Annie stood at a booth at the big fair in Jackson, Tennessee. She felt out of place, like weeds seeping from the cracks of a paved road. She felt this way every time she left the farm—her land, and the farmhouse sitting on it. A place where she could lay on the porch swing, half-awake, watching the sun show off through the Purple Fountain grass she let run wild.
Earlier, she had people watched, as her husband made small talk with other men, other men watching over their wives at booths—before he tired and went home. Annie had watched with curiosity and even joy, but after the hours piled on top of the other, dragging the sun to the ground, those pleasant emotions had faded to contempt; annoyance at the faces, the bags of cotton candy, the sticky relish on hot dogs, children skipping, parents wiping brows, smiles wide, and eyes twinkling at the assortment of attractions.
Patty, the chicken—the reason her husband had Annie standing at the booth so long her feet ached—had stopped clucking for home. Instead Patty sat, resigned—it was too hot to make a fuss—on legs so stout they looked like the barrel post holding the farm’s mailbox up.
A woman approached with a tall man and a little boy with freckles around his button-down nose, and Annie tried to force a smile, but it was no use. Her lips twitched instead, “A nickel to give her a look over.”
The tall man tipped his hat to the sign above Annie’s head: FREAKISH HEN!
Annie lifted the crate holding Patty, custom built by her husband, to the booth’s tabletop. She opened the door, but Patty was done for the day and sat still. Annie fished a pellet from her pocket. “Come on now, girl. Tith, tith, tith, tith. Come on.”
“Well is she gonna come out? I ain’t paying unless she comes out and we can give her a good look-over. That’s only fair.”
The man’s wife smiled, as if to agree. The little boy had one of his fingers poked in the crate. “I want to see you! Get out!”
Annie gulped. None of it seemed right to her. Patty being called a freak; She was big. The biggest hen Annie had ever seen, most folks had ever seen. She towered every rooster and here she sat being poked by some city-folk’s brat, made to do this and that for nickels.
Annie slapped the kid’s hand away. “Stop that, now!”
The boy puckered his lip, tuckering under his mom’s arm. “You’re a mean lady.”
“Is this how you treat your customers?” the father asked.
Annie didn’t hear them. She was closing the crate door and packing up. Patty clucked again, in the know. Annie did not hear Mr. Matthews, the fair’s manager, hollering behind her either. With his face beet red, Mr. Matthews asked her what she was doing, and where did-she-think-she was going, huffing he would tell her husband all about her.
“Damned Injun blood,” Mr. Matthews said under his breath, and Annie turned around, hearing that; her mouth snarled like a dog ready to bite, but she didn’t make a sound, other than her teeth clicking together. She stomped past the flea circus, which she learned involved gluing the bug’s tiny legs to tiny objects, then the peep show, and on her face wore the continued expression of disgust.
Three Years and Some Months Later
Annie was a baby the first time she had seen a chicken give itself a dust bath. But she doesn’t remember being a baby or what she saw. Just using deduction. That’s a word her younger sister who ran off to Birmingham with a high-time lawyer uses—a man twenty years her sister’s senior. Annie’s sister wears fine jewelry now, talks fine, and matches her shoes to her coat and handbag. Annie’s sister says she must please him at least once a week or so to keep herself suited without his complaining about how much such a thing cost. “That’s a nice way of saying you let him fuck you,” Annie had told her, feeling lucky enough to be widowed; Horse had kicked her husband Bob to death three years ago—lest’ that’s what the papers said.
Annie was out in the yard, tending to her cabbage patch when Patty started in for a dust bath. No matter how many times she had seen it, Annie had to stop, and watch. She knew that if a thing were pleasant enough, you didn’t tire of it. And if you did, it didn’t matter. She knew contentment seesawed with complacency just fine, not requiring military attention.
Annie watched Patty kick up the next dust bowl when a stick-legged woman with red hair trekked up her drive. A two-mile dirt road. The woman had a basket in her hand, and Annie thought she must be trying to sell her something. Like the insurance salesman three years ago who had talked her husband into a life insurance policy.
The woman couldn’t see Annie on the down slope, but Annie saw the woman using her hands as a shield against a lazy August sun. Annie tossed her hat back on her head, more grateful for the hat now, seeing someone without one. Annie didn’t wave or anything, just stood there, waiting on the woman to spot her, like hawks looking for field mice hiding under the blanket of sweet Alyssum; Their yellow heads resembling sprouts of corn in the blooms of pink and baby blue.
On the uphill, the woman spotted Annie and waved, but Annie still didn’t make a show of anything. Just waited for the stranger to near.
The woman, out of breath, stood at the bottom of the porch. “Howdy, Miss. How are you?”
“Reckon, I’m well. You want some tea?”
Sweat and humidity had made the woman’s dress stick to her body like tape. “That would be divine. My name is Marla.”
“Divine,” Annie chuckled. “I’m Annie. Folks who like me call me that. Folks who don’t, clip it to Ann. Take a seat now. I’ll go get us a pitcher of tea.”
Annie pulled a tall glass pitcher of tea from the icebox, chipped some ice in a bucket, grabbed a few oranges, and went to grab glasses from the cupboard when the woman peered in the doorway like a squirrel. “You need any help?”
“You can help carry.”
Seated on the porch, Annie took in the young woman’s bright red hair and the freckles on her cheeks that seemed to glitter. Annie turned her glass up, greedy, some tea dripping down her chin. Annie knew dirt from the garden was on her cheeks, and chicken poop on the bottom of her shoeless feet. The woman’s cheeks were pink with blush, and she sipped the tea daintily.
Annie began to roll a cigarette. “Tea good?”
“It is perfectly sweet,” Marla responded.
“I don’t do any of that Jesus stuff.” Annie blurted out.
“I’m sorry?”
Annie tilted her chin to show off jet black hair, black eyes wrapped in wrinkles, and chiseled cheekbones. “I don’t serve anyone who’s a man or who is white. I’m a Choctaw woman. My mother was stolen from her tribe. I am her daughter.”
“I am not here to sell the gospel—but books.”
“Books about what?”
“I write stories. Short stories. You fancy Mark Twain?”
“Who?”
“He’s a famous writer.”
“Never heard of ‘em.”
Marla’s eyes darted, raising her basket onto knobby knees. The basket had two flaps, and she opened one side, pulling a small book out. Other books were in the basket. Marla carefully laid the book on the metal table. Annie picked it up, blowing smoke from her cigarette. There was a small farmhouse on the cover that looked a lot like Annie’s house, but she couldn’t make out the writing on the cover. Annie flipped through it, then placed her nose in its center, taking in a big whiff, like she did the flowers and herbs of the yard.
“You walked all this way to sell me a story?”
The little woman looked down. “I want to be famous writer like Mark Twain. Make my own way, somehow.”
“You write this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you’re a writer. How much they go for? These books you got?”
Marla opened the basket and pulled three more out of the basket.
“All the same?” Annie asked, puzzled. “I never saw so many of the same book before. I don’t think.”
“A big new printer in Jackson, Mississippi printed me ten copies,” the woman bragged.
“How much you want me to pay for the books?”
Marla smiled, averting her gaze. “They are a quarter a piece.”
Annie jumped up, nearly tripping as she ran in the house to her chest of drawers, where money was hidden. She opened a small box, and inside lay hundreds of dollars from her husband’s life insurance. She grabbed several bills and walked back outside to see the young woman in near tears. Annie knew she had probably walked miles today and sold a copy at best. At worst, none. “Here.”
Marla’s mouth opened, and her eyes opened wider. “How many books you do want, ma’am?”
“I just need one, but you take that and get ya’ some more books or paper or whatever you need to write.
“No. I cannot possibly take this. It would not be proper.”
“You lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth?” Annie asked
“No ma’am. No. It is just…I do not know what to say.”
“What’s to say about survival?
About the author: Tiffany Lindfield is a social worker by day, trade, and heart advocating for climate justice, gender equality, and animal welfare. By night, she is a prolific reader of anything decent, and a writer. You can find her on her website.