Bluegrass Symphony

by Lisa L. Hannett

Ida-Belle nods.

  “Good. Seems clear what you’re meant to do.” Aurora picks up one of the bunnies, raises it to the level of her eyes, tries not to think of it in a roasting pan. It stares back at her blankly. “You gots to pop one of these here baby-makers in with your dinner tonight—Jimmy like chives and ’taters with his meat?”

  Again, Ida-Belle nods.

  “All right then, use this one first.” Aurora reunites the chive-necked bunny with its brothers, places a hand on Ida-Belle’s shoulder. “Chop him up good and small so’s Jimmy won’t notice it. That’s real important: it’s got to be kept secret, you hear? This ain’t nobody’s business but yours.”

  “Yeah, all right—”

  “And don’t go spilling to Loretta neither.” Aurora gives Ida-Belle a hard look, gestures for her to stand up. She collects the eggshells for compost, and helps the girl tuck the rabbits into her purse. As Aurora walks her client to her truck, she gives final instructions. “Some magics is quieter than others, and this here’s one of them. Understand? You keep them creatures out of sight until it’s time they get ate. Like I said, you gots three chances—your lassie said you’ve got babies coming, and this here’s how you’re going to get them. All right?”

  “So we just gots to eat them? That’s it?” Ida-Belle turns to unlock the car door, keeping her back to Aurora to hide the hope shining in her eyes.

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks, Rori.” The girl spins on her heel, flings her arms around Aurora’s shoulders, then quickly steps back for fear of crushing the bunnies. Her face is flushed. “How much do I owe you?”

  With a sniff, Aurora considers the collection of boxes stacked in the tray of Ida-Belle’s pickup while the girl digs into her purse for some money. “How’s business going with that lot?”

  Ida-Belle looks up, sees what’s caught Aurora’s attention. “Buy ‘n’ Save’s just ordered another two crates—they say ladies drive all the way from Overton to get our creams. Can you believe it?” She burrows beneath the trio of rabbits, snags another two-dollar coin.

  “Do they really work?” Aurora wonders if lanolin by-products will smooth her face as well as the pure stuff does Ida-Belle’s hands; if they’ll be even half as effective as Minnie’s fortunes.

  “Well, I ain’t going to shit you, Rori. Not after today.” Ida-Belle reaches into the cab, opens a box and pulls out a jar of homemade moisturizer. “You gots to use a fuckload of it to see results—but, yeah. I ain’t heard no complaints.”

  Ida-Belle offers a handful of change, all she can muster from the bottom of her handbag.

  “Keep your money,” Aurora says. “Give me a couple jars of that night cream you got there, and maybe some of that SPF stuff too. However many you think’s fair for a bellyful of wee ones.”

  Buy ‘n’ Save’s order is one carton lighter when Ida-Belle’s truck backs down the gravel driveway. Aurora rests the box on the ground, straightens to wave goodbye. Halfway up, she comes eye-to-eye with a fox poking his scruffy head out of the long grass across the lane.

  Aurora’s heart leaps.

  She’s so glad to see he’s back again, that he’s still okay, she takes an eager step forward—but is brought up short by the box at her feet. Happiness turns sour as she takes in what he’s reduced her to. Using products to replicate the youth Minnie gave her every week; the clear skin, the deep auburn curls. She snorts. Next she’ll be relying on chemicals to dye her hair! It just ain’t natural.

  Hefting the carton, Aurora spits in the fox’s direction. Heart pounding, she snaps, “Bugger off!” The tail dangling from her hatband bobs in time with her retreating steps as she makes her way up the drive, trying to appear unruffled as she enters her lonely cabin.

  In the brush, the fox yips after her. He waits a moment, but she doesn’t give him a second glance. Reluctantly, he slinks out of sight, convinced that progress had been made.

  Yesterday she wouldn’t even talk to him.

  “C’mere, Rori,” Reynard had called from the kitchen. “I got a surprise for you.”

  “Just a minute,” she’d replied, rinsing the rest of the soapsuds out of her thick red hair, scowling to find strands of grey. The water scalded, filled the bathroom with steam. She’d stood under the shower until she could hardly bear the heat any longer. She’d hoped it would wash away the guilt that had clung to her since she’d lashed out at Reynard that afternoon, guilt that even a three-hour walk into town and back hadn’t alleviated. Hoped he’d forget about their fight, and what caused it. Hoped they’d be okay. Her skin reddened.

  Faucets squeaked into the off position. Aurora had grabbed her plaid housecoat, wrapped it around herself, tied it. Her feet left wet prints on the scrubbed wood floor as she collected the pile of clothes she’d shed on the bathmat. She’d looked at the closed bathroom door, hesitated.

  “I’ll just be a second, hun,” she’d said, crouching down to open the cabinet beneath the sink. Shifting spare rolls of toilet paper, boxes of tampons, and half-empty bottles of mouthwash and shampoo, Aurora had reached all the way to the back to grab a quilted makeup bag—one Reynard thought was filled with cotton balls. Sitting back on her haunches, she’d unzipped it; released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding until the tension in her lungs eased.

  A deep blue egg, her name inscribed bronze in its thick shell, sat perfect and whole at the bottom of the case. She’d saved it for two days.

  Despite what Reynard thinks, Aurora thought, I have been trying to cut back on taking Minnie’s fortunes. I really have.

  But today had been too much to cope with; the new shoots of grey in her hair were proof enough of that. Muffling the sound with a washcloth, she’d gently tapped the egg against the basin, spinning it deftly between her fingers.

  Tricksters like him have their own ways of dealing with things. Aurora shook her head. Not that it mattered. So far, the fates simply hadn’t laid a Reynard-faced chook in her coop. There was nothing she could do about that.

  A piece of shell flaked off, landed silently in the sink. Aurora snapped away shard after shard, until only the base of the egg remained. Perched in its curve was a three-tiered fountain, decorated with peacocks, ferns, and doves. At the very top, a nymph balanced on the tip of a finial, her arms stretched to the sky. From each of her fingertips, a jet of water arced into the air then collected in a pool at the bottom of the shell.

  Aurora had leaned into the spray, dousing her face with its rejuvenating waters. She’d felt the skin tightening around her eyes, the laugh-lines smoothing from her cheeks, the shrivel of her lips puckering, the sag of her chin straightening. Wiping steam from the mirror, Aurora looked at her youthful features. Satisfied, she raised the fountain in silent salute to Minnie, then tilted her head back and drank it dry. By the time she’d towelled her hair, the troublesome greys had disappeared.

  “Close your eyes,” Reynard had said, when she’d stepped out of the bathroom. Actions following words, he’d swept her into his arms, used his furry hands as a blindfold, then danced her in the dark across the kitchen.

  She’d smelled the feast long before she’d seen it. Aromas of roasted onion and garlic, fresh bread and warm butter, gravy and boiled potatoes; the scent of wine mulling with spices; an apple pie cooling on the counter—all combined to make her heart lift, and to curve her mouth into a smile.

  “Ta-da!” Reynard unveiled his surprise, arms flung wide. Tears had sprung to Aurora’s eyes as she’d taken in the spread laid out before her. Reynard had set the table with their finest crockery—most of the plates and bowls actually matched. Her grandmother’s silver cutlery lined the place settings, arranged just the way Aurora liked it. Casserole dishes heaped with food covered the table, so many it was hard to see the fine linen cloth beneath. Occupying the place of honour, in the centre, was a roasting pan covered with aluminium foil. Aurora’s smile had widened.

 
Reynard only wooed her with spreads like this when he wanted to apologize.

  “Thanks,” she’d whispered, sliding her arm around her husband’s waist. Unlike her, he’d dressed up for the occasion: a sport-coat over his denim shirt, ears tucked beneath slicked-back hair, and sideburns plastered down with so much pomade he almost looked tame. Only his tail hung free, swinging out beneath the rough hem of his jacket.

  She’d kissed him, scratched her nails up and down his back until he purred. Giggling, she’d said, “Why don’t you shift into something more comfortable?”

  Reynard chuckled and licked her cheek. Soon his nose lengthened, as did his ears. Rusty fur spread from the top of his head across every inch of his skin. His limbs retracted, leaving a puddle of clothes around his black paws. Lifting his head to look up at Aurora, he leapt onto one of the kitchen chairs and yipped in delight. Instantly, night replaced day. “Take a seat,” he’d instructed, humming the moon into the sky, frosting the room with its blue light.

  “For you,” he’d said, and pulled the aluminium foil off the roast with his teeth. “Carve it up, love.”

  “With pleasure,” Aurora had replied, reaching for the carving knife.

  Her hand froze in midair. Looking up at her, amid a bed of garnish, was her own face in miniature. Minnie’s face; body plucked and stuffed, basted and glazed with spiced butter.

  Aurora had sat, paralyzed, staring at her oracle while Reynard stood, muscles tense, staring at his wife.

  Outside, a rooster hopped onto the sill of the kitchen window, pecked at his reflection in the glass. The sound fractured the silence, the shock that had held Aurora in thrall. Springing to action, she’d snatched the knife and, so quick as to have been done without thinking, brought it whistling down on the tabletop.

  Separating Reynard from his tail.

  There was barking then, and shouting. Neither had run as long as the thin ribbon of blood that followed the fox out the front door. Neither had hurt as much as the wedding ring being torn from Aurora’s finger. Neither would be harder to forget than the corpse of her future lying cold on their Wedgwood platter.

  The telephone jangles Aurora awake.

  It takes her a minute to get her bearings. Images of Reynard’s betrayal slip like a veil from her mind. It’s morning, she tells herself, and bright. The disgusting smell of roasted chicken fades, replaced by the scent of clean sheets. Echoes of her husband’s nightly howling—his skulking below their bedroom window, snuffling and whimpering for forgiveness—are drowned out by the phone’s insistent ringing.

  The tightness in her chest gets sharper as she reaches for the cordless receiver, rolling over the pillows stuffed in Reynard’s side of the bed. Poor imitations of his absent form. Pillows don’t throw their arms around her at night, don’t wake her with a hot tail pressed against her backside. They don’t make her feel safe.

  Her throat constricts. They also don’t murder innocent lasses for jealousy.

  “Rori?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rori, it’s Ida-Belle. You gotta help me.” Her voice is pitched so high it could scrape paint off the ceiling.

  “Just chop that rabbit up nice and small. Jimmy won’t notice a thing.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? I done it already—and now I’m a fucking blimp! Ain’t no way even a fool like Jim won’t notice this. What am I supposed to do? He’s going to think I cheated on him, ain’t he? No way this thing in my guts is a one-day-old kid. I look like I’m ready to pop!”

  “Hang on a sec, Ida.” Aurora sits up in bed, swings her legs over the side. “When did you eat that stew?”

  “Jimmy takes supper at five.”

  Aurora looks at the clock. Seven in the morning. Either Ellie’s got some powerful magics in her eggs, or else Ida-Belle is skimping on the truth. “Any way you might’ve ate more than your share of that rabbit? Did Jim get any at all?”

  Silence.

  “Out with it, girl.”

  “Well,” Ida-Belle begins, “I really wanted to make sure it’d work, right?”

  “Uh-huh . . .”

  “So I started chopping up that first little bunny, and it were so much easier than I thought, so I said to myself, ‘If one’s good, don’t you reckon all three’ll be even better?’ And—”

  “And you put all of your chances into the stew. At once.”

  Ida-Belle sniffles, her voice thick with tears. “Am I going to die?”

  Aurora shoulders the receiver, pulls on a pair of jeans, tucks in the shirt she slept in. “No,” she says, taking her apron from the hook on the back of the bedroom door. She slips it around her neck. “You ain’t going to die.”

  “But what am I going to do?”

  “Quit your blubbering, for one thing.” Aurora gives the girl a chance to control herself. Grabs her fox-tail hat, plunges it onto her head. “I’ll have a word with the chooks, see what they’ve got to say about this situation. But if I was to have a guess, I’d say you should make way for triplets.”

  “Oh God . . .” Ida-Belle’s tears pour out thick and fast.

  “Hush now.” Aurora’s tone slips down an octave. Quiet and soothing; the same sing-song she’s used in the henhouse every day this week. “Come see me this afternoon, all right? And, this time, bring Jimmy.”

  Ida-Belle can’t reply for crying.

  “Hush,” Aurora repeats as she walks to the front door, propping it open with her foot. “We’ll sort something out, all right? All right?” She can sense, rather than hear, Ida-Belle’s nod. “That’s a girl. It’ll be fine, Ida. The lasses won’t let you down.”

  Reynard would think this was a hoot, if he were here.

  Ellie knew the girl would eat all three rabbits at once, and she didn’t say nothing about it. Probably reckoned she were doing Ida-Belle a favour. The whole thing makes Aurora feel tired, and she wishes her husband would put his fox-gloves on and work some trickery to lighten her mood.

  But he ain’t here, she thinks. Right before she sees him.

  He’s lying at the base of the oak tree they planted outside their bedroom window the year they got married. Morning sun is still low enough to hit him full on; the tree doesn’t provide much shade until late afternoon. His fur is mangy, streaked with red gashes, like he’s been on the wrong end of a fight. The stump of his tail is crusty with dirt and blood. More than a few flies buzz around him, alight on his eyes, in his ears, around the mess of his arse. Aurora’s heart races.

  Oh, God. Don’t be dead.

  She runs toward him, stops two feet away. Without going any closer she can see his face muscles twitch, like he’s winking at her in his sleep. With an effort, she turns back, crosses the packed-dirt yard, and walks up the henhouse steps.

  “Morning, chooks,” she says, and smiles to hear a chorus of greetings clucked from all sides, from both girl- and boy-faced lasses. Some, still not fully awake, stare vacantly at the moths fluttering up near the rafters. Others flap their wings for attention, bock-bocking demands for mints. Jolene and the twins avoid meeting her eyes as Valma looks on, disgusted; while yet others perform a waddling turn, point tails out, and doze off to pass the hours until feeding time.

  Ellie, she notices upon reaching the aisle between rows P and Q, is one of the latter. Worn out from the effort of yesterday’s prediction, the Delaware hen is sleeping deeply.

  “The mess, O-Rori,” chides a masculine-featured Cornish hen. From his berth in Q41, he stretches his head out to block Aurora’s path. His royal blue neck feathers, knotted beneath his bearded chin like an ascot, give him a regal air that suits the disdain in his voice. “Isn’t it high time you cleaned up this filth?” He peers over the top of his gold-framed spectacles, shudders at the mess still littering Minnie’s satin pillow.

  “Honestly,” he says, now directing his gaze at his keeper, “preserving the scene of the crime
in this fashion is downright macabre.” He sniffs. “And the fleas are becoming unbearable.”

  Aurora looks across at Ellie, at Minnie’s soiled roost, then back at the sleeping oracle. I reckon letting her rest a few more minutes won’t hurt.

  Adrenaline surges through her as her subconscious whispers, I reckon it’s time to move on.

  She fetches a hand-broom and dustpan, fills a bucket with water, drops some soap and a couple old rags into her apron pockets. The pail clunks on the floor in front of Q42. Aurora hunches slightly to get a better view of the damage. Feathers, muck, and blood. A lump forms in the back of her throat. Straightening up, she tries to melt it by sucking on a Tic Tac—then has to dole out doses of the oval sweets to every open-mouthed bird from Q22 to Q57.

  With most of the bay satiated, if not quiet, and the air rich with the sharp scent of mint, Aurora begins the task of sweeping away all trace of Minnie’s death. First, she removes the blanket; cleans off the pillow, sets it aside; then launches in with the broom. Bristles rasp across the bookshelf’s surface as she tackles the worst of the mess, moving as quickly as possible. Dirt, straw, and down swirl into the dustpan’s waiting tray. While she works, Aurora’s eyes don’t stop watering.

  “You’ve missed some,” the Cornish hen bosses. “Reach all the way to the back.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Aurora snaps. The insult she’d been about to unleash comes out as a strangled gasp as her broom snags on a clot of feathers. Dragging it to the shelf’s edge, she catches a glimpse of royal blue peeking out of the mass of red and white.

  She picks up the egg with trembling fingers, brushes it off. It’s smaller than any of Minnie’s other fortunes, but still big enough for her to read the dedication clearly:

  Aurora & Reynard Jenkins

  Although the henhouse is as noisy as usual, to Aurora it seems the whole world has gone mute.

  Why is Reynard’s name on her egg? Minnie couldn’t have laid it on the fox’s last visit—sluggish with sedatives, she would have barely had time to struggle, to scream, before he’d slit her throat. Aurora places the egg on the shelf, leans it carefully against the Cornish’s cushioned roost. Staring at the bearded lass without really seeing him, Aurora realizes that Minnie must’ve laid it while Reynard had been throttling her.