Hens and Chickens (25 page)

“How IS the poor dahrrrling?” Miss Hastings inquired. “Matilda and I have been soo WORRIED.”

“She’s taking care of the chickens just the same as usual,” Rebecca replied. “But she hasn’t spoken yet. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Do! I talked with Maude, and she and Ralph are VERY concerned. We’re ALL praying for her!”

And so before long the whole town of Sovereign knew that one of
The Egg Ladies
was poorly, and a mutual sympathy began to be expressed. More than a few silent, as well as vocal, prayers were uttered. The supportive sentiment rose from the small community like ethereal mist that rises up from Black Brook, dispersing up the hill toward the hen pen. Lila as she went about her day, gathering and cleaning eggs, felt a slight, inexplicable up-lifting of her spirits.

Who knows the mysterious ways in which love works? Or of the power of prayer? Especially the efficacy of prayers from TWO Maine communities!

Let us never think for a moment that our prayers are wasted, even if they are unwanted. We have nothing to lose by freely sending our silent blessings to the Heavens, and our friends, loved ones and acquaintances might have much to gain. (But perhaps we shouldn’t announce our intentions to the recipients of our prayers lest we forget that the bragging rights for the efficacy of prayer surely don’t belong to us.)

Rebecca had promised Mike Hobart to keep silent for at least the first 24 hours. And she kept her promise. After that, however, she could contain herself and her concerns no longer.

“Please, dear, can’t you tell me what’s wrong?” she begged, when she discovered Lila moping in the wooden rocker on the farmer’s porch Monday evening. Rebecca sank down beside her younger friend, taking Hobart’s customary spot. She clasped Lila’s hand affectionately.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Becca,” Lila said, flatly. But she did not pull her hand away from her friend. Instead, Lila stared blankly out over the expanse of field, which was still a sharp green color despite the onset of dusk.  

A phoebe who had been building her nest over the porch light, became momentarily discouraged. The brown bird abandoned the pile of twigs and grass, and
fluttered
away. Two was company but three was a crowd for the perky little flycatcher.

“I know that
something
has been bothering you for a long, long time,” Rebecca pressed on. “Ever since your parents’ death.”

Her friend’s words acted as a slight scratch upon the thin veneer that covered Lila’s emotions. “He wasn’t my father,” said Lila, angrily.

“What?” said Rebecca.

“THAT MAN wasn’t my FATHER!” Lila said, through clenched teeth.

Rebecca was confused. In all the years she had known Lila, she had never been contradicted when referring to Lila’s parents or to the tragic boating accident in late 2009 that had claimed their lives. However, in point of fact, Rebecca realized that she had never even heard Lila discuss her father
or
the accident. Avoidance of the incident had seemed natural at the time the accident occurred, but now Rebecca began to wonder if there wasn’t
more
to the story. “If he wasn’t your father, who
was
he?” she asked, finally.

“He was my mother’s second husband. She married him when I was eight. My real father died when I was five.”

Here was a clue; a small clue, to Lila’s unhappiness. But what should Rebecca say now? In which direction should she go?

“I always wondered why you had a different last name. I’m sorry,” she added, lamely.

“Sorry for WHAT? That he died?!” A hysterical giggle escaped Lila’s lips. “He had no choice.”

“No, I don’t suppose any of us have a choice when it’s our time to go,” said Rebecca, thoughtlessly.

“You’re soo wrong about that!”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Becca,” Lila repeated. And once again she clammed up.

Rebecca could think of nothing else to say, so she decided not to push her luck. She settled back against the comfortable cushioned settee and welcomed the pause to rest her own worried soul. The delicate scent of early viburnum blossoms drifted up from the bush nestling against the porch. Rebecca inhaled the sweet, spicy scent, and felt herself relax. How busy she had been since she had arrived in Sovereign! And how much her world had changed since she had been fired from Perkins & Gleeful!

Rebecca’s eyes became accustomed to the dimming light and she saw movement in the upper right hand corner of the field. It was not unusual for the wild deer to browse the sweet new grass in the twilight, and Rebecca was glad for the opportunity to sit and watch their peaceful roaming. After a few minutes, however, she distinguished a blotch of white keeping pace with the half dozen brown bodies. Her mind puzzled over the white anomaly amidst the small deer herd. “Goodness!” she exclaimed, piecing the puzzle together. “Lila! I think that’s
Tinkerbell
!”

 Rebecca’s announcement had an electrifying effect on Lila. She leaned forward as though stuck with a cattle prod. “TINKERBELL?!”

“Yes, Tinkerbell! Look!” Rebecca pointed to the white blotch floating slowly across the upper field with the other deer.

“Omigod!” said Lila, almost unable to believe what she was seeing with her own eyes. “It IS Tinkerbell!”

A rush of adrenaline shot through her slender body, and a mass of pent up emotion followed quickly upon its heels. The sight the long hoped-for white deer acted as a catalyst, pushing Lila through the anger and denial, which had been holding her back. She began to laugh and cry at the same time, expressing years of anguish, loss and grief. “Haahaa, arnnnnn, ahhh, haahaa! Tinkerbell! Arnnn, haha! Oh, oh, oh!”

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Rebecca, hugging her young friend to her motherly breast. “There, there,” she soothed her; “let it out, let it out!”

Ten minutes passed in this fashion until Lila reached the bottom of her emotional well. She sat back up, and dried her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She thought momentarily of Mike Hobart’s blue handkerchief and experienced a stab of pain mingled with joyful love. “Thanks, Becca,” she said. “I’m OK, now.”

“But, dear, can’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Rebecca implored.

Lila exhaled deeply. “No, I can’t. It’s too complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

Rebecca looked hurt, and Lila immediately felt the sting of her own words. She wouldn’t have wounded her friend for anything! “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that like it sounded,” she added quickly. “It’s soo complicated! It has to do with good and evil, and why bad things happen to good people.”

Here was another clue!

Rebecca deliberated over this new information.
Good versus evil?
In her New England born, Congregationally-churched mind, there was only one course of action. “Why don’t you go down and talk with the minister of the little church?” Rebecca suggested. “That’s what
I
would do.”

Lila’s spine stiffened at the suggestion. “What can a minister do to help me?!”

Rebecca remained calm. “I don’t know, dear, but there’s one way to find out. Maude told me that the minister keeps open office hours at the church on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons, just in case anyone wants to drop by to talk with her.”

Lila was about to come back with a sarcastic retort, when she experienced a moment of
déjà vu
.  Something about this conversation seemed familiar.

She recollected in a flash motoring up to Miss Hastings’ house after their first meeting with Mike Hobart at Gilpin’s General Store, recalling in particular Rebecca’s concern about her treatment of him and of men in general. To her chagrin, Lila also remembered that she herself had resolved that day to gratefully accept Rebecca’s motherly suggestions, instead of balking her like an immature child all the time.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized to Rebecca. “I promise—I’ll try to do better.”

Lila fell silent. She gave serious consideration to Rebecca’s suggestion that she meet with the local minister. She remembered what Ralph Gilpin had said about the pastor of the little white church: “Come summer she strips down bare-ass naked and goes runnin’ through her field of goldenrod like Lady Godiva, only without the hoss!” Despite her doldrums, Lila smiled.

Why not meet with the minister? Why not! What harm could it do?

“Ralph DID describe her as an odd duck,” Lila said, decidedly. “I suppose that’s as good a recommendation as any.”

Rebecca laughed hopefully. “You’ll do it?!”

“I’ll do it; I’ll go down and see the minister.  What have I got to lose?”

“Oh, nothing, dear! And you have
so
much to gain!” cried the good-hearted Rebecca.

Chapter 24

The Little White Church

The news about the reappearance of Tinkerbell was delivered throughout Sovereign from one household to the next with the efficacy of personal delivery telegrams. After the initial sighting Monday evening, traffic on the Russell Hill Road picked up 10-fold as residents strove to get their own personal glimpse of the white deer. Beat up old trucks with entire families crammed inside motored up and down the road, especially in the gloaming, those refreshingly liberating twice daily spells when Day and Night are so preoccupied changing guard that wicked and wonderful things slip past.

Most of the residents of Sovereign are hunters or come from hunting families and, however conflicted this might seem, they harbor a deep love of nature and appreciation of the natural world in their breasts alongside the killing instinct. They are like executioners who oppose capital punishment, yet still persist in pulling the switch. The affection for the creatures that they kill is real, and therefore the sighting of Tinkerbell created enough of a sensation to push Lila and her troubles off the forefront of the local gossip.

Ralph Gilpin accosted Wendell the moment he walked into the general store Wednesday morning. “Didja see that white deer yet?” he asked, excitedly.

“Ayuh,” said Wendell, with some satisfaction. “I seen Tinkerbell last night.”

“What’s she look like?”

“Looks jest like she did last year, Ralph; ‘cept bigger, course.”

“Maude’s takin’ Gray ovah to yer place after school to mow the yard,” the shopkeeper continued. “Think that deer’ll be back this evening? Kid’s hopin’ to see her.”

“Most likely.”

Miss Hastings, whose own upper field was frequented by the same roving band of white tail deer, was nearly ecstatic with anticipation. She tugged her Canadian rocker around so that she could keep sentinel at the eastern kitchen window; parking her child-like frame in the chair and hoisting binoculars in lieu of a musket. On Wednesday evening she was rewarded. She immediately dialed Lila on the younger woman’s cell. “Dahrrrling, I’ve spotted her! I just KNOW it’s Tinkerbell!” she cried. “OOoo, I can’t TELL you how BLEST I feel!” 

Lila, much like Miss Hastings, Rebecca, Wendell, the Gilpins and everyone else in Sovereign, felt her own spirits rise as a result of the presence of this enchanting genetic mutation in the local deer herd. The reappearance of Tinkerbell combined with the arrival the day before of her 200 baby chicks – all alive and kicking – had cheered Lila more than she could have believed possible on Sunday evening after her break-up with Mike Hobart. The combined events did not satisfy her desperate longing for the handsome carpenter, but they did make the loss of his steady, physical presence easier for her to bear.

On Thursday afternoon, after her chores were attended and she’d gathered the eggs for the second time that day (and after she checked on her baby chicks for perhaps the 10th time) a hopeful Lila rolled the 1964 Pontiac LeMans out of the barn. She motored the short distance down the road to the little white church on the corner, intending to keep her promise to Rebecca and meet with—me, the minister of the little white church.

As Maude had said, the church was unlocked, and Lila took a deep breath, swung open the solid wood door and walked in. The interior of the Sovereign Union Church is much larger than you would have imagined from the outside, since it encompasses mostly one large room with an expansive cathedral ceiling and elongated leaded windows that stretch nearly from ceiling to floor. The initial effect is one of uplifting brightness, most likely the intended effect of the town’s originators, who painted the walls, ceiling and pews the highly polished white that seems to be a prerequisite of churches in the New England Protestant tradition. One 19
^th
century Maine writer, Lura Beam, has even gone so far as to say about her little white church that from the back pew a visitor might feel as though she was “well down the throat of a calla lily.”

A burgundy carpet crept up the center aisle and divided two rows of 12 pews, each able to seat eight worshipers comfortably. The elevated altar bore the traditional empty cross and beneath it the mahogany lectern was situated. The carpet in the foyer was stained and threadbare, and shamefully worn up the distance of the first eight pews from the door; however, the red rug appeared almost plush and new up near the front of the church where no one ever wants to sit, leading one of our members recently to joke that we should turn the carpet around to make it last for another 100 years. An old upright, out-of-tune piano rested tiredly near the choir pews, which were never utilized during these days of sparse attendance.

A pillar candle burned cheerfully on the altar, and its flame flickered in the draughts that chased each other like small children around the church. Lila hesitated, glanced around, and seeing no one, walked half-way up the aisle and took a seat in the right hand pew facing the altar.

I saw her come in from the vantage point of an open door in the tiny office that a former pastor had cobbled into the front south corner of the church, next to the unisex bathroom (which now fortuitously has indoor plumbing). I was surprised to see Lila, since most young people I know regard churches and organized religion much like our ancestors regarded witchcraft. I knew who she was, of course, although we had never met. I had lived in town long enough to become acquainted with not only my attenders and church supporters, but also almost everyone else by description and personal history. And until the reappearance of Tinkerbell, Lila Woodsum’s drama had been the most talked about in Sovereign.