Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  I can barely sit still. I can’t wait for Ma and Granny to open their gifts. In my stocking, I find two clementines, a handful of chocolate bells, and a dark-blue leather book. I open it and find empty pages.

  “It’s a journal,” Ma explains. “You might enjoy writing down your thoughts and feelings.”

  I nod, never realizing my heart’s desire lies in my hands. I toss it aside.

  This year is a turning point in my gift-giving prowess. Rhonda—a good friend—is Anglican. Three weeks ago, she introduced me to a phenomenon I didn’t know existed. When the holiday season approaches, her church holds bazaars. Second-hand jewellery, used household objects, and crafts flood tables, with price tags that appear heaven sent. I jingle my pocketful of change and gladly reach for whatever catches my eyes.

  Ma and Granny don’t know anything about it. I can’t wait to see their expressions when they see what I bought them. This is the first year that my gifts are not homemade.

  Ma gingerly takes the gift I offer and favors me with a puzzled expression when she sees that the gift tag bears my name. Previous years have her holding a homemade card.

  Anticipation stings like fire ants biting my bum. I can’t sit still. Ma will never guess what it is, even if she has a million years to do so. Ma starts picking at the tape. “Rip it off!” I bellow.

  My excitement grabs hold of her, and she tears the paper off in one quick motion. Her mouth falls open. “Oh, my,” she gasps. She grasps the handle of the black tray and holds it high in the air for Granny to see.

  “Are there butterflies painted on the glasses?” Granny asks as she leans forward to get a better look.

  “Each butterfly is different, and each glass is a different colour.” I take one of the glasses out of the black wire tray to show it to her. “You see, all the butterflies on this glass are yellow. There’s a glass with only blue butterflies, another has orange, and the other one is purple.”

  “It’ll be perfect when summer arrives and we sit on the porch with our lemonade or iced tea.”

  “That’s why I bought them, Ma. It’ll save you from making a bunch of trips.”

  Ma always lectures me on the importance of accepting a gift graciously. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she asks, “How did you manage to buy me such an extravagant gift?”

  I forgive her indiscretion. My nightgown tightens as my chest puffs up. “I bought it at the church bazaar.”

  Ma’s face wrinkles in perplexity. “Our church doesn’t have bazaars.”

  “No, but the Anglican church does.” Excitement and pride cause me to jump up and down on the chair. “I got them for fifty cents, Ma.”

  “Fifty cents,” Granny repeats as she reaches over and grabs the tray and glasses. Her shrewd eyes examine my purchase. “They’re hand painted,” she says. She looks up at Ma. “We’ll have to go the Anglican bazaar next year, Ellie.”

  Ma nods, her eyes glued to the purple butterflies.

  Granny, too, has a special present. I rifle through her pile and find it. I don’t have to tell her to rip the paper open. She does it before I have the chance. Her face beams. “It’s so shiny,” she says.

  That it is. Lavender fills the air. Glue holds pearls, rubies, and diamonds in place and hide the fact that it’s a bar of soap. Granny’s finger follows the golden braid that surrounds it. “I’m pretty sure the gems aren’t real,” I say before she examines it.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says as she places it on the coffee table. “It’s beautiful nonetheless. It has pearls for feet. I’m going to put it on my night table. It’s the perfect thing to see before you close your eyes at night. And lavender helps you sleep.”

  Once they open all their gifts, we find ourselves at a loss. Granny makes her way into the kitchen to baste the turkey. Ma follows closely behind her. “Don’t eat any of the stuffing,” she warns.

  Granny loves Ma’s stuffing. Other than sweets, it’s one of the few things she gets piggy with.

  We try to be entertaining, but it’s hard. Daddy was a quiet man, but Christmas is muted without him. Ma abandons traditions that centred on him. She carves the turkey without ceremony in the kitchen, without comment. Eggnog, Daddy’s favorite, is missing from the menu. Even I didn’t rattle and shake the presents this year, trying to guess what was inside the boxes, because the sound would echo the loss of something me and Daddy secretly shared when no one was around to call us naughty.

  There’s one tradition that doesn’t change. After the meal, we all feel sleepy. Granny’s eyes fight to stay open and then surrender. Ma, who claims never to snore, makes odd noises deep in her throat. I stare at our tree. The star Daddy always placed at the top of the tree shines brightly. “Merry Christmas, Daddy,” I say. Perhaps the sun chose that moment to strike the star with golden brilliance, but I prefer to believe that Daddy wished me a Merry Christmas in his own special way.

  I decide to play jacks, but I never leave the chair. We wake up when the sun goes down. Hungry again, we gobble turkey sandwiches.

  Chapter 14

  The trip is by no means a direct route. The train grinds to a stop. Passengers disembark, and others board. A large woman struggles up the stairs. Wrestling with a cumbersome yellow bag, she battles to retain her balance. Once inside, she stops to wipe her flushed face with a flowered handkerchief. Her blue eyes dart in confusion, but her features don’t sag with frustration. Uplifted, they remain hopeful.

  Although gray laces her hair, traces of her youth shine in auburn tangles. She reminds me of Auntie Fran. I’m about to get up and ask if she can use any assistance when she sits down. I study her. Her profile bears an uncanny resemblance to my aunt’s large, pleasant features. Both women have an unexpected femininity in the midst of it all. My mind backtracks to a time of sudden transformations and new beginnings.

  Having learned a lesson doesn’t mean I’m finished with the book. The pessimist gene is deep within me. Optimism goes against my nature, making my mother’s job of keeping me happy an ongoing mission. Her badgering makes me hopeful, but she must constantly provide it.

  Daily life brings joy, but it also brings sorrow. Neil Armstrong walks on the moon, but Vietnam is a worldlier topic. As I spread my wings and move away from the sanctuary of our home, disappointments pile up. I try to sweep them under the rug, but they become so numerous, I can’t force them into a tidy mound and hide them in some dark corner. They clutter my life. When I attempt to move forward, they trip me and force me to accept that life can be cruel and hopelessly unfair.

  People remark on my rising height. They fail to see my outlook widen its stance to include others. People become real in themselves, separate entities with lives of their own—lives I know nothing about. This newly discovered ability is a mixed blessing, for it teaches me that the world is treacherous. Someone I love is in danger, and I don’t know what to do.

  Auntie Fran, a big woman, is married to a small man. She’s my favourite aunt because of her silly sense of humour, and I admire how she’s always in good spirits. Uncle Herb has neither of those attributes. He’s intolerant, impatient, dour, and rude. I suspect his pockmarked face is a result of the ugliness underneath seeping to the surface.

  Two things puzzle and frighten me about Aunt Fran’s relationship with her husband. Uncle Herb beats her. That’s the frightening aspect. What’s puzzling is why he wants to hurt her. Kind and sensitive, she’s not the type of person to spur one to anger. I also can’t understand why she lets him. Herbert Tuscan is short, scrawny, and weak looking. My aunt is tall and wide, and has muscles any man would be proud to sport. I turn to my mom and grandmother for understanding.

  “Why does Uncle Herb hurt Auntie Fran?”

  Ma, who is washing dishes, lets go of the dishcloth and watches it sink. She turns, and the crease between her eyes deepens. “I don’t understand it any more than you do.” We stare at one another. My mouth hangs, and I quickly close it. Ma has an answer to every question. She turns back to the sink and attacks
the dirty fry pan with a steel pad, and her strokes sound abrasive.

  I fling myself onto a chair and look at Granny. Her eyes become beady, her voice haughty. “The bond of marriage is a sacred relationship. It’s between two people and is none of our business.” Knitting needles clink sharply as she continues with her row without interruption. She expands on her notion of the bonds of marriage. The more she says, the more it reeks of bondage.

  It’s an odd answer, since Granny takes no guff from anyone, and she sticks her nose into other people’s business whenever she feels something needs doing. How can she sit back and watch the abuse? I leave the kitchen, wishing I’d never brought the subject up.

  My aunt is a constant visitor. I see the top of her head through the window a second before she calls out, “Good morning, everyone! I brought fresh muffins.”

  Ma pours the coffee and hands me a glass of milk. “Take your muffin and sit on the porch,” she says.

  I nod. Ma often sends me outside to play when my aunt visits. I always slam the back door but remain in the house, because this small deception ensures that I won’t miss the best gossip that our town has to offer. Regardless of how you see small towns, they do have the best scandals. We don’t have museums, shopping centers, or shows, so people have a lot of free time to get themselves in trouble.

  I take a blueberry muffin from Auntie Fran’s basket and avoid looking at her. Herb usually leaves her face alone. Two black eyes and a swollen nose testify that relaxed boundaries have allowed him to enter new territory. Granny’s glance falls on her daughter’s battered face. The clicking of her knitting needles quickens. Ma notices me lingering in the doorway. “Don’t forget to close the door on your way out.”

  I comply as I always do. I slam the door and sneak into the living room to plunk myself into the corner behind the blue stuffed chair.

  I munch on the muffin and await the gossip. The open kitchen door lets me see their faces if I look up. I assume they won’t look down and see mine.

  Ma hands Frannie her coffee and says, “Quite the shiners.”

  Fran’s hands flutter to her face. “Oh, those,” she says in a high-pitched voice. “The funniest thing happened. I was walking around the yard when—”

  “Don’t,” Ma says. “We know Herb beats you,” she remarks casually as she slams the sugar and creamer onto the table.

  Fran grabs hold of the creamer and concentrates on preparing her coffee. “You shouldn’t say such things, Ellie. Someone might overhear you and believe what you’re saying.”

  Ma’s gentle voice acquires an edge. “And what if they did? It’s the truth and you know it.” She slides into the chair next to Fran and grabs her wrist. “Stop pretending. The beatings are increasing. It’s getting dangerous. You must face facts and do something about it.”

  Fran’s face hardens. She stares directly into Ma’s eyes. “What beatings?”

  Ma rarely treads on personal lives. Her cheeks redden, but she doesn’t drop her glance. “We are not fools,” she says in a reedy voice that I rarely hear. Her eyes dart to Granny.

  Granny remains mute. I breathe a deep lungful of air. The corner feels tight. Strong characters are hard to live with, but they come in handy when something needs doing. Knitting needles click fiercely. Granny looks down to count rows and doesn’t allow Ma to capture her gaze.

  An electrical buzz fills the air. Fran laughs. “I’m just clumsy, Ellie. There’s no abuse, so please stop talking about beatings,” she admonishes in a hushed voice.

  Mother stands. Her body is ramrod straight. “You’re not clumsy. You never were.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “I don’t know,” Ma admits. “I only know you do.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Fran clucks.

  Ma leans into her. “I’m not the stupid one, Fran.” She runs her hand down my aunt’s arm. “Please let us help you. If this is about embarrassment and pride… well, they don’t matter much when someone hurts you.”

  Fran closes her eyes so tightly, lines scurry across her forehead. When she opens them, she sees Ma continuing to stare at her. “I don’t have to listen to this,” she says as she grabs for her purse.

  “Sit down,” my grandmother insists. She turns to my mother. “If she says she’s clumsy, she’s clumsy. You’re mistaken, Ellie. Remember, you don’t know Herb as well as you think you do.”

  Ma grabs a muffin and bites it so furiously, blueberries burst and their juice splatters on her white tablecloth. She stares at the stains but doesn’t say a word. Fran smiles at her mother. Pleased that lies cover truth, doesn’t she see that they also cover help?

  Everything remains the same. Fran’s bruises spread, lies multiply, and we swallow our allotment of tall tales. It makes me mad. Somehow, Ma has the nerve to chastise me for not knowing when to remain quiet. I tell Mr. Berkley to pick up the paper he threw on the sidewalk, and she scolds me. “You can’t just say whatever pops into your head.”

  “When you get older, you’ll learn when to bite your tongue,” Granny says.

  I don’t accept what they’re saying, for sometimes, silence holds as much dishonesty as lies.

  July turns nasty. “Going to be another warm one,” Granny remarks as she pours herself her morning cup of coffee. She turns when the screen door squeaks. Fran walks in and makes her way to the pot. “I just made it,” Granny says as she hands her a mug.

  Covered from neck to toe, Fran bends to grab the sugar bowl. An angry bruise peeks out. She takes the seat across from me. Ma gets up from the table and polishes the counter. Her rag makes tight little circles, and her mouth forms a straight line.

  They gab about nothing, and then Granny puts down her knitting needles. “Why don’t you and Herb come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Her voice drips like honey. I never trust her when I hear that voice. Honey is sweet, but the stickiness snares. She touches my aunt’s hand and winks. “It’ll be fun. You’ll have a night off.”

  The invitation mustn’t sit well with my aunt, for she squirms in her seat. Ma bites her lip and stares at the ceiling. The clock’s tocks become deafening. “What time would you like us to come over?”

  “Six thirty, if you can.”

  “No problem,” Fran says as she gets up. “Herb is always home by a quarter to six. Would you like me to bring something?”

  “Just yourselves. I can attend to the rest myself.”

  The front door slams, and Ma’s hand hits the counter. “Why did you do that? I know you can’t stand the man any more than I can.”

  Granny jumps from her chair and glares at Ma. Her body trembles with rage, but even I know that her anger is not with my mother. “You don’t understand,” she spouts.

  “Understand what?”

  “You can’t use a frontal attack, Ellie. The causalities will be too high. Let me handle this. Your approach is too dangerous. When it comes to husbands and wives, you can’t get in the middle, because half the time, they’ll team up and pounce on you.”

  She leaves the room, and Ma stays in the kitchen. She grabs a cloth and rubs imaginary fingerprints off the refrigerator.

  Overhead, Granny’s footsteps sound like thunder. She’s pacing and plotting, I suspect.

  Chapter 15

  Ma has the early shift. I don’t hear her leave. I stumble to the kitchen to find Granny sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space.

  “Good morning.”

  Coffee splatters the white tablecloth as my voice yanks her back into the kitchen with a start.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask as I take my chair.

  “The meal.”

  I snort. “We’re simple eaters who prefer plain food. What’s there to think about?”

  Granny twists her wedding band around and around. “We are, but Herbert Tuscan doesn’t like simple food. He prefers his food hot and spicy. I’m going to make him a special dish.”

  I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and shine it with the hem of my nightie. “I wouldn�
�t. I would make him eat what the rest of us are eating. He doesn’t deserve special treatment.”

  Granny grabs an apple and bites into it. “Oh, but he does.” Her sharp teeth decimate the apple in four bites. She gets up from the table and puts her red-and-white-checkered apron over her blue flowered housedress.

  The smell of oil heating wafts over to the table. My nose wrinkles in displeasure. I hate that smell. Even if you run it through a sieve, meals long gone cling to oil. “Are you making chicken?”

  “Yep.”

  “The one with breadcrumbs and egg batter?”

  “Yep.”

  I get up and peer into the fry pan. “You don’t have enough. There’s only four pieces, and we’re five people.”

  “Don’t you worry about the meal,” Granny snaps.

  Once the chicken is brown and crispy, she puts the pieces on a plate to cool. She then trots outside, clutching two hunks of raw chicken. She comes in empty handed a second later. I don’t know anything about fancy food, but I can’t see the logic of chucking it on a wooden railing in full sun. Granny pounces and lectures about the importance of refrigeration whenever I leave meat on the counter for mere minutes. Foil paper crinkles as she wraps our chicken and puts the four pieces in the fridge. She doesn’t bother to turn around as she says, “Get dressed and pick flowers for the table.”

  I automatically say, “Fine.” Once I’m in my bedroom, a book calls to me. I forget about the flowers and throw myself on my bed.

  My grumbling belly forces me to close the book. The noon sun shines through the window and causes me to squint. Granny is going to be mad. Early morning is the time to cut flowers. I take the stairs two at a time, grab a vase from under the kitchen sink, run outside, hack fronds from our old fern, and toss a few roses in the arrangement. I snatch a handful of baby’s breath to pretend I made an effort.

  Skipping up the back steps, I stop mid-hop. The chicken rests on the railing, basking in the full sun. Ants cover its slimy surface. Spiders scurry away, mindful of my approach.