Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he shouts.

  “Shut up, you little weasel,” she hisses.

  Mouth agape, his words surface slowly. “What did you say?”

  Her eyes remain fixed on Princess. “I said shut up if you know what’s good for you.”

  She turns to him, and their glances lock. His beady blue eyes darken. He takes a step toward her, hands curled into fists. Fran waits until he comes closer. His arm extends. She grabs it and twists it behind his back. Screeches fly from his mouth as she flings him over the railing into our rosebushes.

  Ma had asked me to weed out the nettle that very morning, but I hadn’t gotten around to it. My laziness pays off. Painful screams echo from below. A rose’s thorns are large and pointy and pierce skin effortlessly, but nettle does the lasting damage. It stings with a painful, hot itch that nothing can abate. A homily of curses spews from his mouth. He stumbles to his feet. His eyes fix on Princess, lying in a helpless, motionless ball.

  His face and neck redden. His skinny frame twitches, and his eyes become black and wild. I grab hold of Ma as he grabs hold of a rock and staggers over to Princess. The little dog can do little more than look up. Ma takes a step forward, but Fran all but flies through the air. She’s on him before he can cement his footing. She grabs hold of his shoulders and hurls him as if he’s nothing. He hits the garbage cans with a loud clatter and lands sprawled on the ground, the sour juices of rotten vegetables and rancid meat on his fine suit. He moans feebly.

  Fran’s hands rest on her ample hips. “I should have thrown him in the trash years ago. He was never any good.” She rushes over to Princess and gently picks her up.

  Herb’s strength returns. “I’m calling the cops on you!” he bellows. “You’re not allowed to treat me like this.” He picks at the garbage that clings to him. “I have witnesses,” he sputters.

  Ma and Granny look away from his beseeching eyes.

  “Call the cops,” Fran mutters, not bothering to look at him. “And I’ll tell them a few things about you.” She walks over to him. His eyes dart in every direction. She stands strong and proud. Her looming stature narrows his choices. He slithers backward, not having the courage to stand. My aunt’s eyes follow him as she clutches Princes to her bosom.

  Once he’s a safe distance away, he springs to his feet and bellows, “To heck with you! A wife who likes animals more than her own husband isn’t much of wife anyway.”

  He tries to make Aunt Fran sound stupid. We all know that with fights, you have to dig past the surface. There’s always something significant tangled in the dirt, and we know what it is. Fran didn’t choose her dog over her husband. The battle was about something else entirely. It was about weakness, strength, and justice.

  “You’re going to pay for this!” Herb screeches. “You need help!”

  Words become louder and cockier with each step he takes. The breeze carries his ridiculous rants and we stare at one another. He turns the corner, and his screams fade away.

  Ma touches Fran’s arm. “Good liars lie to themselves first.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Fran says.

  Granny gets off her chair. “God created all of us in his image, but we have a lifetime to make alterations. Oddly enough, we usually don’t take credit for our revisions.”

  Chapter 23

  Ma hums as she makes up the bed in the spare bedroom. She goes to the hall closet and finds the yellow bedspread peppered with fist-sized white daisies that parade across every inch of it. “Yellow is Fran’s favorite color,” she tells me as she places a box of tissues and a glass of water on the nightstand.

  “You’re spoiling her,” I say.

  “Fran deserves spoiling.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  At nine o’clock, Fran yawns and says, “This day wore me out.”

  “Go to bed,” Gran says as she gives her shoulder a gentle pat.

  She doesn’t argue. She grabs Princess and makes her way up the stairs. Her soft snores drift down the hall throughout the night.

  Ma, Granny, and I sit at the breakfast table when the telephone shatters the pleasantness of the new morning.

  “It’s him,” Granny says sharply.

  “I’ll get it,” Ma says as she rises from the chair.

  “No,” Granny snaps. “Let me talk to him.” She hurries and seizes the phone. She hangs up within a minute. Her eyes narrow into mere slits. “He wants to talk to Frannie. He wants to explain. The weasel was wickedly polite.” She throws herself back into her chair. “It would be better if he was rude and threatening.”

  Ma butters her toasts. “We have to tell her he called.”

  Granny snorts. “I know.” Her face scrunches in frustration. “Why do good people have to play fair when bad people don’t?”

  “Because that’s what makes us what we are.”

  Fran shuffles into the kitchen with Princess in her arms. “I had such a good sleep,” she says with a contented smile.

  “Good.” Ma pours her a cup of coffee. “By the way, Herb just called.”

  “I don’t care,” she says as she grabs the sugar bowl.

  Throughout the day, the telephone peals again and again. I feel like Quasimodo. The bells. The bells!

  “Bang the phone in his ear,” Fran says repeatedly. She refuses to speak to him, but as the calls increase in number, she begins to chew her lips.

  “I hope she doesn’t go back to him,” Ma whispers when Fran goes outside to gather radishes from the garden.

  Granny runs her tongue across her teeth. “Fran has always been too loyal,” she spats as if loyalty is a bad thing.

  My back stiffens. “A world that sees loyalty as a flaw is beyond reason.”

  “That it is, Marnie,” Granny says. “That it is.”

  “Don’t tell her when he calls,” I suggest.

  Granny shakes her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not? He’s not worth our consideration.”

  “Ah, but it’s not Herb I’m considering.”

  Days pass, illustrating why my uncle is such a good salesperson. The more Fran discounts his overtures, the more persistent he becomes. Rather than decrease, the calls increase in frequency. Our doorbell chimes as deliverymen bring armfuls of flowers bursting with color and vigor and boxes of candies and chocolates oozing sweetness.

  Fran sets the flowers in a bucket but doesn’t add water.

  “Don’t you want to put them in a vase?” Ma asks.

  “No, I want to watch them shrivel and die. Can you understand that?”

  “I think I can.”

  The sweets, she sets on the kitchen table for Ma, Granny, and me to eat. She doesn’t even eat a maraschino cherry, her favorite.

  On a few occasions, she toddles toward the clamorous telephone. Poor Princess tries to stay by her side, but since the “accident,” the lengthy journey down the hall proves too much for the little poodle. She whimpers and ultimately tumbles over before they reach their destination. Each time it happens, my aunt ignores the harsh summons of the telephone and attends to Princess.

  The colors of the flowers fade until all that’s left is brown, dried-up skeletons. Ma looks at the bucket but always walks past it. One day, Fran walks into the kitchen, looks at the flowers as if seeing them for the first time, scoops them up, and throws them in the garbage. “I pray my memories die as surely as my flowers and dreams,” she says as the lid bangs shut.

  Ma’s brown eyes fill with sadness.

  Fran never takes any of Herb’s calls. “Good thing,” Granny says. “Frannie’s forgiving heart is too compassionate.”

  Bouquets stop arriving. Divorce papers arrive instead.

  Chapter 24

  The angry squabble marches up the stairs. I hurry to the kitchen to hear the words more clearly.

  “I can go to the lawyer’s office by myself,” Fran growls. It’s still early morning, but she’s wearing her favorite yellow dress, and her face and hair are ca
refully done up.

  Granny’s hands ball into tight fists. “Why go alone? You have family.”

  Fran’s cheeks flush red. “I want him to see that I can stand on my own two feet.”

  “She has a point,” Ma says.

  “Fine, do what you want,” Granny snips all haughty-like. She takes off her hat and pours herself a cup of coffee.

  Fran grabs hold of Granny’s shoulders. “It’s not that I wouldn’t appreciate you being with me. I just want him to see that I’m not broken.”

  “Fine, but you better smile when you sign those divorce papers.”

  “Don’t worry, Mum, I Vaselined my lips so they won’t crack with the pull of that smile.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  No sooner does the door close than Ma whispers, “Fran is the first person in the family to get a divorce.”

  “I don’t know if you can dissolve something that never was,” Granny mutters. “This is nothing more than paperwork.”

  “Still…”

  “Still nothing. It was never a real marriage. Besides, Saint Jude sanctified it, so it’s all right.”

  “Don’t tell people that,” Ma says. “They’ll think you’re nuts.”

  “I don’t care what they think. It’s true.”

  Ma rolls her eyes. “Saint Jude had nothing to do with it. Nonetheless, the divorce is a good thing. I pray that this nightmare is over.”

  Granny leans in to Ma. “Don’t worry about Herb. Sherry Turnkins told me he moved out west to start another dealership.”

  Ma’s face breaks into a smile. “Good to hear.”

  The following week, Fran comes down for breakfast, once again wearing her favorite yellow dress. When Ma gives her a once-over, she smiles and says, “I have an important meeting.”

  Granny finishes buttering her toast and puts down her knife. “What sort of meeting?”

  “I’m closing a deal.”

  “What sort of deal?” Ma asks.

  “A big one.”

  “You’re being deliberately vague,” Ma says as the toaster’s sharp click summons her to the corner.

  Fran doesn’t say a word until Ma returns to the table. “I’m savoring the news, because I want to enjoy it.”

  Granny’s eyes become hard. “Stop this nonsense. Tell us your news. I hate surprises.”

  Fran claps her hands. “I bought the house next door. We’re going to be neighbors.”

  “The Plante house?”

  “No, Ellie, the Morris house.”

  Granny shakes her head. “But it wasn’t even for sale.”

  “That’s because Mrs. Morris told me they were planning to put it up, and I asked to see it before they did.”

  “That’s a nice house,” Ma remarks.

  “Can you afford to buy a house on your own?” Granny asks.

  “We negotiated a good deal between ourselves. I bought it outright.”

  “Outright,” Ma repeats.

  Fran shrugs her wide shoulders. “Herb is a despicable man, but he’s good at making money. The settlement was large.”

  “Outright,” Ma repeats when her head is in the refrigerator. She grabs the jar of raspberry jam.

  “Yep, outright. I won’t owe a dime.”

  Princess, who appeared crippled for life, begs as soon as Ma opens the jam. The dog shares her sweet tooth.

  Fran has a bowl of corn flakes and hurries out the door, humming.

  “I can’t believe she bought a house outright,” Ma repeats for the third time. She checks the time and says, “I have to be off. I’ll be back at seven. I’m closing tonight.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to be the next head cashier,” Granny remarks.

  “Evelyn is leaving next week. We’ll find out then.”

  “I hope Mary-Beth ends up with a good dad this time around,” I remark.

  “Joel McKay may not be much to look at, but he’s good to Evelyn and Mary-Beth. I think they’ll be happy with him.” Ma grabs her purse and gives me a kiss. “Get your work done so we can watch TV later.”

  With Ma gone, Princess turns to Granny for scraps.

  “Granny, do you remember the day Herb attacked Princess?”

  “Of course, how could I forget? It was an eventful day.”

  “Some things about that day don’t sit well with me.”

  Granny puts a bit of jam on the crust of her toast and hands it to the dog. “What do you mean?”

  “When Herb slinked away, Princess winked at me.”

  “Dogs don’t wink.”

  “Princess winked at me,” I repeat. Granny smirks, and I feel my face grow hot. “I don’t think you’re crazy when you say Saint Jude sanctioned the divorce. I believe your prayers worked,” I huff.

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “There’s more.”

  “You don’t say.”

  I lean forward in my chair. “After the accident, Princess was running around on all fours. She was as energetic as a puppy as she chased a monarch butterfly in the yard. When I let her in, the phone rang. Next thing I know, she’s in a helpless heap whining at Aunt Fran.”

  “It probably had to do with her running around minutes before.”

  “No, she did it more than once. Whenever she thought no one was watching, she didn’t limp—that is, until the phone rang.” My finger punctuates the next remark. “She didn’t let Fran to answer Herb’s calls.” I lean back in my chair. “She did Saint Jude’s bidding.”

  Granny sits still and thinks for a second.

  “Did I ever tell you that Fran was named after Saint Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals?”

  “Of course, you eventually tell me everything.”

  She takes a sip of coffee and tilts her head. “Princess managed to do something none of us could. She forced Frannie stand up to Herb.” Granny points at Princess. “That little dog was smart enough to realise Fran wouldn’t stand up for herself, so she obliged Fran to stand up for her.” Granny chews on her toast. “You could be right, my girl, you could very well be right. Having a dog come to Francis’s rescue is poetic justice.”

  Granny, who grew up on a farm, believed that animals are just animals, not at all in the same category as people. My grandfather treasured animals and often spoiled them. He named Auntie Fran.

  When Grandpa was alive, he and Granny often argued over Old Rufus, their black lab. Granny insisted that Rufus sleep outside because he was big and had a problem with flatulence. Grandpa ignored her complaints and brought him in every night after she fell asleep. Granny often shook her head and complained that Grandpa didn’t know how to treat an animal.

  After Herb left town, I often saw Granny give Princess tidbits of chicken breast and roast beef on a china plate. She also allowed Princess to stretch out on our sofa in the living room so she could enjoy the sun’s rays. When Princess became older, my grandmother knit a special blanket for her. Whenever the wind rattled our windows, she placed it over her.

  Princess may or may not have helped a saint, but she sure did achieve an eminent position in our household until the day she died at the ripe old age of eighteen.

  Chapter 25

  I fight to keep my eyes open. Visiting young Marnie O’Sullivan is tiresome. She’s a girl, and I’m a woman. Although I know her intimately, my thinking has progressed past the naiveté she possesses. I have long since learned lessons that young Marnie hasn’t. But some of her questions still leave me baffled. Her visits show me that age provides many things, but a full understanding of what’s happening around you isn’t one of them.

  When I was young, I assumed I would reach a certain age—a magical number—whereby a platter would drop in my hands, brimming with understanding. It would provide a wealth of knowledge. Eager, I waited for the plate to fall.

  Platters only hold food.

  I garnered my knowledge slowly, never grandly, and rarely without incident.

  Carts clatter, and glasses clink. Lunch sounds make me sit straighter in
my seat. I enjoy food. I anticipate eating fare that someone else’s hands made. Preparing your own meals is the worst part of growing up. It never tastes as good when you make it yourself. There are never any surprises.

  The servers pass out plates of fancy sandwiches. They remind me of Aunt Fran, who, among other things, is the best fancy sandwich maker in all of Farley Falls. She discovered her talent only after her divorce. Aunt Fran can organize and cater any party, regardless of its size or requirements. As with many discoveries, she never sought it. It just showed up one day.

  When my thirteenth birthday nears, Aunt Fran says, “Come on, Ellie. Let me throw Marnie a party.”

  When Ma doesn’t answer, Fran says, “Come on, it’ll do me good. It’ll occupy my mind.”

  The occupation of Fran’s mind is something that Ma worries about daily. “Fine, but don’t go crazy.”

  Fran disregards Ma and makes elaborate plans, and, for once, my mother doesn’t try to stop her from being extravagant.

  “She has to adapt to a life alone,” Ma tells Granny as they prepare our dinner. Beans snap in quick succession. “Keeping busy helped me after I lost my Paddy. The party is good for her.”

  Granny puts the paring knife down. “It isn’t the same thing. You loved your man, and he loved you back. Fran’s circumstances are entirely different.” Her face becomes thoughtful. “Fran’s divorce is akin to having surgery.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ma squawks.

  “Both remove obstructions. Don’t worry about Fran. The cut needs time to heal, but she’s on the mend.” Granny picks up a knife and digs the eyes from the potato. “People don’t mourn the loss of pus-filled tonsils or inflamed gallbladders. They’re happy to have them gone.”

  “You’re right, but she’s still a young woman. I’m sure she misses being married.”

  The knife strikes the cutting board as Granny slices the potatoes into thin rounds. “I wouldn’t count on it. Marriage means different things to different people. Herb may have discoloured her views on matrimony.”