Chapter 30
MAGGIE
"Ican't believe," I say, "that you actually went to church."
Sloane is standing in the henhouse doorway in shorts and a T-shirt. No hot pants today. Thank God.
"It wasn't like I had a choice. Ruthie came to the motel unannounced. She even picked out my outfit."
I've been laughing since Sloane arrived and told me about her Sunday. I've not laughed this hard in weeks and remind myself that the chickens don't like noise.
"Seriously, though. How was it?"
"Long. And uncomfortable," she says with a self-deprecating smile. "A church full of people who all know who I am. And they all think I've turned to God to atone for my sins."
Sloane's deadpan delivery is making it worse and I lose it again.
"I have a serious request," she says. "Can I swap one of my weekdays for a Sunday? So I have a reason to not be available?"
"Oh, Sloane. I would if I could, but we have enough volunteers on the weekends already. The weekdays are when I need help." I shake my head. "But what I will do is let you pretend to be working here on Sunday mornings. You can make yourself coffee, sit on the porch and read your Bible," I tease.
"Will you please stop mentioning the Bible? I'm traumatized." She laughs too. "But really? Can I come and hang out here?"
"Anytime."
"Thank you. That's the kindest thing anyone has done for me in weeks."
"That's a low bar."
"It's my life now." Sloane looks around the henhouse. "So, what are we doing here? Cleaning?"
"No, it's looking okay at the moment. I was going to teach you how to collect eggs."
Sloane's eyebrows shoot up. "Then you'd better start at the absolute baseline because I've never held an egg in my hands." She continues when she clocks my confusion. "I don't cook. Irina did all of it growing up, and these days I just order in or go to a restaurant."
I stare at her, unsure if she's joking. "You've never cracked an egg into a pan?"
"I'm not sure if I even own a pan. I've never looked inside my kitchen cupboards." She grins sheepishly. "I sound ridiculous, don't I?"
"You sound ridiculous, yes. Come here." I point to the nesting boxes.
Two rows of six, lined with straw. "Some of the boxes are empty," I say.
"Some have a hen sitting in them. Some have hens who have laid and gone.
We have twenty-three chickens and I get somewhere between twelve and fifteen eggs a day in summer, fewer in winter, more if it's been a good week. "
"Wow that's a lot of eggs."
"Exactly. That's why I sell what I don't use to the diner.
" I tap one of the boxes. "It's easy, mostly.
You walk along, check for eggs, take the eggs out, and put them in this.
" I lift the wire basket off its hook by the door and hand it to her.
"Egg basket. The straw at the bottom is so they don't crack against each other when you walk.
Some of the boxes will have a hen in them.
If she's just sitting there relaxed, she's been laying or she's about to.
You can usually tell because if she has, she'll be quiet and her feathers will be flat.
You slide your hand in along her side, palm up, low against the straw, and you feel under her for the egg.
If there is one, you take it out gently.
She won't love it but she won't hurt you. "
Sloane frowns. "So I'm supposed to put my hand under a live chicken and feel around for an egg."
"That's the procedure. Second category. Some hens will fluff up when you approach.
If she fluffs up and her feathers go big and she makes a low growling noise — yes, chickens growl, it's fine — that's a broody hen.
She wants to sit on those eggs and hatch them and she doesn't understand they're not fertilized.
She might peck you. There's one in particular.
Big red hen, third box from the left in the bottom row.
Her name is Margaret. Mom named her after me.
Don't reach into Margaret's box. I'll do that one. "
Sloane laughs. "I'm not even going to ask why the aggressive one was named after you." She stops in front of the first box, which is empty, then to the second. There's an egg in it, no hen. She lifts it out and holds it like it's made of glass.
"It's warm."
"That's because it came out of a chicken." I'm unsure how a person reaches twenty-eight in this country without ever having held an egg. I don't think she'd survive a power cut.
Sloane moves to the third box. It has a hen in it and it's one of the calmer ones, a pale gray one.
"That's Edith," I say. "She's fine. Hand in. Palm up. Low against the straw."
I kneel in front of Edith and Sloane crouches beside me. Her shoulder brushes against mine as she reaches in and I feel a quick flutter at the contact. She bites her lower lip and I realize I'm looking at her instead of Edith.
"I can feel — okay, I can feel her — oh god, she's warm —"
Edith gets a little agitated but Sloane manages and holds the egg cradled in her palm, smiling from ear to ear. She puts the egg in the basket like she's handling explosives and her visible amazement is kind of adorable.
"Is it not upsetting to them?" she asks. "Taking the eggs?"
I think about how to answer this. Most volunteers don't ask as they come from farming backgrounds.
"It depends. If they're fertilized, yes.
We don't have a rooster, deliberately, so we don't have that situation.
The eggs you're picking up haven't ever been chicks and they were never going to be.
And if you leave them in the box, they just sit on them and the eggs go bad and then we have a hygiene problem.
So taking them out is what they need anyway. "
I stand up and Sloane stands up at the same time. We're suddenly very close together in the narrow space between the row of boxes and the henhouse wall, and for a single beat her eyes drop to my mouth before she looks away.
"Right," she says, suddenly looking a little nervous.
I don't know what to do with myself so I continue to talk.
"The broody ones are different," I say, fixing my eyes on Margaret.
"Margaret thinks she's incubating something.
She's not, but she doesn't know that. So we leave a couple of fake plastic eggs in her box for her to sit on, because that calms her down, and we collect the real ones from underneath her with — let's say negotiation. "
I have a feeling Sloane is staring at me again but I don't dare check.
"In general, hens lay eggs whether anyone takes them or not.
They're not chickens who are mourning lost children.
They're chickens who have done the egg part of their day and have moved on.
And these girls have all been rescued from places where someone was taking the eggs and giving them nothing in the way of comfort or space or daylight.
We take their eggs, yes, but they get comfort in return and that's a fair exchange. "
"Okay." Sloane dusts straw off her knees and moves to the next box. "That makes me feel better."
We finish the row in silence. She gets faster as she goes — by the fifth box she's sliding her hand in easily, and by the seventh she's talking softly to the hen as she does it. I watch her out of the corner of my eye and pretend to check the basket for breakages.