Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  “It’s the mixing up of the names,” Granny says sternly.

  “If you say so,” I say. “I’ve never heard of the Saint Jude prayer.”

  “There are actually quite a few of them. You can ask St. Jude for help, or you can say the full prayer. He’s not a fussy sort of saint.”

  “He shouldn’t be, considering his situation,” I say. “What’s the prayer?” I like the idea of a saint having the same sort of problems as people do. Warmed up to him, I still find his affinity with the number nine excessive. He should be reasonable and pick three or four.

  “Close your eyes, look devout, and kneel,” Granny demands. She does the same as she mumbles, “Might as well make it count.”

  I repeat after her. “O most holy apostle, St. Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, people honour and invoke you universally as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. Pray for me, for I am so helpless and alone. Please help to bring me visible and speedy assistance. Come to my assistance in this great need, that I may receive the consolation and help of heaven in all my necessities, tribulations, and sufferings, particularly that Francis be helped with her marital situation and find true happiness, so that I may praise God with you always.”

  I open my eyes, thinking we are done. Granny’s sharp look demands that I return to my devout state. We say three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys, and three Glorias. “That’s a lot of prayers,” I remark as I heave myself up.

  “It is, but the problem is a big one.” She struggles to get up. I don’t offer to help her. It would make her mad. “Maybe you should put a blanket down next time,” I suggest.

  “I think I will,” she says. “My knees can’t take that hardwood floor. I’ll have to start another Novena when this one is over, asking to be able to walk again.”

  Poor Gram. Auntie Fran has no idea what she’s putting her mother through, but I can see the carnage clearly. My sympathy toward my aunt briefly turns to anger. It diminishes quickly, since the person my aunt is being most unfair with is herself. “So, when you’re finished, will Aunt Fran’s problem be over?” I ask, annoyed that it has come to this. Aunt Fran should just deck the slimy toad.

  “It should be,” Gram replies with a sigh.

  I think of solutions. “So you’re praying for Herb to die?” I ask nonchalantly, already deciding that his death wouldn’t upset me.

  Granny huffs so hard, it feels like a gust of wind. “I’m not praying for a man to die. You’re such a morbid child. I’m not always plotting on ways to kill him. Besides, you can’t ask a saint to kill someone. It’s unsaintly, and they just won’t do it.”

  If the saints were guns for hire, would she detonate the deity? I’m unsure of the answer. “Then you’re praying for a divorce. Divorce is against the Catholic religion,” I remind her.

  “I’m not asking Saint Jude for a divorce.”

  “Then what are you praying for?”

  “A solution.”

  “If Saint Jude doesn’t kill Herb, and if he doesn’t make sure they get divorced, what’s he going to do?” I can’t see any other options.

  Granny thinks about it for a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe he’ll get Herb to mend his ways.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I squawk. “I remember how you said men like Herb don’t see themselves as having to change, because they don’t see anything wrong in what they do or who they are.”

  “Saint Jude is the saint of desperate situations,” Granny says dismissively. “He’ll figure something out.”

  I don’t feel that Granny thought it through. However, I’ll wait until the nine days are over before I make a final verdict on the validity of Novenas. Today is July 10. By the 18th, Auntie Fran’s problem should be resolved. I hope Saint Jude will have better results than the chicken. I run upstairs, grab the furry pink rug at the foot of my bed, and bring it to Granny’s room. She does the damndest things, but she doesn’t deserve to be crippled.

  Chapter 18

  Mrs. Gertrude Plante has lived next door to us for as long as I can remember. She’s crotchety, a busybody, and never says a kind word about anyone. But she’s Mrs. Plante, a fixture on Elm Street, who, over the years, residents have come to accept, like a corn on an overused foot.

  As Mr. Blake, the mailman, dashes up her wide wooden steps, his leg brushes against her plastic swan planter. A blood-red geranium bloom falls to rest stark against the light-grey wooden floor. His eyes flit to the window before he snatches the bloom and tucks it in his pocket. He jabs the doorbell and waits. He sets down the bulky package and rings the bell once more.

  Granny leans forward in her chair. “That’s odd. Gertrude is always home. Except on Tuesdays, of course. That’s her grocery day. It’s Wednesday, so there’s no reason for the door not to open.”

  The stillness of the sheer curtains in the living room is odder still. Mrs. Plante is forever perched on a stool behind the curtains, pressing her nose against the bay window to spy on her neighbors. Mr. Blake looks at his watch, leaves the parcel at the front of the door, and hurries to his mail truck.

  “She’s probably in the bathroom,” Granny says. “She has problems.”

  We all know of Mrs. Plante’s difficulties with constipation. “Not surprising, since she’s the tightest woman in town,” Granny often says with a grin.

  The next morning, the clink of the tin mailbox gets Granny off her kitchen chair. She takes the letters out of the black box as Mr. Blake walks up Mrs. Plante’s steps. “She hasn’t picked up the parcel!” he hollers.

  “Did you ring the bell?”

  “I’m going to now.”

  He rings, waits, and rings the bell again.

  The door doesn’t open.

  “She’s always home,” Granny says as she leans on the railing.

  “I know. I think I better call someone.”

  “You can borrow our phone.”

  “You don’t think…”

  Granny shrugs her shoulders.

  Mr. Blake calls the police, who then call the fire department, who then call an ambulance. They remove the body two hours later.

  A distant relative takes care of the funeral arrangements—her daughter Cynthia, to be precise. Ma and I sip lemonade on the porch when a taxi pulls up and a young woman jumps out.

  “That’s Cynthia, Mrs. Plante’s daughter,” Ma whispers. “The last time I saw her, she was little more than a child, barely eighteen.”

  Dark waves cascade down Cynthia’s back. Pale blue eyes scan the street. “She favors her mother,” I say. “But she’s a little bigger and a bit prettier.”

  “Gertrude had fine features when she was young. Age soured them.” Ma stands and waves. “My condolences, Cynthia.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Sullivan.”

  Cynthia sets her luggage down on our lawn and makes her way over to us. Her face breaks into a huge smile. “Oh my, is this Marnie?”

  I stare at the stranger, certain we’ve never met.

  “I used to hold you when you were a baby.”

  “Sit and talk for awhile,” Ma says.

  Cynthia takes the chair next to Ma and wipes her brow. “Sure is hot.”

  “That it is. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  “If it’s not too much of a bother.”

  “No bother, I just made a pitcher.”

  “That would be great. I miss your lemonade. It’s the best in the world.”

  When Ma returns with the glass, Cynthia takes it and guzzles greedily.

  “Would you like another?”

  Cynthia looks over at Mrs. Plante’s house and sighs. “No, I’m only here for a few days, and there’s a lot to do.” Her hand grips the chair’s arm until her fingers turn white. She leans forward and falls back into the chair. “Maybe I’ll take you up on the offer.”

  Ma takes her glass and goes inside. Cynthia looks at me and says, “You have Ellie’s eyes but your father’s blonde hair.”

  Ma is in the doorway. �
��Yep, Marnie is a mix of the two of us, but we could never figure out where she got her height.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about Mr. O. I wanted to come down for the funeral, but I just returned from vacation and couldn’t take additional time off.”

  “Your beautiful card was enough. It made me cry,” Ma admits.

  Cynthia squeezes Ma’s hand. “I meant every word.”

  “I know, that’s why I cried.”

  They smile at one another. I feel like an interloper until Ma says, “So tell me, what’s new in your life?”

  We sit and talk and learn what life in the city gave the girl from a small town. Cynthia repeatedly says she has a lot to do but makes no move to get up. An hour passes before she heaves herself out of the chair. “I can’t put it off any longer. It was nice to see you again, Marnie.” She takes hold of my hand and squeezes it gently. “You’re lucky to have such a wonderful woman as your mother.”

  Knuckles rap on our screen door two hours later. “Mrs. O’Sullivan!” Cynthia calls.

  “We’re in the kitchen.”

  Cynthia’s eyes light up when she walks into the kitchen. “It looks the same,” she says as her eyes take in the lace curtains, wooden table, and chairs.

  Ma’s laugh holds the undertone of embarrassment. “It’s old-fashioned.”

  Cynthia settles into a chair. “No, it’s warm and comfortable and brings back good memories.”

  “I missed you,” Ma says.

  “I missed you, too, Mrs. O.”

  “You’re a grown woman. Call me Ellie.”

  “No, you’ll always be my Mrs. O. I came over to tell you about the funeral. You will come?”

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  “No, whenever I need someone, you’ve always been there.”

  She gives the details. When she leaves, I turn to my mother. “It sounds as if you and Cynthia were close.”

  “I loved that little girl. I wish I could love the woman she’s become.” Ma walks away before I can ask her anything more.

  Chapter 19

  As next-door neighbors, I’m obligated to go to the funeral. Granny starches and irons our best dresses. I polish and shine our black shoes. As I stomp down the porch steps, I resent Mrs. Plante’s death. It interferes with my television schedule. I feel guilty for my thoughts, but I can’t help it. My self -reproach doesn’t change the truth. It just examines it.

  Ma grabs hold of Granny’s hand. “I hope the turnout isn’t too small. It’s always sad when no one can bother to come.”

  Granny clucks. “She wasn’t well liked. I wouldn’t expect too many.”

  “No one is bad enough to deserve a pithy goodbye.”

  “She’s going to be thrown in a hole, Ma. How does a crowd watching make it better?”

  “Hush, that’s no way to talk.”

  “My Lord, there must be nearly a hundred people,” Granny says as we turn the corner and see the crowd in front of Murphy’s Funeral home. “It’s quite the turnout for one of the most hateful women in the Eastern Township.”

  “Shush,” Ma squawks. “Someone might overhear you.”

  Death wipes ledgers clean. Most dislike Gertrude Plante, but good manners dictate they stay for the service, follow the entourage to the graveyard, and eat their unkind words, regardless of their bitterness.

  Everyone smiles and nods and thinks of kind things to say about a woman who was anything but kind. The hypocrisy swells my head with questions. Is propriety a show of respect, or something else entirely? When Death takes you by the hand, no one knows where it leads. It steals life. Shrouded in mystery, superstitions are Death’s only companions. When a door slams, does uncertainty spur respectful thoughts?

  Granny bustles through the wooden doors of the funeral home with Ma and me at her heels. She walks down the white-papered hallway with purpose and enters Mrs. Plante’s viewing room. Four blue velvet couches, a flock of wingback chairs, and soft lighting make it look like a large living room.

  Fran, with her bright yellow dress, stands out from the crowd. Herb works the room. He attends every function our small town provides, with hopes of making a sale. Why meeting Herb would make you want to buy a car from him eludes me. I think the reverse is true. You want a car and buy it despite meeting Herb.

  Marjorie Burton and her sister, mother, father, and four brothers huddle in a corner. Usually, only parents attend funerals. I later learn that Bob, Marjorie’s dad, is Mrs. Plante’s second cousin. It changes the rules, obliging everyone to make an appearance.

  Marjorie is dressed in a pinafore that her sister Constance once wore. Its blue flowers are long faded, and the horizontal seams fall too low on her. She looks short and dumpy.

  Mrs. Potter’s squeaky voice rises above the whispers. “My, Constance, you look nice. You’re pretty enough to be a model.”

  Constance’s smile highlights even, white teeth. Her long, slim fingers cover the blush creeping along the prominent cheeks of her porcelain skin.

  “I hear you’re head girl,” Mr. Potter adds as he joins his wife. Both Potters beam at Constance before Mr. Potter turns to the Burton boys. “Having four Burtons on the hockey team guarantees we’ll win the cup.”

  “I hate to brag, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they go pro,” Mr. Burton says as his ample gut fills with pride. Marjorie edges out of the circle. No one notices her departure.

  Everyone pays his or her respects. When Ma nudges me forward, I kneel on the pew and mouth a quick prayer without looking into the coffin.

  Employees wear dark suits and solemn expressions. They urge everyone out so they can close the coffin. Hired pallbearers bring Mrs. Plante to the church. The sermon wraps up in less than hour. The drive to the cemetery takes longer than the burial itself. Once it’s over, Cynthia says, “Please join me at Rose’s to…” She spits the words out. “To celebrate my mother’s life.”

  I whisper in Ma’s ear. “Why doesn’t she just invite everyone to her old home?”

  Ma’s lips become tight. “It was the house Cynthia lived in. It was never a home.”

  I open my mouth to ask another question and Ma says, “Think about where you are.”

  Cynthia’s generosity rushes to greet us as we enter the restaurant. Long tables frame the room. Necks crane to see the offerings. Cold cuts, cheeses, and salads of every sort add colour to the white tablecloths. Large steel baskets of steamed vegetables, chicken, and beef fill the air with the aroma of homemade goodness. Stomachs rumble. Mrs. Wolf’s fingers caress a white tablecloth. “Linen,” she says in appreciation. The catered affair has a party-like atmosphere.

  “I can’t believe she’s so generous,” Mrs. Wilkinson chirps as she eyes the food.

  Mrs. Firth waves her hands, “So different from…” Eyes meet in agreement.

  Within minutes, most forget the planting of Mrs. Plante.

  Carole’s blue eyes bulge as she leans in to Susan Morris. “Did you hear about Mrs. Lewis?”

  I lean in closer. What did Mrs. Lewis do?

  Cynthia weaves in and out of the crowd. “Please find a table and help yourself to the food.”

  People pounce on the fare. Chatter becomes louder as wine glasses fill and refill. Once the buffet tables are nearly bare and empty wine bottles are gathered, people pull their chairs a few inches from the table, sip coffee, and nibble on deserts. Cynthia stands. I put down my fork. It’s payback time.

  I expect the typical remarks. She was a wonderful person. Salt of the earth…

  Cynthia clears her throat and raises her wine glass. “I’m sure Mother is looking down at all of us, seeing what we’re wearing, and listening to what’s being said.” She pauses and looks at the crowd. Most nod their assent, silently agreeing that Gertrude Plante is probably doing just that.

  “Heaven will provide her with quite the view. She should feel at home, since the clouds will be reminiscent of sheer curtains.” A thoughtful look falls on her face. “This morning at the graveyard, I saw a cloud move
as if pushed. I immediately thought of mother. She probably pushed it out of her way so she could get a better look at us. Mother loved peeping at all of you from the safety of her living room.”

  Her full lips tremble, her eyes drop to the white linen tablecloth. “Mother was a difficult woman. I won’t deny that. What most of you don’t know is that her thorniness was bred from fear. My mother was afraid of life. She could only watch and listen. She pushed all of you away because she couldn’t bear to be hurt. She pushed me away, too,” she says in a soft whisper. “And I never learned the reason for it.”

  The silence is deafening. Cynthia swallows and continues. “For all her faults, my mother loved Farley Falls, and in her own way, she cared about all of you. When I would call her, which I admit wasn’t often, she always told me what was happening in your lives. I heard about births, deaths, and anniversaries. She always spoke as if she was involved with the people around her. I knew she wasn’t.”

  She takes a sip of wine. “I believe she wanted to be but could never overcome the fear. Fear builds walls, and walls often conceal many good things. Let’s take a moment to pray that her wall is destroyed and her goodness is evident for everyone to see.”

  A single tear rolls down her cheek. A few seconds pass before she resumes her speech. “I thank all of you for coming to help me say goodbye. I pray my mother’s journey led her to happiness and peace. Goodbye, Mother.” She smiles, but my lips won’t budge. Sadness weighs them down. I can’t imagine a person living her life afraid. I didn’t like Mrs. Plante, but I feel sorry for her. When only a single tear falls at your funeral, something went very wrong in your life.

  Chapter 20

  The lucid memories leave me sagging in my seat. Seeing the scene for a second time, I notice that Marjorie’s sister Constance and I share many physical attributes. Both of us are tall and lean. We both have curly blonde hair and fair complexions. We look more like sisters than she and Marjorie do. As Marjorie bolted from the family circle, she glanced at Constance and dropped a key buried deep in her pocket. It unlocked a door and exposed the truth. Marjorie was jealous of her sister and couldn’t do anything about it. Constance was older, wiser, and kind.