At Home on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [85]
“They’re chickens, not giraffes,” returned Cici testily. “You’ll just have to bend down.”
“You don’t think it seems . . . I don’t know. Lopsided?”
“Someone”—Cici looked meaningfully at Bridget, who had been in charge of marking the boards before they were cut—“might have measured wrong.”
They regarded their handiwork for a moment longer. Then Bridget ventured, “Cici, do you have any idea how to build a chicken coop?”
“Not a clue.”
And so began the process of tearing down, re-measuring, and starting again. By five o’clock they were sweaty, bug-bitten, and sunburned. Four fence posts were set into the ground, and the chicken coop consisted of a square of two-by-fours arranged on the ground. The women stepped back to survey their work and agreed as one that it would not hurt the chickens to spend one more night in the sunroom.
Lori and Noah had returned from town, and were making a great deal of noise unloading something on the other side of the house. As the women started wearily toward home, Lindsay’s eyes turned toward the sound of their voices. “I know it’s the best thing that could possibly have happened,” she said. “But . . .”
Suddenly both her friends put their arms around her waist.
And Cici added, “We hate it, too.”
As the days lengthened, and spring settled firmly into place, twilight lingered until after eight o’clock. The ladies sat on the porch and watched as the lacework of emerald leaves patterning the lavender sky turned to black. Then, illuminated only by the faint glow of stars, they sat and rocked, weighed down by exhaustion and their own thoughts.
“There should be a law against people our age working this hard,” Bridget said, stifling a groan as she stretched out her legs.
“You should never take on a physical job like that when you’re angry.”
Lindsay glanced at Cici. “I thought working hard was supposed to make you feel better when you’re upset.”
“Nope. It just makes you tired.”
They were silent for a while. “She’s right, you know,” Bridget said. “Whenever I’m upset I start cleaning the house, and the more I clean the more I find to do until it’s really just a vicious cycle.”
“I used to go to the gym,” Lindsay admitted, “and work that treadmill until the trainers started giving me dirty looks because people were waiting to use the equipment.”
“It’s what women do. Instead of picking fights in bars or whipping out small caliber handguns when someone cuts them off in traffic.”
Bridget rubbed her shoulder. “I don’t know. I think we might need to take another look at our coping mechanisms.”
“Those kids sure are working hard, whatever they’re up to,” Lindsay commented.
Lori and Noah had barely paused long enough to gulp their dinner, then returned to work until daylight faded.
“I don’t know what Lori used to bribe Noah into helping her. But it must have been good.”
“I think he suspects something is going on. He was awfully quiet at dinner.”
“He was exhausted,” Cici said.
“Noah never does anything halfway,” Bridget said fondly. And the smile in her voice faded as she added, “I’m going to miss him so much.”
They were quiet for a moment. Dusky clouds settled over the mountains, silhouetted against a deep purple sky. A cricket shrilled in a nearby bush, and was joined in a moment by his mate. The chorus, breaking the silence, sounded like a cacophony.
Then Lindsay said softly, “You know what’s funny? I never wanted children. Not even once, not even a little bit. I mean, I loved teaching and I loved the kids I taught, but as far as wanting one of my own—I just didn’t have the urge. I always felt as though other women—other mothers—thought I was strange, or in denial, or maybe something was wrong with me. But there wasn’t. I just wasn’t interested.”
“I never thought you were strange.”
“Me either. I thought you were smart.”
“Motherhood isn’t something that just happens to you,” Cici said. “It’s a choice you make every day, to put someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you’re not sure what the right