VenCo(80)

“Here, chickens, nice chickens . . .” she called. There was no reply. She half expected one to come rushing at her from under the narrow walk-up ramp, or fly in her face from the rafters, but there was nothing.

She searched the ground: scrubby grass, a few moldy feathers, old seed, chicken shit, and gravel, but no eggs. She searched under the henhouse. It was stinky under there, with more feces and an empty ginger ale bottle, but no eggs. She tried to peer inside the open door but couldn’t make out anything inside.

She took out her phone and switched on the flashlight, extending her arm to illuminate the interior. She could see straw on the floor, more straw on the shelves against the wall, and a small hanging heat lamp that was missing its bulb. No eggs.

She’d have to go in. “Awesome.”

The ramp was steep and creaked underfoot. “If you’re in there, hens, I come in peace. Well, I’ve come to rob you of potential children, but I’m unarmed.”

She ducked inside and quickly shone her flashlight into the corners. Nothing. No chickens. Just straw and wood and the smell of feed left to sprout. The coop didn’t look like it had been used in years. But then she saw a bit of white peeking out from some straw on the lowest shelf.

“Oh, thank god.” She pushed aside the strands and found two smallish eggs covered in a thin layer of dried gunk. “Well, that’s disgusting.” She pulled her sleeve over her hand to grab one, but then she saw more eggs on the second level. Three this time, a little larger and more beige than white. She moved slowly down the line. Here and there were more eggs of different sizes, some oddly shaped, one broken open, its spilled insides dried in a thick crust. How was she supposed to know which one to take?

In the far corner there was the broken hulk of an old wardrobe, with one of the doors missing. She walked over. It was full of straw, and a little warmer than the rest of the coop. She leaned in and, digging her finger into a nest, found a single egg, larger than any of the others and a bit uneven, like it was leaning forward on its rounded base. The colour was white with a bluish undertone. When she turned to survey the whole selection of eggs along the shelves, this last egg shimmered in her vision as if it were superimposed over the others.

She whispered May’s words: “Grab the one you can’t help but see.” She picked it up, forgetting to use her sleeve to keep her fingers clean. And as soon as she had it in her hand, things became different. The smell of cinnamon and rubber under the kind of heat that emanates from concrete in the sun. A near-constant sun. A sun that requires rain to break its hold.

She cradled the egg against her stomach and walked carefully back down the ramp. Before her feet were on the dirt, she felt that sun on her skin along with a wet humidity. She pocketed her phone and walked out of the pen and into the trees. Water rolling in her ears, moving heavy and slow against rock, no . . . against concrete.

Before she’d reached the cabin and opened the door, handed over the egg, and watched May Moon Montgomery submerge it in herbed water, muttering as it turned, lightly clattering against the sides of the bowl, Lucky knew the spoon was farther south, in a place butting up against a huge body of water, and she knew she was going to drive to Louisiana.

Next, May told her to pick up the egg and, as she held it, to pull into mind the snake from her dream, to ask it directly where that fight was going to happen. Lucky went there, to the side of the road, held up the abandoned hat, and asked the blank-eyed snake her question. In the kitchen, May took her hands, then together they gently rapped the egg three times against the counter’s edge, not to break it open but to shatter the shell. The soft tap sent a network of cracks over its smooth surface.

May leaned in, watching the small seams grow wider, and yet the eggshell held.

“Perfect,” May said. “Now we read it.”

She lifted the small metal magnifying glass that hung around her neck to her eye. “Miss St. James, please go fetch that atlas aside the couch.” She pointed in the general direction of the living room without looking up. Lucky went and found a waterlogged, ancient book and carried it back. As she did, she flipped the pages, stopping at a detailed map of Louisiana, or at least how it was back in the eighties when this edition had been printed.

She placed it, spread open, on the counter. May reached over and looked, saw which page Lucky had picked, and glanced up at her. “Might be a seer, eh?”

Then she went back to examining the cracks in the shell against the lines on the map, back and forth, moving a gnarled finger over the page. After a few moments, she tapped the paper and lowered her glass.

“New Orleans.” She and Lucky spoke in unison.

Stella clapped. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to New Orleans!” She danced herself across the linoleum singing a song about crawfish and bayous.



Jay made it back to the rental car in good time. He could move fast when he had to, and he had to now. He didn’t know much about this Montgomery woman, but, as a rule, he didn’t fuck with old witches, especially not granny women in a bloodline of granny women. Who knew what those wily bitches had passed along to one another? He didn’t want to find out. To be clear, he did, but not when he was alone on their turf. And not when he was outnumbered.

He slid behind the wheel and locked the doors, then sat for a moment, catching his breath as he pulled his hair out of the ridiculous braid he’d made to disguise the fact that his three-hundred-dollar haircut was a three-hundred-dollar haircut.