What you need to know:
Rick has moved out, leaving Jennifer with the house and his chickens which are a howling nightmare when it’s time to drop an egg. To this daily symphony of screams, she opens the daily mail to discovers Rick has hired an attorney…
Chapter Seventeen
Chicken
I trudge up the steps to the house—my house for now—and unlock the front door. The cluck of Rick’s “girls” echos from the backyard. Now he’s gone, chicken duty is on me. All of it. Cleaning. Feeding. Collecting eggs.
Stepping into the entry, I gather the smattering of envelopes mixed with circular advertisements shoved through our mail slot.
My arm aches. My head, too.
Ignoring the pain, I cross through the living room to the dining room. This space is totally changed with my desk set up where Rick used to keep his dining room set. I call this “command central” now. The heart of the house.
With him gone, we eat in the kitchen nook or on the sofa watching episodes of Psych or a favorite movie. Toy Story. The Incredibles. Monster, Inc.
I sit at the desk, sort.
The clucking outside shifts into squawks which means one is getting ready to pass an egg. Three times a day that sound. Like a murder being committed.
I toss a postcard advertising cheap pizza into the trash. Keep the check from my publisher. Toss a flyer for a furniture store. Then pause on a letter in a crisp white linen envelope.
Holding it in both hands, that poor chicken clucking louder still, I read the return address over and over. Grabbing the letter opener, I slice open the envelope. Inside, a formal document that starts with a legal seal: In the matter of…
Dropping the letter, I grab the handset for the landline, dial the number at the top of the page
“Williams, Roberts, and Wagner,” a woman says.
“Cal, please,” I say. It seems odd to call Rick’s lawyer “Mr. Wagner” after all we have been through.
“Please hold,” the woman says.
A series of beeps. A pause. Then Cal comes on the line. That familiar deep voice.
“Hey. Yeah. Cal,” I say. “How are you?”
“Good. Good.”
“How’s your boy?”
There’s a slight hesitancy. “Great,” he finally says. “Third grade now. He’s running cross country.”
Cal is a good guy. Young for a lawyer but a man who plays fair. I know this because I talked to him nearly every day during the worst of Rick’s divorce.
“Cal, what is this?” I ask as if he’s in the room with me. “I got this letter…” I pick it up, shake the page.
He clears his throat. “First of all, let me be clear that I didn’t want to be part of this, but Rick said you might be willing to have me represent you both.”
A catch sensation in my throat. A tingling in my hands. “Represent?”
“He’s filing for a legal separation,” he says. “It’s pretty much a pre-divorce settlement.”
The chicken goes quiet out back.
“I want you to also know that whatever you say can be used, by me, to help him,” Cal continues. “If you want to sign a form that allows me to work for both of you, we need to get that done first. I can email it now.”
“Is this a joke? Is this happening?”
“These are the rules. I could get disbarred.”
“Fine, send it.”
“Hang on.”
Over the line, a tap sound as if he’s on a keyboard.
I open my laptop, type in my passcode. In a moment, Cal’s incoming email pings. I open the document and read through.
“Wait, if I sign this, I waive all of my rights?” I ask.
“Well. He is my client. So…”
I cradle my aching arm closer to my side. “Give me a second,” I say, scan through the original letter again. It seems that Rick wants me to sell the house, now. Or move. He’s giving me thirty days.
“He said three to six months,” I say. “I can’t believe he would do this.”
“He’s…focused,” Cal says.
“Have you ever known Rick to focus on anything?”
Cal chuckles but then clears his throat, is serious again. “I have to insist you sign the non-compete,” he says, “or get your own attorney.”
Still holding my arm close, I sit back in the chair. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. “Would you sign this Cal?”
A long pause. “Well, no, but…”
“But what?”
“He says you assaulted him.”
Now I’m the one who goes silent.
“Is it true?” he asks.
I swallow and cough and swallow again. “Kind of. I guess.”
“He could file charges.”
I nod though he cannot see this gesture. I suppose it was just a matter of time before Rick played this card.
“He hurt my daughter, Cal,” I say, my voice low over the line. “And my son.”
“That’s not what he says.”
“No. Of course not. Nothing is ever Rick’s fault.”
Another pause because we both know it was the same deal with Rick’s previous wife. She was Satan. He was the wronged man. Now it’s my turn.
“You’re not going to sign,” Cal says, “are you?”
“No,” I say.
The clucking starts up again, loud.
“What the hell is that sound?” Cal asks.
“Rick’s chickens,” I say. “One of them is laying an egg.”
“Sounds like you chopped it’s head off.”
“That’s an idea,” I say, and unexpectedly find myself laughing.
The chicken ramps up for real this time. Pretty soon, it will scream.
Pushing to stand, I cross to the kitchen, tug the door closed. The sound of suffering muted.
“If you want, I’ll get together a few names,” Cal says. “Attorneys I’d recommend.”
“You’d do that?”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll call back later.”
We hang up and I sit again at my desk, toss the phone next to the computer. That stupid non-compete on the screen.
Out back, a single startled bellow. Then silence.
The egg finally dropped.
Coming Next:
Chapter Eighteen - I’ve Got Your Back
Despite her troubles with injuries from a car accident, the failure of her friendship with Fran, and now Rick breaking the separation agreement—which is forcing her to either move or spend money she doesn’t have to hire an attorney—Jennifer still has to tend to her kids and home. Worse, she has to get out there and brave the crazy chickens to collect the eggs…