by Suzanne C. Martinez
One June morning while scrolling through her Flipboard newsfeed, Brittany spotted an ad: “Available—tiny house on farm w/forest & pond, odd jobs in lieu of rent. Contact Mrs. Pierce.”
Since the COVID-19 lockdown began months ago, Brittany and her boyfriend, Brandon, hadn’t been out of their cramped, overpriced studio apartment in Brooklyn. She closed her eyes and pictured the two of them working remotely, side-by-side in Adirondack chairs, sitting in a field of wildflowers on lazy, sun-filled days in the countryside.
Brandon concurred.
Brittany texted the owner and received an approval in seconds. They packed a couple of rollie-bags, their laptops, and face masks, and caught the next train to the little town nearest the farm. As the train pulled into the station, Brittany’s stomach fluttered in anticipation.
They were the only passengers to get off. An ancient pickup truck idled in the parking lot.
The masked old lady at the wheel cranked down the window and shouted, “Yoo-hoo! Are you Brittany?”
They got in. Mrs. Pierce hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the dusty windshield, her tiny eyes glued on the road. No one spoke. Twenty minutes later, she turned off the blacktop onto a rutted dirt road overhung by trees.
She stopped in a clearing bordered by a tiny white house, across from a red barn teeming with dozens and dozens of chickens, turkeys, ducks, and two geese.
“It’s adorable,” said Brittany, jumping out of the cab and posing for a selfie.
“That’s your place,” Mrs. Pierce said, pointing to the small building. “For your keep, you’ll gather the birds into the barn at dusk. In the morning let them out, collect the eggs, and scatter the feed.”
Before they could ask any questions, she popped the clutch and disappeared in a cloud of dust. Brandon had a sneezing fit. They dragged their suitcases into their new home.
“It’s kind of cute, but way smaller than our Brooklyn apartment,” Brittany said.
“But we have all this outdoor space,” said Brandon, spinning in a circle, arms outstretched.
White eyelet curtains filtered the sunshine streaming in the whitewashed room. There were little cubbies along the walls, bunk beds, a table, two chairs, a sink-fridge-stove unit, and a lavatory. Brittany opened the windows to air out the room and they unpacked. They explored the wooded area beyond the barn and found the relic of a collapsed building covered in tall weeds and two perfect Adirondack chairs in a meadow beyond. When Brandon tried to post to his followers on Instagram, he discovered there was no internet or cell phone service in the tiny house, nor upstairs in the barn, and only one bar when he climbed the tallest tree.
“Look on the bright side,” said Brandon, letting go of a branch and dropping the last few feet to the ground. “We’ve got a free place to live, albeit on a poultry farm, a stocked fridge, and plenty of time to write and post. We’ll have the chance for lots of picnics and walks in the woods with no sirens, no helicopters, no masks.”
“Just us,” said Brittany. In Brooklyn, no one is ever alone. There are upstairs neighbors vacuuming at midnight or people singing on the street even during a lockdown. Foot-traffic made her feel safer, it discouraged wrongdoers.
At sunset, they gathered the flock. The chickens and the ducks were cooperative. The turkeys were skittish and flew into the trees en masse, requiring the couple to climb the trees and prod the turkeys down repeatedly. This continued until the turkeys surrendered, exhausted. Once the show was over, the geese ambled into the barn.
Brandon and Brittany went straight to their bunks and were lulled to sleep by the rhythmic sound of crickets, until it was interrupted by the cacophony of frantic flapping, pecking on glass, and small bodies thudding against the wood siding.
Brandon stumbled to the screened window, but his view was obliterated by thousands of pulsing feathers. Brittany was horrified. A mob of assorted fowl seemed intent on invading the tiny house. Chickens and turkeys threw themselves against the building while the ducks, in formation like a cheerleading squad, tooted, “Quack, quack! Go back! Go back!” The geese loitered across the yard by the barn door, tittering like proud parents whose offspring had finally risen to their expectations.
The besieged couple were petrified. Nothing like this had ever happened to them in the city. There was the occasional mugger, of course, but never an attack by crazed birds.
“Oh my God, Brandon,” said Brittany, as she scrutinized the once-cute chicken-sized cubbies along the walls. “Do you suppose we’re living in the chicken house?”
“You’re right,” said Brandon. “The old lady must’ve swapped buildings. Redoing the coop was probably easier than renovating the barn.”
“Well, she should’ve consulted the birds. They’re desperate to sleep in their home.”
An hour later, the birds gave up and everyone went to sleep. In the morning, Brandon and Brittany slumped at the little table, drinking tea. Feathers were embedded in the screens and hid the trees from their view. The exhausted couple was unhappy. They hadn’t gotten a chance to go on a picnic or nap in the sunshine or pick wildflowers, but both agreed they’d spent enough time in the country and vowed to return to the safety of the city they knew.
Brandon checked for feathered assailants before opening the door, then he jogged down the lane to find a cell signal to call an Uber. Mrs. Pierce pulled up as he arrived at the highway.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“There’s a big problem,” he said. “We’re living in the chickens’ house. They want it back.”
“My dear, I’m too old to take care of the farm. I promised my late husband to never sell but the house burned down last year. When I learned young people were abandoning the city during the pandemic and tiny houses were trendy, I figured it’d be a win-win.”
“Where do you live?”
“In town. I never thought I’d ever get the smell of chicken shit out of my clothes, but I finally succeeded.”
“Were you coming to check on us?”
“I was coming to pick up the eggs. I sell them at the farmers market.” She scowled. “You didn’t collect them this morning, did you?”
“No.”
“Get in. You’d better work fast. I need to deliver them to the stall by ten.”
With no chance of a ride to the station without the old lady’s cooperation, Brandon collected hundreds of eggs from the barn, and Brittany packed their suitcases and slipped them into the truck bed as the old lady dozed.
“We’re leaving. Now,” Brandon said as they secured the eggs in the back of the truck and piled into the front seat. “You’ll have to find someone else.”
“You’re just a couple of quitters, you are,” said Mrs. Pierce, scowling through her mask. “I thought city people were tougher.”
Not wanting to jeopardize their ride to the station, they rode in silence.
Brandon and Brittany returned by train to their studio apartment, which had magically grown to the perfect size. Online they bought a hydroponic herb garden that hung on the wall, a couple of grow-lights, and an exercise bike. They masked up and went out for chicken cordon bleu at their favorite restaurant, now conveniently located down the block, with outdoor seating in the bike lane. Brittany always loved a good chicken dinner.
Suzanne C. Martinez is a visual artist with a BFA/MFA. Her work has appeared in The Hong Kong Review, Streetlight Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Broadkill Review and others. The Broadkill Review nominated her for a 2020 Pushcart Prize and 2020 The Best of the Net Anthology. Flash Fiction Magazine has nominated her for a 2021 Pushcart Prize. She lives in Brooklyn. www.scmwrites.com