Page 1 of Henhouse
1
The Thatcher women were blessed with brilliant daughters, fathered by disappointing men.
At least, that was the family mantra for as long as Effie could remember. Her mother believed it of Effie’s father and her sisters’ father before him. Her aunt believed it, so did Effie’s sisters. And so the Thatcher women, unlucky in love, lived together in the family estate of one Dorothea Thatcher, the matriarch, the polka-dot-loving, poker-playing, curse-like-a-sailor septuagenarian that Effie adored.
The one who apparently found the last good man.
Effie considered this as she took in the portrait of him that hung just to the right of the stove and below a crucifix. Grams believed him to be on par with Jesus, and Effie couldn’t disagree. He had been charm and wit and sass, all things bubbly and bright. Even saying his name, Herman, gave Effie the sensation of spiced gumdrops and sunshine. Effie looked at him with his sharp beak of a nose, dark, hooded eyes, and eyebrows that would draw envy from the makeupartists at Sephora.
The monochromatic portrait was at odds with the olive-green cabinets that lined the walls and hugged an ancient, albeit beautiful, cast-iron stove. It wasn’t as vibrant as the tulips in a pitcher of water that Effie’s sister, Louisa, had brought home yesterday afternoon. It paled in comparison to the brightly embroidered tea towels, the copper pots and pans hanging on the rack, and the lavish wallpapers that Effie imagined some boisterous lady had ordered hung at the turn of the century.
It was the only grey thing in the house, that portrait, and Effie often wondered if it was because Grams found it easier to stomach Herman’s loss when he wasn’t staring back at them in lifelike color.
Effie was already to the dregs of her second cup of tea as a joyful chatter called her to the land of the living. She leaned back in her seat at the breakfast table next to the double glass doors that led out to a small veranda. The table was big enough to seat all of the Thatcher women, despite their growing numbers, and looked out over the garden beds that her oldest sister would soon seed with flowers.
Dorothea, donning her favorite sky-blue dress with white polka dots and an apron that had seen better days, planted a kiss on the soft waves of Effie’s saddle-brown hair. She didn’t have to bend her aging hips far as she did so. She wasn’t even five feet off the ground. Effie smiled at Dorothea and snagged a piece of bacon from the plate that she carried.
Dorothea settled in her seat at the head of the table beside her sister, Beatrice, Aunt Bea. Beside them sat Effie’s mom, Pamela, and her older sister Tibby. It was funny to Effie how easily you could tell they were sisters—Grams and Bea, Tibby and Pamela. It was in theeyes and the tilt of their smiles, the soft waves that used to match Effie’s but were now streaked with grey or pure white. Or only evident in the growing roots, as was the case with her mother, who dyed her hair a particular shade of blonde that looked both unnatural and utterly beautiful at the same time.
Effie’s eldest sister, Ellen, settled in beside her. “They did not believe it was Monday,” she huffed as she gave her two little girls, kindergarten and preschool age, a sharp look. Lilah and Vivienne climbed into their seats quietly, each with a cute ponytail that reminded Effie of Pebbles fromThe Flintstones. “Is there anything else to help with?” Ellen asked.
“You ask that every morning,” Effie said.
Even though Dorothea and Effie cooked breakfast most weekday mornings, Effie thought it kind that Ellen didn’t take it for granted. “Oh, but I do have croissants that should be done,” Effie chimed as she checked her leather-banded watch. She jumped from her seat and hurried to the stove.
“Corsanns!” came the bubbly chirp from Effie’s two-year-old niece Hazel. Effie turned to her, eyes wide.
“Your favorite, right, little bird?” Effie cooed.
Louisa, hair pulled back in an effortless bun, her lips painted a pale pink that highlighted just how much she resembled a starlet of Hollywood’s Golden Age, rolled her eyes as she put Hazel in the lone high chair.
“You don’t have to dote on her like that,” Louisa said.
Effie returned with a basket of croissants, steaming, buttery, flaky, perfect—as expected when Effie baked.
“Her cuteness demands it.”
“Corsanns!” Hazel squealed, and everyone around the table lit up. Everyone but Hope, who normally had as large a soft spot for babies as the rest of them.
Effie cocked her head to the side inquiring about Hope’s steelier-than-normal gaze. She may have leaned heavily into the occult, as Grams teased, but she was usually a bright spot on the astrological charts. Not this morning. The quick jerk of her head told Effie that they’d talk about it later.
Effie squeezed her cousin’s hand under the table. She smiled to herself knowing that Hope would confide in her eventually. Even though Hope was twenty-five, like Louisa, Effie had always felt closer to her than her own sister. Somehow, the two years between them felt insignificant, but Louisa always treated it like an emotional chasm that couldn’t be bridged.
It didn’t matter though. Despite the tiffs and the slights, the borrowed and ruined blouses, the woes of a mother in Neverland, and a house full of estrogen, Effie loved her family. She loved the way they loved each other. How they could hold each other up even when they’d bickered not five minutes prior. She loved that nothing truly ever came between—
“Dad says he’ll be in town come June,” Louisa said and everything stilled.
Effie’s mother clenched her fork like she might melt the silver with rage alone. Ellen, per usual, kept her face serene and unbothered. Or maybe she was. Effie rarely knew if her mask matched her heart. Louisa flicked her gaze to Effie, a hint of an apology there, which Effie always appreciated but never needed. It wasn’t Ellen or Louisa’s fault that they had a chance to see their dad every so often. Even if he wasmore apt to travel the world than to see his daughters, Effie was glad they had a chance at all.
“He could maybe come for dinner?” Louisa asked, her voice all hope. Effie admired Louisa’s resilient belief that each visit from her father might be the one to change everything.
“I don’t think—” Pamela started, her frown thwarted by the Botox that lived between her brows.
“I’m pregnant!” Hope blurted out, and Effie thought she’d never heard silence quite so loud.
The alarm on Ellen’s phone pierced through the quiet. It was eight fifteen. Everyone needed to get going or they’d be late bringing the kids to school or daycare and subsequently the work that let them keep their estate on Austin Street in downtown Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
But no one got up.
