Around 9AM, I wake to a new sound in the morning. I haven’t slept this late since I’ve been here. Bonita and Bandito are cocking their heads from left to right in the direction of the new sound, the peeping sounds of ducklings. We jump down to peer out the window by the dining table. The dogs have their paws up on the window ledge on either side of me. Their excitement escalates when they see the source of the new sound, and they start bouncing all over the place in an effort to get me to let them out. Billy is standing by the edge of the lake, nearest me, chatting with a woman who is holding a large empty cage in her hand. A dozen or so frightened ducklings are clustered together on the ground by the women and are making a frantic raucous fuss. The group of resident ducks are quacking at the intruders from a position in the lake about twenty yards away. Billy walks back to the kitchen, and the woman gets into a car and drives away, leaving the newborns to fend for themselves. They all press together in a united pale-yellow ball of feathers for security, one or two popping their little heads up to spy for danger. The resident ducks paddle away as a group to the other side of the lake in complete rejection for the needy ducklings.
If there is one thing that can get these two crazy dogs all jacked up, its baby birds, baby kitties, baby anything, and right now I need to leash them up to take them out to pee.
To avoid embarrassment, I manage to steer Bonita and Bandito away from their deep desire to charge toward the ducklings, and walk them across the highway for a while.
When I return, I set the sprinkler on the dry patches of soil and seed, sit at the picnic table sipping my coffee, and watch the ducklings who are slowly detaching from their cluster. I’ve allowed Bonita and Bandito to be with me as long as they behave. They are side by side, and both of them have their noses to the fence sniffing the air in the direction of the ducklings. They are as alert as they can be without barking, but are making a throaty whine together, waiting to see who will be the bravest to start reacting so that the other can do the same. I am quietly doing my part to keep control with subtle re-enforcing commands. “Better be quiet. I mean it. Keep still. I’ll put you both back in the trailer.”
One of the ducklings has a problem holding its head up, like its neck is broken or something, and is shunned by the rest of the group, either that, or it cannot see where the group is from its awkward upside-down broken neck position.
The ducklings slowly increase their united peeping noise when they see the mature ducks climbing through the cattail grass further up on the shoreline. The ducklings begin running towards the mature resident ducks, causing an angry outburst of wing flapping and charging, frightening the ducklings who back off and huddle together again, quivering. The one with the broken neck is a few feet away from the rest of its siblings, on its side, with its yellow feet running in the air. It is at this point that I decide to take the dogs back inside, since Bonita and Bandito could no longer withhold their pent up emotion. The quacking and barking was way too much to bear. Anyway, it was time to get ready for work.
Henry, who was anxiously awaiting my arrival, overwhelms me with sentimental, shy, and obvious attraction. His sweet invitation for dinner has to be immediately halted with made-up excuses. It’s hard to be nice to someone who is lonely and mistakes friendliness for interest.
Jamie is a little off tonight, and is not too happy working here. I don’t blame her. Even with her lack of enthusiasm, she is twenty steps above any other fellow employee.
For my special, I make beef stroganoff. The smell of onion and garlic sautéing in sherry is making everyone hungry. Some of the guests tell me that they will return for dinner. I set aside two heaping servings of the special for Jamie and I. The rest of the stroganoff was gone in the first forty-five minutes. I could have made three times the amount I did and it would have sold.
We make it through our long shift, and we each take the large portions of beef stroganoff that I had stored safely away, our ninety dollars each in tips, and I head to the fifth wheel.
On my walk back to the fifth wheel, I notice the first few sprouts of grass, and set the sprinkler on the dry area right away. The hot days and virgin soil, have speeded up the germination time; not to mention my perseverance on keeping the ground moist.
Bubba is near the lake working on the beat up old boat I had seen in the forest with all the rusty equipment and garbage. The boat is balanced precariously on the trailer and Bubba is bent over pounding on something inside the bow of the boat. Never in a million years would I have thought it was water worthy, nor would I believe that the lake is deep enough for even a rubber raft. Come to think of it, what in the heck is he doing? Terry comes from the direction of their trailer jabbering about something and hands Bubba a beer.
The ducklings are trying to get into the lake, but the resident ducks attack them as soon as they touch the water. They follow the ducks around the perimeter of the lake and hide in the nearest bush. I think they are hungry, and do not understand the hostility they are receiving. Welcome to Hacienda, tiny, innocent ducklings.
The duckling with the broken neck looks weaker than it did this morning. It probably won’t last the night.
After eating, walking the dogs, and making myself a drink, I sit and re-count my mosquito bites. At this point I have thirty-one. I apply my dwindling supply of tea tree oil, that I’m sure is nowhere to be found in Brandon, and head over to Billy and Ray’s house.
Ray is still depressed. My only comfort is to soothe his raw patches, and rub his weary bones. Billy’s had a few drinks and seems to be in her own world tonight, so I just listen and take it all in. She rambles on about several subjects that I have been inquisitive about, one of them being the ducklings.
It seems that the lady who brought the ducklings has too many on her ranch, and needed to find homes for some of them. Billy has known her since high school, when they rode their horses together, and fell in love with the same man—A man who went off to college and disappeared.
Billy discusses her frustration over all the legal forms she has been filling out on Ruby’s behalf. She is working on a statement for Ruby’s trial date coming up. A statement of Ruby’s good character, and guarantee of employment upon release.
The cabins are still a mystery for Billy, and she feels foolish for ordering something that appears to be a con job. Likewise, the dump truck may have been another huge mistake.
The final subject that Billy confides in me about is a bill from the fire department. She walks over to where I am rubbing Ray, who was asleep, and flails it over her head, on the verge of tears. It’s a bill for the fire caused by Ray’s exploding mobile home. She doesn’t share the amount due, but I’m sure it is substantial. I don’t believe the mobile home was insured yet since Ray was going to get it registered when he had the accident.
Billy never mentions my eight-hundred dollar RV door; and I am thankful for that.
When it’s time to leave, Billy embraces me for a long time, longer than comfortable. Not that I feel it is a sexual come-on, but more of expressing her frustration in life. She needs reassurance and proof that the place her life is at right now is worth the battle. She just wants love in any form possible. I have plenty of love, so I try to squeeze some into her aging bones. Fortunately, she imparts to me much needed tenderness in return.
I return to the fifth wheel, walk the kids one more time, and build a fire. It is definitely a night for contemplation. Instead of sitting on the hard bench, I decide to bring a thick blanket and pillow to be low to the ground and closer to the fire. With the dogs leashed up and curled by my side, I watch Bubba burn cardboard boxes. Terry is sipping her beer, and handing Bubba more fuel for the fire. Billy is leaning on the railing of her porch, smoking, and looking up at the sky. Together, we all gaze silently into our isolated infernos, like prisoners of war.