toward her, and a dog—more than one dog?—began furiously barking. Anne emerged from the house and waved.
“Holy shit,” Bishop said. He actually looked impressed. “It’s a zoo.”
“See? Not a human lamp shade in sight.” Heather slid out of the car, then ducked so she could say good-bye. “Thanks, Bishop.”
He saluted. “Text when you need a pickup, ma’am.”
Heather closed the door. Anne crossed the yard toward her.
“Is that your boyfriend?” Anne said, shielding her eyes with one hand, as Bishop began to turn around.
This was so unexpected, Heather’s face got hot. “No, no,” she said quickly, angling her body away from the car, as though Bishop, in case he was still watching, would be able to read the conversation in her body language.
“He’s cute,” Anne said matter-of-factly. She waved, and Bishop tapped the horn before pulling away. The blush grew to an all-over body inferno. Heather crossed her arms and then dropped them again. Fortunately, Anne didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m glad you came.” Anne smiled, as though Heather had just dropped by for a social visit. “Let me show you around.”
Heather was relieved that Anne seemed to approve of her choice of outfit: clean jeans, sneakers, and a soft, nubby henley shirt, which had belonged to Bishop before he accidentally shrank it. She hadn’t wanted to look sloppy, but then again, Anne had told her to wear clothes she could muck up, and she hadn’t wanted to look like she hadn’t listened .
They started toward the house. The roosters were still running around like crazy, and Heather noticed a chicken pen on the other side of the yard, in which a dozen yellow-feathered chicks were strutting and pecking and preening in the sun. The dogs kept up their racket. There were three of them, including Muppet, pacing around a small enclosure, barking lustily.
“You have a lot of animals,” Heather pointed out, and then immediately felt like an idiot. She tucked her hands into her sleeves.
But Anne laughed. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I just can’t stop.”
“So is this, like, a farm?” Heather didn’t see any farming equipment, but she didn’t know anyone who kept chickens for fun.
Again, Anne laughed. “Hardly. I give the eggs away to the pantry sometimes. But I don’t pull up a damn thing besides bird poop, dog poop, poop of all kinds.” She held the door to the house open for Heather. Heather thought that she would probably spend the whole summer shoveling shit. “My husband, Larry, loved animals,” Anne continued as she followed Heather into the house.
They entered the prettiest kitchen Heather had ever seen. Even Nat’s kitchen didn’t compare. The walls were cream and yellow; the cupboards tawny wood, bleached nearly white from the sun, which poured through two large windows. The counters were spotless. No ants here. Against one wall were shelves arranged with blue-and-white pottery and small porcelain figurines: miniature horses, cats, donkeys, and pigs. Heather was almost afraid to move, like one step in the wrong direction might cause everything to shatter.
“Tea?” Anne asked. Heather shook her head. She didn’t know anyone who drank tea in real life—only British people in TV miniseries.
Anne filled a kettle and plunked it on the stove. “We moved here from Chicago.”
“Really?” Heather burst out. The farthest she had ever been from Carp was Albany. Once on a school trip, and once when her mom had a court date because she’d been driving with a suspended license. “What’s Chicago like?”
“Cold,” Anne said. “Freeze your balls off ten months out of the year. But the other two are pure joy.”
Heather didn’t respond. Anne didn’t seem like the type who would say balls , and Heather liked her a little better for it.
“Larry and I worked in ad sales. We swore we’d make a change someday.” Anne shrugged. “Then he died, and I did.”
Once again, Heather didn’t say anything.
“Holy shit,” Bishop said. He actually looked impressed. “It’s a zoo.”
“See? Not a human lamp shade in sight.” Heather slid out of the car, then ducked so she could say good-bye. “Thanks, Bishop.”
He saluted. “Text when you need a pickup, ma’am.”
Heather closed the door. Anne crossed the yard toward her.
“Is that your boyfriend?” Anne said, shielding her eyes with one hand, as Bishop began to turn around.
This was so unexpected, Heather’s face got hot. “No, no,” she said quickly, angling her body away from the car, as though Bishop, in case he was still watching, would be able to read the conversation in her body language.
“He’s cute,” Anne said matter-of-factly. She waved, and Bishop tapped the horn before pulling away. The blush grew to an all-over body inferno. Heather crossed her arms and then dropped them again. Fortunately, Anne didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m glad you came.” Anne smiled, as though Heather had just dropped by for a social visit. “Let me show you around.”
Heather was relieved that Anne seemed to approve of her choice of outfit: clean jeans, sneakers, and a soft, nubby henley shirt, which had belonged to Bishop before he accidentally shrank it. She hadn’t wanted to look sloppy, but then again, Anne had told her to wear clothes she could muck up, and she hadn’t wanted to look like she hadn’t listened .
They started toward the house. The roosters were still running around like crazy, and Heather noticed a chicken pen on the other side of the yard, in which a dozen yellow-feathered chicks were strutting and pecking and preening in the sun. The dogs kept up their racket. There were three of them, including Muppet, pacing around a small enclosure, barking lustily.
“You have a lot of animals,” Heather pointed out, and then immediately felt like an idiot. She tucked her hands into her sleeves.
But Anne laughed. “It’s awful, isn’t it? I just can’t stop.”
“So is this, like, a farm?” Heather didn’t see any farming equipment, but she didn’t know anyone who kept chickens for fun.
Again, Anne laughed. “Hardly. I give the eggs away to the pantry sometimes. But I don’t pull up a damn thing besides bird poop, dog poop, poop of all kinds.” She held the door to the house open for Heather. Heather thought that she would probably spend the whole summer shoveling shit. “My husband, Larry, loved animals,” Anne continued as she followed Heather into the house.
They entered the prettiest kitchen Heather had ever seen. Even Nat’s kitchen didn’t compare. The walls were cream and yellow; the cupboards tawny wood, bleached nearly white from the sun, which poured through two large windows. The counters were spotless. No ants here. Against one wall were shelves arranged with blue-and-white pottery and small porcelain figurines: miniature horses, cats, donkeys, and pigs. Heather was almost afraid to move, like one step in the wrong direction might cause everything to shatter.
“Tea?” Anne asked. Heather shook her head. She didn’t know anyone who drank tea in real life—only British people in TV miniseries.
Anne filled a kettle and plunked it on the stove. “We moved here from Chicago.”
“Really?” Heather burst out. The farthest she had ever been from Carp was Albany. Once on a school trip, and once when her mom had a court date because she’d been driving with a suspended license. “What’s Chicago like?”
“Cold,” Anne said. “Freeze your balls off ten months out of the year. But the other two are pure joy.”
Heather didn’t respond. Anne didn’t seem like the type who would say balls , and Heather liked her a little better for it.
“Larry and I worked in ad sales. We swore we’d make a change someday.” Anne shrugged. “Then he died, and I did.”
Once again, Heather didn’t say anything.
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