Hens and Chickens (24 page)

Mike Hobart instantly picked up the drift of the chicken farmer’s concern. “We can make it work,” he declared. “I’ll go in beforehand with a chain saw and clear a path. A friend of mine has a four-wheeler that I can borrow on the day of the picnic, and we’ll use his ATV to ferry in anyone who doesn’t want to walk. That’s if you don’t mind me cutting the trees down there, Wendell,” he added, quickly.

“I don’t mind. She’s awful haad goin’ but yore shaap enough with a chainsaw to git the job done, Mike,” Wendell replied.

A targeted date two weeks away was set for the picnic to the Millett Rock – weather dependent, of course – and the little group chatted excitedly about what to expect and who would bake what and what types of fancy dress clothing should be worn, with Lila suggesting that she and Rebecca wear the old silk gowns she’d discovered in the attic. The mantelpiece clock chimed 3:30 p.m., but still the satisfied guests held fast to their comfortable seats, unwilling to let the agreeable dinner party end. A trio of mourning doves fluttered up to the ground beneath a bird feeder dangling outside the east-facing window, and the purple-gray birds started up a round of mournful
cooing
.

“Who else has a childhood story to tell?” Rebecca asked, her pretty blue eyes roving hopefully around the table.

Lila felt her first stirrings of fear. What if Rebecca solicited childhood remembrances from everyone at the table?! What would she do? What COULD she say?!

“I remember a WONDERFUL story that my father – bless his heart! – used to tell,” cried Miss Hastings. “He was tending his strawberry bed one spring when a couple in a flivver drove in the dooryard, wanting to know what the folks in Sovereign were like. ‘What are the folks like where YOU come from?’ Father asked. ‘Oh, they’re awful mean; small-minded and mean-spirited!’ the man answered. Father thought a moment: “Wal, that’s likely what you’ll find ‘round here,’ he replied.”

Everyone at the table chuckled, except for Lila. Her breathing had become slightly labored.
Not now! Please, not now!

“Wait, there’s more!” Miss Hastings exclaimed. “The next spring, Father was out planting his peas when another couple drove in the yard, wanting to know what the folks in Sovereign were like. ‘What are the folks like where YOU come from?’ Father asked. ‘Oh, they are the dearest, sweetest folks you ever saw, and we hate to leave, but I just got a job here in town!’ the man answered. Father never missed a beat. ‘Wal, that’s likely what you’ll find ‘round here,’ he replied.”

This time the little group broke out into hoots of appreciation and genuine laughter. Miss Hastings’ eyes sparkled. “Isn’t that a dahrrrling story?” she said. “We used to make Father tell that story over and over again when we were kids!”

“Lovely!” proclaimed Rebecca. “Thank you so much for sharing it!” Her eye began roving around the table again, searching for another storytelling volunteer. “Who’s next?” she said, encouragingly.

Lila felt the panic viscerally. She swallowed hard and surreptitiously glanced at Mike Hobart to see if he had noticed her rising anxiety. Hobart, however, was busy bantering with Ralph Gilpin, who had suggested the carpenter as the next story-telling candidate.

“Don’t everyone speak up at once!” Rebecca said, laughing.

Lila was suddenly hyper-aware of herself, as though she had floated out of her body and was hovering over the table watching the action from an aerial position. It was almost like flying. She recognized the sensation and attempted to quash it, but –
it was too late!

The door
clicked
softly shut, and a dark shadow loomed over her bed. It was her stepfather! He was standing over her, unfastening his belt. His eyes were glazed over with evil, predatory intent.

A sob escaped from Lila’s throat. “Oh, make him stop!” she cried, staggering to her feet. The table swirled around her like a merry-go-round and she noted the concern on Mike Hobart’s face as he tilted past, and Rebecca and Miss Hasting … but no one stopped to help her! She rushed from the dining room, hands over her face.

The startled group sat momentarily dazed and befuddled. Rebecca started to rise, but Hobart was on his feet in a split second.

“Let me go,” he said, tossing his napkin onto his chair. He strode out of the room on Lila’s heels, and Rebecca sank back down into her chair. It never crossed her mind for a second to contest his right to comfort her beloved young friend.

Hobart found Lila sobbing, on her knees in the sawdust, face into the corner of the hen pen. She was cold and dirty, and at first resisted his attentions.

“Shhhh,” he whispered soothingly. “It’s OK—you’re safe.” He sank to the floor beside her and gently lifted her into his lap. She turned her face to his shoulder and continued to cry. He stroked her hair and back, and let her sob, her little chest heaving pitifully. Hobart wrapped his arms around her to keep her warm, and occasionally mumbled inarticulate reassurances.

Lila cries gradually abated, and after 10 minutes ended altogether. She sniveled and shivered, and made an attempt to gather herself together.
What have I done?!

A thousand thoughts flew into her head at once, like the swallows returning to San Juan Capistrano.
I’m not ready for this! He deserves better than me! Why can’t I leave this horror behind me?

But one thing was for sure: she would NOT ruin his life. She would NOT!

Lila took a deep breath, in order to calm herself. She felt a sense of resolute purpose rising within her.
God, give me strength to do this!

Hobart was still holding her tightly, stroking her short hair. “It’s OK, darling,” he whispered, again. “I’m here. I love you. Nothing will ever hurt you again!”

New hot tears, tears of loss, stung Lila’s eyelids. She pushed herself away from him and sat up. “I’m OK, now, thanks.”

“Sure? I can get my hankie from the truck,” he said, teasingly.

Lila clasped his strong hand and tugged on it to get his serious attention. “I can’t do this, Mike,” she said, bravely. She felt like throwing up, but forced herself to continue. “I’m not ready for a romantic relationship. I thought I was, but obviously I’m not.”

“But, darling,” he pleaded; “whatever’s wrong, I can
help
you.”

“No, I won’t do this to you,” she said, firmly. She straightened up defiantly, like a bent silver birch shaking off its heavy load from a snowstorm.

“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide that?”

She read the distress in his honest blue eyes, and felt his love descend down to the innermost reaches of her soul. “Oh, Mike!” she said, sobbing. She pressed his hand to her cheek, kissing his palm. “Please, please! Just give me some space!” she begged. “I need TIME to think everything through!”

How could he argue with that? He could not!

Hobart’s hopes dropped like a stone. He sighed, dispiritedly. “Whatever you say, darling,” he said. “I just want you to be happy!”

Lila squeezed his hand in reply.

“I won’t give you up,” he said softly. He pushed the tousled hair away from her eyes. “I’ll wait.”

She bit her lip, but could not speak.

Hobart stood up and helped her gently to her feet. He brushed the sawdust from her pretty floral print dress, as tenderly as a father toweling a small child. “I think your chickens are calling your name,” he said, generously. “Want me to say ‘goodbye’ to the others for you?”

Lila nodded, her hazel eyes speaking louder than words the depth of her gratitude.

He smiled reassuringly, and leaned closer. “Remember, I’m very, very good at waiting, darling,” he whispered, lips brushing her hair.

And then he was gone, and Lila was once more alone.

Chapter 23

Tinkerbell

How does a young woman live with a broken heart? How does she go about her daily duties? How does she feed her chickens? Collect the eggs? What gives her the strength to get out of bed every day? Put one foot in front of the other?

How do any of us with a broken heart get through our days?

We all do what we have to do. We have no other alternative, unless we want to stop living altogether. But most of us choose not to end our life after the heartbreak occurs – when our home is destroyed by fire or flood, or our child drowns, or our spouse dies, or sickness overwhelms us. Somehow, somewhere, we find the courage to keep moving forward.

The first big loss is always the most difficult. We have not yet learned that loss will be one of the major themes of our lives. We have not learned that we will lose everything and everyone that we have ever loved, because Time marches forward like a terrible marching band that refuses to stop playing. And we must face the music over and over and over again, which is why love – true, honest, selfless love! – is so important to cherish and foster and reciprocate!

Lila
did
get out of bed the morning after the dinner party. She had chores to do and 200 baby chicks arriving the following day to prepare for; chicks that would be completely dependent upon her to keep them alive, and that would require food and water and heat and a special pen. And she was grateful that she had something to occupy her mind so that she wouldn’t spend every waking hour mourning the loss of her childhood … and the resulting loss of her love, Mike Hobart.

So Lila stumbled through her day, mechanically performing her duties. The hens greeted her with their usual fluttering, flying excitement, which brought a faint glow to her spirit like that of a dying ember. And the egg collecting, cleaning and sorting served as a soothing physic for her sore heart. That afternoon Lila put the finishing touches on the separate pen, which would house her replacement chicks; filling waterers and feeders, and double checking the warming lights.

Rebecca, in the meantime, had allowed the incident at the dinner party to go entirely unremarked. Mike Hobart had taken her aside Sunday afternoon and briefly described the situation, saying that Lila had requested time for reflection. The motherly Rebecca had wanted to swoop in and rescue her young friend, but Hobart had recommended giving his beloved a day or two to recover on her own before confronting her. His advice tended contrary to Rebecca’s own instincts, but she promised she would honor it, for at least the first 24 hours. After that, well, Rebecca was to use her own judgment.

And what about Mike Hobart?

In our anxiety for our heroine, we must not overlook the other major sufferer—our hero. The handsome carpenter was experiencing his own challenges as he struggled through the first night and the next day, laboring over the post and beam barn he was building in Troy. He did not – could not – understand what was causing Lila’s grief, but he knew that he loved her, and so he hurt with her.

Hobart’s grief was mostly not for himself; his distress was for his love. He thought first of her, felt first for her, wanted the best for her. The fact that he was absolutely sure HE was the best for her did alleviate some of his own personal sufferings. But the competing fact that he was helpless at this point to assist Lila caused him no end of agonizing pain. For it is difficult to watch someone we love suffer and realize that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, we can do to alleviate their suffering.

On Sunday night, following the incident, Hobart considered telephoning his father. However, the two men were so emotionally close that Hobart knew he could not get through the conversation without weeping. In addition, he didn’t want to worry his father, who was looking forward to meeting Lila that summer. Suffice to say, a man with a dilemma of the heart – AND blessed with three older sisters – need not look far for emotional support. And so that evening Hobart poured out his troubles in an email to the
youngest
of his three older sisters, with whom he had the closest relationship.

After sending the email, however, Hobart decided it might be uplifting to hear a friendly voice from Maple Grove. Not wanting to spoil the contents of the email to his youngest sister, he elected to telephone his
eldest
sister. Per usual, he placed the call from his cell phone. Unlike per usual, he connected with fairly clear and steady phone service to Aroostook County in northern Maine.

“Mikey!” his elder sister exclaimed. “It’s about time! How IS everything down there?”

“Not so good,” replied Hobart. And before he knew it he had also bared his soul to his eldest sister. What else could he do after that but at least send a text message (or two or three) to his
middle
sister? And so within 24 hours the entire town of Maple Grove was buzzing with genuine concern for Hobart, who, as the baby of the seventh generation of potato farmers – and who lived Away – was felt to require particular empathy.

Wendell, our kind-hearted friend Wendell, was also suffering; worrying about everyone involved. On Monday afternoon he drove down to Hobart’s job site in Troy and corralled the carpenter. “Wal, you know, she’s gonna be a nice lookin’ bahn when yore finished,” he said, after viewing the initial stages of construction and examining Hobart’s design plans. “But how’re
you
doin’, Mike?” he asked, finally getting to the crux of his visit.

“I’m doing,” replied Hobart, listlessly, resting on a long-handled spade. “Have you seen her today?”

The “her” was of course Lila.

“Wal, you know, I was ovah for breakfast but she was already out with the chickens. Her little friend said she ain’t talkin’ much. She’s such a little bitty thing, you cain’t help but feel bad for her.”

Tears came to Hobart’s eyes. He brushed them away, but didn’t try and hide them from the chicken farmer. “Lila’s strong,” Hobart replied. “It might take her some time, but she’ll bounce back.”

“Ayuh, she’s pretty spunky,” Wendell agreed.

And Miss Hastings telephoned Monday morning – on the landline, not on Lila’s cell, which was her usual mode of contact with
The Egg Ladies
. Rebecca, who was obviously the intended recipient of the call, answered the phone.