Jodie Picoult - Plain Truth

Sarah, on the other hand, wanted to pepper me with questions about Katie’s trial. With Aaron far out of earshot, she asked about the prosecutor, the witnesses, the judge. She asked whether Katie would have to speak out in court. Whether we would win.

That last question fell at the door to the coop. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m doing my best.”

Sarah’s face stretched into a smile. “Yes,” she said softly. “You do that well.”

She pushed open the wooden door, sending feathers flying as the birds squawked and scattered. Something about a chicken coop reminded me of a batch of ladies gossiping at a hairdresser’s salon, and I smiled as a high-strung hen flapped around my heels. Heading to the roost on the right, I began to search the beds for eggs.

“No,” Sarah instructed as I upended a russet-colored hen. “She’s still gut.” I watched her tuck a molting chicken beneath her arm like a football and press her fingers between the bones that protruded from its bottom. “Ah, here’s one that stopped laying,” she said, holding it out to me by the feet. “Let me just grab another.”

The chicken was twisting like Houdini, intent on escaping. Completely baffled, I fisted my hand more tightly around its nubby legs as Sarah found another bird. She headed for the door of the coop, shooing hens. “What about their eggs?” I asked.

Sarah looked back over her shoulder. “They’re not giving ’em anymore. That’s why we’ll be having them for dinner.”

I stopped in my tracks, looked down at the hen, and nearly let her go. “Come along,” Sarah said, disappearing behind the coop.

There was a chopping block, an ax, and a steaming pail of hot water waiting. With grace Sarah lifted the ax, swung the bird onto the block and cut off its head. As she released its legs, the decapitated chicken somersaulted and danced a jitterbug in a pool of its own blood. With horror I watched Sarah reach for the chicken I was holding; I felt her pull it from my grip just before I fell to my knees and threw up.

After a moment Sarah’s hand smoothed back my hair. “Ach, Ellie,” she said, “I thought you knew.”

I shook my head, which made me feel sick again. “I wouldn’t have come.”

“Katie don’t have the stomach for it either,” Sarah admitted. “I asked you because it’s so much easier than going back in there again after doing the first one.” She patted my arm; on the back of her wrist was a smear of blood. I closed my eyes.

I could hear Sarah moving behind me, dipping the limp bodies of the chickens into hot water. “The dumpling stew,” I said hesitantly. “The noodle soup . . . ?”

“Of course,” Sarah answered. “Where did you think chickens came from?”

“Frank Perdue.”

“He does it the same way, believe me.”

I cradled my head in my hands, refusing to think about all the brisket and the hamburger meat we’d eaten, and of the little bull calves I’d seen born in the months I’d been on the farm. People only see what they want to see-look at Sarah turning a blind eye to Katie’s pregnancy, or a jury hanging an acquittal on the testimony of a certain sympathetic witness, or even my own reluctance to admit that the connection between Coop and me went beyond the physical fact of creating a baby.

I glanced up to see Sarah stripping the feathers off one of the birds, her mouth set in a tight line. There were tufts of white fluff on her apron and skirt; a trail of red blood soaked into the hard-packed dirt before her. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “How do you do it?”

“I do what I have to do,” she said matter-of-factly. “You of all people should understand.”

I was hiding in the milk room when Coop found me that afternoon. “El, you’re not gonna believe this-” His eyes widened as he saw me, and he sprinted to my side, running his hands up and down my arms. “How did this happen?”

He knew; God, all he’d had to do was look at me, and he knew about the baby. I swallowed and met his gaze. “Pretty much the usual way, I guess.”

Coop’s hand slid from my shoulder to my waist, and I waited for him to move lower still. But instead, his fingers plucked at my T-shirt, rubbing at the bright red streak that stained it. “When was your last tetanus shot?”

He wasn’t talking about the baby. He wasn’t talking about the baby.

“Well, of course I am,” Coop said, making me realize I’d spoken aloud. “But for God’s sake, the stupid trial can wait. We’ll get you stitched up first.”

I pushed Coop’s hands away. “I’m fine. This blood’s not mine.”

Coop raised a brow. “Have you been committing homicide again?”

“Very funny. I was helping kill chickens.”

“I’d save the pagan rituals until after you’ve presented your defense, but then-”

“Tell me about him, Coop,” I said firmly.

“He wants answers. After all, the man jumped on a plane the day after finding out he was a father-but he wants to see Katie and the baby.”

My jaw dropped. “You didn’t tell him-”

“No, I didn’t. I’m a psychiatrist, Ellie. I’m not about to cause someone undue mental anguish unless I’m there, face to face, to help him deal with it.”

As Coop turned away, I put my hand on his shoulder. “I would have done the same thing. Except my motive wouldn’t have been kindness, but selfishness. I want him to testify, and if that works to get him here, so be it.”

“This isn’t going to be easy for him,” Coop murmured.

“It was no picnic for Katie, either.” I straightened. “Has he seen Jacob yet?”

“He just got off the plane. I picked him up in Philly.”

“So where is he now?”

“In the car, waiting.”

“In the car?” I sputtered. “Here? Are you crazy?”

Coop grinned. “I think I can tell you with some authority that I’m not.”

In no mood for his jokes, I was already walking through the barn. “We’ve got to get him out of here, fast.”

Coop fell into step beside me. “You may want to change first,” he said. “Just a suggestion-but right now you look like you’ve stepped out of a Kevin Williamson film, and you know how important first impressions are.”

His words barely registered. I was too busy considering how many times that day I would be called upon to tell a man the one thing he least expected to hear.

• • •

“Why is she in trouble?” Adam Sinclair asked, leaning across the table at the diner. “Is it because she wasn’t married when she had the baby? God, if she’d just written to me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“She couldn’t write to you,” I said gently. “Jacob never forwarded your letters.”

“He didn’t? That bastard-”

“-was doing what he thought was in the best interest of his sister,” I said. “He didn’t think she could bear the stigma of having to leave her faith, and that’s what marrying you would have entailed.”

Adam pushed away his plate. “Look. I appreciate you getting in touch with me and letting me know that Katie’s in some kind of trouble. I appreciate the ride from the airport out here to East Paradise. I even appreciate the free lunch. But I’m sure that by now, Katie’s back home with the baby, and I really need to go speak to her directly.”

I watched his hands play over the table and imagined them touching Katie, holding Katie. And with a great and sudden rage I hated this man whom I hardly knew, for unwittingly bringing Katie to this point. Who was he, to decide that his affection for Katie overruled everything she’d been brought up to believe? Who was he, to lead an eighteen-year-old girl down a path of seduction when he clearly knew better?

Something must have shown on my face, because beneath the table, Coop pressed his hand against my thigh in gentle warning. I blinked, and Adam came into clear focus: his bright eyes, his tapping foot, his sideways glance at every jingle of the bell over the door, as if he expected Katie and his son to come strolling in any minute.