Hens and Chickens (8 page)

However, whether or not the loss of childhood innocence is duly noted and recorded in our diaries, the day in our adulthood in which our childlike sense of trust and wonder is
reborn
is always remarkable, a truly momentous day – and one that we will never, ever forget. Today was THAT DAY for Lila Woodsum.

Lila closed her eyes, and allowed her heart to be healed by the sound of the music. The piano acted as a cauterizing agent, singeing evil memories from her heart and replacing them with a cool, deep well of goodness. The healing was so powerful, so real, that Lila could feel a sort of harmony welling up like water in the inner most core of her being. She felt herself floating, as the water buoyed her up, propelling her forward. The water parted like a prayer from her skin. She was cleansed; reborn, an innocent child of God once again.

The music stopped. Lila caught and held her breath, willing the piano to begin again.

“Do you think we should get dressed and go down, now that she’s done?” Rebecca asked, tossing the covers aside in answer to her own question.

Lila was unwilling to shake off her dreamy state. “You go,” she said. “Use the bathroom first. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

She lay back in bed, savoring the moment. Yes, it was a red letter day. And the day was only just beginning!

When Lila cheerfully joined Rebecca and Miss Hastings in the kitchen 15 minutes later, she discovered a bowl of hot oatmeal awaiting her on the bun warmer of the wood cookstove. She pulled up a chair, and helped herself to a slice of buttery toast.

“Dahrrrling, there’s a pot of coffee on the stove and some hot water for tea, if you prefer,” said the good-hearted spinster. “I told Rebecca that you’ve now seen the extent of my cooking abilities!” Miss Hastings burst into gales of laughter. “Corn chowder and oatmeal!”

“You don’t cook?” said Lila, surprised.

“Never got the hang of it – I was a working gal! I took my noon meals at school, and then most of the rest of my meals came from Ma Jean.”

“Who is Ma Jean?” asked Rebecca, curiously.

“She runs the local restaurant—she and I are two peas in a worn out old pea pod! She’s still cooking, and she’s 82! We’ll go down and see Ma Jean for lunch today – she cooks out of a renovated farmhouse on the Bangor Road – and then you city people can see how good food SHOULD taste!”

“Oh, it sounds lovely!” said Rebecca. “We’ll treat! And don’t you worry about any more meals while we’re here, Miss Hastings. I may not be Ma Jean, but I’m a pretty good cook, if I do say so myself!”

“When do we meet with Mr. Russell about the house?” Lila asked, anxiously.

“Don’t you worry, dahrrrling, you won’t be able to sneak out of town without meeting Mr. Wendell Emerson Russell! He’s more excited about your visit than I am! I told him you’d be down around 9:30 a.m., and you don’t have far to go—he’s just down the road!”

“We saw an old house on the way in last night – with a neat tree out front,” Lila said. “It had steps in it! Is that the place?”

“That’s it—the old Russell homestead! She’s even older than I am and so is that tree! The children call that the Staircase Tree!” said Miss Hastings. “Would you believe, that poor maple tree was struck by lightning 15 years ago but like some of the rest of us old fools around here simply refuses to die!”

“Looks like a stairway to heaven,” said Lila; “for us, anyway.”

Rebecca nodded. “I’m starting to think it
is
a sign,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Well, it’ll be a GIFT from heaven for Wendell if you two take over that mausoleum,” said Miss Hastings. “I told him I wasn’t going to get involved in this transaction in any way, shape or fashion – except to get you up here to meet with him – BUT dahrrrlings, don’t do anything you don’t want to do!”

“That’s my job,” Rebecca spoke up, quickly; “to counterbalance Lila’s enthusiasm.” She smiled. “But I think I’m falling under Sovereign’s spell a little bit, too.”

“Hallelujah!” said Lila, reaching for a second piece of toast.

A loud double knock on the shed door startled the three women.

“My goodness, I didn’t hear anyone drive in,” said Miss Hastings, turning half-way around in her chair. “Come in, dahrrrling!” she called, toward the mudroom.

“It’s just me, Miss Hastings—Mike Hobart,” replied a husky masculine voice. “I’m here to unload that bag of birdseed.”

“OOoo, dahrrrling! Come in; come in! We’re just finishing our breakfast.”

A freshly-shaven Mike Hobart entered the kitchen. “I hope I’m not too early,” he said, standing sheepishly on the entryway rug in order to keep from tracking up the kitchen with his wet boot. “Am I interrupting?”

“I’m done,” said Rebecca, flashing the handsome young carpenter a welcoming smile.

“Me too,” said Lila, cheerfully. She wolfed down the last crust of toast, and pushed her oatmeal bowl away.

Rebecca glanced at her young friend in surprise. She had been expecting more of the same cold-shoulder treatment from Lila, but this was almost, well – friendly!

“I’ll help you, Mike,” said Lila, rising from her chair. “Where do you want us to put the birdseed, Miss Hastings?”

“OOoo, there’s a big old aluminum can in the shed, dahrrrling, where I store the birdseed to keep it away from the mice and squirrels. There’s plenty of space in it! Haaahaa!” Miss Hastings made a vain attempt at containing her laughter. “Take your time, dahrrrlings!” she added, winking meaningfully at Rebecca.

Once in the shed, Lila opened up her budget of concerns. “I wanted to help so I could apologize for last night,” she said, holding the door as Mike Hobart passed through with the birdseed on his shoulder. He plopped the 50-pound bag onto the wooden shed floor with a
thud
. “I was kind of bitchy, and I’m sorry,” she continued.

“I didn’t notice,” Hobart lied, generously. He pulled out his pocket knife and slit open the plastic bag.

“Thanks, but I know you’re lying.”

“You do not,” he said, smiling. He dumped the bag into the aluminum can and a shower of dust floated up into the air. “You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe not, but I’m pretty good at recognizing liars,” Lila said. “Not that I think you lie regularly,” she added hastily, “but that’s how I can tell. Real, regular liars have a ‘just-washed-my-face’ look of innocence that is so fake. I can spot it a mile away!”

“Sounds like you’ve had a lot experience with liars.”

“Too much,” said Lila. She grimaced slightly, and shook her head.

As Lila tossed her head, shiny black feathers of her hair floated up and then settled back down in disarray. Hobart wanted to lean over and push the feathers back into place. His hand moved toward her head instinctively, but he stopped himself just in time. “Well, you won’t have to worry about
that
if you stick around Sovereign,” he said. “It’s just the opposite around here. Folks in Sovereign are so brutally honest that sometimes I wish they
would
lie, at least enough to save my pride once in a while.”

Lila tittered, which sounded to Hobart like the cheerful chuckle of a bird. Once again he was reminded of a black-capped chickadee, the Maine state bird. Hobart’s heart lifted in response and he wanted to make her laugh again so that he could hear it once more. Her cheeks – so pale yesterday under the harsh fluorescent lights of Gilpin’s General Store – were flushed rosy this morning. Her hazel eyes, which yesterday flashed warningly ‘STAY AWAY,’ now twinkled with the openness of friendly interest.  

Hobart folded up the plastic bag and tucked it onto a gardening shelf in Miss Hastings’ shed. “How long are you staying in town?” he asked, hopefully. He pushed his baseball cap back on his head and looked around for something to lean against.

“We’re not sure, actually. We’re thinking of buying the Russell place and raising chickens – selling eggs – something like that.”

Hobart whistled, long and low. “The old Russell place! That would be great. It needs some work, but she’s a beautiful old post and beam.” He leaned against the potting bench and folded his arms.

“Post and beam?” said Lila, hazel eyes fixing earnestly on Hobart’s ocean-blue ones. “What’s that?”

“Timber framing; it’s a type of construction,” he replied. “The old timers around here built their houses using trees they cut off the land. They hand-hewed thick beams from the logs and hooked ‘em together like this,” he said. He used his hands to demonstrate the interlocking construction.

“Seems like you know a lot about it?”

“I built a post and beam cabin 10 years ago, when I was in college. I learned a lot from my mistakes! My cabin’s a lot smaller, but it’s the same general principal.”

“Have you ever been inside the Russell place?” Lila asked, wistfully.

“Yep, a couple of times. Not long after I first moved here, and then last fall Wendell showed me around again. I know he’s tried to sell the house and some of the land, but – and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this – with the economy and all, I don’t think he’s even had an offer.”

“Do you think the place can be repaired? Tell me the truth—I know you will,” Lila said, lightly touching the carpenter’s arm, seeking reassurance.

Her touch electrified Hobart’s arm. For a moment, the wood shed floor beneath his feet drifted away from him. “Maybe,” he said, steadying himself. “The main house is solid, but the hen pen needs work, especially if you’re planning to raise chickens. It’s definitely worth saving, though.”

“Omigod, that is soo great!” Lila exclaimed. She let go of Hobart’s arm and clasped her hands excitedly. “Can you come with us today and look at it?”

Hobart hesitated. “I want to—but …” he broke off.

“But what?”

“But I really shouldn’t get involved at this point, as much as I’d like to help you. You and, uh, your friend …”

“Rebecca,” said Lila.

“You and Rebecca should let Wendell show you the place and then – if you’re still interested – then I’ll help you in any way that I can.”

“We’ll pay you, of course,” said Lila, quickly.

“Well, we can talk about that later, too.”

Lila cocked her head sideways and regarded him carefully. “You’re not one of those guys that go around rescuing damsels in distress, are you?” she asked, pertly.

“I could be,” admitted Hobart, slightly abashed. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Not if you give the damsels a chance to rescue YOU once in a while,” Lila retorted.

“Oh, that’s easily arranged,” he replied, “if you stick around long enough.”

“It’s a deal, then!” said Lila. She stuck out a thin white hand for the carpenter to shake.

Hobart chuckled, a deep husky sound. “You’re pretty confident,” he said. He grasped Lila’s outstretched hand but instead of shaking it, he held it securely in his callused paw. “Must be you’re not afraid of spiders and mice,” he added, teasingly. “You do know that place has been empty for something like – 10 years?”

“Seven,” corrected Lila. She unhurriedly pulled her hand away him. “But who’s counting?” She leaned down and scooped up a small handful of sunflower seeds from the storage can. “Come with me,” she said, suggestively to the carpenter.

Hobart needed no further encouragement. He followed Lila back into the mudroom, where she uncovered the cage containing Matilda. She dropped to her knees and made soft
cluck clucking
noises. Matilda responded eagerly, hopping down from her perch and over to the side of the cage.

“Here you go, Sweetie,” Lila said, holding a sunflower seed through the metal bars. Matilda snapped up the seed and greedily returned for more. Lila laughed happily, and repeated the process until her handful of seeds was fed out. She stood up, brushed herself off and regarded Hobart proudly, as though she had just scaled Mount Everest.

“You really like chickens, don’t you?” asked Hobart, marveling at the difference between this radiant young woman and the surly chit with a chip on her shoulder whom he had witnessed last evening at Gilpin’s General Store.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Sir,” she said, with a theatrical flourish. “You are now addressing one of
The Egg
Ladies
of Sovereign, Maine!”

Chapter 8

The Old Russell Place

Lila was correct in her numbers—the old Russell place had been vacant for seven years. The locals tell me that if the house hadn’t had such a good roof on her she would have been down into the cellar years ago. And if Pappy Russell had known the deal he was getting in 1956 when he complained about the price of that standing-seam metal roof, my sources say he might not have complained so loudly. (Although the old timers also say that Pappy always did need something to grumble about, he being the most malcontent Sovereign ever produced.)

But these days the old Russell place was “leaning towards Sawyers,” as Wendell Russell, Pappy and Addie Russell’s grandson would say, a tongue-in-cheek way of inferring she was pretty run down. It’s a long story why the place has been empty so long, but the short version is that because nobody in the direct Russell line wanted to live at home after Addie Russell died (Pappy being long gone by then), especially not the eldest son George, who inherited the place. So Addie’s booming egg business was sold off and the house was left vacant. When George Russell died and his only child Evelyn Russell didn’t want the place, Cousin Harold moved in for a short while (but apparently he didn’t stick), and eventually one after another everyone died, until Wendell – who was the last of Addie and Pap Russell’s grandchildren still standing – finally inherited the family homestead.

By the time of his grand inheritance, Wendell Russell was 62-years-old. All the glorious dreams he had once husbanded of reviving the old egg business had long since evaporated. Wendell had joined the U.S. Navy and had travelled the world. He calculated that – although he loved the egg business – he was probably too old now and certainly not rich enough to start a new farming operation, let alone restore a run-down house, attached hen pen and various out-buildings. “Wal, you know, it’s all I kin do to keep my pickup runnin’ nowadays,” Wendell said to Ralph Gilpin when he first came back to live in Sovereign two years ago.