Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  Our snowman breathes in quick gulps. He stares at the crowd. Emotion penetrates the dark eyes. Sheer terror shines manically. Standing proves difficult. He wobbles but remains upright. His costume beseeches all eyes to focus on him, and they do. He reacts.

  I don’t immediately notice what he’s done. I’m too busy pretending to sing, dance, and look cheerful, while trying without success to tuck those pompoms into my coat. My feet move faster than they ever did before. I stomp at the poor behaviour prior to that moment. Suddenly, my footing becomes tenuous. I peer at the tiles. They shine as though they’d been waxed.

  Frosty is melting. A pool of water surrounds him. Dressed in winter attire, sweat moistens my brow, but surely I didn’t cause the puddle. I search the faces of the other dancers. Glances fall to the floor. Johnny whispers, “Damn it, Frosty went for a piss.” We continue to dance, widening our circle, hoping to avoid the growing puddle. The task proves impossible. The puddle reaches such gargantuan proportions, we would have to leave the stage to elude it.

  The acidic puddle of piss strains smiles. Wet tiles are tricky. Movement requires extreme concentration. Susan’s fancy black boots don’t serve her well. The smooth soles offer no resistance. She swooshes forward. Arms fly outwards. She resembles a downhill skier as she frantically tries to regain her balance. Efforts prove fruitless. Her mouth widens in horror as her plummet begins.

  I’m right behind her. I dodge her tumbling body. Just when I think I’m safe, her left arm flails one last time and clips my leg. I nose dive. Flapping motions don’t carry me to safety. A sloshing sound accompanies my spill. I land face-first in the warm urine. I look up and hope the choir drowns my piteous cries. My mouth tastes salty. I refuse to think about why.

  Susan is down, I’m down, and Johnny trips on my sprawled-out leg and joins us. Donald runs off the stage making retching sounds. Only Marjorie remains dancing. It’s a nightmare. My face is inches from the stage. Whenever I struggle to get up, I slither downwards. My pompom’s white brilliance turns a sodden yellow.

  Marjorie’s face bursts with smugness as she dances around our pissy-bottomed snowman. Our fallen bodies, dripping in his wake, enliven her step. I must do something. She prances past me, and I grab hold of her ankle. Her body springs forward, falters, and fumbles. She plunges to join our fallen ranks. Pee envelopes her, and I smile when it leaves droplets of moisture on her black-cat eyeglasses.

  Thumpety thump thump,

  Thumpety thump thump,

  Look at Frosty go.

  Thumpety thump thump,

  Thumpety thump thump,

  Over the hills of snow.

  The last chord ends with a yelp when Marjorie screeches, “You stupid $#@$!” No one applauds. The crowd sits in stunned silence.

  Sister Mary Theresa flaps onto the stage. A jovial smile grips her face as she grabs hold of Marjorie’s hand. Everyone smiles and waves as rehearsed. Subdued clapping fills the auditorium. Sister’s smile falls with the curtain. Her face puffs and becomes a shade of Christmas red. She releases Marjorie’s hand and grasps her ear. She yanks it sharply. Marjorie wails.

  I look away, already imagining Sister’s fingers gripping my lobe. My feet transform into lead as I try to leave the stage. I wait for Sister Mary Theresa to either pounce or screech at me to come within reach of her. I hope she pounces, for the feeling one experiences as one walks toward disaster is unnatural and numbing.

  Nothing happens. I stand in line and continue to exit the stage. I should feel victorious. I try to, but I can’t. The smell of unfamiliar urine strips me of petty emotions.

  A handful of women scurry to the basement to prepare coffee and tea and arrange the many desserts the children’s mothers have brought.

  The selection of treats is always large and decadent as each mother tries to gain the unofficial title of the best baker in the school district. Just thinking of such a spread normally makes me salivate. Tonight, I only think of going home, brushing my teeth, and taking a bath. Steven Osbourne’s urine feels grossly intimate.

  I slink down the side steps. Sister’s sharp, biting words strike me from behind.

  “You have disappointed God at one of the most important times of the year.” I turn to steal a glance. I expect her to be looking at me. She hovers over Marjorie like a black raven. “You have ruined the evening,” Sister caws.

  Marjorie sees me and points. Every time she says, “But,” Sister stops her with, “I’ll hear no buts from you.” She accompanies her words with additional ear tugging. Marjorie doesn’t give up until her ear looks ready to fall off. Her yelps bring a sense of shame. I shouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have done it to anyone else but her. The thought doesn’t make me feel better.

  Ma and Granny wait at the far exit door. I spot their velvet hats right off and walk toward them. An explanation is needless. Front-row seats gave them a perfect view of what went down. Steps slow as I walk toward my punishment.

  “Let me take off that filthy hat,” Ma says. Her face shows concern, not anger. She didn’t see me grab Marjorie’s ankle. I hold out my chin. The sopping pompoms continue to dribble onto my coat. “I tried to take it off, but the wetness seized the laces,” I explain without looking her in the eyes.

  I’ll wear the pissy hat forever. I deserve such a crown.

  An acidic stench grips me, but Ma doesn’t hesitate. She deftly undoes the knot and frees me. Once the hat is off, I look into her eyes. “I don’t want to wear it again, Ma. It’s ruined.”

  I expect her to tell me that a good washing will make it as good as new. Instead, it makes a smacking sound as it falls into the garbage can.

  “Let’s go home and get you into a nice, warm bath,” Granny suggests.

  Mom leans into me. She whispers in my ear. “You should be grateful it went as well as it did.”

  “Grateful,” I repeat, stunned she used such a word.

  “Sure,” she says with a smile. “Haven’t you ever heard of having the crap scared out of you?”

  I return the smile. “And if he did, would you tell me to think of it as fertilizer?”

  Mom squeezes my hand. “Of course I would,” she replies.

  Granny smiles and looks wolfish. “Before leaving, I went downstairs, and I grabbed us some treats for later,” she confides.

  Granny and her sweets. I should have known she would not leave empty handed.

  Chapter 12

  Everyone scours drawers for their finest apparel. The day children anticipate from Boxing Day forth is almost here. Happiness reaches its pinnacle. Gaily wrapped presents twinkle under the tree.

  Ask any child from anywhere in the world what the most important aspect of Christmas is. A collective shout will reverberate across the oceans: “Gifts!”

  Presents preoccupy children’s minds until they’re unwrapped. Once you hold the object in your hand, it’s only a game, a sweater, a bottle of perfume… You probably won’t remember what most of the boxes held by the following year. Nonetheless, while wrapped in mystery, they ensnare. Hearts pound with the question: Is my heart’s desire nestled under the evergreen’s boughs?

  Boxes wrapped in Christmas paper gradually overpower our tree. Ma cuts the lower branches of the spruce to jam the growing number of boxes into some semblance of order. Most of them are for me. People I’ve never received a gift from before—and never would again—bestow presents upon me.

  Granny joins the holiday preparations with a vengeance. “We’re going to have the most festive house in the neighbourhood,” she vows with her chin jutting out and her hands balled into fists. I jump out of her way when she clutches a Christmas bell.

  “Why did you jump?”

  “If something doesn’t move, you decorate it.”

  She smiles, then growls. “Don’t get smart.”

  Elves are her decoration of choice. Perhaps her affinity has to do with the small stature they both share. I also suspect that her puffy, grey hair hides substantial ears.

  Ma looks
at Granny’s handiwork and says; “You must be getting tired. You should put the boxes away.”

  Ma’s face falls when Granny says, “Are you kidding? I’m just getting started.” Ma wants Granny to feel at home, so she walks away. In the future, Ma will be called a minimalist. Now, you would just say that she has a light touch rather than a heavy hand. I appreciate Granny’s heavy hand. It transforms our home into a winter wonderland.

  I love her giant glass balls and her snowmen that appear half-witted, and I especially like the plastic bell that hangs from the ceiling of our kitchen playing Christmas tunes. At least I do at first, but as the days pass, the music becomes tinny and tiresome.

  Christmas Eve finally arrives. It brings a coldness that a coat can’t rebuff. It seeps under fabric and chills your bones. Granny looks out the frosted windows and yelps, “Thank God, it’s snowing!”

  “The snow will break the cold,” Ma says.

  The setting sun vanquishes the grey-charcoal clouds. Blackness is preferable to greyness.

  Granny sits in the parlour with the TV Guide in her hand. “Let’s watch A Christmas Carol,” she suggests.

  “Sounds like fun,” Ma says.

  Granny leaps from her chair. “But first we have a job to do.”

  Ma gives her a questioning look.

  “Taffy!” she exclaims. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “I actually did.”

  Granny sighs. “We have to make taffy in the snow.”

  She hands me a pail and I stupidly gape down at it.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asks.

  Ma laughs. “Marnie doesn’t know what to do. She’s never had taffy in the snow.”

  Granny slaps her wrinkled forehead. “Lord Almighty, how can that be?”

  Ma shrugs. “Grab your coat and boots,” she tells me. “Fill the pail with clean snow. Pack it down tight.” She turns to her mother. “I remember when that used to be my job.”

  I go outside. The wind has lost its bite. It’s easy to fill the pail with the heavy, wet snow. When I open the front door, voices ring from the kitchen. Kicking off boots, I throw my jacket on the coat rack and hurry toward them.

  Granny stirs the contents of a pot with her wooden spoon. I peer inside, and bubbling, amber liquid sputters. She takes it off the heat. “Grab three forks, Ellie.”

  Granny’s pointed finger digs into the pail. “You packed it good and tight.” She then pours a spoonful of the liquid onto the snow. It hits the coldness and instantly congeals. Wrapping the semi-hard candy around a fork, she hands it to me. “Eat it.”

  It’s gooey. I wind the flittering threads and shovel it into my mouth. “Umm, yummy goodness,” I moan.

  Ma watches me. “When I was a little girl, we always had snow taffy on Christmas Eve. How did I mislay the tradition?” Her voice is young and excited.

  Granny drops the second spoonful. Ma barely waits for it to harden before snatching it with her fork. “I forgot how quickly it melts in your mouth,” she says as it dribbles down her chin. She pats Granny’s hand, and although they say nothing, their eyes grasp one another.

  We fill ourselves until our stomachs protest. “It’s time for the movie,” Ma says as she pulls herself out of her chair. The television starts with a sharp click. Ma plays with the rabbit ears until the snow disappears.

  Granny, who can never sit still, hurries to the kitchen when it’s half over. She returns with a platter of crackers, various cheeses, and olives so black and wrinkled, I gawk at them and say, “Looks like they’ve gone bad.”

  Her eyes become as hard as dried-up raisins. “They’re supposed to look like that. Try one.”

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t be a baby. You’ll miss out if you don’t at least try it.”

  I pop one in my mouth and wait for their horridness to overcome me. Before I even finish it, I mumble, “Can I have another?”

  Tiny Tim barely spits out, “God bless us, every one!” before Granny says, “Let’s open a gift.”

  My face falls in horror. She might as well have said, “Let’s kill baby Jesus.” I look at Ma.

  Ma smiles and says, “It’s Mom’s tradition to open one gift on Christmas Eve.”

  Mom is a stickler for Christmas rules. She never lets me open a present before Christmas morning. I get off my chair lickety split.

  “Just one,” Ma says.

  “Which one?”

  She shrugs. “It’s your choice. When I was a little girl, I always picked the one that I couldn’t guess.”

  Ma guessed gifts! The thought astounds me.

  The tree beckons with gleaming tinsel and sparkling ornaments. Bubble lights gurgle. Granny put so many decorations on each branch, I fear the slightest movement will topple the tree. Afraid to rifle underneath the laden tree, I study the boxes from a safe distance. A gaily wrapped box catches my eye. It’s the largest present, standing three feet high. It has a homemade emerald-green bow, tied so often its fatness obscures the gift wrap. It’s from Daddy’s boss. I decide to open that one.

  I drag it out from under the tree and rip off the paper with one mighty tug. Large, blue marble eyes stare back at me. I yank the doll from her box. Ma is leaning over me. “She’s very pretty,” she remarks. “What’s her name?”

  I study the tattered box. “Her name is Doris.”

  “That’s a nice name,” Granny says.

  She’s breathtaking, with shiny black hair, long lashes, and fine clothing, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that she’s rather demanding. She’s the kind of baby doll that wets diapers and demands feedings.

  I’m not particularly fond of dolls. I prefer guns and puppets, but I smile and agree with Granny when she says, “You’re a lucky girl.”

  “She’s expensive,” Ma says as she caresses Doris’s satiny dress.

  Granny grabs Doris and gets the filthy thing to run through her repertoire. “Good practice for you,” she laughs as she hands me the doll. “Her nappy needs changing.”

  I pull the batteries out of her bum before the evening is over, but not before she pees on my velvet skirt, screeches in my ear endlessly, and squeals Mama continuously in a high-pitched voice. I fling her in the corner and hope I have more patience with real babies.

  Ma doesn’t have many presents under the tree. “You have to open one,” Granny insists. Like me, Ma studies the gifts from a distance. She decides to open a present from Granny. I think it’s a horrible choice, for I suspect that the thin box contains socks.

  Ma never rips the paper. She saves it and reuses it to wrap future presents. She picks off the tape meticulously, careful not to rip corners or peel the design. It takes forever for her to have the brown box in her hands. She opens the lid. Her shocked expression tells me it’s not socks. She pulls the article from its recumbent position and waves it in the air. The blue silk scarf glitters when it’s free. Its colour will surely take the drabness out of Ma’s grey coat. She runs over to her mother and gives her a big, sloppy kiss, then wraps the scarf around her neck.

  Granny sits in her chair, mouth puckered in concentration. She walks over to the tree, moves three presents, and then lugs a heavy box to the centre of the room.

  “It’s from Fran,” she says as she tugs at the ribbon. She rips the paper and holds three books in her hand. A smile appears as she reads the titles. “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou, Islands in the Stream by Ernest Hemingway, and Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.” Her hand caresses the jackets. “I love my second-hand bookstores, but reading the books everyone is talking about is exciting. I don’t know which one to read first.”

  We sit for a while, and admire the tree, our gifts, and our full stomachs. Granny yawns and says, “I’m tired. I think I’ll head off to bed.”

  She doesn’t fool me. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings is in her hand. Granny’s eyes won’t close until she takes a chunk out of that book.

  Once her footsteps reach the top step, Ma asks, “D
id you enjoy our Christmas Eve?”

  “I did. Granny has many fine traditions. I especially like the taffy, but the one gift rule is pretty good, too.”

  “She has her own special touches.” Ma sighs. “I miss Paddy, but I’m grateful to have my mom.”

  I walk over to Ma’s chair and sit on her knee. I wrap my arms around her neck. Her scarf feels smooth against my face. “I’m grateful for my mom, too.”

  Ma smiles and the Christmas lights twinkle in her eyes. “Off to bed with ya. Tomorrow is a busy day.”

  We walk upstairs hand-in-hand.

  Chapter 13

  The rich aroma of freshly percolated coffee drifts up the stairs and stirs me awake. My eyes open in a flurry of excitement. Christmas Day is finally here. I bolt downstairs to find Ma and Granny in the kitchen, sipping coffee and eating sugar cookies. “My, my, cookies for breakfast,” I tease.

  “Special days call for special rules,” Granny says as she grabs a sugar-coated bell. “Let’s get down to business,” she says before she breaks it in half.

  Ma hurries ahead, lights the tree, and pulls back the thick velvet curtains before she sits in the old blue velvet chair with her second cuppa.

  I hand out presents. It’s been my job for as long as I can remember. There are so many, I’m nearly breathless when I’m done.

  “You should start first, Marnie, since you have such a pile,” Granny says.

  The mountain of presents embarrasses me. I’m not used to being spoiled, and it seems excessive. Excitement—not greed—prompts me to tear through them. A pile of toys—tiddlywinks, Operation, a Herman Munster puppet, a brunette-haired doll with an overbite, cards—and a plethora of clothes—a purple maxi velveteen vest, a white shirt, countless socks, blue bell-bottoms, a Mickey Mouse t-shirt, and underpants with every day of the week written across their backside—sit beside me when I’m done.