Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  The fancy egg sandwiches now in front of me are not the orange ones that graced a table so long ago, but they still make me smile. Funny, the things you remember and how your mind captures pieces of time and stores them away in tidy fragments. A lot of information is stored under fancy sandwiches, at least in my mind.

  Chapter 28

  Not everyone shares my affinity toward sandwiches. The bellow bursts with anger and indignation. “This is all you’re serving?” a man sputters as he looks down at the tray.

  The loud-mouthed man stands. I don’t know him, but it doesn’t stop me from immediately disliking him. His large, fleshy hand smacks the armrest. The sound resonates like an expletive. “I deserve better. There should be more.”

  His wife—a model of paleness, with near-white hair, icy blue eyes, and porcelain skin—reddens. Does she notice he didn’t say “we” deserve more? Perhaps she’s not as deserving.

  “No promises were made,” the attendant remarks with a smile so forced, it’s a rectangle.

  “I don’t care. There should be more. Who’s running things? I want to talk to them.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. That’s not possible.”

  Soft words don’t lessen his belligerence. Their glances lock.

  The man’s wife touches his arm. “Sit down. I like sandwiches. There’s no need to complain on my behalf.”

  He brushes her arm away. Bellows ferment into incomprehensible mutters. He sits down.

  The server walks away but stares at him frequently.

  Everyone is fearful when a large, muscular person is angry.

  When I was young, I thought that all the people towering over me were big, strong, smart, and somehow indestructible. That idea ended up in the corner with the platter.

  The summer of my thirteenth year, I have a growth spurt. Many mornings, Ma stares at me and asks, “How can you be so tall? I’m barely five feet, and Paddy was only five foot six.” Her gaze hints that I grew as I slept and that I ought to have the answer as to why.

  “I don’t know, Ma. I’m tall because I’m tall.”

  She takes to measuring me every Sunday after breakfast. The scraping of the stool against the tiles begins the production as she drags it from its corner and places it under the kitchen doorframe.

  She jumps up and briefly towers over me. She fiddles with a ruler until it’s perfectly perched on top of my head. Only then does her pencil dig into the wood. Her ruler measures the first mark against the last. “Five nine,” she announces. “You grew four inches in two months.”

  Granny leans in to her and whispers, “She’s the size of most full-grown men.” Granny is a horrible whisperer. Her words make me feel somewhat abnormal. But at five foot nine, I look up to few people, and after a while, I like it that way.

  As I change in more profound ways, I ignore their nattering. A protective shield pulls back, and I clearly see those around me. I don’t like what I see.

  It’s crushing to discover that adults, like children, come in a variety of forms. They’re not all big, strong, and intelligent. I initially convince myself there are only a few exceptions. It doesn’t take long to realize that there are many small, weak, and stupid people in our world. I feel guilty for noticing. Ma brought me up to respect my elders. It seems wrong to see them as anything but perfect, but guilt—like water—evaporates in the hot rays of the summer.

  I soon feel superior to have obtained my size, strength, and intelligence. My newly opened eyes see myself as better than some. My current vision takes away haziness, and for a while, everything is black or white. Choices and opinions become remarkably easy—that is, until the days of shades of gray roll in, and I discover that not everything is black or white.

  I learn that a good person can do a bad thing, given the right circumstances, given the right mix of people. A bad person can also do a good thing, given the same reasons. It’s all about variables, alignment, and other things that can’t be quantified or relied on to remain stable. It’s about shades of gray that camouflage people and acts, ensuring that you can no longer distinguish between what’s good and what’s bad.

  Chapter 29

  Steel strikes wood as Mr. Dodds hammers the white sign into the dried-up lawn. Neighbours don’t take notice of it. Everyone knows that Cynthia wants the house sold. Her first attempt failed. Renting has run its course as tenants move in and stream out. It’s time to try again. Spring brings new growth and a freshness to what was once spent.

  Balmy weather hastens the growth of flowers. Mr. Dodds plants a few marigolds in Mrs. Plante’s neglected bed and fills the empty swan planter with the red geraniums that Mrs. Plante favored.

  The sign looks harmless enough, yet the white sign—with its carefully designed lettering—births the most bizarre set of circumstances Farley Falls has ever seen. A beacon of sorts, it calls to the McRaffety clan.

  Mr. Dodds raps on our door the day he sells the house. Long and lean, he droops in the sunshine of the porch. “Just dropped by to tell you the Plante house finally sold.”

  Granny, being blunt and nosey, wastes no time in asking, “Who did you sell it to?”

  “A family,” he says with a toothy smile.

  Family is the magic word. We smile like fools.

  “Do they have a girl?” I ask, holding my breath.

  Mr. Dodds scratches his pointy chin. “I’m not sure. They have three children. That’s all I know.” His face brightens. “You’ll find out soon enough. They’re moving in next Saturday.”

  Saturday morning finds us busy. Ma is in the kitchen. “I’m going to bake them a cake to make them feel welcome.”

  “Good idea, Ellie. I’ll make them a batch of my fudge to do the same.”

  I peer out the living room window, waiting for a glimpse of our new neighbors. I’m so excited, I can barely sit still.

  “Are you a moron or an idiot?” The voice slashes through our screen to strike Ma, Granny, and me with bewilderment. We dash to the window. A truck idles in the Plante laneway. Its fumes create a nasty cloud of grey stench.

  “Our new neighbours are moving in,” Granny says as she presses her nose against the glass.

  “You’re lazy and a good-for-nothing,” a dark-haired woman snaps as she picks up a box from the ground. A teenage boy mutters something we can’t hear. Within minutes, three boys tug at each other and become a solid mass as they try to throw one another to the ground. They scream profanities.

  Ma’s hands blanket her ears. “Cover your ears, too, Marnie. You don’t need to hear that kind of language.” She pushes Granny and me from the window with her elbows. “Let’s ignore it,” she says. “Moving day is stressful. It brings the worse out in people.” She herds us into the kitchen, but the voices from outside travel along with us.

  “#$#$^!” a voice screeches.

  “You’re the #@$@#,” someone corrects.

  “You’re all #$#@,” a man’s voice snarls.

  Ma closes the window even though the day is hot. She looks out a few times but keeps the front door closed. Night falls, and the clamour ends. “Have a piece of cake,” Ma says as I cart our dinner dishes to the sink.

  “And cut up the fudge,” Granny adds.

  We never introduce ourselves to our neighbours. We gradually learn who they are from Granny, who yanks out weeds, loosens the tough soil, and often stops tending to her garden because our new next-door neighbours’ bickering bursts through the door in a tangle of arms, legs, and curses.

  One day, as she’s pulling at an especially tenacious weed, she calls out, “Marnie, bring me a glass of iced tea!”

  I return to find her sitting on the swing with the weed in her bucket. “Oh, good, you brought yourself a glass. Let’s sit and enjoy the morning sun together.” She points at a male cardinal. “He’s been whistling all morning, and there’s a few song sparrows at Mrs. Hume’s feeder. They’re singing mighty pretty this morning.”

  A door bangs shut. Wings flap like the pages of a book flipping in rap
id succession. A salvo of footsteps pierces the silence as each McRaffety battles to seize a chair. “Get your sorry arses out of those chairs,” Mr. McRaffety says when the two oldest boys capture the prize. A third chair sits in the corner—askew, since it’s missing a leg.

  Granny strains her neck to look through our wisteria. “The mother looks like a gentle soul,” she remarks a second before the petite, dark-haired woman opens her mouth and her words blast like the peal of a foghorn. “How many times must I tell you to show some flippin’ respect?” she asks her sons. “I don’t understand where your rudeness comes from.”

  Granny’s tongue clicks. “The father appears so studious.”

  “Thick glasses do that to a person.”

  “I wonder what he does for a living.”

  “I don’t know. He always seems to be home.”

  The three boys sit on the steps. One of them bounces a ball. “How old do you think the boys are, Granny?”

  “Hard to say, but I would guess seventeen, fifteen, and thirteen.”

  They’re the size of normal children but somehow manage not to look like any child I know. The youngest spots Granny as she studies them. “The old bat next door is spying again!” he shouts.

  “Give her the finger, Ernest,” the father says. He flips her the bird, accompanied by a smile.

  Granny stands and faces them. “Maybe people wouldn’t look at you if you weren’t always making fools of yourselves.” It’s our door’s turn to slam.

  Ma is in the living room reading a magazine. “The youngest boy gave me the finger,” Granny says as she flops into the chair across from her.

  “Children can be disrespectful,” Ma replies.

  “His father told him to do it.”

  “What?”

  “He did, can you believe it?”

  “I can believe anything when it comes to that family. It’s clear none of them know the meaning of respect. They’re loud, insensitive, and downright menacing.”

  “I’m afraid to walk past those boys,” Granny admits.

  “They’re animals,” Ma says through clenched teeth. “Have you looked at their lawn lately?”

  “I don’t bother looking anymore.”

  Ma looks toward the McRaffety house. The twist of her mouth leads me to believe that she can see through walls and heavy bricks. “Housekeeping abilities are your own business, but can’t they tuck their curly tails into their underwear before they leave the house? I can’t believe how they flaunt their slovenly ways.”

  I usually don’t notice such things, but the transformation of a neat property into a health hazard is unmistakable. Ma surveys their home daily. She runs into the house and reports the latest defilement of the Plante property without acknowledging the McRaffety name. We know them as “those people.”

  Chapter 30

  Full of contradictions, the McRaffetys are utterly alien to the inhabitants of Elm Street.

  “What a beautiful dog,” Granny says when their purebred Samoyed bounds from the house. It’s by far the most exotic dog Farley Falls has ever seen.

  Within weeks, the dog jauntily prances through the weeds and long grass of the front lawn to do her business. “Why does she always time it to our cuppa of tea and platter of cookies?” Granny asks.

  I shrug my shoulders. The dog’s coat sparkles in the sunlight. Mrs. McRaffety trails behind her pet, holding tissues.

  Granny chokes on her cookie. “Did that woman wipe the dog’s bum?” she asks.

  Sure enough, the woman whose drapes hang in tatters wipes her dog’s bum when the act is fait accompli, fearful that feces will mar the dog’s coat.

  “Well, I never,” Granny sputters.

  She doesn’t finish the sentence. I wonder if she means that she’s never seen someone wipe a dog’s bum, or perhaps that she has never wiped a dog’s bum. I don’t ask. It’s easy to lead Granny to impatience, and it’s not a corner you want to find yourself in. Besides, it isn’t the weirdest thing our neighbours do.

  One evening, Mr. McRaffety sits on the porch with Tata, the Samoyed. Pinky held high, he sips tea from a delicate cup as he digests a weighty tome. Suits me fine, since I, too, am reading a book, and I hope the quiet isn’t broken by a noisy ruckus. I barely finish a paragraph before words blast through the neighbour’s window. “@#$%#@#%&!”

  Mr. McRaffety doesn’t raise his eyes from his book.

  A shoe flies and pelts his head so hard, the thunk resonates.

  He gently puts down his book as to not lose his place, yanks open the front door, and shouts, “%$%#@@!#$&*)*(^&%$!”

  My fingers tighten around my book. He’s definitely the most articulate of the family. His shouts are such foul verbal expressions of pure hate that his mix of adjectives and verbs causes Mr. Whittaker to stop in mid-step and stare stupidly at the house.

  Mr. McRaffety closes the front door and turns. His eyes land on Mr. Whittaker. “What are you looking at?” he barks.

  Mr. Whittaker doesn’t say a word. He makes it to the corner before I can rest my empty glass on the table.

  Mr. McRaffety returns to Tolstoy, and the illusion of a quiet, studious man sits back in his chair.

  Objects fly out of McRaffety windows daily. They land, never to be picked up. One evening, a lamp whizzes by Mr. McRaffety’s head so close, his hair moves. He doesn’t appear to notice.

  Weeks pass. Dog poop, books, rugs, kitchen appliances, and even a sofa bed litter the lawn. Some time in the wee hours of the morning, Mr. McRaffety saunters outside and lies down on the bed to sleep until daybreak. The street, with its night noises, is quieter than his home, for other than himself, the McRaffetys don’t appear to sleep.

  Mr. and Mrs. Potter live to the right of the McRaffetys. Within a month of the McRaffetys’s arrival, we hear banging. Ma takes that moment to water the fern on the porch. She returns, shaking her head. “Mr. Potter just nailed a large orange-and-black For Sale sign into their lawn.” She wrings her hands. “I guess he’s had enough of his new neighbours.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Aunt Fran agrees. “Maybe we should all move. You can’t do anything about people like that.”

  “There’s always something you can do,” Granny argues. “Elm Street is a fine street, and I’m proud to call it home. It’ll remain a good home..” She goes upstairs to come down moments later, wearing her Sunday best. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Where are you going?” Ma squeaks.

  Granny ignores her and continues walking.

  “Remember, you’re a lady,” Auntie Fran reminds her.

  Gram’s lips remain a tight, immovable line. The door slams shut firmly behind her. We presume she’s going to pay the McRaffetys a visit. Ma sighs in relief when she makes her way to the Potter home.

  Gram is inside for approximately half an hour. Once she leaves, Mr. Potter goes outside and takes the orange-and-black sign down.

  Ma smiles and nods. “She must have convinced them to stay.”

  My aunt squeals, “Thank God, I don’t want to move again.”

  “I don’t see what good that’ll do,” I mumble. “She’s just postponing the inevitable.”

  Mom and Aunt Fran exchange looks. “You don’t know your grandmother when she’s prepared for battle.”

  I do know my grandmother’s capacities, but I don’t argue. Granny is enterprising, but our household consists of three females: one who is very old, one who is pretty old, and one who is a kid. What can we do? The Potters, although nice, are equally useless against people like the McRaffetys. They’re docile, church-going people whose obedient existence makes them easy targets.

  In recent weeks, I saw every one of them glance at the McRaffety home and cower. I don’t blame them. Those three McRaffety boys look like hoodlums. No one in the neighbourhood complains about their filthy language, loud music, and general lurking. Their vicious looks dare you to say something. You don’t, because you know they want you to give them a reason to hurt you.

  Chapter 31<
br />
  Two days after Granny’s visit, the Potters pile into their little red car and leave without a backward glance. The Potters, like me, must know that staying will end in a losing battle. They retreat while they can still run and cower.

  The next day, guttural growls fill the street as a group of four men riding motorcycles pull into the Potter laneway. Three of them sport long hair and scruffy, unkempt beards. The fourth is clean-shaven and bald. He looks even more menacing than the others do, because his eyebrows are black, causing one to focus on his dead, dark eyes.

  I never saw squatters before, but I figure I’ve seen my first group. The speed of their invasion confuses me. How did they know that the Potters vacated their family home? Is there a squatter network that I don’t know about?

  Black leather jackets sport red lettering, proclaiming that they’re Satan’s Sons. It sounds right. If Satan had sons, I’m sure they would look like these men.

  A black, skinny, one-eyed dog called Stinky accompanies them. He pees on our rosebushes when he arrives. He then bares his teeth and howls at the neighbourhood. The baying sends shivers down my back. It’s surely a bad omen. I leave my bedroom window, run downstairs, and burst into the kitchen. “Ma, Granny, you won’t believe what happened!” Before they can answer, I screech, “A motorcycle gang moved into the Potters’s house!”

  I wait for a reaction. Granny continues to knit, and Ma thumbs through a magazine. I believe we will be raped, looted, and viciously murdered by the end of the week. “Life as we know it will end!” I holler.