Unfinished Business (14 page)

After we work out the details, I hang up and examine my short-term goals. Maybe I need to think bigger.

Saturday March 31
st
—Long-term Goals

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

It always comes back to this, doesn’t it? Why do we have to know where we want to go? Why can’t we just go along for the ride and wait to see where life takes us?

I like waiting. It’s peaceful. Relaxing.

What’s the rush?

The loud lady’s words spin around my head,
‘If you don’t know where you want to go, you won’t know when you get there.’

I guess that’s true.

If you get on a bus, but don’t know which stop you want to get off at, you’ll end up sitting next to some sweaty kid playing his DS for hours. Maybe even days. You’ll end up panicked and desperate. Biting your nails and watching everyone out there living their lives and going places. Streets and stores will zip by—out of your reach.

Desperation doesn’t go over well in Detroit. They can see it in your eyes. It’s how they know you failed. I will not be desperate in Detroit. I will not go back home a failure.

So there it is. My biggest fear.

It isn’t like I haven’t thought about this stuff in the past. So why is it bothering me now? Even worse than before. My gaze settles on the
Optional Handout Packet
.

I look up. I see Todd’s face but think about Waylon. He isn’t a bad guy, just not my guy or my life.

What about Nick? Is he my guy?

No, I remind myself. I’m the one who made a point out of staying ‘friends’. But what choice do I have? I’m not ready for a relationship? Look at the mess I made of the last one.

I’d like to get my hands on that annoyingly thought-provoking, bestselling author and award-winning speaker. That loud little lady may have ruined my life. Why couldn’t she be friendly and encouraging and write a fun book like Helen’s
Sex and the Single Girl
?

I poke my pen through one of the holes in the page and spin it around. I lean back and stare out of the rain splattered window until my phone hums again.

“Hi, is this Hayley?”

Yeah, it’s me, but I have no idea who is asking.

“It’s me, Caroline.”

Caroline?

That name is horrifying familiar yet at the same time terrifyingly out of place. Caroline.

“From North Pointe.”

The palpable touch of irritation in her tone kicks me in the shins. “Right, of course. Hi.”

There is a long, clumsy pause, then she says, “Yesterday Mr. Neville told me he talked to you about the anniversary celebration we’re planning.”

I slide the empty sheet off my pen and smack it onto the table. “We talked a little bit. I told him a couple things.”

“Like what?”

“Like some
ideas
I came up with.”

“What kind of
ideas
?”

Good ones? Bad ones? How the hell should I know? “He’s supposed to come back on Monday so he and I can talk some more. I didn’t tell him everything I came up with.”

“I think you better tell me what you’re considering. So you don’t make a fool of yourself by saying something really stupid.”

I try to shove away the invisible insecurity blanket I have been carrying ever since I woke up and did not feel positively powerful and in control of my life. Unfortunately, it clings to me like a bad smell. So instead of keeping my mouth shut in a confident and powerful way, I sing like the caged bird I have become.

Chapter Fifteen

Birds of a Feather

“Dinner was fun last night. Like old times. Don’t you think, Hayley? I’m glad you stayed overnight, honey. Your mom misses you. Ever since you moved to the city things haven’t been the same. Your Aunt Sandy comes over a lot though. Takes Mom’s mind off things. The house bein’ so empty and all. They still worry about— Oh, right, I guess we aren’t supposed to talk about you not getting married.”

I take another sip of coffee from my Harold’s Feed ’n Seed travel mug and try to think of something to say to my dad. Nothing comes to mind.

He nods but doesn’t say anything as he turns left onto a gravel road. The brown fields, the low slant of the early morning sunshine blinking off the hood of the truck and the constant, dissatisfied clucks of the chickens crammed into the cages piled in the bed—these things remind me of my childhood.

My dad stares straight ahead and I wonder what he thinks about his life. Did he get off at the right bus stop?

Or is he still sitting on a sticky seat wondering why he never learned to read a route schedule? Does he wonder about my life?

He slows the truck when we reach the narrow, flat building and turns into a rutted driveway. “They’re only open today ’cause they had to close down for a couple weeks after that problem Tom had a while back. With the machinery. I know he hates working on Sunday. Anyway, he called and said to bring the broilers in at least. Those turkeys can wait a couple days, these ones though”—he jerks his thumb over his shoulder—“well you know. Any bigger and their legs’ll snap. All that meat wasted. They got everything taken care of now, the machines, so we’ll have some good eating in the freezer for a couple months at least. Except I have to give Kale Ferguson seven because he knocked down our corner field last fall. That’s what your mom says anyway.”

Good God. Has he always been like this?

The truck crawls to a stop. He tosses the keys onto the dashboard and hops out.

I don’t think my dad got off at the right bus stop, I don’t think he’s still on the bus. I think he’s hailing a taxi in a cornfield and wondering why it’s passing him by.

Have I been standing there with him? Is this sort of inability to get a grip on life genetic?

Not willing to be the girl sitting in the truck because she can’t bear the sight of helpless birds being taken to their death, I swing open my door and stroll past a brown-suited man leaning against the side of the pole barn that holds whatever machinery is used to kill the birds, tear out their feathers then slip what’s left of them into neat and tidy plastic bags.

While I wait beside my dad for the chipper, red-haired lady to ask the usual questions, a guy limps out of a narrow door at the end of the building and slinks over to the brown-suited man. The limper smacks a pack of cigarettes against his palm, slips one out then lights up. Both of them stare straight at me—unblinking and unbothered by the obvious fact that they are being very rude.

I roll my eyes and turn away.

My dad and I are in a line of sorts. The lady in front of us has cut three jagged holes into the lid of the cardboard box she has stuffed her ducks into then wrapped with silver duct tape. A Peking has poked its head out one of the holes and is quacking with fierce determination—
What the hell is going on here? This is fucking ridiculous. Whose bullshit idea is this, anyway?

The portly, gray geese in the wooden crate next to the outraged duck are more dignified about being led to their deaths. They hold their chins high, refusing to squawk or honk or do whatever it is that geese do. They stare straight ahead, watching the fat man with the gut-smeared, blue plastic apron stuff shit-coated cardboard boxes into a dumpster.

“How many you got today, Carl?” the redhead asks.

My dad bends down to look into the three shallow cages he’s unloaded from his Chevy. “Twenty-three. Keep ’em all whole. She hates messing with all those pieces.”

For some reason the chipper woman always thinks my dad is funny. Either that or she is looking for humor in the deathly chaos she calls work.

While she and my dad are arranging a pick up time, the blue plastic apron man lumbers over and flips open the latch of the first crate. His dusty hair flops forward to stick to his forehead.

“How many?” he asks, not looking at me but staring in at the awkward broilers who are so fat that they can barely stand.

“Twenty-three.”

He grabs a bird by its feet. It squawks goodbye to life as it flies upside down to land in a wire cage, this one marked with a tag showing our name.

The redhead moves past us to say, “How many?” to a couple of teenagers who, to my well-trained eye, look hung-over.

My dad and I watch as our birds get tossed from one cage to the other. All in all they had a good life. The bird pen at home is huge and they got to be outside instead of living in a one-foot square like in the big commercial places.

But is that enough?

Should they have wanted more from life?

Should they have got it?

At least they didn’t have to worry about short-term and long-term goals.

Small consolation, I bet.

Avoiding the sections smeared with chicken shit, I grab one of the cages and toss it into the bed of the Chevy. My dad puts in the other two then slams the tailgate.

He props one elbow on the side of the truck. “Ready?”

In spite of the grim fog following me around ever since that positively powerful little lady teamed up with Todd to enlighten me to the glaring fact that I need to try harder if I want a better life, I lean on the opposite side of the truck and grin back at my dad. “No, I thought we could hang around here for a while.” I sweep my arm in a big circle, taking in all the cages, boxes, and crates crammed with poultry awaiting their death.

My dad twists his mouth as he scans the whole scene before coming back to me with, “A Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Deliverance sort of thing, huh. Don’t have this kind of thing in the city, do ya?”

There’s a new glimmer in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before.

I smile and he smiles back.

Chapter Sixteen

Bitchy Bosses: What Not to Do

The first Monday of the month is crappy because I have to call the deadbeats who ignored the ‘nice’ pay-rent-or-else reminders I sent them two weeks ago. I don’t want to hear about cars that break down, bosses who don’t pay—does that really happen?—or sick kids.

Why do they have to go on and on with explanations? They have to know I’ll be calling them and they must know I can’t do anything about crap that happens. Why don’t they screen their calls so I don’t have to listen to their endless excuses? Like I can do anything other than send another notice, one that is not so ‘nice’.

Thankfully, I only have two deadbeats to call. I grab the phone. Instead of dialing I stare at Caroline’s office door. She and Mr. Neville went in there forty minutes ago.

Please don’t let them be having sex. I don’t think I could hold down the coffee I drank for lunch if Ollie comes out smirking and adjusting his tie.

What else could they be doing in there with the door closed? Who closed the door anyway? Was it him or her?

Unfortunately, I forgot my list of
ideas
at home. But I do remember it. Telling them to Mr. Neville in person will be a nice touch. Right?

No time to decide, because Mr. Neville has just pushed the door open. He’s smiling. It’s not an I-just-had-sex-with-an-employee-who-could-end-up-suing-me smile. Thank God.

He stops in front of my desk so I set the phone down and give him my full attention, ready to tell him the great stuff I came up with.

“Two things, Hayley. You need to talk your
ideas
over with Caroline. She’s on the right track with what she has come up with so far. And I need you to help her with the raffle ticket thing she came up with. Giving residents one ticket for each year they’ve been at North Pointe is a fantastic
idea
. And prizes. People love prizes.”

My stomach bottoms out and flips over as I remember actually trusting Caroline during her surprise phone call. “Raffle thing?”

His square chin tips down while his aristocratic gaze stays fixed on my face. “It is exactly the sort of thing I was hoping you’d come up with.”

I am sure my eyes are glazing over. Is it anger? Shock? I’m speechless. He isn’t.

“Because Caroline is so busy, managing things, I need you to call around to the local businesses and get donations for prizes. As she pointed out, they’ll be glad to donate prizes because it’ll be great advertising.” I shrink back as he leans over my desk to ask, “Think you can do that?”

Caroline comes bustling out. “Getting everything settled here?”

It’ll be a while before everything is settled. I don’t say that. I don’t say anything because the only words that will come willingly out of my mouth are—
You fucking bitch you stole my idea
. But I don’t think that is the helpful sort of attitude the big boss is looking for.

After throwing a smile at Caroline, Mr. Neville straightens. While he is setting his palm on her rounded shoulder and saying, “Hayley’s going to help you get donations and prizes,” I spot Tony slip through the side door by Caroline’s office. After a quick glance at their backs, he sneaks into her sanctuary and gently pushes the door until it’s almost closed.

Mr. Neville steps toward the French doors. “Caroline, let me know if you need anything else. Be a team player, Hayley, and help her out.”

After the door whooshes shut, Caroline steps away, heading back to her office. The anger that started fermenting inside me a minute ago is getting smellier by the second. “Um, Caroline?”

She spins on the heel of her Payless pumps and sets her hands on her JC Penny hips. Her head tilts but as usual her over-sprayed hair remains motionless. “Yeah?”

“Did it occur to you that the raffle
idea
was mine?”

She smacks her mouth in an ugly way. “Yeah, it did. But you’re only a temp. Who cares if you come up with any good
ideas
?”

The answer surprises me but it’s the truth. “I do.”

“Why? Really, Hayley, don’t be so naïve. Think teamwork. You should be glad I told Mr. Neville about the raffle. If I look good, you look good—because you work for me.”

“I don’t work for you, Caroline. I work for North Pointe Farms.”