I climb out of the cab and walk to the front, escaping the cloud of dirt and checking my surroundings. A small farmhouse sits at the top of a hill straight ahead, about fifty feet from us. The lady clanks the chicken crate out of the bed, almost turning it over and killing the chicks in the process.
“Do you need—”
“Nope. Thank you.” She heaves the box onto her hip, with struggle all over her face as she does. I have to rub my jaw to prevent laughing at her. She wobbles toward the house, and chickens roll all over each other with each step. Little chirp screeches beckon to be rescued. “Lola! Lola! I’m here!” she yells toward the house.
The flimsy screen door swings open and slams against the side of the house. An older woman in rubber boots and a straw hat walks out, her demeanor changing when she sees the girl walking up to her porch. “Kate Stanley! What are you doing?”
“Lola, shut up,” she tries to shush her, looking over her shoulder at me.
I mouth,“Kate,”to her, and she groans in defeat as she heads to the steps of the house.
Kate Stanley. Mystery gone. The other woman comes down the steps and meets us in the driveway. Kate grapples with the crate she’s losing grip of and sets it down as gently as she can before wiping her hands on her thighs and tapping the toes of her shoes on the ground, ridding them of any red dirt remnants that collected by the truck.
“Katherine Joy, I can’t keep these.” The woman points at the flock of chickens in the cage. I could be hallucinating, but I feel their little chicklet eyes on me as the ladies bicker back and forth.
“They’re going to get eaten,” Kate argues.
“That’s what they’re bred for, sweetheart.” The woman puts her hands on her hips, looking very much like Kate at the moment.
“Lola, you have to.” Kate’s voice sounds fragile as she tries to coax this elderly woman into accepting responsibility for the animals. She clasps her hands together under her chin and pouts at her.
For a grown woman, Kate seems to have no shame in pulling out all the stops.
“I said no.” Lola’s face has a look. I’ve seen that look from my own mother. Disappointment. Never goes away, even as an adult. She eyes me, clearly suspicious as to why I’m here. “Did you encourage this?” She waves to the birds.
Her tone sends a chill down my spine. “No, ma’am.” She looks satisfied with my response and looks back at Kate. A breath of relief leaves me. I can tell I don't want to end up on her bad side.
I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about this farm woman that terrifies me. Fifteen years as a naval nuclear engineer, three deployments, and dozens of short tours, but this woman in her flowery boots and t-shirt covered with kittens is one of the most intimidating things I’ve encountered.
“What am I supposed to do, then?” Kate groans, and the chicks chirp, like they also want to know what will happen to them.
“Take them back,” Lola says, unfazed.
“They’ll die!” Kate practically whines out, and Lola just shrugs.Pretty savage, lady.
She rubs Kate’s arm. “I’m sorry, honey. I just can’t,” she says, turning to head back into the house.
“What am I going to do? Gary’s gonna fry them the first chance he gets!” Kate calls after her.
“I’ll take them.” The words come out quicker than my brain computes them. Taking home a crate of chickens was not on the agenda for my Saturday, but seeing the defeat all over Kate’s face is enough to gut me—that and the crate of innocent eyes staring up at me like I’m their mother bird.
Kate whips her entire body toward me. “What?” Her voice is faint. “Are you serious?”
Am I serious?“Sure.” I shrug.What’s the worst that could happen?
“Are you going to eat them?” She eyes me suspiciously.
I can tell that eating any of these yappy birds will hurt Kate. And for some unknown reason, that is the last thing I want to do. I hold up a hand and say, “I will keep them safe, ma’am.”
“Oh my gosh, thank you!” Within seconds, her arms are around my shoulders, pulling me flush against her for a hug. Her head nuzzles perfectly in the center of my chest. It would be nice…if the force of the hug didn’t knock the wind out of me. I give her a pat on the back in reciprocation. “Thank you! Thank you!” she squeals.
“You’re welcome.” My words are muffled by her curly bun pressing against my mouth and nose. The smell of lavender swirls around me. She steps back and beams at me, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Kate’s glee is palpable, and I feel lighter just looking at her.
“Malcolm Geer, you are a saint.”
“It’s not a big—wait …” The bemusement I feel is clearly on my face as she bites her lip.Distracting.“How do you know my name?”
“Google.” She shrugs. “Duh, Gramps.” She turns on her heels and reaches for the crate, the chickens chirping in protest. Iinstinctively grab the crate and hoist it onto my shoulder. The chicks go quiet.I got you, buddies.
