by Kelli Kimble
“Mr. Anu, you must be starving. Your icebox is empty and all you’ve got in the pantry is old canned food.”
“I’m hardly starving.”
“Are you eating meals here?”
He cleared his throat. “No.”
“Where do you eat?”
“I go into town and eat at the diner.”
“Every meal?” My mind boggled at the cost of such behavior. I’d only been to the Salvation Diner once myself, on the day we’d moved here. The kitchen wasn’t unpacked, and Mother hadn’t had the chance to shop for groceries, so we’d gone there with strict orders from Daddy to order the least expensive meal.
He shifted in the chair. “I have breakfast here.” His voice had the tone of a defensive child.
“Do you know how to cook?”
“Of course,” he said. “Every morning I boil two eggs and make myself a pot of coffee.”
I pursed my lips. He couldn’t live this way. Was this because he was a bachelor? Did he need a woman to take care of him? “I need a piece of paper,” I said. “And a pen. I can’t believe you aren’t stocking your kitchen. To eat out twice a day, every day? That’s wasteful.”
“I –”
I held up a hand. “No excuses. Pen. Paper. Please.”
He left and returned with a notepad. He presented them to me as if I might bite him.
“Let’s sit. Now. What do you like to eat?”
“I like hamburgers. And liver with onions. Meatloaf. Whatever the special is.”
I wrote down what he’d said. But I didn’t know what to buy to make those things, or how to make them, either. I knew some basics; Mother often had me chop vegetables or stir a pan while she made dinner. I’d never made an entire meal myself, though. And I’d never shopped for groceries.
“Mr. Anu, I think you need a maid.”
“A maid? You mean a servant?”
“Yes. Someone who would do your laundry, tidy up, shop for your necessities, make meals. That sort of thing.”
“I don’t want a stranger imposing upon my business.”
“You invited me here.”
“That’s not exactly true.”
“Okay, you invited a stranger.”
He grunted. “Yes, but I only wanted help with the farming tasks. You’re suggesting that I allow someone to enter and work within my personal domain.”
I fell silent and began sketching a doodle of a cat’s eye on the paper.
“What’s that you’re drawing?”
“It’s nothing.”
“I will drive us into town for lunch. You need not make this effort.”
I dropped the pencil. “Fine. I was only trying to help.”
His finger touched my wrist. The world slowed for a moment. My breath was in my ears and I felt like I was moving through a deep, thick, water; almost as if time had paused. I felt . . . peace. He stood, taking his hand away.
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” he said. “But the day wears on, and there is more work to do.”
I blinked once. Twice. The sensation was gone. “Why don’t I scramble some eggs, and we can have that for lunch?”
“Delightful. Please do.”
I dug into the drawer of the icebox and found cheese and some butter. I moved about the kitchen while Mr. Anu’s eyes followed me. I’m not the best cook, and the eggs simultaneously turned out runny and a little burnt, but he didn’t seem to mind when I served them.
He sprinkled salt and pepper from the chicken and rooster shaped shakers on the table and ate without comment. I sat and did the same.
“What, do you think, compelled you to draw this?” He pointed to the sketch on the partial list.
“I dunno. I like cats,” I said. I cleaned the dishes and put everything away. He hunched over the drawing, sometimes picking it up and sometimes pushing it away, but never taking his eyes from it.
“What did you want me to do next?”
“Come outside. The chicken coop requires attention.”
We put our shoes back on – strangely, he’d removed both his shoes and socks – and he took me to the chicken coop. It was larger than the shed by the garden and half-hidden behind the shade of the barn. The chickens were mostly settled on a shaded dusty patch at the corner of the barn, riding out the heat of the day. They made soft clucks that reached a crescendo when we approached, but they settled down as they realized we weren’t going to disturb them.
The coop was painted red to match the barn, and, judging by the smell of pine mixed with the scent of the chickens, it was only recently constructed. It was built upon four stone pillars that raised it above the ground and had a narrow ramp leading up to a chicken-sized door.
Mr. Anu went to the side of the coop. It had a horizontal seam with hinges. He grasped a handle at the bottom of the wall and lifted it like a garage door, folding the wall at the hinge. He secured the panel he’d lifted in place.
“You’re going to clean this out.” He talked about what to do: clearing out their nests, removing debris, sweeping the floor, and scrubbing it down.
I wrinkled my nose. The coop was dirty and disgusting. It didn’t smell anywhere near as bad as the garden shed, but the odor was unholy.
“Miss Hond, are you all right?”
“What? Oh. I was just thinking. This job will take a long time. Don’t the chickens need to be inside soon?”
One eyebrow lifted. “Miss Hond. It is two o’clock. You have plenty of time. You’ll find all that you need in the garden shed. Please use the wheelbarrow to move the debris to the compost pile. I’ll be in the barn.”
He left me there, staring at the chicken coop. The chickens started moving again as he passed them on his way into the barn. I curled my lip at them. But I wanted this job, and I’d already pushed Mr. Anu with my silly assumption about lunch. I returned to the shed and gathered tools there, putting them all in the wheelbarrow. I wished that I’d brought a handkerchief or something to put over my mouth, but the smell just couldn’t be helped.
I climbed up into the chicken coop, and, with gloved hands, I cleared the used hay out of the nesting boxes stacked three high. Dust kicked up – dust that I’m sure was filled with particles of dried poop, urine, and chicken snot. He had better say that I passed the trial.
Mr. Anu came to check on me about an hour later. “You’re doing an excellent job,” he said. He set a bottle of bleach, a bucket, and a scrub brush on the floor. “You’ll need this when you scrub it down.”
I’d only just finished clearing out all of the dust, droppings, and dirt.
I stared at the bucket. I wanted to throw it at the chickens. “Yes, sir,” I said.
“When you’re done with that, clean your tools and put them away. Then come see me in the barn.”
I nodded and he left me alone. A hose attached to a spigot on the side of the barn was curled up on the ground near the chickens. I filled the bucket, added some bleach and scrubbed.
* * *
A tired feeling I’d never known seeped through my limbs. I entered the barn with a much less enthusiastic attitude than I had this morning. Mr. Anu was still tinkering with the tractor.
“Finished?” he asked without looking up.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve done well, Miss Hond. I appreciate your assistance.” He pulled his head from the engine and wiped his hands on the rag. The tarp on the floor no longer had parts on it.
“Thank you, sir.”
I wanted to ask if I should come back next Saturday. But I also wanted to run screaming away from this place. My back ached. My shoulders burned. My sinuses felt like I’d snorted broken glass. And my legs were going to stop holding me up any second now.
He produced his wallet from his back pocket and went through it. “I think this should cover it for the day,” he said, extending several bills towards me.
I took it. Seven dollars. “But I didn’t work for fourteen hours,” I said.
“The extra is for cooking,” he said
. “And next week, I should like you to bring the ingredients for our lunch. Perhaps the peanut butter sandwiches that you prescribed?”
Next week. I smiled. “You want me to come back?”
“Actually, if you could also come on Tuesdays after school, I could use your help then, too.”
Ugh. Cheerleading. “I can’t, sir. I have practice. But I could come on Wednesday if that’s all right.”
“Wednesday, then. I’ll expect you around three.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He nodded. “Go on, then. I’m sure your parents are expecting you for dinner.”
I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the elation at the extra money. Maybe it was the additional opportunity on Wednesday. Maybe it was just chicken fumes. But I jumped forward and clasped my arms around Mr. Anu’s waist and squeezed. “Thank you, sir.”
He stiffened but did not object. I stepped away and stuffed my earnings in my pocket.
“See you Wednesday.” Newfound energy buoyed me out of the barn and to my bicycle. I hopped onto it and pedaled to the road, heedless of the potholes – but this time, out of happiness rather than urgency.
Chapter 3
“Iris. You can’t mean to keep this job. Look at you. And the smell! We’ll have to burn that clothing.” Mother set a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. “For Heaven’s sake. Go upstairs and get cleaned up. Your father is going to have a fit.”
Good thing I’d left my loafers on the porch. They were caked with mud and chicken droppings.
She chased me up the steps. “And to do farm work. This is behavior unbecoming of a lady. You need to start thinking about how young men will perceive your actions.”
“Mother. I don’t care how young men perceive my actions.” I dodged past her and went into the bathroom. She followed me in and fussed with getting a bath ready.
“I can get my own bath.”
“You’ll watch your tone, young lady. You’re already on thin ice. Take those rags off and get in.”
I did as she asked. The water wasn’t hot yet. I stifled a shriek.
“Hurry. Your father will be home any minute, and I’ve got to get the meatloaf out of — oh, do I smell smoke?” She rushed from the bathroom; her arms full of my dirty clothing. The water was starting to warm and I slumped further into the water and began washing. I needed to get Daddy to agree that I could keep working for Mr. Anu.
Downstairs, the back door slammed. Daddy. I had to get down there. Their voices murmured together, at first calm. But then the tone of Mother’s voice started to rise. No, I couldn’t let her get to him before I did.
I washed and dressed in record time. My hair was wet, and I was wearing my nightgown and bathrobe, but I made it downstairs just as Daddy sat down at the table.
“Daddy, you’re home.” I kissed him on the cheek and sat in my chair. Mother glared at me.
“Your mother tells me you started a job today.”
“Oh, yes. Can you believe I earned seven dollars already?” I took a generous helping of potatoes and buttered a slice of bread.
“Seven dollars? Doing what?”
“I did some weeding in the garden, I made lunch, and then I cleaned a chicken coop.”
“You . . . you cleaned a chicken coop?”
“Yes, sir.” Mother passed me the meatloaf, and I took two slices.
“Tell me how you cleaned this chicken coop. There were actual chickens there?”
“Don’t be silly, Daddy. They weren’t in the coop, just nearby. I took all of their nesting material out, and I cleaned their nests with a scrub brush. I swept and scrubbed the floors. Then I rinsed it all clean. With a hose.”
“That sounds like hard work and a lot of it.” He smiled and nodded. “And you want to keep working at this farm?”
“Yes, Daddy. Mr. Anu asked me to come back on Wednesday after school.”
“Well. It sounds to me like you’re finally learning the value of a dollar. It’s about time.”
Mother pursed her lips. “Clark. What will people think?”
“They’ll think I’m a wise man to teach my daughter a lesson about hard work. Let her pay for a new pair of shoes, or a hair ribbon for once. She needs to appreciate the things she’s been given.” He flung his fork onto his plate. It clattered, and Mother flinched. “You and her both; you think money just appears. But it takes hard work.”
“Of course, it does, Clark. I know you work hard. But people will talk. Why can’t she get a job answering phones or in the drugstore or grocery? Something fitting for a young girl. We don’t even know anything about this Mr. Anu. What if he isn’t respectable?”
He stared at Mother. She looked back at him with pleading eyes. His face softened and he pushed his plate away.
“I’d like to meet Mr. Anu,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” I struggled for the ideal meeting place for a moment. But it was obvious. “May I ask him to dinner? He doesn’t know how to cook. He eats every meal at the diner.”
Daddy’s eyes widened. He was thinking of the money, just like I had. “Of course,” Daddy said. “On Wednesday, ask him to come on Thursday.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Clark, I really think —”
“We’ll have Mr. Anu over for dinner, and we’ll reserve our judgment until then.”
Mother tucked her chin and began eating her dinner.
* * *
At school Monday morning, I clung to the feeling of accomplishment from working at Mr. Anu’s. I went through the hallway to my locker, invisible as ever. Except for one person.
Gary.
He appeared at my side while I was struggling to open my locker. It was jammed again. I jerked at the latch, but it wouldn’t lift.
“Here,” he said. “Let me try.”
He gave me no choice, cutting his leg in between me and the locker and moving in front of me. I backed away. I didn’t want him to touch me. He banged a closed fist near the top of the locker and again just above the combination lock. Then he turned back to me, grinning. The scent of his cologne was cloying. It matched his personality: loud and pushy.
“Try the lock again.”
He stepped to the side but not far enough away for my comfort. I hesitated. The bell rang to signal the start of classes. My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t want to be late. I took a quick breath and moved in close enough to twirl the combination wheel. His eyes bored into me, and I could feel the heat rising up my neck.
“You’re pretty when you’re nervous,” he said. I was concentrating on the lock and didn’t see his hand move, but I felt it when he touched my shoulder to lift a lock of hair. He ran it between his thumb and fingers, rubbing it.
“I’m going to be late,” I said.
“I’m late all of the time. Nobody says anything to me.”
I spun in the final number and tried the latch. It stuck for a moment, but then lifted.
“See? All it took was a little bit of finesse.” He lifted the hair that he was still holding between his fingers and rubbed it against his cheek. He released it, and it fluttered back into place. “Hey, what are you doing after the football game Friday night?”
From the corner of my eye, there was a flash of movement. Something was coming at me. I ducked.
“Oof. Hey!” A football glanced off of Gary’s shoulder and bounced down the hallway.
“Look out, everybody. Gary is on the prowl,” someone called. Footsteps rang down the hallway as the perpetrator ran off, laughing and banging against random lockers as he went.
“That jerk,” Gary said with an amused expression, his eyes tracking the other boy moving away down the hall. His gaze shifted to me. “You’ve got fast reflexes. I didn’t even see that coming.”
“I must have been blocking your view,” I said. But he’d already forgotten about it.
“About Friday,” he said.
I finished shoving my school bag into the locker and retrieving the notebooks that I needed and slammed the
locker. “Sorry, Gary. I’m going to be late.” I turned and walked from him at a fast clip, but he followed.
“Hey, wait.”
“Thank you for your help,” I said. My classroom was only a short distance further down the hall, but he was already on my heel. I didn’t want to encourage him by allowing him to walk me to class. Panic was starting to make my legs feel heavy. Frantically I searched the space for a refuge: was there someone nearby, or a place that I could go? A washroom. Yes.
I opened the ladies’ room door just as he touched my arm.
“I just have to — you know. See you later,” I sidestepped inside without noting my surroundings, and went into a stall and locked it.
“I’ll just wait for you out here,” Gary called.
He’d opened the door. What kind of boy opens the door of the girls’ washroom?
I sank onto the toilet seat and tried to take a few deep breaths. I coughed, realizing that the air was full of smoke. Oh, no. I’d gone into the restroom reserved by the rougher girls at school. Someone knocked — or rather, banged — on my stall door. A pair of worn-down brown loafers with socks that were no longer white was visible underneath it.
“Yes?” I said. My voice came out without shaking. A minor victory.
“You’re in my stall,” her voice was low and grainy, already taking on the rasp of a habitual smoker even though she was still in high school.
“Sorry,” I said, shifting on the toilet seat. I didn’t want my skirt hem to fall in and get wet. “I was just trying to slip away from that guy.”
“Who, Gary? A star football player isn’t good enough for you? Huh, Miss Priss?” She rattled the door against the lock.
I clutched my books to my chest. How was I going to get out of this?
The tardy bell rang. Great.
The bathroom door squeaked open. “Hey,” someone mock-whispered. “Principal Smith is coming this way!”
Immediately, there was a scuffle of movement. The feet in front of the stall disappeared.
Gary’s voice broke the silence. “She’s gone. Miss Priss.” There was a squeak and a soft thud as the door shut. I squeezed my eyes closed. Had he come in here, with me? Were we alone?
