Hens and Chickens (26 page)

She settled herself into the white pew, which was recently made snug with thick cushions purchased with money raised by Maude Gilpin in our February fundraiser. After a few minutes of Quaker quiet I heard Lila exhale in the restful manner of someone who arrives with a burden – but has found a Comforter with whom to share it.

I’ve discovered during my many years in the ministry that when a person enters a church looking to commune with the Divine, a third party is not required. Therefore, I rarely put myself forward. If he or she is hoping to speak with a minister or a priest, well, one is more often than not underfoot.

Lila espied me ten minutes later, as she rose and prepared to exit the church. “I saw your light,” she said, poking her black-capped head in through the door of my front office. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

I pushed my ample frame up from my desk where I was reviewing my pastoral message for Sunday.  “I didn’t want to bother you,” I replied, and introduced myself. We shook hands, and I waved vaguely toward the one gothic-looking chair in the room, apart from my own, which was empty of papers and books.

Lila slid into the proffered seat, and surveyed my extensive collection of theological and religious books, which encompassed three walls of bookcases. “You read a lot?”

“No, they’re just for looks.”

She tittered, and I was reminded of the perky chickadee.

“Ralph Gilpin said you were different,” she said, smiling.

“An ‘odd duck,’ I believe is the actual term Ralph uses. He doesn’t quite know what to make of me, but he shows up every other Sunday when I’m here, anyway. Of course he wouldn’t show up at all if it wasn’t for Maude – and maybe Gray and Bruce.”

“Mmmm,” said Lila. I could tell that she was already turning over in her mind how much of her burden she wanted to share with me – and how much would remain with her previous confessor.

“What is it, Lila?” I said. “Something a worn-out, odd duck can help you with?”

She pulled a slightly yellowed, postmarked envelope out of her jacket pocket and handed it across the paper-strewn desk. I took it, with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. “Open it,” she directed. “It was the last letter I ever got from my Mom. She was killed in a boating accident in 2009; along with my stepfather. She mailed the letter on the morning she died.”

I did what she told me; I opened the letter. It contained a few short sentences, hand-written in faded blue ink. I read the few words aloud:

“I’m so very, very sorry, darling! He’ll never bother you again.

Love, Mom

p.s. I’ll always love you.”

Wordlessly, I folded up the letter, tucked it back into the envelope and handed it back to her.

“She killed him,” Lila said.

I nodded. “It appears that way. She probably had good reason.”

“He sexually molested me when I was eight, not long after they were married.”

“Damn.”

“I WANTED to tell her, but I didn’t dare. He said he’d kill Mom if I told her. When he’d come to my room at night, I’d fly away, up into the wallpaper, until he was gone. I didn’t have a clue what was happening or why. Then, when I was 10, we had a program at school about incest and abuse. I was able to make him stop by threatening to tell my teacher. I still had nightmares, and worried constantly it would start up again; but I made it through high school without anything else happening.”

As she talked, I felt the rage rising inside of me like a female tigress whose cubs had been violated. But I tamped my emotion back down. “Did he physically hurt you? Have you seen a doctor?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I’m physically OK, but I can’t seem to leave the flashbacks behind me. I KNOW that Mom killed him partly because she felt guilty—and partly so I’d have a chance to live a normal life. I don’t want her death to go for NOTHING, but I haven’t been able to shake the flashbacks since the accident!”

“How do suppose your mother finally found out about the abuse?” I asked.

“When I graduated from college, he and I had a terrible argument,” Lila said. “Mom had gone out to get my graduation cake. I wasn’t afraid of him anymore. I gave him an ultimatum; I would tell Mom myself when I turned 25, unless he confessed to her before then. I guess he believed me. They died shortly before my 25
^th
birthday.”

“Tragic,” I said, simply.

“But why, WHY did she have to die?!” Lila wailed. “She never hurt anyone! I should never have given him the ultimatum! Mom would still be alive! Why did she have to go and kill him!” She put her face in her hands and began sobbing.

I understood Lila’s mother perfectly, because – one woman to another – I’d have done the same thing; except maybe I’d have used a shot gun on him. (I’m not the best of Quakers, which is probably why I’m no longer a member of the Religious Society of Friends.) But the challenge now was not to find absolution for Lila’s mother, but to find absolution for Lila herself. The poor pip, in addition to bearing the burden of her stepfather’s predation, also bore the guilt of her mother’s unnecessary death.

I’ve witnessed many Shakespearean tragedies during my days in the ministry, but never one quite so twisted as this. I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t figure out how to untwist her wrong-headed thinking about herself and her role in the family drama. Something was missing from the convoluted equation – not taking anything away from the power of the Divine, but I like to have my own ducks in a row. There was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on here.

Mother, Father, Holy Spirit,
I said to myself.
Give me a clue!

Mother. Father? Father!

“Where was your
real
father during all of this, Lila?” I probed.

“Dead,” she said, tiredly. (I could tell she wasn’t going to stay with me much longer.) “He died of pancreatic cancer when I was five.”

“Was he a good Dad?”

“My father was the BEST. He was so kind and gentle! Dad used to read to me every night, and when he’d tuck me in, he’d give me a kiss and tell me I was his special little chick. When he turned out the light, I was never scared, because I knew he was there to protect me.”

“But then he died and left you to fend for yourself.”

Lila’s hackles rose. “It wasn’t his fault; he died.”

“It was no one’s fault, except your stepfather’s,” I said, quickly. “He was a sick, thoughtless, selfish man, who made a lot of people suffer needlessly!”

“I know, I know!” Lila cried. “I’ve tried to put this whole thing behind me by moving to Maine – and I soo love Mike! – but I don’t want to ruin HIS life, too!”

I reflected a moment. She was a spunky little pip, and I desperately wanted to help her; but I still didn’t have a clue. She had hit a snag in the healing process, which she herself had initiated by moving to Maine and daring to love again. However, most people know what they need to do to heal themselves, and when I run out of sage solutions, I generally just ask
them
. “So, what do you think you’d need to do – no matter how crazy it seems – to put this whole thing to rest once and for all, Lila?”

Surprisingly, Lila replied almost immediately. “If I could just see my Dad once again! If I could just go back in time and hear him telling me that everything was going to be OK … I’d believe it. But that can’t happen,” she added, sadly.

“No, probably nn…” I began, but broke off. A chill ran up my spine, and the hair on my arms stood up. A crazy idea overtook me; a simple solution to Lila’s problem. Oh, how often we go off the beaten track searching for something that’s right under our noses!

“You know, I’ve got an idea that you’re going to
get
your wish,” I said, confidently. “Or something pretty close to it.”

“No way!” she said, with a sharp intake of breath.

“Way!” I replied.

“You mean … I’ll be able to talk to my father again?!” she said, tremulously.  

“I believe you will.”

“That’s not possible,” she said, flatly.

“Not if you think like that, it isn’t.”

She eyed me like Ralph Gilpin looks at me sometimes, as though I was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. “How?” she challenged. “When?!”

“Patience! Patience, Lila!” I counseled. “Have a little faith.”

She bit back a sharp retort and silently pondered my words. I could see her turning everything over in her mind. I knew she wanted to believe me.

“Stuff like this takes time,” I coaxed. “You’re on the right track—you did a good thing moving to Maine. But your spirit needs more time to heal. It could take weeks or even months before you get your wish. In the meantime, just go about your daily life; follow your heart, and all that blather. If you do that, I think your wish will come true. Think you can hang in there a while longer?”

When people
want
to believe, miracles
do
happen.

She tittered jubilantly, as the last of her resistance gave way. Her lovely face flushed with renewed hope and her beautiful hazel eyes sparkled like the city lights of Waterville seen at dusk from Goosepecker Ridge. I could understand why my young friend Mike Hobart was crazy about her!

“Boy, you must really have SOME connections!” she said.

“Oh, I’ve got connections, alright,” I replied. “Sometimes they even pay off!”

Chapter 25

A Surprise Visitor

After her meeting with me at the Sovereign Union Church, Lila was able to steady herself and find equilibrium in her young life. If not outright cheerful at her chores, she was calm and somewhat contented over the next week or two, going about her daily life, caring for her hens and baby chicks, and collecting, cleaning, sorting and selling all those dozens and dozens of eggs. She had built up a steady stream of regular customers who came to the farm to purchase eggs each week, yet she was still able to stockpile the 30 dozen eggs Maude needed to bake those 100 fiddlehead quiches. So our next church fundraiser hauled in enough money to paint the foyer, but, I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to our little tale …

Rebecca was amazed at the dramatic change in Lila when she returned from the church. “My goodness, that minister must be
very
gifted!” she said. “You seem almost … happy!”

Lila offered up a rueful smile. “I can see why Ralph says she’s an ‘odd duck.’ She’s certainly NOT what I expected from a minister!”

“What did she
say
to you?” asked Rebecca; however, the instant the words were out of her mouth, she regretted her probing. “Oh, don’t tell me, if you don’t want to talk about it!” she cried.

Lila debated how much she wanted to share. “There isn’t much to tell,” she replied, finally. “The minister told me to go about my daily life –
‘follow your heart,’
I think she actually said – and she told me if I did that, everything would be alright.”

“That’s it?” said Rebecca, disappointed. She had expected the pastoral session would include assurances that God loved Lila and didn’t want to her suffer. Possibly the minister would also give Lila several books to read, Augustinian-type treatises upon the nature of good versus evil. “Follow your heart?!” Rebecca repeated.

“Yep,” said Lila. “There was also the usual stuff about having patience and faith, but
‘follow your heart’
was the gist of it.”

“Oh, my!”

Rebecca felt slightly piqued. Had
she
been asked for advice, it would have been much more detailed than the succinct
“follow your heart!”
  And yet apparently the minister had said what it was that Lila needed to hear!

Over the weekend, disaster struck. A red fox had found a breach in the chicken wire of the outdoor pen in which the laying hens took the air and scratched for bugs. By the time the hole was discovered, the fox had carried off several of Lila’s beauties. Missing the few birds – one of which was her pet, the soulful-looking hen she’d named “Babette” – Lila discovered three freshly-cleaned chicken carcasses not far from the fox’s lair, which was situated in a copse of trees behind the barn. On the prior Wednesday, Gray had spied two fox kits jumping and tumbling with each other while mowing the yard and had tracked down the fox’s den. He had pointed the baby foxes out to Lila, who at the time pronounced them “totally cute.” Now, however, the entire fox family was denounced as “thieves and rodents!”

Lila repaired the hole in the chicken wire, and immediately called a war council for
The Egg Ladies
.  “What should we do?” she asked her little group of advisors. “We can’t have a family of foxes living right next to the hen pen!”

“Wal, you know, you got thet hole in the fence fixed up and the rest of the fence is all good,” Wendell said, reassuringly. Our old friend and former chicken farmer had become a necessary part of the operation, and therefore netted a regular seat at the kitchen table with Lila and Rebecca. “You ain’t likely to lose many more hens to thet fox.”

“But we can’t afford to lose ANY more hens,” said Lila. “My replacement chicks won’t come on line until this fall!”

Any discussion of what
The Egg Ladies
could and couldn’t afford, necessarily worried Rebecca. “Oh, can’t you catch them all with your live trap, Wendell?!” she asked, anxiously.

Wendell hated to disappoint Rebecca, but he knew that the Mouse Motel routine wasn’t going to work this time. “ ‘Tain’t big enough. Plus thet fox ain’t like a mouse—she’s too shaap for us to catch. Course, you kin walk right up to them baby foxes and toss ‘em into a bag.”

“Yeah, we could catch them, no problem,” said Lila, with a good deal of feeling. “But the one we need to get rid of is their mother. The vixen!”

“Maybe Mike could scare the whole family away by shooting a gun off next to their den?” Rebecca suggested.

A little jolt went through Lila at the mention of Mike Hobart. She took a deep breath, but said nothing.

“Ayuh, a gun might discourage thet ole mother fox,” said Wendell, thoughtfully. “If she figgered ‘twarn’t healthy for her kits ‘round heah she might move out—lock, stock and barrel. Course, I don’t hunt. Nevah did. I ain’t nevah seen Mike hunt, but he looks like a fella who kin handle a weapon.”