Julia's Chocolates. Cathy Lamb

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СКАЧАТЬ ya go, Jessalynn,” she soothed as she took another egg from yet another late-morning riser, not so eager to get outside today. “This one is much kinder than the other, but I prefer Tizzy.”

      “You prefer Tizzy?” I saw a white egg sticking out of hay bunched together in a small cubbyhole created by a miniature bookshelf. I dug through the hay and found another “secret loot” area. I popped fifteen eggs into my basket.

      “Yes, I do. Tizzy has spirit. She has a temper. She knows what she wants and what she doesn’t. When she doesn’t like what’s going on, she snaps. Yep. I like her.”

      We stared at the two ladies. Tizzy shook her head a bit, Jessalynn settled down in her nest. “Anyone who thinks chickens don’t have personalities is wrong. We got the mean ones, the nice ones, and everyone in between in this barn. It’s a microcosm of a woman’s life, only the ladies shit out in the open and human women don’t drop the eggs from their ovaries on the floor each morning.”

      I nodded. “We women generally like to keep our eggs close to home.”

      “Darn right we do.”

      We continued digging through the barn, silence settling on us, familiar and warm. I brushed hay and, undoubtedly, chicken shit out of my hair as I bent under a shelf to grab more eggs.

      “I’ve had to get more roosters out here since you came last. But not too many. I learned my lesson years ago about roosters. Don’t get enough chickens, and those roosters will run the ladies into the ground with all the matin’ they do. They hop on the ladies’ backs, hump around, and when they’re through, they walk right over them. Almost every rooster will stomp on the lady’s head on his way out and not think a thing of it.”

      “That’s so like a man,” I muttered.

      “Damn straight it is. Some men will do the foreplay, but most of ’em don’t really want to. They just want to be like roosters. Hump ’em, walk out the door.”

      “Personally, I don’t want any more roosters in my life. I’ve been stepped on the head once too often.”

      “Yes, you have, but your head is done getting stomped on!” Aunt Lydia spread her arms out wide. “The world is sending you good karma, darlin’, and a head stompin’ is not in your future.”

      “Always nice to hear. Thank you, Aunt Lydia.”

      “Now, take a look at these eggs.” Lydia pointed behind a bookshelf painted blue at a hoard of eggs. About twenty of them.

      “Chickens hide things. They like to keep secrets. Like these here eggs in their little secret hiding places. Chickens are like women in that respect. We all have secrets, some small ones that aren’t really a big deal. Some we’re ashamed about.” She bent down and hugged a chicken to her like it was a baby. “Some we love having because we can visit them when we’re having a rotten day and remember something we shouldn’t have done but did anyhow. Those are the most interesting. We know we should feel guilty, so guilty that our insides should be burning up and smoke should be rightfully spewing from our ears, but at that moment in our lives, what we did was right. It was wrong, too, of course, deliciously wrong, or it wouldn’t be a secret, but deep in the heart we don’t regret it.”

      I didn’t know exactly what she was referring to, but I knew about secrets. I wish I didn’t. I’ve known all about the worst type of secrets since I was four. Secrets always hurt. When I was a child, anytime a man told me he wanted to share a secret with me I knew I was gonna get hurt. No other way out. The boyfriends who paid a lot of attention to me from the start were always the worst.

      When I was older, I got smarter. When one of my mother’s boyfriends said he wanted to share a secret with me, I’d leave. Anytime my mother took on a new boyfriend, I’d start looking around for places to sleep. I found out where the shelters were, looked for hiding places in parks under trees that I could safely sleep under, and figured out ways to stay in the town’s library after hours, which was never too hard. I’d read books all night. I’d get to know the neighbors, too—feel out where I could go in case of emergency.

      “Speaking of secrets, Julia, my dear…” Lydia turned toward me. She was wearing the same type of flannel shirt as me, her gray braids piled under her cap, the tilt of her head proud and strong, as always.

      “Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

      I swallowed hard. Swallowed hard again. Looked down. I felt like a kid. Felt as I always had when I’d come to Lydia’s farm for the summer, relieved beyond belief that I was with her, that I had escaped, if only for a while. I moved the egg basket from one hand to another as emotions roiled through me—fear, worry, pain, more fear.

      “Jellybean Julia,” Lydia said my nickname as soft as chicken feathers, and pulled me into her arms.

      Jellybean Julia bent her head and cried.

      He was huge.

      Absolutely huge.

      Not fat at all, but huge.

      Tall, with shoulders as big as a car and a chest wider than a pillow.

      And he smiled at me.

      From the start I gave Dean Garrett a lot of credit. That huge man with his gold and white hair and his weathered, tanned skin, and his bright blue eyes that actually looked right at me instead of skittering away like most men who lose interest in me as soon as they’re done marveling at my boobs.

      He didn’t laugh when he saw me in all my muddy glory, which was another point in his favor, but the sight of a man that big, that strong-looking, made my heart leap a bit with fear. I have never been comfortable with men, except for Stash, and after my experience with Robert and my mother’s “friends,” any man who looked like he could squish my face into gel made me particularly nervous.

      This man not excluded.

      “Dean Garrett!” Aunt Lydia boomed when she saw The Huge Man leaning against her kitchen counter, drinking a cup of coffee with Stash. “I have not seen you in so long I was thinking about having a new concrete pig crafted and named after you!” She gave him a hug, and I watched as she seemed to disappear into his arms.

      A smile stretched across his square-jawed face, his teeth white, little lines fanning from the corners of his eyes. He had that weathered, Marlboro-man look to him. I put him at around forty-two years old or so.

      “It would be my honor to have a pig named after me, Lydia.” He looked at me, then back down at Aunt Lydia. “In fact, I’ll look forward to it. Put me next to Stash out there.” He looked back at me.

      Wonderful, I thought. Splendid! I must look even more mangled than I thought. Perhaps it was the mud adorning my outfit that caught his eye. Or the matted hair? Perhaps the stench of chicken poop? Perhaps I had a chicken atop my head that I hadn’t noticed? The chicken was probably a great backdrop to the bruises that were still visible on my cheek and eye. I reached up and pulled at my hair, catching Stash looking at me with a smile. He winked.

      “Ha!” Lydia pulled away. “Never! I have reserved that space only for Stash, who, I see, has come into my house again without an invitation. Never mind. You have brought one of my favorite people on the planet, so just this time”—she slammed her hand against Stash’s behind—“I’ll forgive you. You СКАЧАТЬ