Page 11 of The Burbs and the Bees
He turns, and his boots sink into the wet ground as he saunters back to his big black pickup truck. His door slams, and I quietly close mine and lean against it.
I shoot off a text to Lucy to let her know I arrived as I breathe in the stale smells of old cigar still clinging to the furniture. The floor creaks beneath my steps as I search the rooms and familiarize myself with the old place and try to figure out why this was all left to me. The extent of my knowledge is that Jack was Mom’s great-uncle, but she hadn’t seen him since she was a child when Jack had a falling-out with the family. We moved to the States when I was young, and Mom had never even brought him up until his lawyer called.
Upstairs, the smoky scent grows stronger as I stand outside Jack’s room, which, by the looks of things, has not been touched since he passed away. It’s a bit strange, maybe even invasive of me, but I step inside.
“Hope you don’t mind if I find myself something to wear,” I say.
I wait for a second, although I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, and when I’m not struck by a bolt of lightning, or the lights don’t flicker ominously—yes, I watch Paranormal Findings—I slowly open the closet door. His clothes are neatly hung, a mixture of plaid and plain dress shirts, heavy material for the winter and light for the summer. Since beggars can’t be choosers, I grab a laundered plaid shirt and run the stiff fabric between my fingers.
I drop my itchy blanket, and the rigid shirt wisps over my shoulders as I tug it on. It reaches my knees, and I’m grateful that it covers the essentials. I catch my reflection in the old mirror, the glass a dirty shade of brown around the edges from years of cigar smoke.
Now that I’m somewhat decently dressed, I catalog the room. If I put this place up for sale, am I responsible for clearing out his things? I wouldn’t know the first thing to do. A measure of panic wells up inside me, and before I let it take control, I give myself a good hard lecture.
Okay, one thing at a time, girl.
And right now, that one thing is check out the petting farm. I sure as heck hope someone has been taking care of the animals. The lawyer informed me the neighbors had stepped in, and I pray he was right, because if the poor things have been starving, I’ll seriously lose it.
I spot a Blue Jays ball cap, and I tug it on to hide my mess of salty hair. I leave Jack’s room and head outside. The late-day sun shines down on me, and my stomach rumbles, a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since the plane. Do they have restaurants around here? I drove through a small town on my way, but my sole focus was finding the farm. Perhaps I’ll head back after checking out the place.
The humid evening air warms my skin as I walk toward a big red barn and read the signs tacked to the side, listing all the goods sold in the orchard’s barn-turned-market. A broom rests against a rickety rail leading up a ramp to the main doors, but no way could that railing have passed any kind of inspection. I test it with my hand, and it wobbles. Tomorrow I’ll be looking for nails and a hammer.
You got this, girl.
And that’s not the first whopper of a lie I’ve told myself today.
Outside near one of the many barns, I find toys for the young visitors, numerous ducks bathing in muddy water, and chickens pecking the ground. Wow. I sure am a long way from home.
If I tapped my heels, would I wake up in New York?
I try to tiptoe around the puddles, but as we all know, luck is not on my side today. My shoes sink into the mud.
“Lovely,” I say, and the mud makes a sucking sound with each step. But nothing else could surprise me today. A squealing noise from the barn catches my attention. Okay, wait, maybe I spoke too soon. “Please don’t be a pig. Please don’t be a pig.”
My fear of small, squirmy pigs is irrational. It’s not like I’ve ever come across one, but when I was little and read Charlotte’s Web, the pig was nice and all but… I don’t know; it just freaked me out. Like I said, irrational fear. I negotiate the wet ground and peer into the dark barn. Something brushes up against my leg, and I falter backward just as a wiggly little piglet runs past.
“What the…”
My words die on my tongue when I turn and come face to face with a huge rooster. My God, what kind of steroids have they been feeding him? He’s half my size, twice a
s mean looking, and I’m sure he must be the local cockfighting champion. The little pig sidles up to him, and I swear to God he’s gone all smug-like. Oh, I get it. The rooster is your buddy, the muscle on the farm, and I’m a goddamn intruder.
As the two team up, I become painfully aware that they’re going to take me down in their town. Fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, and I bolt. Mr. Rooster lets loose a god-awful squawking sound and comes running at me. I’m still in heels thanks to my misplaced suitcase. Otherwise, it’s quite possible I’d tug on my flats and run the entire way back to New York.
But I can’t do that.
I rush around the red barn, remembering the broom I spotted earlier, and grab it. I hold it up, waiting for Mad Max to come at me, when the sound of a man’s voice behind me stops me cold.
“What are you doing?”
Broom still raised, I spin, and the guy takes one step back and holds out his right hand. “Whoa, easy.”
My heart races, then stops, only to race again. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The guy stares at me, his eyes narrowing like he’s trying to place me, but before I can tell him who I am, the rooster rounds the corner.
“Cluck, stop!” he bellows, and the rooster cools his jets. He squawks or barks or whatever it is that roosters do and offers me his backside as he trots off, like he’s the damn cock of the walk.
I take a deep, gulping breath and point with the broom handle. “What the hell was that?”
