Cluck

by Lenore Rowntree

  Jamie Lee pulls out a mobile phone and pushes 9-1-1.

  The giant chicken house is on fire, she says.

  Let it burn, Henry thinks. There is indeed possibility in everything.

  HENRY

  eventually

  IF YOU BACK THINGS UP, a lot of what happens leading up to the trial is good. Take, for example, the acrylic chicken ball fire. Although the fire burns a hole in the roof of the kitchen before it’s put out, it’s a badly constructed extension of the house, easy to tear down and rebuild. By the time the smell of smoke clears and the reconstruction work is finished, the real estate boom has hit and the house sells for enough to give the bank all its money with some left over. Henry moves to the top floor of a threestorey walk-up in a tidy but modest apartment building near the corner of Fourth and Alma Street. And for a time he works from there in the chicken business, but he and Chas get out once Joey’s old enough to come on board.

  After the Outsider Fair, Henry’s career as an artist blooms so fast and with such force he believes he can make a decent living as an artist. He gets away from knitting and begins to spend more and more time with photography, ultimately a better medium for his collecting nature: the collection of cameras, lenses, and filters, and of course the hundreds and hundreds of images. Few things can compare with the satisfaction of holding a contact sheet full of photos he’s taken himself. And, although he eventually comes to like the convenience of digital, there’s much about the new technology he laments. Too easy to break the chain of collection, to forget, or to neglect to reproduce the images.

  His first professional show is a small one at the Exposure Gallery in Vancouver where he exhibits photos from the fair. He tells Charity about the show and she tells the people at the Shoshone Gallery who invite him down for a remount. While there, he pitches the idea of showing the grainy black-and-white images from his weekend in jail after the KLUK transmission fiasco. The show is critically acclaimed — the reviewer from the Idaho College of Art magazine particularly likes the image of the stainless steel jail toilet juxtaposed with a shot of the deputy sheriff, his feet up on the desk sipping a milkshake — something about the conscious aesthetic of interior landscape rooted in waste that Henry didn’t really intend. Still, with such artistic success, he believes he is on his way to making a name as a photographer. And in slower times he will make a modest living shooting weddings, bar mitzvahs, christenings, and graduations.

  The shows in Idaho allow him to rekindle the romance he’d started with Jamie Lee at the end of the fair. They get together every few months, mostly on American holiday weekends, and then more and more during the week after Jamie Lee loses her job at KLUK. Once she turns forty, she becomes increasingly anxious about her appearance and her public persona, and as the anxiety increases so do the number of times she lets aahhh-eehhh slip on-air. She and Henry are on and off for a couple more years — when they are off occasionally he meets other women, usually at wedding shoots — but mostly he holds out for Jamie Lee. Ultimately though she sinks into a funk about everything, including Henry, until finally she writes him a letter declaring their romance off for good.

  He adds it to the collection of letters he’s squirrelled away — most a lot nicer than the kiss-off. He holds it all together with a red ribbon, her old promo photo on top and underneath an envelope with a telephone message tape that contains her sleepy voice.

  I’ll be driving up tomorrow to see you. I’m feeling a bit lonely.

  At first, when their romance ends, his old doubts and insecurities threaten to swarm back in. Chas and Aristedes are on a break, so why not Chas? But their liaison is a disappointment, brief and furtive. Chas puts on his silk robe afterward and broods in a chair.

  Oh well, he says, you did warn me, you never thought you could go there.

  Henry partly agrees, saying he thinks he is probably bisexual, to which Chas says he doesn’t think he is that either.

  Henry is fifty-two at the time the YouTube shot at Jericho Beach goes viral, and the accounts of his trial hit the newspapers. He’s had sex, and mostly enjoyed sex, mostly with women and mostly with Jamie Lee, but at this point in his life what’s mainly on his mind about sex is that he’s had it. It’s neither here nor there for him. Difficult for him to believe, considering what he has gone through to get to this point, but the truth is he’s settled into some weirdly bored state with the matter of sex. For whatever reason, it feels normal to him to be alone. And, as far as he can see, given the amount of porn there is on the web, a lot of people have caught up with him on the advantages of solitude.

  Then there’s the surfeit of fathers Henry thought he had leading up to the trial. After he hears that Tom’s father is back from Ecuador and living in the old neighbourhood, he keeps half an eye out for him. But when he finally runs into him in the produce section of Safeway, the resemblance is not as strong as he remembers and there’s no special connection. Old Mr. Lawson pushes his cart on down through the bananas and seems just so sad.

  He does begin to meet up with Orville though, another old man now. They see each other at least once a week. When they get around to talking about it, Orville confirms he and Alice had a thing for a couple of years, and he’d also had a brief proposal period — not a marriage — with Henry’s aunt.

  Don’t get me wrong, he says, there’s no way I was ever seriously inclined to marry either one.

  Why not? Henry asks.

  Skittish couple of birds. But your mother, she was one hell of a good dancer. Lots of fun.

  Orville drops his head and looks at the floor before he adds, Course she stopped talking to me after she went round the bend. Then I had that problem with the booze, when the black dog came to visit.

  What’s that?

  Depression. Does the dog ever visit you?

  Mmmm. Once or twice, but mostly not too bad.

  Me too. Not too bad, now.

  Orville eventually acknowledges it’s possible Henry is his son. They know there are things such as DNA tests, but why confuse the truth with the facts? The truth is both settle into believing Orville is Henry’s father, and Henry cares for Orville as would a son.

  When Henry raises the subject of whether his mother might have touched him inappropriately, Orville looks at him and says, God, I don’t think so. She loved you, in her own crazy way.

  So here’s how it goes, the trouble at Jericho Beach. The day starts like any other. Henry eats a bowl of muesli, drinks a glass of orange juice, and gathers up his Hasselblad and Canon Rebel. It’s a beautiful day, early September, perfect to do reconnaissance for the Chong wedding he’s scheduled to shoot the next weekend. The couple has chosen Jericho for the formal portraits, and Henry is happy because he can walk there. The old Subaru is still on the road, but she’s shaky. Besides, it’s good to get out and walk, helps a person to think. But in no way is he hounded by the black dog, nor is he thinking about sex when he leaves his apartment for the beach that morning.

  After he’s scoped out the willow trees near the duck pond, the wooden bridge at the pond, and the beach itself, he’s sitting on the grass arranging his equipment by the bulrush where the red-winged blackbirds nest. Someone has left behind a small group of stones collected from the beach and he picks up a green one that is almost translucent. He is looking through the stone when three naked children run out of the rushes, two boys and a girl — small golden, galloping ponies. He reaches for his Canon so he can document their joy, the glow of light around their heads. He abandons his cases and tripod and soon he’s running with the children at a pace toward the beach, shooting as he goes, when the older boy stops to look at him. Hmm, Henry thinks, maybe what I’m doing isn’t so cool.

  He smiles to reassure the boy, and because the wind is picking up, he doesn’t hear the mother’s words, only her tone. The kids are dancing around, hooting and laughing, their naked little bodies jumping up and down. Then the mother is right beside him shrieking. And Henry does not understand why she is videotaping him wit
h her cell phone.

  The trial wouldn’t have even made the newspapers, if it hadn’t been for the second-year law student at the university law clinic telling her supervisor, Professor Jon Bakon, about this interesting situation in her new intake file involving child pornography. Professor Bakon listens for a couple of minutes, then pronounces he will step in as defence counsel, and do it without charge if Henry will agree the Civil Liberties class can attend the trial and study it as an example of the interface between criminal prosecution and civil rights.

  Despite Professor Bakon’s belief that he is indeed the star of the proceedings, it is the attractiveness of several of the students in his class, coupled with their tendency to speak loosely outside the courtroom, that initially attracts the press. One young male student eager to catch the television’s camera — a pale apricot sweater casually thrown over his shoulders, his hair expensively and evenly cut — tells a reporter that Henry has been in jail in the United States for stalking a woman. This prompts the reporter to ask, Whose side are you on anyway? To which Professor Bakon jumps in to add, That’s the deal with this case. It’s so difficult to tell.

  But the thing that really gives the case its notoriety is the furor that erupts over the YouTube the mother posts of the events at the beach. For several days letters to the editor in the Vancouver Sun rage on about whose liberties really have been offended. What was the mother doing posting a video of her nude children laughing and dancing while she shouts at Henry? Isn’t she the one who is promoting the pornographic side of things?

  In the end, it is Henry himself who is responsible for his defence.

  Although Henry has been in court before, it is the first time he’s ever properly taken the stand and been cross-examined. When the prosecutor begins by asking about his living circumstances, he admits he lives alone and that yes he does sleep with his dog, a small black poodle named Beau. But when the prosecutor holds up his hand in an attempt to stop him from saying anything more, Henry ignores him and goes on to say that it’s just a man with his dog sort of relationship. He even draws a laugh from the courtroom when he says that without the dog he’d never get up in the morning. How every morning it’s the dog that pushes him with its knees, telling him it’s time to wake up. The prosecutor says he doesn’t think dogs have knees, and the judge, a woman who until she speaks looks too old to even be alive, tells the prosecutor he’s lost sight of the puck. In response to which the prosecutor switches to his main point.

  Why is it, Mr. Parkins, that you didn’t seek permission to take the photos?

  The work requires me to act quickly, Henry says, and to seek permission later. I would never use photos of any nature without permission.

  Except for your own warped purposes, shoots back the prosecutor.

  Something makes Henry talk, right over the prosecutor.

  Forgive me for not understanding, he says. Forgive me my own childhood that didn’t give me the insight to understand mothers. I had no warped purposes in mind.

  It’s this statement that lights Professor Bakon on fire. He stands and adjusts the glasses on the end of his nose before quoting Henry in his closing argument.

  Mr. Parkins had no warped purposes in mind. He told us that today. So let’s talk about what this case is really about. It’s about the public’s fear of a man who takes pictures of beautiful subjects — children whose mother herself has chosen to present them to the world. She is the one who disrobed her children. She is the one who let them run nude in the park. Mr. Parkins caused no harm. It is his civil right to make art, and an infringement of his liberty to prosecute him for doing so. The courts are clumsy vehicles for understanding the complexity of such a situation.

  Professor Bakon stabs the counsel desk with his index finger to indicate he’s finished, and sits down. The judge closes her eyes for a moment then sets a half hour adjournment. When she returns, she’s combed her hair, and applied fresh lipstick.

  Mr. Parkins, stand up, she says.

  Henry stands. The judge continues.

  I want you to grow up, get a real job, and stop sneaking around in the bushes taking photos of kids. You’re behaving like a dumb cluck, ignoring your responsibilities. You need to start using your talents for the greater good, and get on with it. I don’t know if any of what I’m saying will impact, and it might even be a bit ignoble of me to say so, but at least I got this off my chest.

  She turns to the prosecutor. And I don’t know what your department is doing wasting court time with flimsy cases like this. The mother’s the one who set this thing off. Once things snowballed with that ridiculous video of hers — the judge turns to the mother, Is there something you can do to take that off YouTube? — we all got stuck here taking this thing forward. No conviction for Mr. Parkins. Is there anything you want to say, Mr. Parkins?

  Nothing, your honour, Henry says. Just thank you.

  Don’t thank me. It’s my job.

  On the way out of the courtroom, Henry asks Orville, What does ignoble mean?

  Orville claps his hat on his head and says, Who the hell cares? You got off, son, like I knew you would.

  When Henry gets home to his apartment, he looks up ignoble. But for days afterward, the thing that sticks in his mind is the judge’s line about getting a real job. After a couple of weeks, he makes a small pile of the press clippings he’s collected on a plate in the middle of his kitchen table. He takes a photo of it then sets a match to it and opens the window. When the last of the acrid smell is gone, he picks up the phone and dials a number he hasn’t dialled in years.

  Hello?

  Hi Wendy, it’s Henry.

  He drives to the farm in the Subaru, still yellow but faded and with one blue fender now, worried how it’s going to be when he sees her. Whether she knows about the trial, whether she’s seen the video and thinks that he’s a nasty man. Then he’s standing at her back door and she’s opening it.

  Come on in, Henry, and get some coffee. Good timing. Joey is just on his way over.

  If she has read the articles or seen any of the news clips or the video, she doesn’t let on. They make small talk for a while. She’s been single all these years, things didn’t work out with the fellow from Idaho, and then life just got busy.

  Henry doesn’t say much. Finally he simply blurts out, Any jobs I can help with around here?

  I’m sure there are, she says. Joey’s so busy. He’s going to be a father again. Did I tell you — they’re having a second?

  Of course this makes sense, but still Henry is taken aback. Wendy is a grandmother. And there’s indeed something new in her face. Before he can think further, there’s a familiar toot outside and she rises from the table.

  They’re here, she says.

  He follows her out into the yard and over to Chas’ old blue-glow Mustang. Its roof is down and the lively Joey is behind the wheel. Sitting beside him is a woman. Once she takes the scarf from her head, he sees it is Lucy.

  Still got the Mustang? he says. Looks mint. He bends over to have a peek underneath.

  Course it is, man, Joey says. I take care of things. Joey pats the back of the white leather bucket seat behind the very pregnant Lucy, and flashes his trademark lock-your-daughter-up grin.

  Nice to see you, Henry, Lucy says. We miss you around here.

  A small boy with a round head and a mop-top of black hair pops up from the back.

  Hi!

  Hi, Henry says.

  The boy, suddenly shy, puts his head down before looking back up.

  This is Dennis junior, Wendy says. Chive and cheese omelet okay for lunch today, kiddo?

  The boy nods.

  Inside, on the kitchen counter, there’s a basket of eggs. Wendy points to them, You can start with these after lunch, she says to Henry. You know the routine, check for yard dirt, give them a brush.

  They all sit at the table. The air is full with sweet onion and fresh egg.

  Dennis holds out a small pebble.

  Henry peers. It�
�s a pretty pebble, the colour of a goldfish.

  He wants you to have it, Lucy says.

  Why thank you, Henry says.

  Dennis moves his plate toward Henry. Squirt the catsup.

  Lucy raises her eyebrows, What do you say?

  Squirt the catsup, please.

  Henry retrieves the squirt bottle from the counter. He is lost a moment looking over the basket of eggs. The satisfaction in the sight of all those round ends, how he’ll arrange them into cartons, all pointing forward, he’s sure he’ll never tire of that. A type of infinity sits between the numbers. Room in there for everyone.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many have helped me along the way. They include all the early readers, especially Ruth Rowntree (thanks Mom for catching all my typos), Patricia Rowntree (thanks for being a supportive sister and not saying the story was weird), Jeff Turner (thank you for listening ad nauseam to my angsty stuff), Kathy Page, Marilyn Potter, Andrew Boden, Shelley Saltzman, Kevin Chong, and Keith Maillard. I’d also like to thank Dr. Carina Perel-Panar who shrunk my protagonist and enabled me to write him with real backbone, also my publisher Thistledown Press for letting this novel see the light of day, and especially for the gift of my editor, Michael Kenyon. And finally thank you to Cortes Community Radio, which kept me company during many long rewrites, and where I first heard the wonderful expression all the power of a light bulb just not as bright.