clouded over. She pictured a woman not much older than herself sitting down to write that last terrible letter to her daughter. What must she have felt as she sat there – hand trembling, tears falling! – knowing that she was giving her own life so that her young chick would have a safe, new life!

  But Rebecca knew, with the true instinct of a brood hen, that there was nothing she herself would not do to save her own baby chick!

  Chapter 29

  Tinkerbell Redux

  Later that same muggy afternoon, Mike Hobart was wrapping up work on his post and beam barn – daydreaming about his sweetheart and wondering how Lila had liked the papier-mâché chickens – when his phone identified an in-coming call from Gray Gilpin. The handsome carpenter was packing his tools neatly into the stainless steel tool box on the back of his truck, but he stopped to answer the call. At first, because of poor cellular reception, Hobart had difficulty understanding the teenager. A thunderstorm threatened, plus he was working in a remote field in Troy.

  “Gray? I can barely hear you,” he said, speaking loudly although he knew it wouldn’t make much difference. “Hold on, buddy, I’ll get up in my truck.”

  Hobart swung his muscular frame up into the bed of his pickup, and from the extra height was able to net better cell reception, enough to distinguish a faint sob on the other end of the line. “Gray, are you OK?” he asked, worriedly.

  “I shot Tinkerbell!” the boy cried. “I can’t find him! I’m in the woods and I think I’m LOST!”

  Hobart, standing in the bed of his truck, felt as though someone had whacked him in the gut with his wooden-handle spade. Momentarily dumbfounded, he sank down onto the side of the truck bed. Gray Gilpin, the darling of his grandparent’s eye, was somewhere lost in the Sovereign woods! And he claimed to have shot the white deer?!