Quitters

Quitters

Published by Dovetail Diaries, Quarantine Issue, Fall 2020.

Click on the title to read the story or read the story below.

Quitters

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.