Cluck

by Lenore Rowntree

  He’s shy, Charity says. I hope he didn’t freak you out. Look I gotta get going back into work. We’ll send you the shot. It’s nothing weird.

  Okay. If you say.

  Promise you’ll come on down for the show.

  Promise.

  Thanks for visiting.

  Henry finishes his beer sitting in the parking lot. He’s not sure what to make of the photo shoot although he has to admit he’s a little disappointed Charity has a boyfriend. He felt for a second like they were making friends, and maybe they still are. On balance, weird as Peter is, the evening has been fun so far and taking this vacation has been an excellent idea.

  He cracks a second beer as he drives past the Chamber of Commerce. He’s starting to feel like he belongs, this is where the gold-digger gal Denise♥ works. There are ♥s everywhere. Couldn’t be a better omen for his mission. He clicks on the radio to listen to the seven o’clock KLUK news before Jamie Lee’s show starts. For all he knows, Jamie Lee puts a ♥ over the i in her name too. All good things run in threes.

  The second beer goes down really fast. He likes it and wonders why he never tried drinking before. Then he isn’t sure if it’s the beer or what, but the news ends too abruptly and cuts immediately to Jamie Lee.

  It’s the girl inside the radio bringing you a country devotional for the weekend. Whew . . . it’s Friday night and I’m going to play a radio request right off the top. Darryl from out there in Osburn called in and asked me to play “Behind Closed Doors” . . . good choice, Darryl. You and your girlfriend, you chase each other around the room tonight, okay? And you know, Darryl, that’s just what I’m wanting to do myself. Get me behind some closed doors later on tonight. But right now, I’m alone in here and I’m feeling kind of soft.

  Henry’s chest spreads like a massive bald-headed eagle. He wants to swoop down on the radio and caress it with all the lust and passion he’s built up inside — that Jamie Lee, she is in a mood all right. He cracks open a third beer and gulps it down greedily as he drives through the town of Osburn, which he realizes he’d misread earlier on the map as Osbum. Another omen: Jamie Lee is talking about the very town he is driving through.

  The window wipers slap at raindrops big as mud pies as he passes the Silverton town sign. Then just before Crystal Gayle’s ‘‘I’ve Cried (The Blue Right Out of My Eyes)” ends, Jamie Lee’s voice seems to jump out from nowhere again.

  Hey everybody, the girl inside the radio is in some kind of existential condition. I got a whole mess of tunes guaranteed to put you on edge. First up is Johnny Dear singing “Road to Nowhere”, then Garth Yearwood is gonna put his heart on the line with “Can’t Get There From Here”, and finally the sweetheart of all time, Miss Patsy Cline is going to sing about that bewitching hour when all good things come to an end, you know it . . . “Walkin’ After Midnight” . . . Say, all this highbrow talk is driving me to a confession. I’m not really here tonight. I’m out chasing down midnight. Can’t wait for it. How about you? Are any of you really out there?

  The eagle in Henry’s chest starts to thrash, beat its wings hard against his rib cage. Somehow Jamie Lee’s mood has switched. He doesn’t like it anymore. By the time he comes around the bend in the shore of the lake — which is really just a pond — and sees the red light of a radio tower up on the ridge, he’s completely confused. He cracks a fourth beer and has it drunk as Patsy finishes singing. He’s starting up the road toward the red light when Jamie Lee comes back on.

  I’m surrounded with straps, cords, tapes, reels, headphones, microphones, too much radio stuff. More STUFF than you can shake a fist at. The whole thing makes me feel looped.

  Me too, he shouts. I’m looped too. Friggin’ right I’m looped. More looped than you can shake your fist at, Jamie Lee.

  He hoists his fifth beer into the air. He finishes it and crumples the can as he pulls into the radio station parking lot. The lot is empty except for one other car. He puts on his sunglasses and gets out of the Subaru. His hand trembles when he shuts the door and he has to steady himself for a moment before he can walk to the front of the building. The station looks to be in darkness. He sees the KLUK sign and the hen and chicks in cowboy boots painted on the window, so he knows it’s the right building. But it’s like no one’s here. He decides to return to the car and drink the last beer. When it’s gone, he gets out of the car and walks along the side of the building.

  At the back, a door is propped open with a chair wedged under it and a single line of light shines out onto the waste disposal unit. A heavy-set man is pushing a large rubber garbage can toward the unit. Henry stands in the dark and watches the man hoist the can over his shoulder. Styrofoam cups, paper plates, balloons, streamers, and a half-eaten birthday cake avalanche into the disposal.

  The man scrapes icing off the side of the can, walks back into the building, and returns with a second load. When he’s busy hurling champagne bottles into the unit, Henry sneaks inside. He is wandering down the corridor toward the red light over a door, when the janitor yells.

  Hey, you can’t go in there.

  Henry turns around. I’m looking for Jamie Lee.

  She’s not in there. Are you one of her guests?

  What do you mean she’s not in there? SHE’S ON THE RADIO!

  Hey buddy, settle down. She’s on the radio, but she’s looped tonight — on tape — not here. Are you one of her guests, or what?

  For her birthday?

  No, not for her birthday, her wedding. She’s down in Wallace getting married to Billy Wray right now.

  All the feeling drains out of his body. He’s afraid he might pass out if he doesn’t move quickly. He runs outside, gets in his car, and turns on the engine. Jamie Lee’s voice purrs into the night. He sits as still as he can behind the steering wheel, the voice eddying around him. He tries to force all his thoughts down, deep into his gut, but he can’t do it. He feels numb melancholy moving up through awareness, into anxiety and then into a colour — blue electric wire.

  Pure panic has a smell — pepper up the nostril.

  A taste — red lipstick.

  And a sound — thirteen thousand radios all blaring Jamie Lee Savitch.

  He grips the steering wheel and shouts, How could you? How could you? . . . What makes Little Ducky fly? I’ll show you what makes him fly!

  He hits the bridge of his sunglasses with the palm of his hand, floors the Subaru, the car roars across the wet parking lot, skids over a ditch, leaps across a patch of yellowed grass, then smashes into the transmission tower. A spark flies from the grill and the engine goes dead. Everything is quiet except for the ear-piercing radio.

  Henry is aware of someone turning the radio off. He hears a female voice.

  Get out of the car, sir.

  He unfolds from around the steering wheel and steps out of the car; a crumpled beer can in a cozy falls to the ground. The woman looking at him is wearing a police officer’s uniform. She reminds him a bit of Kitty from Arbutus Mall.

  Aren’t you a sight, she says.

  A lens has fallen out of his sunglasses and he has beer all down the front of his sweatshirt.

  You okay? she asks. She blinks her flashlight on and off in his eyes. Hit your head or anything?

  Henry stares at her. I don’t think so.

  How much you had to drink tonight, sir?

  While Henry tries to remember how many beers he’s drunk, it just sort of comes to him, there under the glow of the transmission tower. You have choices in life, and it takes courage to make them, but if you make a choice, that’s how you learn to fly. His face breaks into a silly smile.

  I’ll tell you how many I had, if you give me a hug, he says.

  The officer looks over at her male partner sitting in the cruiser. She shrugs.

  Let me book you first.

  NINE

  Show of Feathers

  THERE IS A DULL PRESSURE in the front of Henry’s head. He sits up and the room tilts. Then he hears himself retch and a voice say
, That’s what the garbage can is beside you for.

  He remembers being told the night before, If you don’t cooperate sir, we’ll throw you in the shower. He can’t remember much else, but he must have cooperated because he doesn’t feel like he’s had a shower in weeks.

  From the bed, he asks, Where am I?

  The Shoshone County Jail, the voice says.

  Oh. He starts to puke again. When the last of all that is in his gut has been brought up, he looks through the bars to see a young deputy sheriff with his feet up on the desk. Inside the cell, there’s the bed he’s on, a stainless steel toilet, a can full of puke, and that’s it. He looks down at his shoes beside the bed. There are no laces.

  If I can take ten bucks from your wallet, I’ll get you a greasy breakfast, the sheriff says. It’ll help with the hangover.

  It will?

  Should do, sop up the alcohol. Quite the bender you were on.

  Yeah, I’ve never been drunk before.

  Really? Be sure to tell the judge that.

  Judge? What judge?

  You gotta go see a judge before you can get out of here.

  I do. Why?

  Drunk in a public place. Damage to property. Driving under the influence. You name it. No judges this weekend, but first thing Monday morning we’ll get you out of here.

  Not ’til Monday?

  Like I said.

  Do you know where my car is?

  Out back. Safe and sound, such as it is.

  What does that mean?

  Well you hit a transmission tower that was a whole lot bigger than your car, so yeah, the front end is a bit mashed.

  Oh jeez. And my other stuff?

  Your beer cozies, broken sunglasses, camera, and wallet are right here in my desk.

  Any chance I can get the camera back? It’d give me something to do while I’m in here.

  Well it’s against protocol, but don’t see why not, nothing to take any pictures of in here anyway.

  I’d be grateful.

  The sheriff pulls open his desk drawer and walks to the cell to pass the camera through the bars.

  Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you, and if you gotta do any serious business in there — he jerks his finger at the toilet — just tell me and I’ll turn my head. I’m used to it.

  Henry spends the afternoon and part of the next day, until he runs out of film, working on low light exposures. He photographs his shoes without laces, his jail bed, the toilet in the corner and the deputy with his feet up on the desk taking a snooze. Might be an interesting collection, he thinks.

  On the Monday morning, a different sheriff rounds up Henry and a couple of inmates from another division and they follow a paddy wagon, sirens going, around the corner to the courthouse. Two guys in shackles shuffle down the hall to a courtroom while Henry and the inmates he came with are ushered into the registry office to wait for the judge to finish up with the more serious felons.

  Henry is the last to be dealt with and he expects to be taken to a courtroom, but an officer tells him, The judge is in a hurry. He’s missed lunch and he’s already backed up for the afternoon, so he’ll take you in the anteroom off the registry.

  The judge appears with a female clerk.

  Okay, Mr. Parkins, what happened?

  I got drunk for the first time in my life and they tell me I crashed into a transmission tower.

  Why?

  It was an accident. I didn’t know what alcohol could do to me.

  First time offender?

  Yes, sir. I’ve never had any trouble before.

  From Canada, right?

  Yes, sir.

  Okay, I’m going to release you, but you have to sign a Recognizance which means you guarantee you’ll pay the radio station back for the damage you caused or you’ll appear back here in court. Agreed?

  Yes, sir.

  I want to make it very clear to you that if you don’t pay, the law will come over the border and we will have you arrested. Understood?

  Yes, sir.

  The judge signs a couple of papers and hands them to the clerk, and they both disappear from the room.

  Henry waits for almost three hours before the clerk returns. She sets down a number of documents and a pen and says, Sorry it took so long. The radio station couldn’t tell me an amount so I’ve put here for an amount to be assessed. Sign, please, and we’ll be sure to send you the amount soon as we can.

  By the time Henry is back behind the wheel of the Subaru it’s nearly five o’clock and before he can drive any distance he has to find someone to check out the car. He’s a little shocked by the amount of damage. He doesn’t remember hitting anything at all. He drives as far as Kellogg before he finds a gas station that has a light on in the mechanic’s bay. The mechanic, a big fellow covered in grease, takes a look underneath and starts to talk while he’s still down on the ground.

  You’ll have to bring it back tomorrow, he says.

  Oh no, I really have to be back in British Columbia tomorrow morning.

  Sorry, it’s closing time.

  Isn’t there anything I can do?

  The mechanic hauls himself out from under the car and just stands there. Henry doesn’t know if maybe it’s the grease on the mechanic’s face, a swath of it along his hairline, but something about the fellow makes him feel like he is a comrade. Even though it’s against his grain, Henry makes him an offer.

  I’ll pay you an extra hundred bucks to stay open long enough to look over the car. I only need to know whether it’s safe enough to drive back.

  The fellow gestures toward the blue light of Jeffrey’s Fry Shack across the street. Fifty bucks and a bucket of chicken with slaw, and you got a deal.

  When Henry opens the door to the Shack, a wave of greasy chicken hits him. He thinks he might retch again like he did that first morning in the jail, but he keeps it together long enough to order. He’s sitting on a red plastic chair waiting, when Charity walks through the door.

  Hey stranger, you still here? Thought you’d be back in Vancouver by now.

  No. Decided to stay the weekend. Huh, how do you know where I live?

  You signed my invite list.

  Oh yeah.

  Don’t forget to come down for my show, or I’ll have to come get you.

  Sure. Sure. When is it again?

  Early in the new year. Haven’t got the exact date yet, but it’ll be on a weekend.

  Okay.

  He wants to say more, but nausea and a dull headache are taking the edge off everything. Charity’s order is ready before his and she walks back holding something out toward him.

  I was gonna mail this to you, but might as well give it to you now. Turned out pretty good, huh?

  She hands him a photo of the two of them toasting with cozied beer cans. Her boyfriend got a good angle on her ample bosom, and the two of them look okay together.

  Nice, Henry says. Something good to remember the weekend by.

  He’s feeling better when he crosses the street back to the garage and his stomach would have stayed settled if the mechanic hadn’t been chomping on a chicken leg — bits of still-red muscle and tendon hanging from the cartilage — when he hands Henry the bill for the hoist check, plus fifty bucks.

  Should get you back to Canada, he says. But take it in for service soon as you can, the electrical is fragile.

  Henry takes a swig of the Coke he bought at the Shack. He is curious to know what the fellow means by fragile, but he can’t watch him eat chicken any longer, so he settles up and rushes out into the cool night air. Good thing he applied for a visa after the debacle with Elaine at Denny’s, or he wouldn’t have been able to pay for everything. He breathes deeply once back in his wagon. He turns the radio on just long enough to deprogram KLUK. He knows he shouldn’t be using anything electrical, but he can’t stand to think his car is in any way connected to KLUK. Then he puts his broken sunglasses into the glovebox and slams it shut because clearly Jack Nicholson is an idiot.

  The
roads are mostly deserted and he’s glad for the peace, though he can still smell fried chicken. He’d had to wait too long in the Shack for the order, and the stench is on his clothes and in his hair. It makes him think about his first assignment at Swift Farms overseeing the spring beak trimming. The farm manager had told him the heated blades were self-cauterizing, state of the art. But afterward a lot of birds had neural discharge because the beaks were trimmed too close. Henry filed a remedial order, but Swift objected and got him overruled. He’d done what he could to protest the industry, hadn’t eaten turkey or chicken since, but there was only so much one man could do, and buying the mechanic his bucket and slaw had been an emergency.

  He starts to tire after midnight, but around two in the morning, just south of Seattle, he is jolted back awake. He thinks he feels the Subaru veer to the right, although as soon as it happens he’s not sure. The veer might have been more a tug of his brain after all the trauma on the weekend.

  It doesn’t happen again and he’s thankful when he pulls up in front of the house just before dawn. His neck and shoulders are so tight he has to sit in the car for a few minutes to unwind. And his stomach feels queasy again. He needs to go inside and drink some milk, settle himself down before he cleans up for work.

  When he opens the fridge and swigs straight from the carton, he figures out too late the milk is off. He stands with the carton in hand and throws up into the sink. He hoses the vomit and spoiled milk down the drain with the hand-wand his mother had installed just the week before she died. As he watches the last bits of food swirl around, he yells, GODDAMNIT, YOU’RE DEAD. WHY AM I STILL MEASURING THINGS BY HOW LONG BEFORE OR AFTER YOU DIED?

  He shuts off the water and steadies himself at the edge of the sink. She is not still around every corner, waiting to come at him, telling him he’s a comfort, while at the same time berating him, saying he isn’t strong enough, smart enough, handsome enough. He just won’t let this happen anymore.

  He stalks into the dining room, sweeps off the clutch of bereavement cards that have been on the sideboard for too long, then picks them up, brings them into the kitchen, and hurls them into the garbage. They land on top of the sour milk container. The last card opens to Chas’ scrawled sentiment we’re here to help reminding him this month’s rent hasn’t been paid yet.