Cluck

by Lenore Rowntree

  That wall of water sort of jolted me, Henry says.

  You freaked, man. Sometimes I dunno what my mom sees in you. Get it together.

  Yeah, okay.

  And no more screaming. Okay, man?

  Henry adds to his list of concerns the affections of the widow. Or is that what Joey meant? Maybe he just meant it in the sense of him being her business partner, her worker, her farmhand — a friend even. He’s not sure now where he wants it to go. He’s tempted to ask Joey more, but lets it drop. It’s not fair to drag him into it.

  Wendy has set the eggs in the incubator so he can see the pencil marks where he’s indicated which mother hen he guesses goes with which egg. There are forty-six eggs in total, almost as many as chickens the mink killed. He’s touched she’s put the eggs this way, because she thinks it’s nonsense. She’s told him hens brood each other’s eggs and it’s impossible to know which belong together. He puts his ear down to Flower’s egg and hears nothing.

  They don’t all hatch at the same time and not all of them are going to hatch, she says. Listen to Pepper’s egg, but don’t turn any of them, they need to be left still now.

  He holds his head over the egg marked with a P and sure enough there’s a soft peep. When he pulls his head up he can see the egg and a few of its cousins rocking, as if the chick inside is starting to flex. Wendy hands him a plastic spray bottle.

  Mist them, she says. It keeps their shells soft. I’m going inside to make us lunch.

  What do I do if one starts to hatch?

  Just watch. Don’t panic — it takes time.

  While she’s gone he looks around at the small maternity ward she’s set up. There are bowls of water, Q-tips and an extra heating lamp on a cookie sheet. Beside the lamp is a bottle of disinfectant and a bottle of champagne. While Henry contemplates this, one of the eggs gives a hard rock and a hole appears at the large end of it. By the time Wendy returns with a plate of corned beef sandwiches, there is an audible chirping coming from the table.

  Did one of them hatch? she asks.

  No, but there’s a big hole in one egg.

  Keep watching, in case any are born with yolk stuck to the rump.

  What?

  The yolk is all they have to eat at first and if there’s any stuck, the rest of the chicks will peck it to death.

  Really?

  Would I lie?

  Maybe.

  By mid-afternoon one chick has pecked a hole big enough for Henry to see its eye. The more the chick struggles, the more it looks like a dinosaur emerging. The chick’s yellow down is slick with albumen, its eyes and feet huge in proportion to its scrawny body. Once the chick is fully exposed it lies on its side, gathering the strength to stand up. After about an hour, when the chick finally stands, Henry crows.

  Now you understand why I have the champagne, Wendy says.

  She pops the cork and pours two glasses. She hands one to Henry and they clink glasses. He takes a sip. The bubbles go up his nose and he shudders.

  You don’t like it? she asks.

  It’s okay. It’s just I’m not much of a drinker. But hey — Happy New Year.

  Can’t be any worse than last year.

  No, I suppose not.

  Wendy finishes her glass and they both look down to watch another chick struggle up onto its feet. Now there are two babies to look at, but Henry is feeling stuck. He knows he should say something wise about life and passages, but his backside is sore and his headache is returning. He’s been standing for a few hours now and is feeling as discombobulated as a chick tottering on new legs.

  Why don’t we do this in shifts, Wendy says. You can rest, if you want, and take over later.

  Okay. You sure?

  I’m sure.

  He starts to head for the Constellation Room.

  Wendy calls, You know, neither one of us really has to be here all the time, so long as we check now and again.

  He can see she is tired too. The best thing he can think to offer is a spot in the Constellation Room.

  Do you want to lie down in here? he gestures to the room.

  Okay, she says.

  Sweet Jesus, Henry thinks, how do I the deliver on this one? I can’t, I mean I don’t, I don’t function properly. But here it is, the test, and I’ve got feathers in my underpants, a bruised butt, and a paralyzed penis.

  He follows her into the Constellation Room. She lies on his mud-slab bed.

  What now, he wonders, what if it won’t move, what if it doesn’t know how, what if my mother did suck my dick? Figure something out, push on it, jam your hand into your pocket, think about breasts, there you go, you can feel it, push, yeah, now get on that bed.

  Wendy looks up and says, This is not what you might be thinking. I don’t want to do anything, I just want a little company. It’s been a hard year.

  Henry’s head is swimming as he walks to the edge of the mud slab. He picks up his hot water bottle and holds it out.

  Let me get some hot water, he says. It will make you feel peaceful.

  He plugs in the electric kettle at the incubation table. The two chicks that have emerged roam through the unbroken eggs, trailing each other, not too closely, not enough to crowd, but near enough.

  By the time he returns with the bottle Wendy has scooted over to make room for him, but she looks half asleep. He hands her the bottle, and she puts it on her stomach, smiles, and closes her eyes. He lies down beside her and watches the bottle move up and down. It’s reassuring and he is starting to feel comfortable enough to get up on his elbow and lean over for a kiss. A kiss should be easy enough, only a touch on the lips. He’s almost ready to do it when he hears gentle snoring synchronized with her rising and falling belly. He kisses her anyway. She does not respond. She is asleep.

  Now that he has a moment on his own, not panicked by performance anxiety, he runs over in his mind what he would do next if she were awake and returned his kiss. He would give a stellar performance, rock hard, as long as it takes, whatever it is. His hand goes to the top of his belly, gently rests on the edge, rubs carefully and things firm up, and what would he do if . . . uh, uh, uh . . . his hips thrust toward the ceiling like a teenager’s, out of control and with no sense of place. His superhero ejaculates while he struggles to keep silent so he won’t wake Wendy. He hasn’t had this happen since he was fifteen, and even then not so easily.

  Relief floods his body. This is a type of success. This is something he can be proud of. He needs to bank this feeling. He is almost not a virgin anymore. His body is relaxed enough that he falls into a partly awake, mostly asleep state, but it’s hot, very hot, like being under an ultraviolet lamp, and it’s crowded with bodies, all of them in the same sticky space, swimming in a viscous substance, all elbows, nipples, mouths, testicles, kneecaps. His own rump among them has yellow yolk stuck on it and all the other bodies want to peck at him, and his nose is full with that smell, what is that smell? he knows he’s smelled it before, even as he is asking himself he is down the drain of the kitchen sink with his mother’s hand-wand, and then in the kitchen cupboard by her pots and pans, the cymbals and tympanis that accompanied her disturbances, then inside her cold-cream pots and lipstick tubes — all of it smelling so, well, the only word for it, so eggy.

  Henry sits up, his heart racing. A ruckus in the barn has awoken him. He rushes out to find Flower who has escaped from behind the barricades. His rear end is stiff and sore from where he crashed earlier on the steps, and his underwear feels sticky and itchy, but he has to ignore all of this because Flower has hopped up onto the incubation table and is trying to peck a hole in one of the eggs. Several of the eggs are rocking now, including the one marked in pencil with a small flower, though that’s not the one she’s pecking at. No matter, she has to get out of there. She’s in danger of burning her feathers on the heat lamp. He picks her up and sets her on the floor. She fights him, pecking at his hand.

  What’s going on? Wendy asks as she walks out of the Constellation Room.

/>   More chicks are hatching, he says. Check that Flower is okay, she got close to the lamp.

  Wendy picks the hen up and holds her still against her belly. She gives her a once over and sets her down on the other side of the barricade. Flower squawks.

  She’s okay, Wendy says.

  Henry looks down to see another shell is almost off except there’s something wrong with the chick. It’s on its side and the eye is not open like the others. He watches for a few more seconds, waiting to see if it pops opens. The chick is alive, its feet curling and uncurling as if it wants to grab onto a roosting bar, but still the eye does not open.

  Wendy, come here! What’s up with this chick?

  Which one? she says, putting her head over the table.

  This one. I think it’s blind.

  Naw, that happens. Is there any warm water left in the kettle? Put some on a Q-tip and clean off the eye.

  He pours a half-inch of warm water into a bowl and dips the swab into it. He wipes the Q-tip gently across the chick’s eye and the chick flutters it open and closed a few times.

  Wait ’til it stands up to see if the other one needs doing, Wendy says.

  It takes the chick a few minutes to wobble onto its feet but when it does the other eye is closed too. He sets the bowl of water in the chick’s track. Down at chick level, eye-to-one-good-eye with it, he sees that not only is the other eye stuck, but the chick also has a cross-beak. He wipes the second eye open.

  It’s okay, little chickie, I’ll make sure you can eat too.

  Wendy comes and puts her hand on Henry’s back, You’re a gentle man, Henry. I like you, but . . .

  But, what?

  But . . . I mean I’m not ready to go there yet. Maybe it wasn’t always the best marriage with Dennis, but it’s not been a year and I’m still sort of mixed up.

  Henry thinks in many ways he could just as easily be the one saying he’s not ready, that he’s mixed up. But what’s his excuse? How is he supposed to say my mother was crazy, which makes me crazy, and now I can’t have sex? Is that even an excuse? He knows he’s different, but it’s not anything anybody else can see and he doesn’t even know how to describe it to somebody else. It would be so much easier if he’d been born with a shrivelled leg or a damaged heart. Then people could say treat him with care, he’s not like us. He looks down at the newest chick.

  I think we should give cross-beak a name, he says. How about Henry?

  What if it’s not a he?

  Henrietta then, he says. We have to treat her with care, she’s special.

  Hours later, after thirty-eight chicks have been born and he is alone, undressing in his room, he discovers feathers stuck to the shaft of his penis.

  You’re special all right, he says to his feathered appendage. You’re chicken.

  FIFTEEN

  Brooding Machine

  THURSDAY JANUARY 3RD, HENRY WAKES alone in the Constellation Room and stares at Ursa Major. The feathers at the end of the nose have fallen off and Henry feels almost as empty-headed as the Great Bear above. Tomorrow he will be in court in Idaho. This could be his last day as a free man. He has no idea how he’ll satisfy the transmission tower debt, or how he’ll convince the judge his venture in chicken sales is a sure thing. All he can do is try. Eventually he drags himself out of bed. He needs to check on the chicks, make sure they have enough mash and water, before heading over to tell Wendy he has to take a couple of days off.

  The chicks have doubled in body weight again overnight, and even Henry Cross-Beak is growing longer and fatter.

  As he crosses the yard, Henry decides to use a technique he learned at Agriculture. When staff asked for a short leave, they’d go vague about the reason, saying little other than I need time for a procedure. Right away everyone knew not to ask because clearly if it was something simple, like an ingrown toenail, they’d just say so.

  Wendy is at the kitchen table with eight cards in front of her, and a book at her elbow titled Luscher Colour Test. He watches her place the purple first, the green second, then flip the others and rearrange them.

  What are you doing? he asks.

  I’m putting the cards in order of my favourite colours. They interpret my personality, she says.

  She makes a calculation on a piece of paper and starts to read from the book.

  It says I’m fearful I won’t achieve all that I want, and I need sex as a stress relief. Ha ha, she laughs. Could have fooled me.

  Henry laughs too but isn’t sure why. Somehow their not having sex has loosened her up, made her want to talk about it. And all he wants to tell her right now is that he needs a few days off.

  Ah, Wendy, I need to use the phone.

  Sure.

  He dials his number in Kitsilano. While he waits for Chas to pick up, his neck and shoulders begin to cramp. What if Chas is not home? What if Aristedes, who threatened to kidnap him until after the Epiphany, has wooed him away? What if Chas, in his enthusiasm for Aristedes, has forgotten his promise to drive Henry to Idaho? His shoulders begin to feel like they are being pulled toward each other by some powerful magnet. He’s about to hang up when a man’s voice on the other end says, Huh.

  Hey. Who is this? Aristedes?

  It is, my friend.

  Is Chas there?

  No.

  Where is he?

  Out.

  When will he be back?

  Dunno.

  Henry’s neck cramp is getting worse. His head feels like it’s being pulled down to his right shoulder. He bends into the phone as if by pushing on it, he can make this all work.

  When did he leave?

  Dunno.

  He’s just going to have to say it in front of Wendy. Tell Aristedes he has to find Chas and make sure he gets on his way out to the farm to pick him up so that they can drive to Idaho for court the next morning.

  You know, he says, Chas has to drive me somewhere today. Remember?

  No. Wait. Maybe. Look, sorry, I’m pretty bad hungover.

  Wendy looks up from her coloured cards and starts motioning with her hands that she needs to speak with him. He turns his back on her so he can lean further into the phone, give it all his attention.

  Aris, can you get Chas to call me back? I’m at the farm. We have to be on our way soon.

  I’ll try, my friend.

  I’ll drive you, Wendy says.

  No you can’t, Henry says. I’m sorry.

  What? Aristedes asks.

  I’m not talking to you, Henry says.

  Then why did you call? Aristedes asks.

  Sorry, please just get Chas to phone me.

  He hangs up and sits down at the kitchen table. He flips over the red card and buries his head in his hands. From underneath his hand he asks, Is this the card that says you’ll drive me to Idaho?

  From up in his loft Joey calls down, Say no, Mom. He’s a crazy passenger.

  Mind your own business, Joey, Wendy says.

  Henry tells her what he can manage to spit out about the court appearance and the transmission tower, while Wendy busies herself with packing for a weekend away, walking back and forth between her bedroom and the kitchen holding up various outfits, asking him whether he likes the pink or the purple sweater, the black or the blue jeans. She’s happy and excited, and natters on about how it’s time for her to get out of Langley, how the farmer next door can be on call, and they can transfer the chicks into the brooding machine, so it’ll be easy for Joey to take care of them.

  Joey calls down, I’m not sticking around to take care of a bunch of stupid chickens.

  How ’bout if I pay you twenty-five bucks? Henry asks.

  Okay, I guess.

  I’ll pay as soon as the first chick sells.

  There’s always a catch, man, Joey says.

  There always is, Henry agrees.

  Wendy’s pulling on her boots when the phone rings. She listens for a bit and holds the handset out to Henry.

  I’m on my way, Chas says.

  Oka
y, see you soon.

  Wendy looks disappointed. He can’t tell her he doesn’t need her to come.

  How would it be riding with Chas? he asks.

  Good, she says. Fun to go in a Mustang.

  Great to go in the Mustang! Joey corrects from upstairs.

  Not you, Wendy says.

  I know. But I’m gonna get my hands on a pony car one day soon.

  Henry follows Wendy out to the barn to see what the brooding machine looks like. She walks to a shelf by the transportation cages and takes down an oversized carton with a painting of a pineapple field on it. He is expecting something to come out of the box — a special poo-extracting, down-washing, mash-dispensing gizmo. But when she lifts up the sides of the box and drops a piece of cheesecloth into the bottom, he can see it’s empty. Nothing in it but cheesecloth.

  This is a brooding machine? he asks.

  It’ll do. Keeps the predators out and Joey can change the cheesecloth easy enough. Just set the heat lamp over top, add some water and mash, and away we go.

  Just before ten, Chas pulls into the yard and honks. Henry is surprised, given the earlier conversation, that Aristedes is with him.

  How did you manage the time off from the deli? he asks.

  My big sister, she runs things better than me anyway.

  Makes better béchamel too, Chas adds.

  Henry carries the bags to the trunk. Compared to the back seat, it’s a treasure chest of space, room for everything, despite the bottles of retsina Aristedes has stashed there. He slams the lid and catches a glimpse of Joey standing outside the kitchen door. He looks a little forlorn. It’s been a tough year for him too.

  Chas flips the bucket seat forward, and Wendy scrambles into the back.

  Cozy in here, she says.

  Henry folds himself in beside her.

  Wendy rolls down her car window and calls to Joey.

  If the chicks huddle together, it means they’re cold. Turn the heat up, she says. And no more than half an inch of water in the jars. You don’t want any drowned chicks.

  Happy Epiphany, Joey, and do everything I would do, Aristedes shouts as they pull away.

  Out the back window, Henry watches Joey’s uncertainty turn to a grin.