Hens and Chickens (7 page)

Lila dropped her overnight bag onto the aged-gold linoleum floor, and leaned toward the scorching woodstove. “Ahhhh, I could get used to this!”

Miss Hastings wagged a knobby index finger toward a Canadian rocker, judiciously situated between the woodstove and a kitchen window. The rocker was piled high with soft green cushions. “Sit right there, Lila,” said Miss Hastings.  “You’ll have toasty toes in no time!”

Without waiting to be invited twice, Lila unbuttoned her pea coat, slipped it off and plopped into the rocker. “Wake me when it’s breakfast time,” she said.

“Shouldn’t we take our boots off?” worried Rebecca.

“OOoo, don’t be silly! I want you to be perfectly at home, dahrrrling,” said Miss Hastings, as she moved spritely about the kitchen, preparing to put the meal on the table.

“Rebecca DOES take her boots off at home,” interjected Lila.

“Rebecca! Yes, my poor dahrrrling,”said Miss Hastings, removing a pitcher of cold milk from the fridge and setting it on the table. “I know all about you! Well, you can take your boots off if you want to.”

Rebecca stepped onto a red braided rug, pulled off her neat ankle boots and set them next to the front door.  “Oh?” she said, in a curious manner. “What has Lila tweeted about
me
?” She shrugged out of her coat, and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair.

“OOoo, I know EVERYTHING, don’t I, Lila?!” said Miss Hastings, cackling gleefully again. “I know all about that mean old boss, calling you into her office this morning and giving you the boot! After 16 years!”

“At least she helped me carry my things to the car,” Rebecca said smiling. “That’s more than Joe Kelly, our vice president—he didn’t even say ‘goodbye’!”

“Tight-fisted old twit!” sympathized Miss Hastings. “We’ll show him, won’t we, Lila?”

“Totally!” said Lila. She stretched her long legs luxuriously, like a cat, and contentedly surveyed the mustard-colored room. The kitchen sported brightly figured red and yellow curtains that matched the table cloth, and was decorated with chicken and rooster themed knick-knacks and tchotchkes. Lila felt completely at home.

“Isn’t there
something
I can do to help, Miss Hastings?” asked Rebecca. “We didn’t mean for you to go to so much trouble for us!”

“OOoo, please call me Jan, dahrrrling!” replied Miss Hastings. “Nobody calls me Miss Hastings, except for my former students – which – haaaahaaa! - are most of the people in Sovereign!” She cackled again. Her voice had the full-bodied richness of an opera singer.

“Mike Hobart told us EVERYONE calls you Miss Hastings,” Lila said.

“That dahrrrling boy!”

“And I think ‘Miss Hastings’ is lovely,” added Rebecca. “It has such old-fashioned charm to it—that’s what I’m going to call you!”

“Me too,” said Lila.

The modest meal went off splendidly. Homemade corn chowder was complemented by a loaf of Amish-made whole wheat bread and farm butter. When the supper things were cleared away, Lila retreated to her rocker by the stove while Rebecca and Miss Hastings settled in at the kitchen table over dainty teacups of black tea.

“Lila says that you were a music teacher in town, Miss Hastings?” Rebecca said, stirring a large dollop of raspberry honey into her tea.

“OOoo, yes!” Miss Hastings exclaimed, joyfully. She waggled her knobby finger at Rebecca. “I know every single child in town by name – AND I know their children and grandchildren!” She burst into gales of laughter again.

“Are you still teaching?” Rebecca asked.

“Thank goodness, NO! I retired YEARS ago. I should really be dead by now –- haaahaaa! – I’m 87!”

“Omigod!” cried Lila, who had only been half listening, but now was startled by this piece of information into sitting upright in the rocker. “Eighty-seven? That is totally amazing!”

“Lila!” expostulated Rebecca.

“Don’t stop her—I ADORE honesty! That’s why I ADORE children. They’re nothing BUT honest! Just the opposite of all those mean, nasty politicians and corporations!”

“You got that right,” agreed Lila.

“Matilda and I still go to school two or three times a year, just to get our honesty FIX!”

“You take Matilda to school?” Rebecca said. “Oh, I bet the children love that!”

“OOoo, the dahrrrlings; they do get SO excited when they see Matilda! We sing. We dance. We parade! We do WONDERFUL things!”

Lila sank back into the rocker and closed her eyes, listening abstractedly to Miss Hastings and Rebecca chat about children, teaching and music. Lila had formed an image of her Twitter-mate in her mind over the years, and she had discovered during the last hour that Miss Jan Hastings was soo NOT the masculine, work-booted chicken-lover she had imagined but a petite, educated, dynamo of a woman who definitely marched to the beat of her own drum.

I wonder what I’ll be like when I’M her age?
 Lila mused to herself.
Will I be even half as lovable and fun?

Lila’s thoughts wandered of their own accord back to the unexpected meeting with Mike Hobart, who had tricked them into buying the largest size of birdseed so that he could have an excuse to see her again. Lila tried to convince herself that she was mad at him, but she failed.
Neat trick,
she said to herself, impressed by his ingenuity.

But … would someone like Mike Hobart – if he did come to love her – still feel the same way in ten years? Twenty years? Thirty years? Forty years? Lila wondered.

At this point in her life, Lila wasn’t interested in any kind of romantic relationship. Still less was she interested in casual sex. She had her reasons, and they were good reasons. Lila believed that her attitude toward sex, romance and dating was nobody’s business but her own (not even Rebecca’s). She was aware that most men thought she had a chip on her shoulder. But if they only knew! The burden she was carrying was more like a mountain, than a chip!

A tangled mess of painful thoughts and feelings rose up in Lila as she toasted her waif-like frame by Miss Hastings’ cookstove. While half-listening to the conversation between Miss Hastings and Rebecca, Lila flashed back to a recent “dating” experience from the winter, just prior to her friendship with the new corporate attorney Ryan McDonald. After much encouragement, Lila had accompanied some young friends to a bar, friends who had been pushing her to “get out and meet some men.” When her friends abandoned her for the dance floor, Lila was approached by a well-dressed, well-heeled accountant, who, with gin and tonic in hand, confidently appropriated the vacated seat next to her.

After the usual blather of introductions, the accountant smirked and offered to buy Lila a drink. Bothered by the whole “dating” charade, Lila decided to put her cards on the table. “Look, if you’re just here for sex, don’t waste time on me,” she said, honestly. “I don’t care what happens tonight, I’m not going to have sex with you. So, if sex is all you want—feel free to go find someone else.”

No sooner were the words out of Lila’s mouth than the accountant stood up, collected his drink, and hustled off after another prospect. He never said “goodbye” – and he never looked back.

Lila cringed at the recollection.
What would Mike Hobart say if I threw the same announcement at him?
Lila wondered.
Would he, too, pick up his “toys” and walk away?

Or maybe – just maybe – might there be HOPE here in Sovereign, Maine?

Chapter 7

The First Day of the Rest of Her Life

Lila awoke early the next morning to the sound of—quiet; complete and absolute stillness. It was almost as though the cozy corner bedroom was soundproofed, and for a few moments the quiet had an unsettling effect on her.

But as Lila snuggled deeper into the generous featherbed of the Rose Room – enjoying the smell and sensation of the crisp, clothesline-dried sheets on her brass bed – she gradually came to hear a most amazing sound: the beating of her own heart! Lila listened to the regular
thump-thump-thump
of that steady organ and wondered:
When was the last time I listened to my heart beat?
A thrill of happiness pervaded Lila’s being, and her heart picked up its tempo in response.

The Rose Room was every bit as lovely as Lila had pictured. The wall paper was a blushing antique ivory, strewn with bouquets of wine-colored roses that trailed fragile, fairy-like green stems. A ruby red painted floor peeped out beneath a multi-colored, hand-braided rug, and the painted trim around the ceilings and windows was a muted off-white. Old-fashioned lace curtains adorned the two matching windows, one of which – the tall one – faced east, and the other was a smaller, dormer window facing south. The corner room had a slanted ceiling into which the dormer was set, and the room was sparsely but tastefully furnished with two antique chairs and a pine dresser with matching, attached mirror. A blanket chest, which was tucked under the slanted ceiling, boasted several black and white framed family photos and a dish of rose-scented potpourri. Enchanted, Lila lay back upon the feather pillows and tucked the pink patchwork quilt up under her neck.

I wish I was a kid again!
Lila thought. Hot tears filled her eyes, tears for the innocence she had lost in childhood. She dashed them away, angrily, but not before tasting the warm wet salt of despair.

I’m not going to feel sorry for myself anymore!
Lila vowed. The time-worn (but no less useful) quote popped into her head: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life!” Lila repeated the phrase several times to herself until she gradually came to believe that its meaning might just possibly be relevant, even for her situation.

Maybe it’s not too late to be a kid again.
Lila thought.
After all, look at Miss Hastings! She’s still a kid – and she’s 87!

A faint knocking at the bedroom door interrupted Lila’s musings.

“Lila? Are you awake?” whispered Rebecca. She opened the door slowly and peeked inside. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Totally awesome,” said Lila. She saw that her barefoot friend was shivering in her white cotton nightgown. Lila patted the spot in bed next to her. “Quick, get in here before you freeze to death!”

Rebecca scooted into bed and the two women giggled as they pulled the covers up to their necks. The sun was just beginning to send searching golden rays over the swaying tops of the pine trees, which were visible through the eastern-facing window.

“I feel like I went to sleep and woke up in Never Never Land!” exclaimed Rebecca. “Do you think Miss Hastings will let us live here forever?”

“The question is,” said Lila, “will Miss Hastings LIVE forever!”

Both women giggled again. “She already has, hasn’t she?” replied Rebecca.

“Can you imagine anything more totally amazing!”

“How does she do it, I wonder? Do you think she eats a lot of honey-bee propolis? I’ve heard that’s supposed to have wonderful medicinal effects?”

Lila absently traced the outline of a rose on the wallpaper above her head. “I think she’s just a kid that never grew up,” she said. “Miss Hastings is the female version of Peter Pan.” Lila paused, her hand dropping to the quilt. “Do you think we get a chance to start over in life, Becca?” she asked, earnestly.

Rebecca laughed, her tousled mop of loose brown hair making her appear 10 years younger than her 48. “I hope so, because I already have!”

“No, seriously.”

“Seriously!  But let’s not go there. It’s such a lovely start to the day and I don’t want to dredge up old stuff—for either of us. Let’s just agree that ‘starting over’ is a necessary and welcome part of the human experience and decide – to – start – over – today!” Rebecca emphasized her statement by pulling her feather pillow out from under her head and lightly bopping Lila over the head with it.

“PILLOW FIGHT!” exclaimed Lila. She responded by whacking Rebecca over the head in return and a playful battle ensued. White down feathers flew like fat April snow.

The house beneath them had been quiet, but, suddenly – in the midst of the pillow fight – a muted sound of music was heard from a distance below. “That sounds like someone practicing their scales,” said Rebecca, pillow arrested in mid-air. “It’s coming from the studio, that funny-looking part of the house where Miss Hastings used to give piano lessons.”

“Omigod, do you think it’s her?” said Lila. “Her hands are sooo arthritic.”

“Where there’s a will—there’s a way,” replied Rebecca. “It’s either Miss Hastings or a ghost playing her baby grand piano since there’s nobody else but us in the house! Shhh, let’s listen.” Rebecca clutched her pillow to her chest and sank down onto her knees on the thick mattress. The scales ended abruptly, and were soon replaced by a light-hearted and lively piano concerto. The two women listened in worshipful silence.

“Oh, my goodness! That’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’,” gushed Rebecca. “It’s Rachmaninoff’s arrangement of Mendelssohn’s Opus 21!”

Lila nodded, dumbly. The exquisite music had unlocked something deep inside her, something that had been hidden away for nearly 20 years. A little girl was slipping out from behind iron bars and moving ethereally from Lila’s flesh into the dusty motes of light that expanded through the eastern window. Lila’s heart hurt, and she pressed her hand to her chest to keep her heart from breaking.

Oh, no! Oh, no!
she cried, silently.
Don’t go!
Don’t leave me!

The vision – an eight-year-old dark-haired, pony-tailed girl in a red sweater and Oshkosh B’Gosh® blue jeans – turned and lifted her chubby hand to Lila in a cheerful greeting.

 
Why,
s
he’s saying, ‘Hello!’
noted Lila to herself. S
he isn’t GOING; she’s COMING—coming home to me!

There are very few of us who remember the day, the moment, when our childhood ends. For most of us, the sun sets on our innocence gradually, sliding down over the western horizon like a toboggan run down over a long, steep slope. We are never really conscious of the moment we reach the bottom of the slope; we just know that one day we wake up and the toboggan ride is over. For a few unfortunate children, however, the loss of innocence is so tragic and dramatic, that it is a miniature Hiroshima which is etched upon the back of their eyelids forever. Alas, our heroine Lila Woodsum was one of these children!