“Hey, Cait.” I patted her bare knee. “How was rehearsal?”
“It was great! I died today.” She giggled. “I got to die twice.”
“I hope you died well.” I shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Bravely, I mean. Without a lot of fuss.”
“Oh, I did. Both times.” Another giggle. “Everybody cried.”
A half dozen years ago, a couple of drama professors from CTSU got a grant to restore the old International and Great Northern railroad depot on Sam Houston Street for use as a community theater. It was a brilliant idea, since otherwise, the I&GN depot would have been razed and a big chunk of Pecan Springs’ history lost. Caitie is playing Beth in Little Women, the Depot’s Summer Kids Theater production. The director says she’s doing a fine job.
That’s no surprise to me. Last summer, the kids put on Peter Pan. Caitie played Peter to thunderous applause, especially when she flew across the stage. She was a natural fit for the role. She’s small for her age, slender and pixielike, with short dark hair, large dark eyes, and a marvelously expressive face. I often wish her parents could see her now and share my pride in their daughter’s energy and courage. Miles, her father and my half brother, didn’t come into my life until we were both adults, and he was killed before I had a chance to know him very well. I never knew her mother, either, who drowned in a boating accident when Caitie was very young. Their daughter is now ours, McQuaid’s and mine. Our daughter, and very, very dear.
Caitie blew out her breath. “The only thing I don’t like about the play is the costumes. They’re so pretty, with all that frilly lace and ribbons. But the long skirt keeps tangling around my legs and tripping me up. I don’t see how Beth could run in it, even if she wasn’t sick a lot of the time.”
“I don’t think girls did much running in those days,” I remarked, signaling for a left turn.
“Except for Jo,” Caitie reminded me. “Jo was a tomboy. I wish they’d cast me to play her.” She paused, looking down at her bare knees. “I’ll bet girls had to wear those skirts to keep them from running,” she said thoughtfully. “And to hide their legs. Back in those days, people weren’t supposed to see anybody’s legs.”
I nodded, thinking about the long gray skirt that Ruby and I had found in the storeroom that morning. “If you were Beth and I were Mrs. March, we’d both be wearing long skirts—and I wouldn’t like it, either.” I wrinkled my nose. “Imagine trying to plant a garden in a long skirt. Or a bustle.”
“A bustle!” Caitie hooted. “That would be like tying a birdcage to your bottom! How could you ever sit down?” She was silent for a moment. “Anyway, if I were Jo, I wouldn’t have to die. I’d be in the play all the way to the end.” She looked at me. “You haven’t forgotten about the chickens, have you, Mom? Today’s the day they’re supposed to get their baths.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I said. Some girls love dogs, others give their hearts to horses. Caitie is crazy about her chickens—twelve, the last time I counted. As she did last year, she plans to enter her favorites in the poultry show at the Adams County Fair, which is a big event in our small town. The chickens have to be checked in at the fairground on Thursday morning, and Tuesday or Wednesday would have been a better bath day. But Caitie has orchestra and play rehearsal on those days, and I have to work. Bathing a chicken is definitely a two-person job (as you know, if you’ve ever done it), and today was the only day we were both free.
“That’s why we’re stopping at the store,” I added, turning into the supermarket parking lot. “We need dish soap.” According to the people who do this frequently, a mild dish detergent is preferred for bathing chickens.
“Super,” Caitie said happily. “Dixie Chick just loves it when she gets a bath.” She made a face. “Extra Crispy, not so much.”
I pulled into a vacant spot beside a big black Dodge RAM crew-cab pickup with a baby seat in the cab and a bumper sticker with a photo of an assault rifle and the words You Can Have My Gun When You Pry It From My Cold Dead Hands. Texas is open carry now. Most supermarket chains have prohibited guns on their premises, but this store isn’t one of them, so we might meet the driver of this truck cruising the diaper aisle with a baby in her grocery cart and an AR-15 slung over her shoulder. Personally, I don’t think guns and groceries are a good combination so I don’t usually shop here. But the store was on our way home and we were in a hurry. I was making an exception.
I turned off the ignition. “Dixie Chick and Extra Crispy are the only two you’re showing this year?” Last summer, Caitie entered three chickens and walked away with a first, a second, and a big boost to her confidence. She also learned a lot about chickens from the other chicken fanciers who brought their best birds to the show.
“Uh-huh.” Caitie made a face. “I promised Silkie-Poo she could go, too, but she’s molting.”
“Bad timing,” I said. When Silkie-Poo is in possession of all her feathers, she looks like a white feather duster with feet—and five toes instead of the standard-issue four. When she’s molting, she’s covered with weird-looking patches of dusty black skin with prickly little pinfeathers popping out.
“That’s okay,” Caitie said confidently, getting out of the car. “I’m not sure about Dixie Chick, but Extra Crispy is going to bring home a blue ribbon.”
• • •
WE live about a dozen miles west of Pecan
