Are
you…kidding me? Anna Porter stood just inside the chicken coop, her
eyes and mouth wide open. On a second level nest Margarite, a five-time blue
ribbon prize winning black Cochin, stared back, her curvy drumsticks spread in
a full split like she had jumped straight up and landed, splay-legged. Daniels is going to effin kill me.
She walked back to her car and speed dialed the office. Then,
in a flash of brilliance, she hung up and dialed another number.
“Chuck! Good lord, you’re never going to... Daniels sent me
to the farmhouse to feed his chickens and Margarite is dead! Just dead! …I
don’t know, but it’s weird like – I don’t know! …He’s going to murder me and
then fire me and then murder me…no... Oh, would you? And maybe a little wooden
cross? I’ll suggest a nice funeral, maybe a pot luck…Oh you’re the best!” Anna
hung up and redialed the office number.
“Sharon, hey, it’s me. Could you put me through to the boss?”
Anna brought her hand up to her forehead, pushing her hair back. “Hey, hi, so I
came to feed them and I only saw two out in the yard so I checked the coop and,
I’m so sorry, but Margarite is dead.” She let a little silence grow, letting
the news sink in. “But listen, Chuck has offered to build a nice chicken-sized coffin and I thought
maybe the office could have a potluck or something in Margarite’s honor. How does
that sound?”
Daniels cleared his throat. “That’s very kind of you, Anna,
but I think you should just toss her out.”
“What?”
“There are some grocery bags in the kitchen and the garbage
barrel is in the garage. Use the black one with the lid.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. And I meant to tell you earlier, but you don’t need to
come back in today. I’ve got a dentist appointment, so,” his voice trailed,
like it did whenever he became distracted by his computer screen.
“OK. All right. Don’t you worry. It’ll be all taken care of
for—”
“Great, thanks, kid.” Her boss hung up.
Anna found the bags in the kitchen and carefully selected two
without holes in the bottoms. Thank-You!
was printed in big loopy script on both sides. She fit one inside the other,
lining up the words and smoothing the creases, then went back into the coop and
gently slid Margarite into the bags. She pressed the bundle against her chest and
pushed out the air before tying the handles into a neat bow. She carried
Margarite like a chicken on a platter out into the bright sunlight and clean
mountain air.
The two remaining chickens, Beatrix, an Appenzell Bearded Hen,
and Duffy, a pretty little Dominique, followed her to the garage at a discreet
distance. Anna laid the bundle on top of the garbage bags already in the bin
and slowly closed the lid. She thought maybe she should say some words, but
then thought better of it. What do you say to chickens about a chicken?
The three of them ate under a gnarly apple tree in front of
Daniels’ wide wooden steps. After lunch, Anna leaned her head back against the
trunk, trying to dislodge a piece of turkey with her tongue, but only managed
to push it further under her gums. Regardless, she was content, comfortable, and warm. It was nice out here. Nice and calm and quiet, clean and clear.
About two and a half hours west from this
idyllic little farmscape lay Petrina City. There, bikes zoomed between tightly jammed cars and exhaust
made up thirty percent of the atmosphere. Petrina City. More like Putrid City. Petrified City. Fetrina City. Anna smirked. Ah, the cleverness of me. What was that
from? Oz? Alice?…whatever. She stood and brushed away the crumbs. Beatrix
and Duffy followed her to her car and watched it with bright little eyes as it
headed back to the city.
Anna climbed the three landings to her apartment, frustrated about
being bogged down in traffic and irritated at the asshole who double parked outside.
Even with half a day off she only ended up with her key in the lock thirty minutes
earlier than usual. But half an hour early is still early and how fortunate for
Mikey Schultz, since it’s his murder Anna’s early entry interrupts.
That poor chicken...
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