“Go ahead,” he says. “Don’t mind me.”
“Everett.”
“Right, right. I’m leaving, I’m leaving.” And he floats through the door.
—
Gretchen makes it approximately three-quarters of the way to the barn before she fails to notice a divot in the grass and winds up doing something to her ankle.That bitch karma is really trying to send me a message, she thinks as she tries not to cry.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” she whines to Everett as she hobbles along.
“How was I supposed to know the ground was uneven? It’s not like I walk on it.”
He has a point. “It huuuurts.”
Everett moves from beside to in front of her, forcing her to come to a stop. “Hmm. This is great, actually,” he says, putting his index finger to his chin dimple as he considers it.
“It’s great that I’m injured and in pain?”
“Yes, because now you can tell Charlie you’re hurt and he’ll send you back to the house to rest. He’ll feel sorry for you and dote on you while we lie on the couch and watchMacGyver.”
“I absolutely cannot let Charlie know that I’ve done the exact thing he just warned me not to do. Sorry for me is not what he will feel.” Gretchen did not suffer through Everett summarizing all of the major plotlines of late-ninetiesDays of Our Lives(which Ellen apparently used to tape daily to catch up on before bed) while eating flavorless bran cereal with the funky-flavored milk she found in a mason jar in the fridge this morning to go home already.
“Maybe it’ll get better the more I walk on it. I think that’s a thing in... sports?”
A few steps are enough to tell her that’s definitely the opposite of what’s going to happen, but she doesn’t see another option.
Charlie’s brow furrows immediately when she appears outside the barn. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone accusatory as opposed to concerned.
“He knows,” Everett says in a panic, and crouches down for some reason. “Oh no. Don’t let him send you away. You can’t go. Don’t leave me alone, Gretch—”
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything is wonderful. Sunshine, fresh air—” Gretchen makes a show of taking a deep breath. It smells strongly of animals and excrement, and she gags. “I’m so excited for... hard... work?”
Charlie openly evaluates her as she moves toward him, as if he wants her to be aware he’s paying attention so that she might crack under the pressure of her lie. Joke’s on him, though; it would take a whole lot more dishonesty before the weight of it would even register, much less exert any pressure on Gretchen’s conscience. Her ankle feels like someone’s tied a rope around it, lit the rope on fire, and is now tugging it in the opposite direction of where she’s trying to make it go, but she flashes a carefree smile and takes several more steps, careful to put her full weight into each one without the pain showing on her face so he can’t accuse her of anything.
“Wow. My biggest regret,” Everett says, watching Gretchen walk toward Charlie with the bold strides of someone whose ankle isn’t probably swelling exponentially every second, “is that we couldn’t have acted in a production together. We both missed our true callings.”
Interesting how that’s his biggest regret, not the whole getting-cursed-to-eternally-haunt-this-farm thing. But Gretchen doesn’t particularly feel it’s her place to judge.
“What’s my first task, boss?” she asks Charlie. She does a great job of making her lean against the fence surrounding the pen look casual and cool as opposed to the metal rail’s support being the only thing keeping her from crumpling to the ground. The goats’ bleating is distant, and Gretchen follows it with her eyes to the pasture. She spots the herd congregated around an area of overgrowth at the far end of the enclosure, munching on the weeds and low-hanging branches that obscure the fence there. At least she won’t have to face any actual animals yet. Right as she has that thought, something brushes against her leg and she screams.
“Oh my god!” She clutches her hand to her chest as an orange tabby circles her—like a shark, she thinks. It’s purring, but maybe that’s just a trick it’s using to get her to let her guard down.
Charlie ignores her and leans down to scratch the cat under the chin. “Fill up the water troughs, and then the plastic drums,” he orders without taking his attention away from the feline.Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?Gretchen thinks as she watches it flop over at Charlie’s feet and purr even louder.
Gretchen finds a hose in the nearest corner, then picks up the nozzle and carries it over to the large black plastic trough in the open pen. Each step makes her want to collapse, but she’s sure that Charlie’s watching her every movement even if he does seem distracted by the cat. So she forces herself to keep walking normally. The return journey over to the hose valve isn’t more than a few feet, but the pain makes it more like a mile. She keeps herself motivated by telling herself she can lean against the wall forsupport once she gets there. But of course Charlie is still examining her for signs of weakness, so she doesn’t get to actually carry out this plan after all, instead forced to remain freestanding while she opens the valve. As water rushes through the hose and spills into the trough, Gretchen realizes she has no way of knowing when it’s full without walking back over there. She considers asking Everett to monitor it and shout when it’s getting full, but he’s wandered off somewhere.Of course he isn’t here when I could actually use him.And it’s not like she can discreetly call for him. So back over to the trough she goes.
When the water level reaches the halfway mark, Gretchen heads for the valve, figuring the trough will be full by the end of her leisurely stroll. She turns off the hose and allows herself a nice, long lean against the wall at last. Then she moves the hose from the one trough to the other inside the barn and drags herself back to the valve.
Charlie walks over to the first trough and stares into it just as she’s about to turn on the water again. “Fill this one up a little more,” he says, as if it’s a matter of simply walking over there and doing it. Which, of course, it is.
She manages to move the hose back over to the trough in the outside pen, but when she pivots to go through the barn to turn the water on again, a new, more severe pain makes her cry out and fall. She lies there atop the straw-and-who-knows-what-covered ground, staring up at the sky.
Oh my god, I am going to die. I am going to die during my very first farm chore.
To add insult to injury, the cat comes over and pounces on her ponytail. Gretchen shrieks.
“You’re hurt, Acorn,” Charlie says, fury buried just under thesurface of his voice, as he gently nudges the cat away from Gretchen with the edge of his boot. “Admit it.”
