Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  Pots bang in the kitchen. Darn, I was hoping to smuggle the vase in without her noticing. I ease the door open and quietly set the flowers on the table and take a seat. She doesn’t even look up. “Why did you put those two pieces of chicken on the railing of the porch?”

  Annoyance scrunches her face. “Don’t say anything about those pieces of chicken.” She dismisses me by turning her back on me. I won’t let her off the hook that easily. I want answers. I persist. “But it’s really hot out today. Won’t they go bad?”

  Scrawny shoulders shrug. “Pretend you don’t see them.”

  “They stink, and they’re so slimy, the ants are skating on them. I want to sit outside. Why must rank, bug-infested hunks of meat keep me company?”

  “Sit on the front porch. Those two pieces of chicken have nothing to do with you.” She pinches her face. Something hides in the deep folds crisscrossing her face.

  “Who do they have to do with?”

  Water bursts from the tap. Washing lettuce, she keeps her eyes downcast as she separates the leaves. They’re barely dried before she scours the sink.

  Mundane tasks bore her. She adds interest by talking up a storm. Today her lips appear glued shut. I might as well not be there. She buzzes around the kitchen, making me feel as if she’s too busy to talk. Granny can do six things at once. She’s up to something. I try to figure out what. Understanding hits me. “That disgusting chicken is for Uncle Herb, isn’t it?”

  Granny’s face flushes for barely a second before defiance tightens her features. “If that man thinks I’m going to sit by and watch what he’s doing to Francis, he’s mistaken.” Flour flies into the bowl. Liquid drenches the dry ingredients as she mixes the dough for her biscuits. She kneads so fiercely, the backs of her arms vibrate like a washing machine. Viciousness darkens her eyes until they’re black. “Are you going to kill him, Granny?”

  A dusting of flour coats the counter and her rolling pin. Just when I think she won’t answer me, she does. “The chicken won’t kill him. He’ll just have the trots. With any luck, his stomach will hurt like the dickens.” She turns and looks at me. “I want to hurt him like he hurts my Frannie.”

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right. What you’re doing is bad.”

  Hands on hips, she huffs, “It’s not bad.”

  “It’s not good,” I say, daring her to contradict me.

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s a good thing. I’d say it falls in the other category.”

  “What’s the other category?” I ask.

  “Some things aren’t good, nor are they bad. They’re a bit of both, I guess. Life is complicated, Marnie. Do yourself a favour and let Him make the judgements. Believe me, you’ll have an easier go at it.”

  “Say what you want, what you’re doing will be in the unsuccessful category. He won’t eat that abomination. It’s no longer food.”

  Her cockiness jumps up in assurance. “Sure he will.”

  “Did you check on them lately? You better leash them so they don’t squirm away.”

  “Guess I better bring them in,” she says. Rubber gloves snap. The door slams. A rank cloud shadows her return. Her stance stiffens when she attempts to capture the meat and it repeatedly slips away. Frustrated, she gives them a mighty shove. They band into a gooey mass and slither from her grip to plop onto the floor.

  “You’re right, they’re in bad shape,” she concedes as she struggles to pick them up. “Didn’t realise how hot it was.” Gurgling gags and piteous sighs fill the kitchen. I don’t offer my help. Granny has a poor sense of smell, but I don’t. I stick my head out the back door and breathe in gulps of fresh air as the fetid smell overpowers our kitchen.

  I turn around to see a clothespin fastening Granny’s nose shut. “There’s no way anyone can eat them,” I repeat as she wrestles with the rotten meat. Water lines my throat. My eyes burn. The chicken twitches away from her. “Please throw it out.”

  “Herb will eat them,” she declares confidently. “I’m going to disguise them. I bought a bunch of hot spices. When I’m finished with them, he’ll never know they’re rancid.” She captures the poultry in a fatal swoop and places it in a bowl. I imagine the confinement makes them thrash about. Cupboard doors slam as she snatches spices I never knew existed—jalapeno peppers, chili, and hot Tabasco sauce. She empties most of the bottles, turns, and says, “They’re almost ready for the pan.”

  I want to get out of the kitchen before they smack the fry pan, but curiosity plants me. I expect a rank vapour to permeate the room once she applies heat. My hands clutch the bottom of my t-shirt, ready to cover my face. Granny’s beady brown eyes hold a touch of fear. She hesitates before she flings the chicken into the fry pan. Pungent spices overwhelm the kitchen.

  My eyes tear and my nose runs. Water gushes from Granny’s eyes, but she stands tall. She turns them over and eventually removes the clothespin from her nose to smile once the chicken becomes brown. “You know, Marnie, my summer allergies have always bothered me. For the first time in years, I can breathe easily. It must be a sign from God.”

  I somehow doubt that, but then again, who can know for sure? God, in all His infinite wisdom, must hate Herb Tuscan, so how can He possibly blame anyone for wanting to inflict pain on the man?

  She places the normal-looking pieces of chicken onto a plate.

  “You’re not putting them in the fridge, are you?”

  “Near our food? Are you crazy? I wouldn’t be surprised if a half-cooked maggot staggered out of one of them. Open the basement door for me. I’m going to chill them in the cold cellar. Do me a favour and get the bleach. We have to give the kitchen a good going over. I don’t want us to get food poisoning.”

  No, she wants Herb to suffer, not us.

  We scrub the floor, bowls, pans, and counters. The lace curtains reek, so we wash them, too. I throw myself onto a chair when we’re done.

  Chapter 16

  The door opens at six fifteen. The soft step tells me it’s Ma. Granny’s sharp elbow pokes my hip. “Don’t tell her anything,” she whispers.

  “I won’t,” I promise. Besides, there isn’t enough time to snitch. Fran and Herb arrive minutes later. We sit in the living room. Even the comfort of the thick blue chair can’t dispel the unease circulating the room. Herb alternately brags about himself or nags my aunt over unseen blunders.

  “Sit up straight, Frannie.”

  “I made more sales than anyone in the region.”

  “Don’t laugh like a hyena.”

  “Everyone knows who I am. I’m the man to buy your car from.”

  “Cross your legs. It’s proper.”

  “Uncross your legs. It’s bad for circulation.”

  My aunt collects a tall pile of offences. I don’t see any wrongdoings, but Herb is clearly disappointed with her.

  Granny gets off her chair. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to serve this meal. Let’s eat.”

  I’m ready to hand-feed the chicken to Herb. My guilt in partaking in his poisoning evaporates under the scorching criticisms he throws at my aunt.

  Granny serves her meal cold. A green salad, fresh from the garden, compliments her famous mashed potato salad. Chicken, homemade butter pickles, and mouth-watering rolls fill the table. Herb’s face lights up when he sees his special dish.

  “Guess Frannie told you how I like my food spicy,” he says as his hands wring in anticipation.

  “Sure did,” Granny answers as she sets his plate before him.

  He tastes the potato salad. “Zesty.”

  “It’s the Spanish onion,” she remarks. When his fork pierces the chicken, I steal a glance at my grandmother’s face. It looks intent and watchful. I think of the food he’s about to eat basking in the sun and slithering on the floor. It had a busy day, but its work is far from done.

  Herb rips the chicken apart with his fork. He places a strand in his mouth. Granny’s eyes never leave his face. He chews and swallows. I imagine maggots
wearing sombreros making their way down his throat, tickling his tonsils as they sing the Commodores’ song “Too Hot Ta Trot.”

  Too hot ta trot, say what

  Too hot ta trot

  Too hot ta trot, say what

  Too hot

  Well you’re too hot ta trot now baby

  Well you’re too hot ta stop whoo baby

  Well you’re too hot ta trot now baby

  Well you’re too hot ta stop whoo baby

  Herb reaches for his water glass to guzzle large mouthfuls. I brace myself. He’s going to holler, “This chicken is rancid!” My breath catches as I wait for him to expose Granny’s rotten plot.

  His face looks like an overripe tomato. He mops rivulets of sweat before they run into his eyes. “Frannie, you’re not half the cook your mother is. This is the best chicken I ever ate.” Smiling at Granny, he pats his protruding stomach and says, “Give the recipe to my wife. Your guidance would be greatly appreciated.”

  Granny nods. I’m sure her idea of guidance is different from his.

  Herb finishes his chicken and scoops the remaining potato salad onto his plate. Ma’s lips purse. She probably wanted it for tomorrow’s lunch. He cleans out each of the serving dishes. He rips the last roll, slathers butter onto it, and then forgets about it. Granny gets up and brings the apple pie and vanilla ice cream to the table. “Would you like a piece, Herb?”

  “Certainly,” Herb says. “And two scoops of ice cream, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  He gobbles two pieces of apple pie, topped with mountains of ice cream. I fear he’ll rupture in a wave of gluttony and ruin our flowered wallpaper.

  When the pie is gone, he belches like a bullfrog. The odor leaps across the table and smacks me in the face. His chair scrapes the hardwood as he pulls himself up. He looks down at Fran. “We should be going. Some of us have to get up early and go to work.”

  We don’t argue with him to stay, but he continues to make excuses as Granny herds him to the door.

  “Have a pleasant evening,” Granny chimes when she all but pushes him out of the house.

  Ma turns to Granny and hisses, “Are you happy? Fran is humiliated, and for what purpose?”

  Granny doesn’t reply. She goes into the kitchen and runs water to do the dishes. I surprise her by grabbing the dishtowel. “We’re in this together,” I whisper.

  The next morning, Granny grips her cuppa and stares down the hall.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask.

  “The telephone.”

  “It won’t ring if you stare at it.”

  “Seems you’re right.” She gets up and dusts things that don’t need dusting, but the phone remains silent. “I can’t stand the suspense,” she pipes at ten fifteen. She marches to the phone and calls Fran.

  I’m beside her before she can return the handset to its cradle. “So what did she say? Is he puking? Does he have the trots? I bet he didn’t go to work.”

  Bewilderment makes her words come out slow. “You’d lose the bet. Herb’s fine.”

  “What do you mean fine? Something must have happened.”

  Her mouth turns downwards as her eyes fill with defeat. “He enjoyed the meal, went home, watched a bit of television, and went to bed. Frannie made no mention of the trots or even stomach cramps. She asked me for the chicken recipe.”

  I wrap my arms around her bony shoulders. “A lot of effort went into that meal. I’m sorry.” I finally understand that while two wrongs don’t make a right, they do have the power to offset one another, and sometimes that’s the best you can do.

  “I was so sure it would work,” she mutters. “Do you think beef would’ve been better?”

  “You could try that next week. Or maybe pork would get the results you want.”

  A croak escapes from deep in her throat.

  I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know, it’s discouraging.”

  Granny’s hands ball into tight little fists. “He’s such a horrible little man. To think that louse enjoyed the meal. It makes me sick.”

  “Too bad it didn’t make him sick. Try pork. I’m sure it’ll work.”

  “I can’t do that to Fran again. We’ll have to try something else.”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t know. Bad food isn’t the answer. I guess you can’t poison someone who’s already rotten.” She grabs my hand and holds it tightly. “Who would think the walk down the aisle would lead to her ruination?”

  She doesn’t expect an answer. I quietly decide one should fear black-and-white conventions. For all their pomp, they can be clever traps.

  Chapter 17

  When I was a child, life was less demanding. People were uncomplicated and didn’t apologize for their simplicity. If you were a tailor, you knew how to sew. A homemaker took care of her home. She didn’t give a thought to knowing how to do much else.

  Doctors were elite. They alone knew about the human body. Everyone relied on their opinions without question. Times have changed. Few of us answer to no one. People explore information beyond their allotted fields. We now question and actively seek answers. It wasn’t always like that.

  We never suspected the biting cold chills cruelty and causes it to hide its head and hibernate. We did not know that cruelty, like most other things, unfurls with warmth.

  Oppressive heat ruptures records daily. We don’t yet have an air conditioner. Sweat drips from our brows, but our worries center on the hotspot my aunt calls home.

  The correlation between my uncle’s violence and the escalating heat eludes us, but as the situation worsens, we grasp the concept that something must be done before it’s too late.

  Ma badgers Fran. “Admit he beats you,” she says repeatedly. She sees her admission as the first step of escaping an abusive marriage. Her crusade blurs enemy lines. Fran doesn’t take one step away from Herb. Instead, the relationship between Ma and Fran suffers. Fran takes to avoiding Ma and doesn’t come around as often as she used to. Ma admits defeat, retreats, and goes back to playing dumb.

  Granny’s chicken fiasco festers in her mind. Without warning, she randomly mutters, “Not even cramps, I don’t believe it!” She relives her failure, frustrated when no new plan comes to her.

  I spend my days at the pool. The water is tepid but bearable. I leave early in the morning and return home for lunch.

  Opening the front door, I can almost taste the ham-and-cheese sandwich that I’m sure Granny has waiting for me. I rush into the kitchen. A single teacup sits on the table. Alarm fills my chest. “Granny!” I shout. “Granny!”

  I search each room. I find her in her bedroom in the dark, praying. My stomach lurches. Granny has the old lady disease!

  Although she’s Catholic, Gram doesn’t practice her religion. Her childhood soured her on holy convictions. Her parents were deeply devout. Sins lurked in every corner of their home. Granny spent a good part of her childhood on her knees asking for forgiveness for being human. “I believe in God, but I prayed enough in the first twenty years of my life to last a lifetime,” she often says.

  Yet here she is, clutching rosary beads and solemnly mouthing prayers. A shiver runs down my spine. This is not Granny. Something inside of her must have snapped and caused all her distinct parts to topple and realign to form something new. Tears come to my eyes. I turn to leave.

  “Don’t worry, Marnie, I haven’t lost my mind.”

  Even a child knows when deceit is the best course of action. To say otherwise is dishonest or naive. I feign a look of outrage and lie effortlessly. “I would never think such a thing.”

  Hooded eyes and a twisted mouth call me a liar, but she lets the matter drop. “I’ve been thinking of Francis’s problem, and then it dawned on me. There’s only one way to help her.”

  Our eyes meet. I remain silent.

  Joints crackle like peanut brittle as she heaves herself off her knees. “Ever hear of Saint Jude?”

  “You mean J
udas Iscariot?”

  “No, Saint Jude is not Judas Iscariot. You see, that’s the problem. The names are so close, people think they’re one in the same. Jude was also an apostle, but he didn’t go against Jesus. Sadly, he was tossed aside because of the similarity of the names. That’s why Saint Jude is the Forgotten Saint, the patron saint of hopeless causes.”

  “If he’s the Forgotten Saint, why would I remember him?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she says. “The important thing is he’s the saint of hopeless causes.”

  The importance eludes me. My blank stare causes her to snap, “Don’t you get it?”

  I shake my head.

  “None of us is getting anywhere with Francis. She won’t admit to having a problem, so how can we help her? If we badger her, as your mother did, she draws back. If we pretend not to notice what’s happening, everything remains the same. It’s a no-win situation. A desperate situation. The only solution is a Novena.”

  “What’s a Novena?”

  “A Novena is what you do in desperate situations.”

  “That explains nothing.”

  “Well, give me a chance. Don’t be so darn impatient.”

  “Sorry.”

  “When you can’t find an answer to your problems and feel hopeless, you pray to Saint Jude, and he’ll help you.”

  “So a Novena is just praying.”

  Granny’s face scrunches up in exasperation. “No, it’s more than that. You pray to Saint Jude for a solution to a specific problem.”

  “So that’s what you were doing,” I say, deciding that being pious is better than being crazy.

  “I just started. You have to pray nine times a day for nine days. You say the Saint Jude prayer, three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys, and three Gloria Prayers.”

  Calculations tangle in my head. My God, that’s eighty-one sessions of praying at ten prayers a pop. I try to calculate how many individual prayers it is, but I can’t do it without a pencil and paper. “That’s a lot of prayers,” I remark, still trying to figure out the total number of prayers. “Saint Jude is rather demanding, considering his popularity.” Eight hundred and ten—no, it must be a mistake. “Maybe he’s disliked because of that. Maybe people aren’t confusing him with Judas.”