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Chapter_21

She was going to do it—she was going to kill one. The crowd of chickens strutted and tapped their beaks at the hard ground, oblivious. With one hand Hank grabbed one and stuffed it headfirst into the cone. With the other, he took a boning knife from the pocket of his apron. Ask him to let you do it, Rosie thought. Say it. Her heart pushed against her chest, and she made a small sound, watching the blood pour out through the base of the cone.

“Can I help you with something?” Hank asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you ready to try?”

Her throat was full. The morning had crept up on them, navy behind the mountains, coiled and ready to spring. The chicken had stopped kicking, and Hank lifted it by its feet, into the scald tank, which raked it from icy air to hot water.

Rosie stared at the chickens, their awkward, jerking gaits, ruffled butts, curious heads. “No,” she said, feeling the failure everywhere.

“You don’t have to do this, you know. Why are you torturing yourself? What’s the idea?” He grabbed the chicken by its feet, shook it out, and threw it in the picker. “This isn’t a self-improvement workshop.” The feathers floated upward, the speed of the machine pinning the chicken to the side. “Maybe there are other... gentler jobs you’d be good at.”

“I don’t know,” Rosie said. She was exhausted. “Just fire me. You clearly hate me. And for the record, I have tolerated so much worse on a job than this.”

“What happened to you at your last job? Aren’t start-ups supposed to be all cheerful and affirming?”

“It’s my husband who works in tech,” Rosie said. “I was a canvasser in Union Square.”

“One of those clipboard people?”

“Yes. A clipboard person.”

“Oh.” Hank squinted at her.

“And I worked rush hour. When people are their absolute worst, nastiest, rudest, most vile selves. So whatever other mean things you want to say to me, just know that I have had it a million times worse.”

Hank gazed in the direction of the mountains and rubbed the side of his neck. “Once when I was working a farmers market, I saw one of you guys pass out from standing in the sun too long.” He adjusted his hat and looked at her. “You’re really determined, aren’t you?” He studied her for a while, then bent to pick up another bird. “All right,” he said, cradling it. “I’ll give you a tip. It’s something I learned when I was starting out. When you’re holding the knife, to get your mind off the chicken, come up with a phrase and repeat it to yourself. Take some time to figure out what you want to say to yourself. When you’re ready, you’re ready. The birds will wait. OK?” He placed a hand on her shoulder.

That morning, she was able to heave the crate of chickens onto the counter at the general store. “Progress,” she said to Sasha. “What does this weigh do you think—fifty pounds?” She was lightheaded from the effort. She tried to lean casually against the counter while she caught her breath. White dots swam zigzags in front of her eyes.

Sasha looked up blankly from her zine. “Don’t hurt yourself,” she said. She signed the order slip, then tagged each bird with a price gun. Her hair hung in a silky curtain over one shoulder. A crease between her eyebrows gave her a permanent look of deep concentration.

Rosie grabbed the plump, pale chickens two at a time and brought them to the refrigerator, stocking them vertically so that they stood on their bowling-pin legs in a tidy row, next to other vacuum-sealed meats—lamb ribs, difficult-looking cuts of steak, and ground beef. It took several trips between the counter and the refrigerator to get them all in, and she felt Sasha’s cryptic, unrelenting gaze on her. “I can do these, too,” she said, patting a case of kombucha by the register.

“That’s OK,” Sasha said. “It’s my job.”

“Allow me,” Rosie said, a cartoon of chivalry. “It’s no problem.” She pried open the cardboard box and unloaded the heavy glass bottles into the narrow refrigerator, one by one. Their labels provided no information about the flavor of the kombucha. Instead they had suggestive names like “Desire,” “Intimacy,” and “Closure.” “What do you think is the difference between ‘Desire’ and ‘Intimacy’?” Rosie said, fitting the last bottle into the refrigerator.

Sasha looked up at her. “You’re funny,” she said. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“My job.”

“I don’t know. I wanted to. It feels good to be useful.”

Sasha studied her for a long time, as though mulling over a question that was going to be painful for everyone. “Are you hungry?” she asked finally. “Do you want one of these? It’s a day old but there’s nothing wrong with it.” She slid a plastic-wrapped BLT across the counter.

“Really?” Rosie said, taking it.

“Yes. Really. Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” Rosie said. “That makes my day.”

And it did. She drove home with the windows down, the cold air whipping through the car, invigorating her, the BLT in her lap, the radio blasting. She felt full of potential, her pride reaching every cell. Flying beneath a yellow light, she tried to think of what she would say to herself before she brought the knife to the chicken. Thank you, maybe, or Don’t worry.

“Babe?” she said, pushing the front door open. “Want half a BLT? Sasha gave me one for free.”

Jordan was on his hands and knees, his cheek pressed to the floor, his butt in the air, shining his phone’s flashlight under the couch. “Shh,” he said. “God dammit! I lost it!”

“Lost what?”

“I tried calling you a few times, but your phone didn’t even ring.”

Rosie blinked at him. “Oh, sorry—there’s really bad service at the farm. What’s going—”

“I have been fighting with a mouse all morning like a cartoon villain. There’s shit everywhere. In our silverware drawers, the oven, the countertops—” He wore a polo tucked into slacks. His cheek was red where it had pressed against the floor. “It chewed through my laptop charger, and guess where the closest Samsung store is? Manhattan. I have an investor meeting with Noguchi in two hours. It was supposed to be over Zoom. I need the car, and now I’m going to be late. It would be really nice if you worked somewhere that actually had cell service in case of an emergency.”

“I’m sorry,” Rosie said. “You could use my computer—”

“No, I can’t,” Jordan said. “Everything I need for this pitch is on my laptop. I had an entire presentation saved.” He groaned. “I need to leave now if I’m going to make it.”

He closed the door behind him, then came back inside and curtly kissed Rosie on the cheek. “I love you,” he said, before leaving again. Rosie watched him back out of the driveway and whip the car around, wheels kicking dust. Then he laid on the horn. The sound tore through the morning, sending birds flying. She could see now that he was blocked by a station wagon. Nearby, two women shaded their eyes, gazing out at the Catskills, one of them holding a printout of the Lise Bakker painting. Jordan lowered his windows and began shouting at them. But his rage didn’t appear to rush them. They looked at each other and squinted in his direction as though he were an interesting wild animal.

“Come on!” he yelled out the window, before driving onto the lawn to maneuver around them, the car leaving tracks in the grass.

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