5
Angela had developed a pimple. A little blemish on her right index finger, right above the joint where the finger met the hand.
She couldn’t stand the sight of it. It always seemed to be in her peripheral vision, no matter where she looked or what she was doing. She squeezed and prodded at it in the way she knew she wasn’t supposed to, and it turned redder in response.
These things pass, she thought, but they take time.
She sat on the couch with her pimple and sighed. She tried watching TV to get her mind off it, but she couldn’t focus. She squeezed it again.
“Hi, Ruby!” She cooed, as one of her chickens walked by.
She patted Ruby on the head, and it clucked in the “I’m hungry” way that Angela had grown to understand, as if clucking was her second language.
She felt a burst of energy knowing that she was needed. Ruby followed her into the kitchen. By the time Angela opened the pantry, the entire flock had crowded around her. She looked down at the mass of feathers and little heads and meat. She chastised herself for thinking of them as meat, and pulled the bucket of feed from the pantry.
“Shit,” she said, looking into the bucket. It was almost empty. There was enough left for a couple days at most.
She reached in, extracted a handful of the seed mix, and scattered it over the usual spot on the kitchen floor. Within minutes, the spot was plucked clean.
“I’ll go to the farm today or tomorrow and get you guys some more feed,” she said. “I know you need your special mix.” They dispersed, not seeming to hear her.
She looked down at her finger. The skin around the pimple was still red. It looked like it was angry with her. She decided she would go get the food today. It would keep her mind off the pimple.
Angela worked part-time at Tucker Farms, a commercial-grade facility for rearing broilers—chickens destined to be eaten. It was a quick drive from her trailer, and it was the biggest farm she’d ever seen. It was also the place where she got the feed for her own chickens.
Angela had come to dread doing these feed runs; she had never asked for permission to take feed from the farm, so she couldn’t help feeling guilty when she did. Of course, she loved taking care of her chickens, and she was more than happy to go out of her way to provide for them. She reminded herself that it was a labor of love, and that what was best for her chickens needed to be done.
She drove down back roads which eventually turned to gravel. With her hands on the wheel, it felt like the pimple was staring at her, glowering. She tried steering with just her left hand, but it was too shaky on the gravel road. Luckily, she was quickly distracted by the thought of how to get the feed without drawing too much attention to herself.
As she pulled into the dirt road of the farm, she saw a little red truck in the parking area. That’ll be Ron, she thought. She parked next to his truck and willed herself not to think about the pimple. It’s just a pimple. Stop being stupid. Stop thinking about it. Nature will run its course. It will go away.
She walked over to the main barn, carrying the bucket of feed behind her back.
Yes, stealing is wrong, but doesn’t love make the world go ‘round? Aren’t I securing my place in heaven by taking good care of God’s creatures? Love thy neighbor, and the rest is just details, she thought. And won’t this all matter so little in the long run?
As she reached the door to the barn, she heard the sound of metal clanging inside and froze where she was standing.
“Ron?” she called out.
Hearing no response, she walked hesitantly into the barn. She saw Ron standing a few yards ahead, facing the other way. A rake had fallen down next to him. He just stood there.
Angela froze again. She didn’t know what to do, and the longer she waited before announcing herself, the more impossible it felt to say anything. She wondered with morbid curiosity what might be happening in Ron’s old, failing brain as he stood there, as if in a coma.
“Ron,” she said again. “Ron!”
He didn’t turn around, but she could tell he was alive by the sound of his wheezing. Damn emphysema, she thought.
Angela was not concerned with Ron’s behavior. He had been having these lapses for the last few months. She walked out of the barn and over to the little shed where the feed was kept, still holding the bucket behind her back, and walked in without looking to see who might be around. There’s nobody around, and even if somebody was, this is my job, she thought.
She surveyed the industrial-sized barrels that lined each of the four walls. She remembered her guilt and felt silly for it. The farm was using way more of the stuff than Angela could ever take. She only had a dozen or so chickens, but the farm had thousands. This is just a drop in the bucket, she thought as she filled hers to the brim with the seed mixture. She took a whiff of the air and let her lungs fill up with it. She’d come to appreciate the sweet and sterile smell of the feed.
She silently thanked God for seeing her through another feed run, and she waddled back to her car, wrestling the heavy weight of the bucket. The parking area came into view, and there was Ron, standing in front of her car, motionless. Angela stopped walking and set down the bucket.
She looked at the bucket, hesitated for a moment, and walked over to her car without it.
“Ron!” She said joyfully, arms outstretched as she approached him.
He noticed her this time and turned toward her, taking a few steps to do so, like a car making a three-point turn.
“Oh, it’s you,” he grumbled. “Here on your day off?”
Angela was surprised at his sudden alertness.
“I just wanted to come check on some things. You know I start to go crazy when I’m away for too long,” she replied.
Ron grunted dismissively and turned to go back inside. “Get outta here. Go be with your…” he said, trailing off.
She turned around and walked quickly back to the bucket. She picked it up—somehow, it felt heavier than before—and resumed her waddle to the car. She opened the passenger’s side door and placed the bucket carefully on the seat.
When she looked up, she saw Ron standing at the entrance to the main barn, staring at her. She waved, but he didn’t wave back.
She kept her head down as she walked to the other side of the car. She got in and turned the key, noticing her finger after having forgotten about it for a few minutes. She sighed, backed out from next to the little red truck, and drove away, picking at what was left of her nail polish.
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