Duck Eggs #2
She closes her eyes, meditates on the date. This day next year, I will be eating fresh-picked asparagus and duck eggs in this place.
Her prediction is off by fifty-one weeks—by the following Saturday, she will be at the farmhouse table, enjoying this exact meal. But for now, she breathes in sunshine and dirt and dreams of a Someday Lunch in Somewhere.
A stacked stone fence runs along the two-lane highway, tiny wildflowers and thyme growing in the crevices.
Where each length meets the driveway, the stones are built up into a pillar, squared off at the top with slate.
A round planter on each puffs up high with red geraniums and spills down yellow and orange nasturtiums. A mailbox is built into one of the pillars.
On the other is a circular plaque: a man’s face carved out of leaves, with two clusters of acorns dripping off his mustache.
Naomi noticed this foliate head in other places around the farm and wonders what it means.
“Here you go.” The boy is back. He holds half an egg carton in one hand, and under the other arm is a duck. Behind him trots a small menagerie: a puppy on a leash, a cat, two chickens and three rabbits.
This is getting a little precious, Naomi thinks.
“I brought you two” he says. “How long do you normally poach your eggs?”
“I’m a four-minute kind of girl.”
“These are bigger than chicken eggs so you’ll want to give an extra minute or so. Actually, I prefer to hard-boil my duck eggs. Ten minutes. But you do how you like.”
Naomi points to the caramel-colored fowl in the boy’s arm. “Do I thank her?”
He grins. “This is Maple. The best duck ever.” His free hand strokes the bird’s sleek head and she seems to enjoy it, so Naomi reaches gentle fingers and rubs the beautiful feathers.
“Thanks for lunch, Maple,” she says. “I’m Naomi.”
“Nomi,” the boy says, mishearing her. “Wow, I love that name. Nomi.”
All at once, so does she.
Nomi.
Know me, she thinks. You know me. You, Nomi.
“I’m Ethan,” he says.
“How long have you worked here?”
“I live here.”
“Oh. You’re a Schoenfeld?”
“Yes and no. John and Mary are my parents. But I’m called Ethan Hasen.”
“Hasen?”
“It’s German for hairs.”
Confused, she touches the ends of her hair where they lie on her sweaty shoulder.
He laughs. “Not hairs on your head. Hares like rabbits.”
“Oh,” she says slowly, happily. “Like hasenpfeffer.”
“Schlemiel, schlimazel, Hasenpfeffer Incorporated.”
They laugh and Maple flaps out of Ethan’s arm, heading up the driveway in a dignified waddle. He peels a few leaves of lettuce from the heads on display, crouches down and feeds them to the rabbits. The puppy starts to jump around Nomi’s legs, panting and yipping.
“Parker, sit,” Ethan says. “Sorry, he’s just a baby. The training is torture. Sit. Good boy.” He feeds the dog a lettuce leaf.
“Why are you called Hasen?” Nomi asks.
“It’s a long story I won’t bore you with,” Ethan says.
Please do, she thinks. Bore me. Know me.
Name me.
“I’m listening,” she says, and eases the pressure by putting the egg carton carefully at the bottom of her bag, then moving to pick three bunches of asparagus.
“I’m adopted,” Ethan says. “My real mother left me at a fire station when I was a baby.”
Nomi almost drops her bag as she looks back. “What?”
“I was abandoned at a firehouse. John and Mary fostered me, eventually adopted me, but they felt strongly I should be able to choose my last name. Rabbits and hares are my favorite animals. The Schoenfelds are German. So Hasen covers all ground. And I liked how it sounded with Ethan.”
“I do too,” she says. “Each takes different effort to say. Ethan is like pushing uphill. Hasen is like rolling downhill.”
He looks at her and blinks twice. His beautiful mouth slowly exhales, “Wow.”
They stare at each other. Nomi hasn’t been so at ease in someone’s gaze since she was eleven and still flat-chested. She’s never stood with her breasts unbound in front of a boy and forgotten they were unbound. She knows nothing except this boy might be Someone.
“What’s your last name?” he asks.
“Misteria.” She hesitates, her heart beating fast. If this place is Somewhere, it must pass all tests. “I was abandoned too. In a dumpster, not a firehouse. Someone put Misteria on my birth certificate but I have no idea who or why.”
“For real?” Ethan says.
“For real.”
He goes on staring into her eyes. Naomi holds still as Parker nudges the hand at her side and the rabbits sniff at her feet. Finally, she asks, “Do I give you the money?”
Ethan points to the large jar on the top shelf of the farm stand. Like everything else, it’s clearly labeled with a little sign: Honor system. Don’t be a jerk. If you have no money, leave SOMETHING.
Amid the bills and coins are little bartering tokens: polished stones, a toy soldier, a Charms blow-pop and a pair of gold hoop earrings.
Nomi’s purchases come to five dollars. She drops in a ten and takes out the earrings. “Fair?” she asks.
“Fair,” he says, and holds out a dusty hand. “It was nice to meet you. Please come back again?”
“I will,” she says.
Oh I will, she thinks.
She drives away from Birch Island feeling accomplished.
In a few hours, she’s in the large, industrial kitchen at Lark House, steaming her asparagus.
She piles them high, adds a swizz of olive oil, salt and pepper, and hands the plate around to the other workers.
The spears are devoured and fingers press the plate to pick up the salt crystals.
Naomi then goes out to her vegetable garden, gathering greens to make a giant salad for the Lark House residents’ dinner.
She decides to hard-boil one of her duck eggs to put on top.
Breakfast tomorrow will be a poached duck egg with soldiers.
She hums as she works, unaware that across the Hudson, back at Schoenfeld’s, Mary is shouting at her husband and son to come look, come see, they won’t believe it.
She stands under the pergola, her fingers holding a vine, pointing, laughing, almost in tears.
She’s found a bud. The wisteria vines have been here fifteen years and never bloomed. But they are now.
“Misteria,” Ethan says, the M turning over to a W, then turning back.
Next morning, a staff member comes into the Lark House kitchen and conveys someone is at the front desk, wanting to see Naomi Misteria.
“Who?” Nomi says, anxiously minding the poaching of her egg.
“Some guy. Blondish hair, nice-looking. Kinda weird though.”
“Weird?”
“He’s got a rabbit with him…”
“That’s a lovely story,” Liko said. “Especially when told in your nice voice.”
Dane hummed.
“So the dog in the game is Parker. I assume the duck is Maple?”
“Yes,” Dane said absently, his expression still in the long ago. A single stalk came free in Liko’s cursor. He tried giving it to the Green Man, who shook his head politely. Parker didn’t want it. But of course, Maple ate it delightedly.
“Good girl,” Liko said under his breath.
As if she heard, Maple quacked twice, turned in a circle, and laid an egg.
“Do I poach it?” Liko asked.
Dane laughed. “It’s a gift.” He sat back in the cushions and leaned his head against Liko’s arm. “As are you.”
Liko’s hand dropped on Dane’s knee. It jostled his leg a little. Held still. Then it slid up Dane’s thigh, under his shorts.
“This a gift for me, Uno?”
“Suck my ball,” Dane whispered, closing his eyes. His knees moved apart, giving Liko more to work with.
Then the doorbell rang.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Dane said.
Liko rolled off the couch onto the floor. “This is not happening,” he groaned, arms over his head.
“If it’s Saskia, she is disowned,” Dane said. “Jesus H, I can’t answer the door with a hard-on.”
Liko rolled over. “I’m no help here. Look.”
“That’s barely a rise.”
“Hey, a little respect please.”
“You started it, handsy. Go. You’re on.”
“Christ, you are an insufferable boss.” Liko got up and adjusted as best he could, then headed to the door just as the bell rang one more time.
“Coming,” he called, then mumbled, “Or I was about to, so this better be important.”
He pulled open the door. The sun hit him in the eyes and backlit the woman who had apparently given up and was starting to walk down the porch steps.
“Hi,” he said, shielding his eyes. “Sorry about that. Can I help you?”
She whipped around. Lost balance and stumbled back against the railing. Then sank onto the stairs.
“Are you all…” Liko trailed off and stared, not recognizing her at first. Then recognizing but unable to put her in this context.
“Janelle?”