Cluck

by Lenore Rowntree

  He doesn’t tell any of this to the chief. Instead he says, My mother can’t make lightning bolts fly from her head.

  Why on earth would you say something like that, Henry Parkins? his mother asks.

  Because it’s what the kids are saying.

  He’s right, ma’am, the chief says.

  Whether it’s the chief siding with Henry or just the general excitement of having someone over at the house, he can’t be sure, but something causes his mother to turn all serious and convincing. She stands up, pulls her robe tight and says, I know what caused the fire.

  Tell me then, the chief says.

  She puts her head back to answer.

  The man who rents on the first floor cooks French fries every night after work. Some of the fries in his basket are so old, they’re like charcoal. Besides, he drinks.

  When she’s finished pronouncing, she sits down and refuses to say anything more. The chief makes some notes in his pad and then says, You know I don’t usually do this, but somebody from Social Services might help out here. Do you mind if I contact them, send someone around?

  Henry watches his mother’s body stiffen. Why? she asks.

  Some of the neighbours have concerns, that’s all.

  Like who?

  I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. But one of the ladies on the street said you’ve been acting a bit manic.

  Well I never. Do as you must, she says. Then with her head so far back she’s looking at the ceiling, she says, Henry, please show this gentleman to the front door.

  As soon as the chief is out, she goes into one of her rages. The slamming pots and banging doors quickly escalate into shouting and screaming while she stalks in and out of Henry’s bedroom, smacking him on the shoulder, pounding him on the back, shrieking that she needs a real man not a snivelling child. When he doesn’t respond, she gives up and runs down the street in her bathrobe. From the front window, he watches her stop Mr. Gheakins from three doors down and lean into his car crying.

  An hour later, her robe torn and brambles in her hair, she returns and he tries to help her into the bath. But she begins battering the side of the tub with her fists, and he has to yank her out half-wet and shove her through the bathroom door so he can lock himself in. He sits in the tub until the water is icy cold and his body is shaking.

  A week after the chief’s visit, a Giselle Martin from Social Services phones. She makes an appointment to visit the following Monday after school. For the first time ever, he and his mother spend a weekend cleaning. Things at the house begin to look almost tidy, though most of the junk is simply being shoved into cupboards, or under beds. But when it comes time for his room there’s a commotion over his record collection. His mother, failing to appreciate there is any sort of system, starts to hurl records randomly into cardboard boxes. He lets out a loud wail when several fall from their plastic sleeves into a heap of black on black. He can’t stand to watch the one corner of his world that is organized fall into a stack of scratches and imperfection. The only way he can get her to stop is to threaten her with dismantling the TV antenna, although he isn’t sure how he will accomplish that if it comes to it.

  When they’re finally finished, he sits at his desk and inserts his ear phone.

  Thank you for standing by. Have you had a chance to get on down to Vancouver’s best menswear, Brandy and Wine at 557 West Broadway? They’ve got loads of Johnny Carson suits in, and they’re on special just for you. It’s 4:33 sock-it-to-me-time and here comes an oldie but goodie from Three Dog Night, “Jeremiah was a Bull Frog”.

  Henry can’t stand the song or how soft the station has become. Good thing he’s learned about Burns and Webster on CJOR talk radio. He pushes the dial around until he hears the distinctive voice of Pat Burns talking over some cranky woman who’s on the Hot Line trying to make a point about pornography on television. The two of them get louder and louder until Burns is simply saying the same word over and over . . . Doll . . . Doll . . . finally he cuts her off with a snap of the phone line. Henry’s hands shake. Radio is still his best friend but it is deserting him.

  On the Monday the cheerful little social services woman arrives in a yellow polyester pantsuit.

  Howdy, Alice. It’s Miss Martin. Mind if I come in?

  His mother waves her into the TV room and points at the wingback chair, then takes a seat on the couch. Henry, not wanting to sit too close to either of them, brings a chair in from the kitchen.

  How are things, Alice? Miss Martin begins.

  Fine.

  And Henry, how about you?

  I’m good.

  So, Alice, you told me on the phone you work at the drugstore. How long have you been there?

  Since 1968.

  Nearly ten years.

  Almost.

  That’s good. And how many hours a week do you work?

  Maybe 15. Some weeks only Friday nights and Saturday afternoons.

  Really. So how do you afford this house?

  I inherited it. We come from a family of some substance, you know.

  Henry hates it when his mother bluffs about their background, and Miss Martin must have sensed it because she keeps on.

  Well, the house is better than a lot of my families can afford . . .

  His mother interrupts, We are not one of your families. What makes you think that we are?

  Well, I don’t know . . .

  If you don’t know then stop asking. Clearly we can afford to live here.

  Henry is not entirely sure how his mother has so quickly reduced the perkiness quotient in the room by half, but all of a sudden Miss Martin seems to disappear into the wings of her chair. He tries to help by making a little conversation himself.

  Mom, do you think you should tell Miss Martin that you lived in this house when you were a kid?

  Henry, I thank you to not refer to me as Mom. I am Alice.

  Instead of him helping things, Miss Martin’s questions become more rushed and mangled, and by the time she departs, her calling card left in the centre of the coffee table, it’s fairly certain they will not be seeing her again. All in all, Miss Martin’s biggest concern seems to have been that he and his mother can afford to live in a better house than she does.

  Not long after the visit, Alice loses her job at the drugstore. Although she will never admit it, Henry figures it’s because her mood swings are worsening. Too often they culminate now with her marching outside his school in her dirty trench coat and yellow rubber boots, hours before the final bell, calling for him to come home. And although she never actually does anything terribly dangerous, he feels the constant pressure of it coming. Then one day, a day she did not show up at the school, he comes home to find she’s put her fist through the kitchen window and ripped an angry six inches on the underside of her arm. Blood seeps from the wound for a couple of days but she refuses to put a dressing on it. Her sheets are bloodied, and he has to wipe up drips of red from all around the house.

  A month after that, he finds her sitting in front of the television with an ice pack on her hand. She is crying and doesn’t seem able to talk, merely opens her mouth wide and lets tears roll down her cheeks. When he asks to see her hand, she holds up her palm. The shape of a stove element is plainly visible.

  Why’d you do that, Mom?

  I don’t know, she mouths. When she calms down, she tells him she’s seen the talent agent from Toronto, the one she met at the Cave, walking along Fourth Avenue.

  I thought he’d come to find me, she says, to give me a part in a show. But the man said he’d never seen me before, that he worked in a bank. I don’t know why he would lie like that.

  Henry knows she is disappearing into herself with sadness. He thinks in some way it is his fault, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

  A week later, Tom stands in front of him in the hall at school. He knows by the way Tom’s eyes avert it isn’t going to be good news, but in no way is he prepared for what Tom has to say. Tom sticks his hip out nonchala
ntly, which makes his bellbottoms flare.

  We’re moving to Guayaquil, Ecuador, he says.

  Henry says nothing.

  Tom leans in to add, My dad’s being transferred by the mining company and my mom wants to live near the beach — they compromised on Guayaquil. Then as if he’s saying nothing more than where the family is headed for summer vacation, he puts his hand up to wave goodbye and says, We’ll be gone for a while, maybe we’ll catch up later.

  Henry mistakes Tom’s gesture as a handshake and grabs his hand, hanging on for too long, and when he finally does let go, the two of them do an awkward teenage shuffle before Tom ducks into math class. Guayaquil? Ecuador? Henry straggles to chemistry and slumps at his lab desk where he has plenty of room to sprawl because he’s the only one who has no lab partner. He is in a daze, barely paying attention to the teacher who is conducting another one of her bizarre experiments, her wild Afro hair presiding over a stinking, flaming concoction. He failed chemistry once already, so he is taking it again and he knows Afro is going to make bubbles that float. Once she has a bubble airborne she will light it with a candle, and the bubble will sink.

  All is relatively calm, until unexpectedly one of the bubbles triples in size as soon as it is lit. The burning orb moves across Afro’s lab desk and heads for the girl named Sharon, or Shannon, or something like that, who sits across the aisle from him in a too-tight Charlie’s Angels T-shirt. Henry comes out of his slump and wanders toward the fiery ball. A part of him thinks he might impress Shannon-or-whatever-her-name-is if he can stop it, but a bigger part of him doesn’t really care. Once he is directly under the bubble, it lands on his head and the smell of burning hair fills the classroom. He lists a little toward Shannon-or-whatever, who recoils and says, Ew, as he comes close. He knows it is not the fire she’s upset about — it went out as quickly as it started — it is the proximity of his head to her too-tight T-shirt.

  Afro shuts down her Bunsen burner and yells, Henry, what are you doing? Why would you walk into the bubble?

  I don’t know, he answers.

  I’m calling down to Mr. Sogland’s. You go there directly. Understood?

  Yes.

  Mr. Sogland, fresh out of teacher’s college, is the new counselor. He has a pointy nose and the joke around school is it’s built to stick into other people’s business. Henry has not met him before, but he’s listened from his solitary seat at the end of the grade twelve’s cafeteria table to the others laugh about the nose.

  He is having trouble concentrating on what Mr. Sogland is saying, and wonders if it’s because he’s too focused on the nose.

  It says here in your records that last year you were recommended to go into the trades. Do you think things might be easier in that stream? Mr. Sogland asks.

  No, I like my classes. Especially chemistry. I’m doing better with my own lab desk. Why are you making me feel bad? In trades I’d have to work with others, and I’d just be in the way. Probably cut my thumbs off.

  Do you have troubles at home?

  No more than most. No point in telling you about my mother, her crazy marches in front of the school? Surely you know anyway. It’s your job, right?

  Any recent changes causing you difficulty?

  Nothing recent. Except my only friend, who is the slimmest shadow of a friend, but just the same my only friend, is about to leave for Ecuador and I have no one who gives a shit — no father, no brother, no sister, no functioning mother, no one at all. Even you, pencil-nose, must have someone.

  Well then what would make you deliberately want to harm yourself?

  It was just meant to be fun.

  When he says the word fun Mr. Sogland’s nose goes high into the air, as if he is sniffing for more. Henry feels the glimmer of a smile. It feels good in a terribly inappropriate way to be smiling.

  Do you find this funny?

  No, sir.

  Okay, no more cutting up in class or you will be in for detention. Clear?

  Yes, sir.

  Henry puts his ear speaker in and moves on down the hall and out the front door of the school.

  The day before Tom’s family is set to leave for Ecuador, there’s a knock on the front door. When Henry opens it, Dieter Lawson seems to be hiding in the shadows of the entrance. Even though it is a gloomy spring day, he is wearing a straw hat that partially obscures his face. Henry thinks he must have come to see his mother so he twists to call her, but Mr Lawson puts his hand on his shoulder to stop him. The two of them stare at each other for a moment.

  Don’t worry, son. God tests those he loves the most, Mr. Lawson says.

  Henry waits for more. He likes the way he’s been called son and he wants to know about the test, but instead Tom’s father walks down the porch steps. At the bottom, he looks up, squinting as if the sun is in his eyes, even though there is none. He tips his head so the brim of the hat obscures his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but says nothing. He turns and walks across the lawn. It isn’t until he is back on his own porch that he speaks again.

  Tell your mother goodbye from me, he calls.

  I will, Henry answers. But knows he won’t. If he does, she will either berate him for letting Mr Lawson leave without telling her, or berate him for letting him come to their house at all. He isn’t sure which, just certain that mention of Tom’s father and the move will set something off.

  Tom himself never does come over to say goodbye.

  But on the weekend when the young couple who’ve rented Tom’s house show up with a van full of furniture, Alice marches right over and through the front door before most of their stuff is even off the front lawn. Henry, nervous about what might happen, follows her.

  Hi, I’m Alice, she is saying. Haven’t been inside this place in years.

  Somehow she’s already figured out they are newly married and have moved to Vancouver from Guelph so the husband can take a job with Federal Fisheries. She walks into the living room.

  I see they never fixed the crack in the chimney, she says. Smoke’ll be pouring out of there soon as you light a fire.

  The pretty young wife, whose name is Patsy, looks concerned. She holds her hand up to her mouth and calls to her husband who is struggling onto the porch with a precarious load of dishes.

  Dave, come and look at this.

  I don’t think it’s a problem, Henry says. I’ve never seen smoke come out of there.

  How would you know? his mother retorts. You were never over here.

  He could say the same about her, but he lets it drop.

  Dave comes into the room and sets the dishes down. He is a good-looking man, trim and youthful, but with an over-serious quizzical expression, like someone who’s spent a lot of time staring at fishes. Alice sidles up to him holding out a long and unkempt fingernail toward the chimney.

  See. Look way up, she says. See the crack?

  I do, but I agree with your son — Henry is it? Not a problem, Dave says.

  Henry wonders how Dave knows his name and not knowing what else to do he starts to make his embarrassed strangulated laugh.

  Hmphf hmphf hmphf.

  Shut up, Henry, his mother says.

  He stops, his attention focused now on his mother’s expression. Her face has clouded over and she is giving the I dare you stare. The stare is meant for Dave, but he knows the I dare you part is meant for him. He wants them to leave before there’s a scene. She is silent for a moment and then holds her finger up to her lips as if imploring silence. Instead she speaks.

  I’ll never tell how much I know about this house. And Henry doesn’t know everything, that’s for sure. She laughs and points at him.

  Well, nice meeting you, Dave says. We’ve got lots to do here today.

  Dave turns and walks down the front steps to pick up a bureau that is too big for him to carry alone. Henry jumps to help, but Dave says, I got it.

  Still, Alice does not take the hint. She stays swaying slightly in the centre of the living room. Patsy looks a little pani
cked after Dave disappears down the hall into the back of the house. Eventually Henry takes his mother by the arm and steers her toward the front door. To his surprise she comes easily. Once they are home, he expects her to admonish him, but she quietly disappears into her room and shuts the door.

  That evening after Henry has cooked fish sticks for dinner — a scoopful of instant mash and frozen peas on each plate — she doesn’t say anything about the new people, about Tom’s family, or their move. Once she’s finished supper, she sits in front of the television and knits. She says nothing at all, not even good night, when she slips into her bedroom.

  It turns out she was saving it all up for the darkness. Well past midnight, he hears the chanting in her room begin. He switches off his transistor radio to monitor what is going on.

  Dear Dee, Dear Dee, Dear Dee in the fire. Dear Dee, Dear Dee, Dear Dee make the fire, Dear Dee, Dear Dee . . .

  It sounds strange and it goes on for a long time, but he is grateful it never turns into a full-on rant. The first thing that comes to mind is the sound of Mrs. Lawson calling her husband from their porch. Dieter light the barbeque, Dieter bring in the garbage cans. Henry lies in bed and wonders if his mother is chanting about putting Tom’s father into the fire.

  He knows what is happening when the noise wakes him up. It is an odd but recognizable sound, a solid crack followed by a plopping swish as the yolk streaks. He is too tired to do anything about it except turn on the bedroom light to scare the kids away. When he gets up in the morning he’s dismayed to see they have egged Dave and Patsy’s house too. He knows from experience it is almost impossible to remove if left long enough to cook in the sun, so he hoses the egg from their place first, hoping they are still asleep and will never find out.

  By the time he is finished, it is just after 7:00 AM, and he walks to the laundromat at Fourth and Macdonald. He isn’t sure why he goes there except that he knows it will be open, it will be warm, it will smell clean, and it won’t be his house.