Playing The Field

Malcolm

Five Years Earlier

“Oh my gosh, ew.”

The young woman grimaces at the bag of mealworms the customer ahead of me places on the checkout counter. Irritation swells inside of me as she uses a ruler to scoot the bag across the scanner and rings him up.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I grumble when it’s my turn in line. She barely acknowledges me, turning her eyes to the giant cell phone in her hands. “Where can I return this?” I ask, shaking the large roll of fencing slung over my shoulder.

The look she gives me is filled with disdain as she smacks her gum. “Returns are in the back.” She shoos me away before focusing back on the screen in her hand.

This interaction annoys me, but I press on. I turn around, readjusting the cumbersome roll on my shoulder. As I navigate through the aisles of the hardware store, a chick runs across my path.

Not the human type of chick. An actual baby chicken.

A tiny, feathery escape artist, plush and yellow.

“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter under my breath, feeling even more annoyed that this place can’t contain their livestock. I scoop up the chick with my free hand, almost losing the wire off my shoulder in the process. Tucking the fluffy nuisance in my jacket pocket, I readjust the wire and continue toward the back.

“Hey! Hey!” a high-pitched voice shrieks behind me.

“Geez, what is with this place?” I try to ignore the voice. But it’s my lucky day, and the shrill voice persists, following me like a shadow.

“Hey, bozo, that’s my chick you’re stealing!” The voice increases an octave, nails-on-a-chalkboard level. The accusation cuts through the air like a knife. It’s also accompanied by a few disapproving glances by other customers.

“Keep it contained next time,” I retort, setting the chicken back on the ground. I have to remind myself I’m a Southern gentleman and resist the urge to snap at the lady bickering at me as I walk away.

The chicken follows me. I can hear the pitter patter of its small talons against the tile.

“Lady, get your chicken before I take it home for a meal.”

A gasp of horror follows me. “You wouldn’t dare!” I’d bet she’s clutching the poultry to her chest, protecting it, all while the bird just wants to be let free. Poor, pitiful thing.

Finally reaching the back of the store, I see an older gentleman sitting behind a large wooden counter. Heaving the wire on the counter, I glance at the floor to ensure there aren’t any other tiny creatures near my boots as I step them together and pull out my wallet.

“What can I help you with today, sir?” the older gentleman asks as he looks the wire over.

I hand him my receipt. “I need to re—”

“Don’t help him, Gary!” Lord, help me. The shrill woman is back. No longer five feet behind me either. No, now she’s standing right next to me. I refuse to look in her direction and keep my eyes fixed on Gary. She huffs at me, as if I’m the one with the rude behavior in this situation, and begins tapping her foot at me. This is my hell.

“Miss,” I sigh, scratching my chin, “can you please take your poultry and get out of my hair?”

Lucky for me, Gary can tell I’m in a hurry. Or maybe he just has sympathy for the man getting harassed by a psycho chicken lady, because he spares me from the assumed customer service banter.

“Gary, this man eats chicken!” Her shriek grates my nerves even more—didn’t think that was possible at this point.

I pinch my eyes shut, feeling the pressure build between them, when I hear Gary say, “It’s either him or me, girl.” He chuckles under his breath. Chicken Lady gasps in disgust, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at Gary’s and my solidarity.

“Ya want store credit or a refund?” Gary asks me.

I keep my head down and give him a subtle thumbs-up. I can’t resist glancing to my left toward where the woman is standing. A pair of bright-pink high-top tennis shoes are pointed at my muddied work boots.

She clears her throat at me. Who does this broad think she is? I refuse to respond to anything that isn’t actual words, so I continue to wait in silence.

Throat cleared again, she says, “So you like to kill animals, then?”

Gary whispers, “Here we go,” at the jab as he hands me the handwritten gift card with my store credit on it. I take it, continuing to ignore the gal to my left, and turn right, keeping my head as low as humanly possible as I head for the door. No reason to entertain this crazy animal rights advocate any more than I already have.

“Hey, old man!” she calls out.

I can’t help the harsh laugh that leaves my mouth. Old man. Who would’ve known thirty-two is considered old these days? I let the laughter overtake me as I give her a dismissive wave, leaving the store and not looking back.

My orange truck is at the end of the parking lot, and to my dismay, Animal Rights is hightailing it behind me. I hear the stomp of her feet against the gravel driveway and the chirp of chickens—not just the one, but an entire flock.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” she yells, closing the distance as I make it to my truck.

“Sorry, lady. I ain’t got time for your nonsense.” I wave over my shoulder then open my driver door. Before I can escape, a small hand with multi-colored fingernails shoves the door shut. I let out a sigh as she keeps it planted against my window. And then, she has the audacity to start tapping her finger at me. Pink, yellow, and blue drum against the glass impatiently. The nerve of this woman.

I follow the line of her arm, noting smooth, dark-olive skin. Like those arms you see in commercials, convincing you to buy some weird lotion. There’s a slender definition in her bicep and shoulder, making it the most distracting arm I’ve ever laid my eyes on. My gaze travels up the smoothness of her arm, finally meeting her face, and I’m greeted by a set of brown eyes.

And they’re pissed.

“Ma’am, could you please remove your hand from my vehicle?” I ask as frustration pulses down my temples. Her hand flexes as she pushes harder onto my window. As I tower over her small frame, I have no doubt I could throw her over my shoulder in one swift motion, so removing her tiny hand shouldn’t be a problem.

“Not until you apologize.”

“Apologize for what?” I snap my head back at her. “For rescuing your chicken from my boot?” At her feet is a large wire crate with at least ten baby chicks in it, all chirping up at me.

“No.” She removes her hand and crosses her arms. “For eating animals.”

I cock my head back and bark out a laugh. The afternoon sun pierces my vision for a moment before creating a glowing halo around this woman, illuminating her flawless skin like it thrives in sunlight—again, distracting.

“I’m not going to apologize for the naturally created food chain. You gotta take that up with God.” She gapes at my words, probably offended, but I don’t care. I open my door again and try to climb in. “Have a nice day.”

The lady grips my door, again, drawing a low growl out of my throat. This woman is maddening.

“Fine.” She huffs. “You could at least apologize for trying to kidnap Nugget.”

“Nugget?”

She nods, pride pinking her cheeks as she smiles down at the crate. “Cute, isn’t it?”

The chicks chirp as if they are agreeing with this woman. Nugget sits front and center, eyeing me with her permanent scowl and brown mohawk. Hard to miss, and yes, kind of cute. The corner of my mouth twitches up as they all chirp up at me.

“Sure, whatever. Take care now.” I attempt to close my door.

“Could you at least give a stranded woman and her animals a ride?” She leans her arm on the inside of my door, staring at me expectantly. Does this woman not have any sense? What if I’m a serial killer? “It’s the least you could do since you were trying to steal my chicken.” The balls on this woman. Crossing her arms again, she waits.

Now I’m gaping at her. No, gawking, as I take her in.

Dark-brown hair, wild and curly, is tied on top of her head with a bright-yellow scarf. Strawberry-pink cheeks with plump lips to match sit beneath dark, doe-like eyes. It’s like they’re filled with raspberry chocolate, a swirl of browns and reds looking back at you. Someone might even think there’s a sweet, intense passion about them, but based on the last few minutes of dealing with her, that passion is almost loony. Her small frame is swallowed by ratty blue coveralls, the top half unbuttoned and tied around her waist. A white tank top covered in dirt—and who knows what else—hugs her slim torso.

“I won’t bite,” she jokes, hoisting the crate of chickens into the bed of my truck. I haven’t even said yes yet.

I watch as she whispers something to the chickens then skips to the passenger side of my truck and climbs in. Again, please let the record show, I have not told this mystery woman I will give her a ride. What if she’s a serial killer?

“We’re losing daylight, Grandpa.” Patting a hand on the dash then adjusting the back of the seat, she makes herself comfortable, as if riding in a truck with a complete stranger is nothing to her. She even goes as far as plopping her feet on my dashboard.

My neck and jaw tighten watching her. It could be my imagination, but I swear I hear her force a sigh, rushing me. I drop my head and rub the back of my neck before accepting that I have no control over this situation, and I climb into my commandeered vehicle.

“Are you going to murder me?” I hesitate to start the truck and watch her carefully.

“Are you going to murder me?” She raises an eyebrow at me. Something about that look makes my stomach dip. Weird.

“Alright,” I huff, “where to, ma’am?” I shove the lump of anxiety forming in the back of my throat deep down and try to ignore the fact that I am at the mercy of a fearless woman with a very specific agenda. Having a plan is the only thing I need to function these days. Knowing the basic details of where I’m going and what I’m doing is a necessity. Yet, somehow, I have succumbed to the requests of my polar opposite. In what world have I ever let this happen?

“First of all, do I really look like a ma’am to you? Second, 71st and Hilltop, please,” she says without looking at me, cranking the window down. Now I have to turn the air conditioner off. Summer heat is thick and oppressive outside, and this strange woman is just wasting my cold air.

“First, ma’am has nothing to do with age and everything to do with respect. Secondly, that’s, like, an hour away.” I’m forced to crank my window down now so I don’t suffocate.

“It’s, like, twenty minutes. You’ll be fine.” She gestures toward the road. “Don’t worry, you’ll be back for the early bird special.” Her giggle fills the cab of the truck like a symphony.

I relent and head in the direction she instructs. We drive in silence for a bit, and everything about the situation sirens in my head to drop the crazy broad off on the side of the road. But something else in my chest is telling me to enjoy the ride with the pretty girl in coveralls.

It has been a long time since I have had this much one-on-one interaction with another person. The last few months have been nothing but packing up, moving, and settling into my new life, alone. Peaceful and miserable all at the same time.

I scratch the top of my head and flatten my hair as I switch lanes on the highway. What could this lady be doing on the outskirts of the city? To any onlooker, she may give off the independent, country-girl vibe with her coveralls and livestock, but as a true farm boy, I can tell she’s anything but. The way she was carrying those chickens, like she’s never touched an animal in her life, was a clear indication.

“Where are we going?” My words come out harsh, and her eyes grow in size at the tone. “Sorry… This grandpa just likes to know where he’s headed.” I smile faintly, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch up in response.

“I have a friend there, and I’m hoping she’ll take these chickens for me.”

“The chickens aren’t for you?” My eye roll is involuntary at her side smirk, answering my question with an obvious no.

I have to force myself to keep my eyes on the road, not on the hands that fidget with the knobs, the air vents, her pants, anything she can reach. She messes with her nails then with the dial of the radio, turning it to a station I’ve never heard of. A guy with obvious mother issues starts rhyming to some repetitive beat. She taps the windowsill a few times before pulling out her phone and typing frantically. I see her glance this way a few times then bite her lip. That’s distracting too.

I clear my throat. “You good over there?”

“Just a little antsy.” She cracks her neck. “It’s not every day I get in a stranger’s truck and travel an hour with him.”

“I can say the same.” I turn on my blinker to switch lanes, checking over my shoulder and noting the chicken crate is still in the bed as I do.

Mystery Woman turns in her seat to face me. “So what’s your deal?”

What a loaded question.

“Well, I woke up this morning, planning to have a nice quiet day running errands. Then I was accosted by a strange woman and her chickens.”

She lets out a soft kind of chortle, and it does something to my stomach I’m not familiar with. I glance at her and then back at the road. The wind whips tendrils of her hair around her face as she stares at me. It’s something you’d see in slow motion in a film: pretty girl in your passenger seat with the sun setting behind her and nothing but the whistle of the wind passing between the two of you. I could watch it on repeat.

I shove the thought away and remind myself that she is a stranger.

“What?” I squint at the road, resisting the urge to stare back at her and wrecking this truck.

“Is that all you’re going to say, Mystery Man?” She taps her colorful nails against the back of her cell phone. Distracting again. Everything about her is distracting.

“Yes.” What else is there to say? I’m a simple man. And I don’t usually tell my entire life story to anyone—and definitely not to this woman who’s hijacking my afternoon.

Pulling the visor down, she messes with her hair and picks at her teeth. Pretty comfortable up here, aren’t we, lady?

“I don’t even know your name, so that’s all you get.”

“I’ll give you three guesses.” She pops the visor closed. “And you’ll turn at the next marker.” She points ahead at a marker indicating a turn off the stretch of concrete onto a red dirt road. Something about it warms my chest. Up until now, I hadn’t realized how much I missed the Oklahoma roads since I’d been gone. It feels good to be home—most days. Other days, it feels just as lonely as the desert.

“You’re running out of time, Gramps.”

“Grace?” The first name I could think of would, of course, be my mother’s name.

“Close!” Her eyes widen in excitement, and that also does something to my insides. “Two more guesses.”

“Glenda?” I wince, making the turn down the dirt road. Crackling and popping happens below the tires, and a red cloud of dirt swallows us as my tires turn up the ground. I lean closer to the windshield for a better view.

She giggles at me. “Bad eyesight there, Pops?”

“No, Gloria. Just trying to figure out where I’m going.” I turn the windshield wipers on, worsening the view. I growl and pull over.

“Three guesses, but no luck.” She’s laughing as I put the truck in park. She hops out and walks toward the bed of the truck, the cloud of dirt still blocking our view.

I climb out of the cab and walk to the front, escaping the cloud of dirt and checking my surroundings. A small farmhouse sits at the top of a hill straight ahead, about fifty feet from us. The lady clanks the chicken crate out of the bed, almost turning it over and killing the chicks in the process.

“Do you need—”

“Nope. Thank you.” She heaves the box onto her hip, with struggle all over her face as she does. I have to rub my jaw to prevent laughing at her. She wobbles toward the house, and chickens roll all over each other with each step. Little chirp screeches beckon to be rescued. “Lola! Lola! I’m here!” she yells toward the house.

The flimsy screen door swings open and slams against the side of the house. An older woman in rubber boots and a straw hat walks out, her demeanor changing when she sees the girl walking up to her porch. “Kate Stanley! What are you doing?”

“Lola, shut up,” she tries to shush her, looking over her shoulder at me.

I mouth, “Kate,” to her, and she groans in defeat as she heads to the steps of the house.

Kate Stanley. Mystery gone. The other woman comes down the steps and meets us in the driveway. Kate grapples with the crate she’s losing grip of and sets it down as gently as she can before wiping her hands on her thighs and tapping the toes of her shoes on the ground, ridding them of any red dirt remnants that collected by the truck.

“Katherine Joy, I can’t keep these.” The woman points at the flock of chickens in the cage. I could be hallucinating, but I feel their little chicklet eyes on me as the ladies bicker back and forth.

“They’re going to get eaten,” Kate argues.

“That’s what they’re bred for, sweetheart.” The woman puts her hands on her hips, looking very much like Kate at the moment.

“Lola, you have to.” Kate’s voice sounds fragile as she tries to coax this elderly woman into accepting responsibility for the animals. She clasps her hands together under her chin and pouts at her.

For a grown woman, Kate seems to have no shame in pulling out all the stops.

“I said no.” Lola’s face has a look. I’ve seen that look from my own mother. Disappointment. Never goes away, even as an adult. She eyes me, clearly suspicious as to why I’m here. “Did you encourage this?” She waves to the birds.

Her tone sends a chill down my spine. “No, ma’am.” She looks satisfied with my response and looks back at Kate. A breath of relief leaves me. I can tell I don”t want to end up on her bad side.

I’m not sure what it is, but there’s something about this farm woman that terrifies me. Fifteen years as a naval nuclear engineer, three deployments, and dozens of short tours, but this woman in her flowery boots and t-shirt covered with kittens is one of the most intimidating things I’ve encountered.

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Kate groans, and the chicks chirp, like they also want to know what will happen to them.

“Take them back,” Lola says, unfazed.

“They’ll die!” Kate practically whines out, and Lola just shrugs. Pretty savage, lady.

She rubs Kate’s arm. “I’m sorry, honey. I just can’t,” she says, turning to head back into the house.

“What am I going to do? Gary’s gonna fry them the first chance he gets!” Kate calls after her.

“I’ll take them.” The words come out quicker than my brain computes them. Taking home a crate of chickens was not on the agenda for my Saturday, but seeing the defeat all over Kate’s face is enough to gut me—that and the crate of innocent eyes staring up at me like I’m their mother bird.

Kate whips her entire body toward me. “What?” Her voice is faint. “Are you serious?”

Am I serious?“Sure.” I shrug. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Are you going to eat them?” She eyes me suspiciously.

I can tell that eating any of these yappy birds will hurt Kate. And for some unknown reason, that is the last thing I want to do. I hold up a hand and say, “I will keep them safe, ma’am.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” Within seconds, her arms are around my shoulders, pulling me flush against her for a hug. Her head nuzzles perfectly in the center of my chest. It would be nice…if the force of the hug didn’t knock the wind out of me. I give her a pat on the back in reciprocation. “Thank you! Thank you!” she squeals.

“You’re welcome.” My words are muffled by her curly bun pressing against my mouth and nose. The smell of lavender swirls around me. She steps back and beams at me, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Kate’s glee is palpable, and I feel lighter just looking at her.

“Malcolm Geer, you are a saint.”

“It’s not a big—wait …” The bemusement I feel is clearly on my face as she bites her lip. Distracting. “How do you know my name?”

“Google.” She shrugs. “Duh, Gramps.” She turns on her heels and reaches for the crate, the chickens chirping in protest. I instinctively grab the crate and hoist it onto my shoulder. The chicks go quiet. I got you, buddies.

As we head back to the truck, I ask, “So how do you know my name?”

“I know people.” She shoves her hands in her coverall pockets. “And Google. I saw your ID when you gave it to Gary.”

“Clever.” I smile. “Nothing incriminating on there?”

“Not that I’ve found yet.” She winks at me, and I almost trip over my foot at the sight. Pull yourself together, Geer. “But I’ll find something. We all have issues.” She jokes, but it feels forced. There’s something about her tone that weighs on me. “Anyhoo”—she pats me on the shoulder—“thanks again!”

I set the chickens in the bed of the truck and cover them with a blanket from the backseat. Her clear concern for the safety of these birds is somewhat amusing but also confusing.

“Not a problem. I promise I won’t—”

“I know. You have a very trusting face.” Her cheeks go pink with her words.

I nod and shove my hands in my pockets as awkward silence fills the air. The next thing for me to do would be to leave. But I have this weird desire to stay and keep talking to the pretty chicken lady. “Well…I guess I should go.” Probably for the best anyway. Since history tends to repeat itself, the only thing I would probably get from this girl is heartbreak.

“You’re our new math teacher, right?”

“Umm, yes. How did you—”

“I work at Glendale. Got an email about you yesterday. I teach science and coach volleyball.” She lifts her chin up proudly and reaches out to shake my hand.

“So you didn’t actually Google me?” I shake her hand.

“Oh, I 100% did. It was just a wonderful coincidence that you were at the store today.” She chuckles at herself. “A little hazing opportunity just presented itself. Couldn’t pass it up.” She gives me a wink, her thick lashes fluttering with the movement.

“So this entire—”

“Yep, I knew who you were the moment you scooped up my chicken.” She smirks.

“My chicken, you mean.” I smirk back, and her head falls back as another laugh bubbles out of her. It’s an entrancing noise, and I can’t help but laugh with her. I’m enjoying talking to this girl a little too much. Her laughing slows, and her smile widens as she looks me up and down. What could possibly be going on in that head of hers? And why do I have this desperate need to know?

“I think we’re going to be good friends, Malcolm Geer.”