Chickens & Hens

by Nancy-Gail Burns

  Ma looks away from the magazine to roll her eyes. “You’re being overly dramatic.”

  “You didn’t see them.”

  Granny finds Ma’s eyes. “I don’t know where she gets it from.”

  Their audacity causes my teeth to clench. Ma sees an itsy bitsy spider and screams bloody murder. Granny, who loves flowers, hates the squirrels that destroy them. She arms herself with rocks and sharp objects and formulates warfare strategies that have her racing through our yard, yet I’m the one who overreacts.

  I throw myself onto a chair. How can they be so calm? I stomp from the room when they continue to ignore me. We’re sitting ducks. I might as well finish the book I’m halfway through, since there’s no telling when I’ll end up in a coma.

  My worries prove groundless. The gang, as we call them, are very polite to every family except one. Their hostility focuses on their next-door neighbours. Odd, since the McRaffetys treat the gang differently than everyone else. They actually smile when they see them. I suspect an attempt at networking. Snake, Poison, Smiley, and Sput probably have connections that could further the boys’ life of crime and corruption, but the gang will have none of it.

  As I’m making my way home from school, I see Snake sitting on the porch. Oscar, the oldest McRaffety boy, saunters over. “Nice jacket,” he says when Snake tosses it on the railing. His hand reaches out and stops in midair when Snake hisses, “Touch it and you die.”

  I stop and tie my shoelace. Oscar pushes his lank black hair from his eyes. His glance travels to the laneway. “You got nice hogs, too.”

  “Touch them and you die.”

  As oily as a tar pit, Snake’s eyes capture Oscar’s gaze. Moments pass before he escapes the grip of the black orbs and skulks down the street. I quicken my step. Bullying humiliates people. Most victims take that cruelty to heart. The hurt can stay with them a long time. It often teaches them to be kind to others.

  But boys like Oscar are different. They take their hurt and look to give it to someone else. They feel bigger by making someone else feel small. By the time I sit on my porch, his smirk shifts into place, but his shoulders remain stooped. I sneak a glance at him, but I’m ready to look away if our glances meet.

  The gang targets each of the McRaffetys and makes their life sheer torture. Stinky, the one-eyed dog, joins in on the effort. He hides in bushes and pounces in a show of white spittle and yellow fangs whenever a McRaffety steps away from the house.

  Tata no longer uses the front lawn as a bathroom. She does her business in the backyard without the benefit of an audience. Mr. McRaffety no longer reads on the porch.

  The McRaffety boys cling to their menacing reputation, but it’s tricky to hold on to it when you jump your back fence every morning to avoid a dog. Within the week, Oscar makes a stand.

  The McRaffetys’s front door opens. Oscar stands straight and squares his shoulders as his gaze scans the street. He takes to the stairs with a swagger. His black boot almost touches the sidewalk when Stinky flies out of Mrs. Potter’s burning bushes and leaps through the air to grab hold of his right buttock.

  A shriek fills the air with urgency. Stinky’s growls muffle as he chomps the denim between sizable teeth. He tugs, digs his paws into the earth, and shakes his head from side to side. Oscar yelps as he struggles to get away. He pumps his legs, but only the tears streaming down his face travel. A roaring rip topples the power structure as the pants give way. Stinky sails backward. Oscar races into his house, clutching his naked, bleeding buttock.

  Throughout the day, Stinky parades around the lawn. The seat of Oscar’s pants dangles from his mouth. Tattered curtains shuffle, but no McRaffety ventures outdoors.

  Night approaches. The neighbourhood has a new feel to it. It’s the first summer in the history of television that not one person on Elm Street complains about summer programming, since televisions are abandoned. Everyone sits on their porches and watches the nightly entertainment. Elm Street is more interesting than Perry Mason. The gang revels nightly. Their parties gush onto the McRaffety lawn. Residents of Elm Street watch as the predators become the victims.

  Chapter 32

  The final episode begins the night Poison and Snake make their way to the McRaffety lawn and sit down on their sofa. Surely there’s a lesson in it. A comfortable seat should never be placed where you don’t want anyone to sit.

  Feet land on the blue tin trunk with an arrogant thud as bodies nestle onto the flowered sofa bed. Music blares with a flick of a switch. Poison and Snake look comfortable and mellow. I assume it’s going to be an uneventful night. Just when I’m about to go into the house, I hear Poison holler to his friends. “Smiley, Sput, join us! It’s a nice night to watch the stars.”

  Smiley and Sput are massive men. Both are over six feet tall, with rippling muscles bearing jagged scars of their strong-arm tactics.

  The screen door slams. Heavy footsteps thunder down the porch stairs. They casually stroll over to the McRaffety property. Sput frowns, and his eyes turn snappish. “Need something to sit on,” he remarks when he sees how comfortable his friends are. “Chairs or sofas!” he yells into the McRaffetys’s living room window.

  He gets no response, so he repeats himself, screaming even louder.

  Beads of sweat trickle down Mr. McRaffety’s face as he carries out two wooden kitchen chairs.

  Smiley kicks the chairs from his hands. “You expect me and Sput to sit on that?”

  Our potbellied neighbour sputters something incomprehensible. Sput interrupts his babbling. “Get those boys of yours out here with something better,” he demands.

  “The biggest, most comfortable chairs you own,” Smiley suggests.

  “But they aren’t designed for the outdoors,” Mr. McRaffety argues.

  “Neither is all the other junk you have on the lawn.” Smiley looks down at Mr. McRaffety and growls, “I want a chair, and I want it now.”

  The two eldest sons carry out a velveteen pink chair.

  Smiley plunks his hefty frame into the large chair. “Get another one for Sput,” he demands.

  Mrs. McRaffety steps onto the porch. The foghorn mouth doesn’t sound. She bites her lip and turns away. Her sons carry out yet another chair.

  Sput sits down and immediately grumbles, “We need footrests.”

  “We don’t have any footrests,” the McRaffety boys explain politely.

  “Don’t have footrests!” Sput and Smiley exclaim in unison.

  Poison begins to laugh. “If they don’t have footrests, they can become footrests,” he suggests.

  “Good idea,” Snake concludes.

  Smiley and Sput laugh like hyenas. Oscar and Melville join in on the laughter until Sput smacks the chair’s arm. “It’s not a joke.”

  Oscar appears ready to argue, but Snake only looks in his direction for a second before he falls to the ground. He and Melville kneel and bend their backs as if they’re praying to their god.

  “I like these footrests,” Smiley says as he places his booted feet on Melville’s back.

  “I think we’ll use them every night,” Sput announces as he does the same.

  The boys, who terrorized the neighbourhood for months, don’t say a word. They become human footrests, for they’re in the company of bigger dogs who will never allow them to join their pack. Dogs roll onto their back when they meet an alpha dog. They display their throat and hope their submission will save them. Humans roll onto their stomach and protect their vitals. We don’t expect mercy. History has proven that we are the most savage beasts of all.

  The best the McRaffety boys can hope for is total degradation, but bodies left intact. The youngest sibling’s sobs escape from inside the house and mix with the sounds of the night air.

  I don’t think it can get any worse for the McRaffetys. I’m wrong. Friends of the gang show up and want refreshments. Scruffy-looking, most of them seem to have scuttled out from under a rock.

  “Mama, Papa, we want refreshments for our guests,” P
oison demands.

  Beer cans snap open, and potato chips fill wooden bowls.

  The music blares, the demands grow, and the neighbours watch as the McRaffetys are terrorized. When the music stops, I think it’s winding down. I’m wrong again.

  “We want live entertainment!” Poison bellows.

  I hurry to the bathroom. When I return, Mrs. McRaffety is singing “Bridge Over Troubled Waters” as Mr. McRaffety strums his guitar. The youngest McRaffety, Ernest, waits on the crowd of guests.

  No one calls the cops. No one comes to their assistance.

  I’m in bed well before the party winds down. I sleep in snatches but wake when the party ends at 3:00 a.m.

  “Come again,” the boys say to their friends.

  Voices ring out, and motorcycles growl and lurch down the street, squealing. Silence settles, and I grab hold of my pillow and wait for sleep to grab hold of me.

  I’m sure the McRaffety boys crawled into their house, and I don’t expect to see the gang any time soon, as they’ll surely sleep the day away.

  The McRaffetys have staying power. They resume their normal schedule. The three McRaffety boys leave their house at 10:10. Scowls in place, their menacing stances are surprisingly up to form. They step out onto their porch. Mrs. Burrows, an eighty-year-old woman who lives directly across from them, shouts, “Hey, boys, my feet are sore! Why don’t you come over and give them a rest?”

  She chuckles, stands straight, and looks them in the eye. The boys have been brought down to their knees, and everyone knows it. Their mother, noticing what’s happening, yells, “@#$^*!” Mr. McRaffety pulls her back inside.

  I believe he understands that what’s been lost can’t be regained.

  Chapter 33

  Persistent taps coming from outside seize our attention. Granny hurries to the front window, snoops, and makes her way to the porch. I’m right behind her. “Morning, Mr. Dodd.”

  “Morning, Melina.”

  “Wasn’t too long ago that you took the sign down.”

  He gives the sign a solid whack, then wipes his brow with a handkerchief. “Barely two months,” he says.

  “I hope we have better luck this time around.”

  “If you know anyone interested, let them know that they can buy it for next to nothing.”

  Granny shakes her head. “I imagine that’s all it’s worth.”

  “You got that right.”

  Granny leans over the railing and asks, “So, are they gone?”

  Mr. Dodds comes closer as he says, “Mr. Dawson works at Derby’s. You know it stays open all night.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Granny admits.

  “Well, anyway, he saw the McRaffetys leave in a large yellow truck in the middle of the night. They dropped into Derby’s for a bite before beginning a long trip. They won’t be coming back.”

  “I never heard a sound.” Lines dash across her forehead. “I wonder where they’re going.”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. As long as they stay away from Farley Falls, I’m happy.”

  “Have to admit, I feel the same. Well, have a good day. Hope you have luck with the sale.”

  “I’ll need a lot of luck to sell it in the shape it’s in.”

  Just as we’re about to go inside, the Potters’s little red car pulls into their driveway.

  “Look, Granny, the Potters are back.”

  She nods. She doesn’t seem surprised. The car doors barely close when the gang marches onto the porch. I grab hold of her when Mr. Potter approaches the biggest and meanest gang member. “I can’t watch,” I moan.

  I wait for the splat. Instead, Poison’s arms encircle the little man. “Piece of cake!” he bellows as each gang member greets the Potters with hugs and smiles.

  Mrs. Potter’s eyes dart in every direction. “You’re sure they’re really gone?”

  “Positive,” the gang says in unison.

  Mr. Potter’s arms reach out to the skies. “Praise the Lord!” he proclaims.

  I lean in to Granny. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

  “The gang is born-again Christians. They helped get the Potters their home back.”

  “Can we hang up our old uniforms?” Poison asks.

  “Certainly,” Mr. Potter says. “They aren’t appropriate now that you’ve found the Lord.” He rushes over to his little red car and retrieves four large bags. He hands each of the boys one.

  “It’s black leather jackets!” Poison squawks.

  “Look at the crest,” Mr. Potter says.

  “The Lord’s Children,” Poison reads aloud.

  I’m sure I see tears rolling down the bikers’ cheeks as they caress the leather. I’m certain they are when Mr. Potter hands Poison a handkerchief and it passes from one to another.

  Mr. Potter’s arms encircle his wife and son. He beams at the bikers. His voice booms with fervour. “It must have been an ordeal to revert back to drinking and swearing and partying. I couldn’t have done it.” He adds, “You gave us back our home, and I promise we’ll all help you on your journey to find the Lord.”

  “We’ll never give up on you boys,” Mrs. Potter vows in an impassioned voice that sends shivers down my spine. “It will be our life’s mission,” she adds with a small, spooky smile.

  The four ex-gang members look at one another and use some unseen signal to convey that they should slowly inch away from the Potters. The Potters, utilizing some unheard communication, form a tight circle, blocking their escape. Stinky, the dog, almost makes it, but Mrs. Potter pulls him back and attaches a bright red collar around his neck, to which she fastens a bright red leash. She then begins to sing “Amazing Grace.” Paulie Potter makes Poison’s face blanch when he grabs the man’s hand and insists he join in.

  “Poison can’t sing,” Sput says as he tries to weaken Paulie Potter’s grip on his friend.

  “There’s no Poison here,” Mr. Potter says. “Poison’s name is once again George, just as you’re Patrick, the name you were given in God’s house. Smiley is no more. He’s Thomas. And Snake will revert back to the name he was given when he was innocent, Ralph.”

  I go inside. I can’t stand cruelty, especially when it involves someone I like. Until that moment, I was unaware of how fond I’d become of the bikers. It might be because they broke the tedium of that long, hot summer, or perhaps it’s because they rid the neighbourhood of the McRaffetys. Or maybe it’s because they taught me that the world isn’t black and white. It’s shades of gray.

  The soft rays of the sun disappear as dreary clouds trample over them. Stinky’s pain-filled cries circle the neighborhood as he receives his first bath. I wonder if Paulie is baptising the poor beast.

  Granny wears a content smile. “So you knew what was happening all along?” I ask.

  “Of course. It was my idea. Mr. Potter told me about the converted bikers, so I convinced him to let them serve God and us, too,” she says. She goes back to her knitting. I wonder if she’s thinking about socks or sweaters, or if she’s already scheming something new. Maybe it’s best not to know. Not fully knowing each other can be surprising and infuriating, but it does make life interesting. Shades of gray keep you on your toes and make the journey forward remarkable.

  Chapter 34

  Even when she lived with Herb, I never saw my Aunt Fran cry. If anything, the worse things were, the funnier she was. Today, you would call such behaviour a defence mechanism. Back then, you said the person had a great disposition.

  The screen door snaps open and slams shut as Fran rushes into the house. Splatters of tears scurry down her face. Dishevelled hair darts in every direction. Ma’s hand covers her mouth. Something horrifying happened. Why else would my aunt be in such a state? After all, she has a great disposition.

  “Tell me what happened,” Mom says as she wraps her arms around her sister.

  “Heashedmetamarryhim,” she sobs.

  Granny and Ma exchange looks. “I’ll put the kettle on,” Granny mumbles as sh
e makes a beeline to the kitchen. Our family believes that tea has a magical property that negates the need for Valium.

  Ma holds Fran’s arm and walks her to the living room. She places her on the sofa and sits down beside her. “You must calm down,” she instructs. “I can’t make out what you’re saying.”

  Aunt Fran’s mouth opens and the babbling resumes. Mom looks at me and says, “Call the doctor.”

  “No, no,” she wails. “I don’t need a doctor.”

  Granny enters the living room. “The tea will be ready in a minute. Sit quietly for a bit. We’ll talk once it’s served.” The sedate voice sounds unfamiliar and forced. She hands my aunt a wad of tissues.

  Aunt Fran sniffs, nods, wipes her face, and balls the tissues in her hand.

  Ma serves the tea. Once everyone has a few sips, our eyes drift to Fran. Tears no longer course down her plump cheeks. Her hand holds the cup firmly. She takes a deep breath. “I’m so stupid,” she mutters.

  “Why are you stupid?” Granny asks, not bothering to console when information is to be gathered.

  “It’s Frank. I didn’t know, I never realized…” Fran’s eyes fall to study her cup.

  Granny’s eyes turn hard. “Realized what?” she snaps.

  Frannie doesn’t answer, so Granny asks, “Is he beating you?”

  “Lord, no!” Frannie exclaims.

  “Then what’s got you in such a dither?” Ma asks.

  Fran’s eyes stare at her knees. “He asked me to marry him,” she reveals.

  “And that’s a bad thing?” Granny asks.

  Fran’s lips tremble. “It could be.”

  Granny leans in to her. “You don’t love him?”

  “I love him with all my heart.”

  “You don’t think he’ll make you happy?”

  “I’ve never been happier. After Herb, I swore I’d never get involved with a man again, but Franklin changed my mind before I even knew what was happening.” Fran lifts her head. A smile plays on her lips. “I never knew a relationship between a man and a woman could be so good. My catering business took off because Frank pushed me to reach my potential. I can’t ask for a better man. He’s loving, kind, and believes in me.”