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“So no one can point you out as what you are.”
“Because people are awful. And I like it here. But also that, yes.”
“How long have you lived here?” I asked.
“A few years,” she said, clearly not willing to specify further.
“And you don’t go into town?”
“A few times a year for supplies.”
“And then, what? You just stay out here? Tending your poison garden?”
“It won’t tend itself.”
“So, what? You grow your plants, make your poison powders, and kill guys like some sort of judge, jury, and executioner mission?”
“The judge and the jury tend to get these cases wrong,” she said, staring at me, daring me to deny it. “Twelve months for a brutal attack and rape? Then he gets to get out and start doing it all over again? When the system doesn’t work for us, we have to take matters into our own hands.”
“Us. Meaning… assault survivors?” I asked.
“Meaning women in general. But also that, yes.”
“How have you gotten away with it for this long?”
“Because I’m good at what I do.”
“Come on. A bunch of belladonna poisonings have to raise some brows. It’s a small town.”
“It’s not only this town. And it’s not always belladonna. It’s rarely belladonna.”
“So, I’m just the lucky one.”
“Yes, it was lucky. Because if it had been any of my other poisons, you wouldn’t have been alive when you were found, let alone standing here today. Maybe that was a miscalculation,” she added, giving me a hard look.
“Maybe you should—what the fuck was that?” I said, jerking at a shrill squeak.
“Damnit,” she said, shaking off the self-preservation that kept her away from me, and brushing past my shoulder on her way back outside.
Curious, I couldn’t help but follow her as she rushed around her house.
“Hey. Hey, baby, you’re okay. It’s okay,” she cooed in a soothing-animal voice. “What did you get into, huh?” she asked as the shrill cawing continued.
Up close, there was no mistaking it.
A crow.
Moving past her, I saw one standing on a colorful picnic table, bobbing its head up and down frantically, because it had its neck caught in what looked like one of those lids put on a slushy.
“I know. Those stupid humans with their stupid plastic crap, huh?” she asked, trying to reach for the bird who clearly trusted her, but not quite that much, making him dance away and continue cawing. “We live in the age of reusable cups, but noooo. Nope. We have to use the plastic,” she continued to grumble as she reached out toward him again. “So are you just going to stand there, or are you going to try to help?” she asked as a chicken appeared out of nowhere to peck at the apron string hanging down her back.
Shaking out of my stupor, I moved forward toward the table, taking careful steps as the bird eyed me suspiciously.
“Whoa, no,” she called to the bird. “He’s okay. Well, to level with you, Frida, I don’t know if he is actually okay. But he will help me get that thing off your sweet little neck so you can eat again,” she said.
When the bird cast a glance over at me, she took the chance to grab her and hold her tight.
“Okay. Come on. Help me out,” she demanded, turning toward me as the black and white chicken jumped up on the seat and then the top of the table, seeming to want to get a better view. “Quit being so nosy,” she said to the chicken, shaking her head at her, making it let out a little babble.
Moving forward, I looked at the lid.
“Do you have any scissors?” I asked.
“She got her head in the hole. You can get it back out. It will be faster.”
“Says the one not sacrificing their fingers,” I said, reaching out toward the bird’s head.
“Right. Like she’s not scratching the shit out of me right now,” the woman shot back.
“Alright, Frida,” I said, grabbing the plastic lid then yanking it.
“Thank God,” the woman said, dropping the crow onto its feet on the table, where it stood next to the chicken and glared at the two of us. “Well, you’re welcome,” she said. “I guess you’re expecting peanuts now, for all the manhandling,” she said, moving back toward the house where she opened a metal box attached to her potting table. “Here you go,” she said, dropping a few down in front of the crow, then reaching for the chicken, holding her. “Where’s your sisters, huh?” she asked.
“Big garden, chickens…”
“Yeah, I take care of myself,” she said, shrugging.
“Where does the water come from?” I asked, waving toward her herbs and flowers and vegetables that didn’t seem like they were wilting at all.
“The mountains, mostly,” she admitted.
“You haul water from the mountains? Why not have a well dug?” I asked. And something about how her gaze shifted made a smile tug at my lips. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?”
