At Home on Ladybug Farm (29 page)

Lori looked up excitedly. “Here? In our cheese caves?”

And Noah said, “No kidding? Betcha there’s some old can nonballs and stuff still lying around. Might be worth looking around for.”

“Won’t do you no good,” returned Ida Mae smugly. “They ain’t around here.”

“But I thought you said—” Lori broke off at the sound of tires on the drive. “Oh good, they’re back.” She finished the last bite of her sandwich and washed it down with milk. “Thanks, Ida Mae, that was delicious.” She hurried from the table, taking the book with her.

“Hey, Mom.” She met the three women in the front entrance, her hand out. “I need the car keys.”

Cici fumbled distractedly in her purse and came up with the keys. “Have a good time,” she said as she handed them over.

Lori gave her a confused look and started to say something, but Bridget interrupted. “Oh, honey, if you’re going out, do you mind taking that book back to the library for me? It’s overdue.” She too started searching in her purse. “I have the fine here somewhere.”

“Hey, Teach.” Noah came in from the kitchen. “We having school today or what?”

For the longest time, Lindsay said nothing. Then she smiled. “Actually, Noah,” she said brightly, “I have some good news for you.”

Both Bridget and Cici looked at her sharply.

“That idea you had about applying for a license to keep wildlife,” she went on, “was a good one. I talked to the game warden and it looks as though we’re going to be able to keep Bambi after all.”

“Hey,” said Noah, his face brightening.

Lori lifted an eyebrow at him. “
Your
idea?”

“So,” Lindsay went on, “in honor of that, I thought we’d take the day off. Everyone else gets spring holidays, and, besides, I have some things I need to get done today.”

“You got no argument from me,” said Noah, heading for the door.

The three of them watched him go. Then Cici said, “Well, I’d better change into my chicken coop-building clothes.”

“Yes,” said Lindsay, turning away from the door as though with an effort. “I’ll help you. Build the thing, that is. Whatever.”

“Me, too,” said Bridget.

Lori said, “You guys are acting weird.”

But no one seemed to hear her, and the three of them went upstairs.

Lori, shrugging, started to follow them, and then something caught her eye. She looked at the display on the entrance wall: the framed collage of historic newspaper scraps, the charcoal drawing of the house that Noah had given Lindsay for Christmas, an old-fashioned invitation, the faded scrap of paper with a child’s drawing on it that Lindsay had found in the guest room woodbin. She frowned, and opened the book, flipping through pages until she found it. She looked. And looked again.

“Holy cow,” she said. She turned toward the stairs and started to call “Hey!” but she stopped herself. Then she looked back at the book. “Holy cow,” she repeated, and the amazement on her face slowly turned into a big and satisfied smile.

She hurried to the door and saw Noah crossing the lawn. “Hey, kid!” she called. “You still want that ride into town?”

“I think this is a good thing,” Lindsay pronounced. The certainty in her voice seemed a little forced. “Of course it is.”

“No doubt about it. How big do you think a chicken coop is supposed to be, anyway?”

“I think it depends on the number of chickens, Cici,” Bridget said.

“They should each have their own nest.”

Cici stared at Lindsay. “This isn’t the Hilton, you know. Besides, they’re only three inches tall. If we make it too big, they won’t be able to keep warm at night.”

They had decided on a sunny spot behind the barn, and had brought a measuring tape, level, string, and dowels to mark the spot. Bridget handed over the tape to Cici. “Of course it’s a good thing. Every child should have a chance to know his mother.”

“I think the most important thing is to have a yard that’s big enough for them all to roam around in. We’ll have to enclose it in chicken wire.”

An hour later, as she took her turn wrestling the posthole diggers into the ground while Cici ran the power saw on an extension cord from the barn, Lindsay added, “I just hope she’ll encourage him to keep up with his art.”

“He could be going to a wonderful new life,” Bridget offered. She was panting as she dragged a two-by-four fence post across the ground. “Who knows what this could mean for him?”

“Definitely the best thing that could have happened.” Sweat rolled down Lindsay’s face and she grunted with effort as she stabbed the blades of the tool into the ground again.

Two hours later the three women examined the framework of what was roughly a six-by-eight-foot structure. The back was dramatically lower than the front; the left side seemed longer than the right; and the whole resembled a lopsided doghouse more than a building meant to house fowl.

“Did you leave room for windows?” Lindsay asked critically, tilting her head to one side.

Cici whipped off the sweatband that held back her perspiration-darkened hair and mopped her face with it. “Chickens don’t need windows. If they want fresh air, they can walk through the door.”

“You can’t leave the door open at night,” Lindsay said in alarm. “Foxes will come in!”

“That’s why we’re building a fence,” explained Cici patiently.

“Oh. Right.”

Bridget circled the entire structure, from front to back, before venturing an opinion. “I don’t see how we’re going to get in to collect the eggs. It seems a little . . . short.”

“They’re chickens, not giraffes,” returned Cici testily. “You’ll just have to bend down.”

“You don’t think it seems . . . I don’t know. Lopsided?”

“Someone”—Cici looked meaningfully at Bridget, who had been in charge of marking the boards before they were cut—“might have measured wrong.”

They regarded their handiwork for a moment longer. Then Bridget ventured, “Cici, do you have any idea how to build a chicken coop?”

“Not a clue.”

And so began the process of tearing down, re-measuring, and starting again. By five o’clock they were sweaty, bug-bitten, and sunburned. Four fence posts were set into the ground, and the chicken coop consisted of a square of two-by-fours arranged on the ground. The women stepped back to survey their work and agreed as one that it would not hurt the chickens to spend one more night in the sunroom.

Lori and Noah had returned from town, and were making a great deal of noise unloading something on the other side of the house. As the women started wearily toward home, Lindsay’s eyes turned toward the sound of their voices. “I know it’s the best thing that could possibly have happened,” she said. “But . . .”

Suddenly both her friends put their arms around her waist.

And Cici added, “We hate it, too.”

As the days lengthened, and spring settled firmly into place, twilight lingered until after eight o’clock. The ladies sat on the porch and watched as the lacework of emerald leaves patterning the lavender sky turned to black. Then, illuminated only by the faint glow of stars, they sat and rocked, weighed down by exhaustion and their own thoughts.

“There should be a law against people our age working this hard,” Bridget said, stifling a groan as she stretched out her legs.

“You should never take on a physical job like that when you’re angry.”

Lindsay glanced at Cici. “I thought working hard was supposed to make you feel better when you’re upset.”

“Nope. It just makes you tired.”

They were silent for a while. “She’s right, you know,” Bridget said. “Whenever I’m upset I start cleaning the house, and the more I clean the more I find to do until it’s really just a vicious cycle.”

“I used to go to the gym,” Lindsay admitted, “and work that treadmill until the trainers started giving me dirty looks because people were waiting to use the equipment.”

“It’s what women do. Instead of picking fights in bars or whipping out small caliber handguns when someone cuts them off in traffic.”

Bridget rubbed her shoulder. “I don’t know. I think we might need to take another look at our coping mechanisms.”

“Those kids sure are working hard, whatever they’re up to,” Lindsay commented.

Lori and Noah had barely paused long enough to gulp their dinner, then returned to work until daylight faded.

“I don’t know what Lori used to bribe Noah into helping her. But it must have been good.”

“I think he suspects something is going on. He was awfully quiet at dinner.”

“He was exhausted,” Cici said.

“Noah never does anything halfway,” Bridget said fondly. And the smile in her voice faded as she added, “I’m going to miss him so much.”

They were quiet for a moment. Dusky clouds settled over the mountains, silhouetted against a deep purple sky. A cricket shrilled in a nearby bush, and was joined in a moment by his mate. The chorus, breaking the silence, sounded like a cacophony.

Then Lindsay said softly, “You know what’s funny? I never wanted children. Not even once, not even a little bit. I mean, I loved teaching and I loved the kids I taught, but as far as wanting one of my own—I just didn’t have the urge. I always felt as though other women—other mothers—thought I was strange, or in denial, or maybe something was wrong with me. But there wasn’t. I just wasn’t interested.”

“I never thought you were strange.”

“Me either. I thought you were smart.”

“Motherhood isn’t something that just happens to you,” Cici said. “It’s a choice you make every day, to put someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you’re not sure what the right thing is . . . and to forgive yourself, over and over again, for doing everything wrong.”

“Half the time your kids end up hating you for at least five of their teenage years,” added Bridget, “but you count yourself a success if they don’t end up pregnant or in jail. And don’t ever expect anything so mundane as a thank-you.”

“If any of us really knew what we were getting into when we decided to have kids, I don’t think we would’ve signed up.”

Bridget smiled to herself in the dark. “I would’ve.”

Lindsay said, “I know this is the best thing. It just . . . doesn’t seem fair.”

“No,” agreed Cici softly. “It doesn’t.”

They sat and rocked, wrapped in their thoughts. The sky gave up the last of its light and swallowed the mountains. The balmy evening melted into a cooler breeze tinged with the dampness of dew and the scent of woodsmoke. Somewhere behind the house, Rebel started to bark.

After a time Bridget sighed and said, “I should go in. But I’m too tired to get up.”

“I told Noah he was having a history test tomorrow,” Lindsay said. “I’d better go write it.” Her voice had a catch in it. “Not that it will matter, I guess, by Wednesday. I really should give him the rest of the week off.”

“What in the world is the matter with that dog?”

“Oh, Cici, he’s probably chasing deer,” Lindsay said. “You’d think after living with one for all this time, he’d catch on.”

“He knows the difference between his own deer and strangers,” Bridget pointed out with only the slightest note of pride in her voice. “And it’s his job to keep them out of the garden.”

“Well, can’t someone tell him we’ve got a fence around the garden for that?”

Upstairs, there was the sound of a window opening, and then Noah’s voice. “Hey, dog!” he shouted. “Shut up!”

“Hey, Noah! History test!” But there was a small smile in Lindsay’s voice as she called out to him.

The window closed.

Cici glanced across at her, smiling. “You would have made a great mother, Linds.”

“Maybe I’ll sit just a little longer. It’s so nice out, isn’t it?”

“Kind of late in the year for anyone to build a fire,” Bridget commented.

“Warm, too.”

“Maybe Farley’s burning trash.”