Long Division (15 page)

“Plus, Annie, I work days now. Only the night shift guys eat chicken fingers at nine A.M.” I didn't even think of that. That the fated meal was happening midmorning. But I didn't care. I felt amazing. You could have thrown me in a vat of moldy ranch dressing and dunked my head under for minutes at a time—and I'd have been fine with that.

T
oday I'm calling my book
While Fleeing the Coop of Terror.

 

After I spoke with David I drove straight to Violet Meadows. I called my mother on the way and explained to her in this really calm, grown-up way that David is fine and that it's really quite a miracle that he was able to call me so soon. You see, Mother, (I'm such an expert on all things army) they must notify the family of the deceased before they can let anyone else call or e-mail home. It prevents information or
mis
information from reaching people in the wrong ways. I think the military should use that exact language in their official literature. I actually just learned all this from David ten minutes before, but I told my mom like I knew all along. Like I've always been this super-informed army girlfriend. I think my maturity impressed her. She was very nice about it all too. She said if something like this happens again that I should come over to their house and let her and my father distract me somehow. I tell her that that's probably a good idea.

As soon as I saw Loretta I raised both of my fists to ear level and said “Wahoo” in a quiet but triumphant voice. Yeah, it kind of felt inappropriate, but I didn't much care. She told me that she knew he'd be fine. She could feel it in her joints.

“Oooh, so you have the clairvoyant type of arthritis,” I said. She laughed at my joke. Loretta sat down in her rocker, and I plopped carelessly on her bed like a teenager. And then I kind of told Loretta everything. It was as if my brief tango with extreme pain had left my tongue fast and floppy. Like when people get put under anesthesia and wake up in midsentence, talking to the doctor about their most intimate ideas. I told her about all the sick fantasies I had and the way I was almost sure that he was dead. I really, really believed it for a while.

“Do you think that because I believed it so seriously that I wanted it to be true? Am I really that demented?”

“Sweet Jesus, no, Annie. A woman's instincts can't always be right. And under such unusual stress, there's no telling what our assumptions are feeding on. It's likely you were just preparing yourself for the worst. Don't mistake your defense mechanisms for darkness, dear.”

Sweet Jesus, Loretta is so wise.

She went on to tell me about how when Ron was away, she used to fantasize that if he died, she'd hook up with this guy Lars Svenson. “He had a crush on me all through school, and I knew he'd be trying to court me the instant Ron arrived home in a casket.” Loretta said she liked to imagine being with Lars because it meant that if Ron was gone, she wouldn't always be alone and wounded. Even if the worst happened, she'd find a way to get by. For a moment I thought that Loretta was even more fucked up than me—planning her next romance while the present one was still intact. But when you think about it, it kind of does make sense. Creatures reproduce because we are replaceable. Human connections fire up again and again and again. Soul mates, schmole mates. I've never bought into that crap.

“You know what you need after all this?” Loretta said, smoothing the skirt of her housedress. “You need a pet. Something to care for and nurture. Take your mind off all your worries.”

“I don't know, Loretta. I've been thinking about growing more plants outside, and I want to get a puppy for when David gets back, but I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“Responsibility? Aren't you in charge of a whole gaggle of school-children?”

“Yeah, but just for a few hours on weekdays. A pet requires around-the-clock consideration. You always have to know where it is and when it last ate and when it might need to shit again.” Loretta didn't even flinch at my profanity.

“Well, you could get a fairly self-reliant pet?”

“Like a hamster? I don't like pets in cages. Too depressing.”

“My goodness, Annie Harper, I've got it. I know just what you need.” Loretta folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled at me in such a pleasant, self-satisfied way that if she'd have said “Komodo dragon,” I'd have ordered one that day.

“What? What do I need?”

“Do you have a backyard?” Her eyes narrowed.

“I do. Yes! I do!” Six hundred bucks a month will get you a lot in South Tacoma.

“Does this yard have a fence?” Eyebrows lifted, forehead so wrinkly.

“It does! I have a fence!” I don't know why I was so giddy, but Loretta seemed so sure of herself. It was thrilling.

“Well then, it's quite clear. You need a chicken.”
⁵⁴

I couldn't help but be a little annoyed because he didn't mention the chicken. I mean, maybe he was going to address it, but was pulled away from the computer before he got to it. I shouldn't be hurt because Paris Hilton upstaged my future chicken. She's doing that to people all the time. I resolved that next time he called we would definitely talk about it. And in the scope of things—wars and love and Vegas nightclubs—chickens are bound to stumble far behind.

A few days later, David did call. I was making spaghetti, and the phone rang at the exact moment I threw a noodle at the fridge to check its level of al dente. I jumped, and the noodle inched a few steps down the fridge and froze. I turned off the burner.

“How's it hanging, sweetheart?” he said. His voice was so warm and friendly that for a moment I forgot that he's in a war zone. He could have been driving along I-5 after a normal day's work, calling to casually ask me what kind of Chinese food I want him to pick up for dinner. General Tso's Chicken, please!

“I'm great,” I said. “How are you doing, Lieutenant Peterson, sir?”

“Not too shabby. Not too shabby. We had tacos today.”

“Was there ground beef involved?”

“There was.”

“Oh, David. You do love the ground beef.”

“Yep.” And here is where I paused and waited for him to ask about my chicken plan. The pause ended and he told me how he's excited about this new equipment they're getting in soon and that he'll get to go to Mosul for a few days for some training. And it's always so nice to hear these sorts of things, it really is, but then he reaches this point in the sharing where our wrists are slapped by the Vagueness Pact and the conversation abruptly ends. No
What kind of equipment?
No
What will you be using it for?
No
Where is it coming from?
He probably wasn't even supposed to tell me about the training in Mosul. I say things like
That's great. Glad you have something to look forward to. Hope it makes your job easier.
And I care. I do care care care. I just hate hate hate only knowing a few concrete nuggets of detail about his job. It's not enough of a taste to generate a serious interest. Back when David was working here in Tacoma, I could at least see him and smell him at the end of the workday. I could physically assess whether or not his secret-keeping-secret-government-biz-with-secret-guns stuff was tearing him apart.

A few minutes later: “So I'm getting my chicken on Sunday.” I said it nearly yawning. Like I wasn't totally bothered that he didn't remember to ask.

“Oh yeah. You were serious about that?” David can't help but sound condescending when he's actually just incredulous.

“Um, yes.” Then I told him how I was going to buy the materials and build my chicken coop the very next day.
⁵⁵

“Jeez, Annie. A chicken? Are you sure you're okay? You don't want a kitten or something?”

“No. I don't. Loretta says chickens are the perfect level of companionship. They require little maintenance and they give back.”

“You really like eggs that much?” He sounded tired.

“Yes.”

I really like eggs that much.

Later, after we hung up, I slumped down against my fridge to pout over David's lack of chicken understanding and wonder if he was feeling the same frustration over my lack of new-secret-army-machines understanding. I felt the spaghetti noodle flop into my hair, and I reached up to pull it out. Without even checking for hairs or dirt or anything, I stuffed the noodle in my mouth. It was a little dry, but the act of picking it from my hair and eating it made me feel so warmly animal. Like I was surely going to survive somehow due to my base but utilitarian instincts. And regardless of how stoked my boyfriend was about chickens.

 

Earlier this morning in my class:

“Kids, I have something to share today.” I fold my hands in front of my chest, a classic move of gentle authority. Show-and-tell has just wrapped up, and half the class is yawning in preparation for math class.

“You can't share, Miss Harper. You're the teacher.”

“Yeah, teachers can't share.” Stupid, stupid kids.

“Well, then if you want to jump straight into math, let's go ahead. . . .”

“Nooooooooooooooo.” Thank you, losers. I sit on top of my desk and cross my ankles. As fun and natural a pose as it is, I try to save the desk sitting to emphasize moments of extreme hipness. Teaching is a performance in several aspects, and the kids can sometimes tell when certain moves are overused.

“So I know that many of you have pets.” The shouts:
Yeah. Me. I do. Snuffles. Three kittens.
“And I very recently have decided that I am going to acquire a pet of my own.”
A puppy? A guinea pig for the class. Get a dinosaur!
“This weekend, I am going to get my very own chicken.” Self-satisfied, hip-teacher smirk.

Silence. Silence. Silence.

A chicken? What? Why? Chickens smell like poop. Can you teach it to talk? Gross. Why a chicken? Lame
. I honestly thought they'd think it awesome.

“But you see, kids, chickens lay eggs, and I will have fresh eggs every day for breakfast.”
Can you bring it inside? Will it have babies?
Max Schaffer's distinctly adorable voice: “Won't you need a rooster for your chicken to produce eggs?”

Shit. A motherfucking rooster. Embarrassingly, I'm not sure. But at the moment, it kind of makes sense. A girl chicken needing a boy chicken to nudge her hormones along, to administer some chicken loving, to coax those eggs out. It's probably just because I honestly believe Max Schaffer is brilliant, but I falter.

“Um, well, Max, no. I'm pretty sure I don't need a rooster.” Loretta would have mentioned this, right? First rule of teaching: Stick to your guns!
⁵⁶

 

So maybe it's not just David's opinion on the chicken that's getting me down. Maybe I'm not so annoyed at the fact that he seems uninterested in my daily life. It's not just him; no one else seems to be into it either. In order to avoid total frustration, I'm not telling my parents until that chicken has settled her feathers on my land. Or maybe I'll just have them over for brunch one day. “Like the eggs? Oh, they're from my chicken. More coffee?”