Authors: Esther M. Soto
His dark brows furrow, wrinkling his forehead, his head tilting slightly in question. “Because I have to. You’re my responsibility. You turned up on
my
path for a reason.”
Somehow I don’t think he means his
path
in the literal sense.
“I can’t imagine not finding you, and now that I have, I’m going to see this through until the end.”
Our eyes meet, and all of a sudden, this, our walk, standing under the moonlight in close proximity, feels very intimate, familiar. Like déjà vu. I get this knot in my stomach, and the urgency to flee overpowers me. I want to run, as far and fast as I can, away from him. But I can’t. Instead, I turn to my default.
If I can’t run, I’ll fight.
Squaring my shoulders, I confront him. “Listen,
William
, I know this isn’t my time or whatever, but I don’t play well with others. What’s your angle?” He looks puzzled and honestly confused.
“Angle? I don’t understand.”
“Come on,
William
, don’t play games. What’s in it for you? If you’re looking to hook up, it’s not happening.”
He stares at me blankly.
“Hook up, you know, a roll in the hay?”
He flinches as if I’d slapped him. His expression is heartbreaking. His brows shoot up indignantly, and his hand comes away from my skin as if I’ve burned him.
He straightens his shoulders. “Is that what you think of me?” He physically distances himself and a tinge of disappointment clouds his handsome face. “I assure you, my intentions are nothing but honest. I’m sorry you’re incapable of believing me a decent man.”
His words tear through me like a knife, twisting my insides, and his disdain leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I know I’ve truly insulted him as he looks me up and down in displeasure, turns on his heel, and walks away from me.
My throat burns and my chest tightens. Why did I do that? I had to chase him away. I hurt him, knowing very well his intentions are nothing but honorable. I would have been better off just running as far away as possible. I turn away from him and the house, ashamed of myself for once. I need to go home, now. But I know that isn’t possible, since I have no freaking clue how I ended up here in the first place.
The moonlight doesn’t seem as bright and beautiful as it did earlier, and I know that I’ve stained the night, corrupted it with my doubts and my distrust, making it ugly somehow. I march back toward the house with my head hung in shame, hoping I don’t have to face anyone else tonight. The last thing I need is to offend the rest of the Shaws, the only people in this world to ever show me any type of kindness without expecting something in return.
I’ve taken so many little things for granted in my life.
Soft, two-ply toilet paper. Sugar substitute. My undies—comfortable, breathable undies. Underwear is just a torture device to make 1944 women suffer needlessly. Granny panties are tight. Then the corset goes on, not to mention the torture casement they call bras. I don’t even want to think about feminine products. Mary showed me where they were kept, and I hope to everything that is holy, I don’t have a need for them. Feminine products and Starbucks. God, I miss Starbucks.
It’s official: I’m dead, and this is my purgatory. This is my own personal version of hell; complete with patronizing men, chronic smokers, no Starbucks, and farm work.
Crap on a cracker.
Will hasn’t been the same ever since our argument the other night. He was more guarded and reserved the few times he’s been around me, avoiding me like the plague. I don’t blame him because deep down I know getting involved is a very bad idea. My record for smearing shit on everything good and decent around me is still impeccable.
Carol, on the other hand, has been very kind to me. Not once has she doubted my story, or expressed displeasure at me imposing on her family. She is open, good hearted, and sweet—all the things that I always thought a mom should be. All the things my real mother is not. She’s taken me in as one of her daughters, correcting me if I behave ‘unladylike’ but still holding my clothes hostage. I think she’s having too much fun dressing me up. I have to say, I’ve never been one for fashion, but their clothes? They’re very cool.
She has me wear these puffy blouses, with pads that accentuate my shoulders, tucked into wide-leg, pleated slacks that button along the hips and fit high on my waist. Old work boots complete the look. Most of the time, I opt for jumpsuits or overalls with headscarves or turbans, making me look just like the “
We can do it!
” propaganda poster famous in my time.
Trying to be compliant while waiting for June sixth, I’ve accepted my fate, which included farm work. I’ve worked all of my adult life and always thought I was a hard worker. What I’ve done? Not work, not like this. I am so out of my element here. Physically, I like to think I’m in good shape. I run, keep active, lift weights, and kick box with Tommy once in a while. Farm work is an entirely different beast. Not only am I mentally exhausted but frustrated as hell. For days, I’ve endured humiliation, harassment, and torture.
And that’s just from the animals.
First order of business was pitching in with farm chores. If they weren't sure before, the Shaw family knows I'm new at this. Will and Carol decided to give me a light load since the family does most of the work. Will drives the tractor and is out on the field working on crops most of the day, while Carol tends to the house. Using the milk from their cows, she churns butter and makes cheese and other dairy products. Then she goes to town and sells them to the local market, along with fresh eggs. This helps supplement their income.
MJ was tasked with teaching me the ropes. She’s in charge of caring for the animals in the morning. I've made her decade, if not her year, with my feeble attempts at mastering her environment. For her, milking the cows is second nature. To me? It’s some kind of torture technique designed to break me.
The morning after my fight with Will under the moonlight, I obediently followed MJ as she led me to the barn like a lamb to slaughter. I'm not a coward. I've fought in a war, led men and women to battle, risked my life on a daily basis. I wasn’t scared. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself as we entered the barn to face the cows.
I've dealt with camel spiders and scorpions in the desert. When my squad ran into critters? I was the one that did the retrieval while the guys climbed on top of their bunks or ran away. I could never figure out how strong, brave men could be afraid of a small bug. But this—this was a huge hunk of living meat, and I was expected to stick my hands under her crotch and squeeze her nipples? Lunacy.
MJ proceeded to instruct me on milking the unfortunate cows. The ground was soft and mushy under our feet, straw spread out through the barn floor to help with traction. I took in the open space and bare rafters up above, but worst of all was the smell. A pungent, foul, putrid odor—like fresh sewage.
As I stood there, I watched MJ in awe. She quickly and masterfully forced a steady stream of milk from the udders with ease. Without missing a beat, she squirted milk into a bucket underneath and sometimes sideways into the mouths of the waiting cats that had followed us into the barn. Within a few minutes, she was done.
“See? Easy as pie.” MJ retrieved her bucket full of fresh milk from under the cow. “Come on, try it.” She cheerfully stood up from the small stool next to the massive cow and signaled for me to take a seat.
Come on, Ileana. You’ve fought enemies, apprehended criminals, and survived firefights. You can do this,
I thought
.
At my first attempt, I fell off the stool twice, trying to avoid the cow’s swinging tail. My overalls were covered in sticks of hay mixed with mud, animal excrement, and who knows what else. After a good ten minutes of pulling, tugging, and torture on both me
and
the cow, I came away with about an ounce of milk.
That night at the dinner table, MJ relayed my feeble attempt as a milk maid over dinner. Mary couldn’t stop laughing, barely finishing her food. Carol scowled at MJ the entire time, finally putting me out of my misery with “That’s enough, young lady.”
Will, ever the gentleman, sat silently, his blue eyes brimming with humor. His dimpled smile made the occasional appearance, especially during the part about how the cow broke our treaty and ‘stabbed me in the back’ by swatting me with her tail and knocking me off the stool. The entire time, I sat quietly at the table and took it all, even occasionally smiling.
Tommy would have been proud of me.
Two days later, I was suffering carpal tunnel syndrome from milking cows. So Carol assigned me what she called an ‘easier’ task: gathering eggs from the coop. In other words, I was demoted. After the barn torture, I was ready for a change. Fetching eggs had to be easier than molesting poor unsuspecting cows, right?
Wrong.
قلب
I’ve never failed a test, never left a task undone. All my adult life I’ve been Little Miss Overachiever. I'm good with reason, logic, studying probable outcomes and deciding the best course of action. How do I do that with chickens? After three days at my new job, I’m convinced of only one thing: chickens are my nemesis.
I've seen death, destruction, and faced terrorists, but chickens...terrify me.
They are not of this world. They can't be. How can their huge bodies stay upright, balanced on those tiny legs? And those shifty, beady eyes and sharp, little beaks—I think they can smell fear. What a fool I’ve been. I should have stayed on cow duty.
Of all the amenities and modern comforts I lack at the moment, nothing compares to having your own platoon of soldiers. I'd give anything to have them right now in order to tackle this...enemy.
Fucking chickens.
Every single day I’m expected to face them. Every day I try a different strategy, and every day it backfires. I've yet to retrieve all the eggs intact and without a scratch on me.
The coop is a wooden outbuilding with a pitched roof, two small windows covered with chicken wire, and a wooden, hinged door. There’s only one point of entry and exit. Facing the wrath of thirty-plus chickens that refuse to follow orders is a losing battle. Inside, it’s complete chaos. Still, I won’t be defeated by a bunch of nuggets covered in feathers.
It takes me a good five minutes to psych myself into battle. I need my men. Or an RPG. Or a grenade. Or Tommy.
All I need is Tommy.
“Colton, egg retrieval, now.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
He'd walk in there, all six foot two of solid muscle, storm the coop, grab the eggs, nests and all, and stomp those chickens into submission. By the time he finished, the chickens would be laying the damn eggs in his hands. Same with the damn cows. He'd take his shirt off, caress the cow, and sweet-talk her into squirting the damn milk voluntarily.
The man is fearless. There's nothing he can't accomplish. He's one of a kind, and I'd give up anything to have him by my side.
“Go on, Lily, or are you...
chicken
?” MJ’s hysterical laughter snaps me out of my reverie.
This is what I’m reduced to—I've become a thirteen-year-old’s daily entertainment. It's bad enough I can't get the smell of manure out of my hair and skin; no matter how hard I scrub. Mary assures me I don't smell like it. Maybe it's permanently embedded in my nostrils.
“
Har-har
,” I mock. “Really original.”
I’ve come to an understanding with MJ. She’s welcome to watch me battle my way through the coop. In exchange, she’s not to repeat the words she hears coming out of my mouth. We both agreed it’s for the best. According to MJ, if her mother heard my language, she’d have a ‘conniption fit.’ If she were allowed to tell her friends about me, I would no doubt expect her to charge admission to watch me walk into the coop every morning.
Yet here I am, stalling, delaying the inevitable while they’re in there, plotting against me. For all I know, there’s a chicken with half a beak painted blue, running up and down the coop, yelling about how ‘We might take their eggs away, but we can never take their freedom.’
I haven’t gone in, but I know how it’s going to end. The thought infuriates me.
“You fucking chickens,” I hiss, “first thing I’m going to do when I get home is eat one of you. And you know what? I’m going to enjoy it.”
Taking a deep breath, I muster some courage, wipe my sweaty palms down my overalls, grab the basket, and head into battle.
Luckily, the rooster is out and about. God Bless America. If I have to face that psychotic rooster, I
will
resort to violence.
The second I open the door, they sound the alarm, alerting the troops that an intruder has entered the building. Quickly, I dart side-to-side, trying to avoid being captured and tortured yet again.
Sweat covers my brow as I blink rapidly in panic. My shallow breathing makes me dizzy.
“At ease,” I mutter to the troops, quickly moving about.
Halfway there.
Just when I think I’ll finally complete the mission, I see them, converging around me with calculated precision as they box me in, blocking my exit. The clucking increases, announcing the beginning of the end. The second I move for the door, they advance on me.
Game over.
قلب
In the evenings, we women sit around listening to the large cathedral-shaped Philco radio. Carol is particularly fond of the radio version of soap operas. All programming is live, complete with sound effects. It’s like watching television without the visual picture, and I must admit it’s very entertaining. MJ loves listening to Bing Crosby, the Andrew Sisters or Frank Sinatra, and practicing her dance moves with yours truly. She taught me how to swing dance, along with the latest dance craze, the jitterbug, while Carol shook her head in disapproval at her ‘mooning’ over Sinatra because ‘he’s dreamy.’ Sometimes we read while Carol mends clothes or we just talk.
Along with fashion knowledge, I’ve also learned some other things. Mary is what they call a GI bride, as are a lot of the girls in town. They married their sweethearts before they shipped out, which is why Mary still lives at the farm with her mother. While her husband is off at war, Mary became a ‘Rosie,’ joining millions of women doing their patriotic duty by working at the factories.
I also found out that the land was passed down to Carol and Bill when they married and that they built this house. The bathroom was added shortly after the children came. Carol told me of miscarriages she suffered in between pregnancies, which explains the age gaps between Will, Mary, and MJ; seems prenatal care is not optimal for women just yet. After Carol’s husband passed away, Will added the telephone to make sure they could stay in touch in case of emergency.
The night of June 5th, we all sit by the radio listening to President Franklin D. Roosevelt broadcast a
Fireside Chat
announcing that Rome had fallen to the troops just the day before. Dead silence hangs in the air as we all sit riveted, listening intently to Roosevelt’s voice as he assures Americans that Christianity lives and will become universal, assuring the freedom of the Pope and the city. I can’t keep listening; I know better. I recall our war, our tours. Nine Eleven. No one is safe. It’s all too intense for me. Filled with dread, I excuse myself for the night, retiring to MJ’s room both physically and emotionally exhausted.
Every night this week I waited for something to happen. To wake up and discover it was all a dream. To wake up and find Tommy staring down at me, or kicking the side of my bed yelling,
“Wake up, sunshine!”
But it never happened.
No one can soothe my nerves or comfort me like Tommy does. I want him to storm through the door and tell me this is all just a bad joke. I can picture him standing across from me, his wide shoulders that Farsi tattoo peeking out of his T-shirt sleeve, his faded jeans hanging off his hips. His hair mussed from running his fingers through it, and his sparkling green eyes frowning playfully.