Hug Chickenpenny: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child: The Panegyric of an Anomalous Child
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The obese feline crept across the room and jumped up to a desk by using a shoe and a chair as its steppingstones. This ascension could not be described as graceful.
Oboe trod upon comic books and action figures and leaped from the desk onto a soft bed, where lay Hug Chickenpenny, who wore astral-themed pajamas that had been tailored to fit his unique form.
The obese feline walked across the lumpy face of the anomalous boy, who then chittered.
Hug bared his five fangs in a friendly smile. “Good morning.”
Oboe snorted.
Sitting up, the anomalous boy scratched his neck, where three weeks earlier, two purple pustules had appeared. These growths were always itchy in the morning.
Footfalls sounded in the hallway.
“It’s time to get up,” Abigail said while entering the room.
“I’m up—Oboe walked on my face.”
The mother wrinkled her mouth, said, “Hm,” and looked at the obese feline.
“He didn’t hurt me,” defended Hug.
“Nonetheless, faces shouldn’t be walked upon.”
Abigail raised the shade.
White flecks of snow fell between the window and the bluish-gray sky.
“It’s snowing!” The anomalous boy motioned to a thick notebook that lay upon his desk. “I have diagrams for a few igloos in there. And a preliminary sketch for an ice pyramid.”
“You’ve got something else on your itinerary for today.”
“That’s right! The new tutor.”
“She’ll be here in half an hour.”
“I hope she’s better than the last one.” A memory of the previous tutor yelling, Don’t get too close to me! came to Hug. “He wasn’t nice.”
“That’s why I fired him.”
———
Silver cocktail napkins covered the genitals of several paintings that hung upon the walls of the den, a room with three black leather sofas, a glass coffee table, and a big television. Upon the central couch sat Hug Chickenpenny, bathed and wearing blue, and Abigail, who had recently donned a burgundy skirt suit.
At present, the mother and son watched a game show.
A tan man who had luminous teeth, a slender necktie, and hair that looked like a wood carving faced a hysterical guest. “Lizette,” the host shouted, “you’ve won five consecutive Bonko Rounds, but will you risk everything—nine hundred dollars!—for a chance at thirty-six hundred dollars!?!”
“Yes!” shrieked the contestant.
Applause exploded from the television.
“Why do people get so excited about winning money?” inquired Hug. “Is everybody broke?”
“People tend to want more than they have.”
A doorbell rang.
Abigail raised the remote control, which she thumbed. The button clicked, and the crowd of money worshippers turned into a blank, gray screen.
“Is it her?” asked the anomalous boy.
“Should be. Wait right here.”
Abigail set down her chipped mug of coffee and departed.
Hug reclaimed the clicker and snapped buttons.
The television displayed a black-and-white image of a rocket ship, The Spacecutter, which currently flew on roaring thrusters toward some far-off destination. Although the anomalous viewer knew that sound could not be heard in the vacuum of outer space, he enjoyed watching the vehicle soar further and further from the gravity well of planet Earth.
In another room, a door closed, and a bolt snapped.
“Right this way, Mrs. Picktree,” said Abigail.
Upon roaring thrusters, the rocket sped toward the moon. It was unclear if this lunar object was made out of cheese, and if so, which variety.
Adult footfalls sounded upon the floorboards.
The anomalous boy fingered the volume to a lower setting and looked toward the doorway.
Standing next to Abigail was a hunched oldster who wore a yellow dress and a matching bonnet. Held in her rugose hands and decorated with pearls was an ancient purse.
“Hug. This is Mrs. Picktree.”
“Please call me Esther. My friends and family call me Esther—though that was a while ago, since most of them have passed away. Except for my husband . . . he’s still around.”
The old tutor sighed.
Hug waved his hand and waggled his nubbin. “Hello.”
Esther squinted her wrinkly eyes. “Good morning, Hug.”
The old tutor started toward the couch, where sat the anomalous boy.
She rubbed her squinting eyes as she proceeded and wrinkled her brow.
“I’m your new tutor.”
“Splendid. First thing I want to learn is how to build a rocket.”
Esther reached the sofa, sat down, and fanned herself with her right hand. “You need to have a strong academic background to be a rocket scientist. You must study very, very hard—science and math especially.”
“I’ll do whatever’s required—I need to build a rocket.”
“Why’s that?”
“So I can get off of this godforsaken planet, pronto!”
Puzzled, Esther looked at Abigail.
“He likes science fiction shows and comics,” explained the mother.
The old tutor replaced her attention on the anomalous boy. Again, she rubbed her wrinkly eyes.
Hug pointed his nubbin at the television. “That’s what Douglas Starchaser says right before he blasts off. ‘Let’s get off of this godforsaken planet, pronto!’ and then whoosh, he’s off to someplace better.”
“Oh . . . I see. Well then. Ahem. Let me get my glasses . . .” Rugose fingers unsnapped the ancient purse.
For some reason, Abigail looked very worried. “Hug. Please turn off the television.”
“Okay.”
Hug picked up the clicker and pressed the power button, which snapped. The speeding rocket turned into a blank, gray square.
Things crinkled, rattled, and jingled as Esther rummaged through her purse. Pill bottles, cough drops, hard candies, keys, baubles, receipts, and half of a tuna fish sandwich were turned over by her wriggling fingers. From this jumble, she extricated a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
“Those’re neat!” exclaimed Hug.
Abigail clenched her hands and hid them behind her back.
Esther set the glasses upon her face. Magnified eyes looked through corrective lenses at the anomalous boy.
There was a moment of silence.
“My goodness,” said the old tutor.
Hug smiled.
Startled, Esther shrank back in her seat. “My goodness.”
The anomalous boy scratched the purple pustules that grew upon his neck.
Abigail cleared her throat. “Those sores aren’t in any way contagious. The doctor said they’re just some kind of rash.”
“My goodness.”
Perspiration beaded upon Esther’s face, and her eyes sparkled. It seemed like she had malfunctioned.
Smiling, Hug waggled his nubbin.
“My goodness.”
Trembling, the old tutor closed her purse, wiped her face, and rose from the sofa. She took one backwards step and teetered.
Abigail reached out to help Esther.
“Ahh!”
Backing away from the mother and the anomalous boy, the old tutor shook her head. “You said that he was . . . I know that you told me . . . I didn’t really think . . . I’d like to help, but . . .”
“I understand,” said Abigail.
Hug nodded his head. “I apologize if I scared you—it wasn’t intentional.”
Esther tried to say something, but seemed to have forgotten how to speak.
The mother quietly escorted the old tutor from the den.
Alone, the anomalous boy grabbed the clicker and fingered the power button.
Upon the screen, military men who wore rubber gloves and fishbowl helmets ran toward a rocket ship. Pursuing them was a horde of tentacular aliens.
A door shut in the living room. There wa
s a sigh, followed by footfalls.
Vertebrae crackled as Hug swiveled his head around to looked at the entryway, where stood Abigail.
“I’m sorry,” said the anomalous boy.
“Don’t apologize—you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s Mrs. Picktree’s fault.”
“Okay.”
Hug unwound his neck and watched the lunar exodus while Abigail crossed the room and sat upon the couch.
“I have to reopen the gallery today,” said the mother. “I just can’t put it off any longer. Do you want to see where your mommy works?”
Hug nodded, but did not look away from the television. “As soon as he kills these aliens.”
On the moon, Douglas Starchaser posed, laughed, and pointed his ray gun at a cowering alien.
A cartoon laser shot across the screen.
Pained tentacles writhed, and the anomalous boy cheered.
XIX | An Artistic Survey
The snow had stopped. A seatbelt tautened across Hug Chickenpenny as Abigail dialed the steering wheel clockwise. The maroon sports car cornered, and late morning sunshine shot through the windshield. Pupils constricted upon a brown iris and one that was milky and red.
The anomalous boy squinted. “Go faster.”
“Twenty miles over the speed limit seems fast enough.”
“Not for a proper liftoff.”
Eyes adjusted, the anomalous boy looked through the passenger window.
Standing in the middle of a vast lot of weeds and dirt was the town factory. Dark green smoke rose into the sky from the thirty-seven smokestacks that jutted from this red brick structure.
Memories of a fourth-floor view came to Hug. “I used to be able to see that place from my room when I lived with Doctor Hannersby.”
“It’s as old as the town itself. Maybe older.”
“He told me that they handle hazardous waste.”
“They do.” Abigail passed a car and glanced at the factory. “I think they make sausages, too.”
“Mistress Jennifer Kimberly told me that they hire deformed people there, but I told her that I wanted to be an astronaut.”
“Don’t use that word.”
“‘Astronaut’?”
“No, ‘deformed.’ You’re different, not ‘deformed.’ ‘Deformed’ is a bad way to describe a person—any person.”
“Why?”
“Because that word implies that there’s only one correct way for people to look and that any deviation from that one form is incorrect, a mistake. Every single person is unique—even identical twins—and although some people are more different than others, nobody should think that he or she is a mistake.”
Ruminating, Hug blinked his mismatched eyes. Although his mother was not a scientist, it seemed like she was pretty smart.
“Do you understand?” asked Abigail.
“I won’t say the word ‘deformed’ any more.”
“Good…though the important thing is that you don’t think of yourself in that way.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Good.”
The smell of rotting offal came into the car, and Hug looked at the distant factory.
A pale shape appeared behind one of the windows.
———
Looking through the far side of that dingy pane of glass was an emaciated man who had an overlong right arm and a distended, asymmetrical head. His rubber apron was smeared with gore, and held in his left hand was a rusty hacksaw. The anomalous fellow eyed the distant maroon car, spat tobacco juice on a cockroach, and turned back to the bloodstained abattoir, which was filled with decapitated pigs.
The factory disappeared, and Hug Chickenpenny inhaled air that did not smell like the things that were not good enough to go into a sausage.
Abigail flung the sports car around a series of winding corners.
A dense group of buildings appeared in the windshield, and the mother slowed the vehicle to the fastest permissible speed.
“Do you want to read out the names like when we went to the zoo?”
“That’s a good idea.”
The anomalous boy focused his eyes on the passing buildings.
Everything was blurry.
“I’d better slow down,” remarked Abigail, who then applied the brakes.
The shapes became crisp.
“Old and Used Books,” Hug read, “The Turntable, Fine Liquor Store, Guns for Sale, Peggy’s Diner, Gentlemen’s Club, Coin Collector, Fantasy Florist.”
“You read very, very well.”
“Doctor Hannersby taught me how. A substitute said I was advanced, but Mistress Jennifer Kimberly said I wasn’t.”
“I hope Jennifer Kimberly gets struck by lightning.”
“The chances of that happening aren’t high.”
“Then I’ll root for a plane crash where everybody else survives.”
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to her,” said Hug. “I just hope that she becomes a nice person.”
Abigail looked at Hug and patted his chest through the thick blue fabric of his parka. “You have a very forgiving heart.”
“Is that because it beats in triplets? That seems scientifically plausible.”
“I think it’s because you are a very kind young man.”
The anomalous boy felt a surge of pride whenever his mother called him a “young man.” Seven and a half years was an age of notable maturation.
Abigail braked, dialed the wheel clockwise, and sidled up to a black façade that was splattered with silver, gold, and red paint. “This’s Mommy’s business.”
“The Inner Canvas.”
“Right.”
Abigail undid Hug’s seatbelt (which had a little button that was hard for him to press with his nubbin), walked outside, shut her door, helped him to the sidewalk, closed the passenger’s side, took his gloved right hand, and proceeded toward the gallery. The air was cold, but a parka, wool pants, and the thick socks under his sneakers kept the anomalous boy warm.
At the entrance, the mother undid two locks, which snapped loudly in the space beyond. Then she flung a steel door.
Hug looked inside.
Daylight illuminated the foremost portion of the vast gallery, which had raw wood floors, cinderblock walls, and exposed steel pipes.
“Isn’t it finished yet?”
“It’s finished. It’s supposed to look like this—like it’s still under construction.”
This did not make sense to the anomalous boy, who simply waggled his nubbin in reply. Adults believed in a lot of nonsense.
Abigail led Hug inside. The clicking of hard-soled boots and the shuffle of an uneven gait echoed throughout the dark gallery.
Reaching out, the mother flipped a switch, which cracked like a gunshot.
Sixteen floodlights glared on the high ceiling, and scores of specialty fixtures illuminated works of art that hung upon the walls and sat atop pedestals.
Surveying the space, the anomalous boy scratched the purple pustules that grew upon his neck. His mother gently stopped his hand.
“Doctor Sheila said not to do that,” said Abigail.
“They itch.”
“I know, but you need to leave them alone. The doctor thinks they’ll go away faster if you don’t scratch them.”
“Okay.”
Hug tried to ignore the itchy pustules.
“Are you too warm in that parka?” the mother asked as she hung her coat upon a hook.
“Want me to help you take it off?”
“No, thank you. I feel quite toasty.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will.”
“So . . .” Abigail gestured expansively at the gallery “Let me show you some of the neat stuff that I sell.”
The anomalous boy clasped his mother’s hand and followed her to a large painting.
Upon this canvas was a bright blue swirl.
“What’s it supposed to be?”
“This is called an abstract paint
ing. The artist wants you to look at the image and decide what it is for yourself. Maybe you see something that you recognize, or maybe you don’t see anything recognizable at all, and the painting just makes you feel a certain way.”
“It looks like the water in a toilet right before it goes down the drain.” Hug spun in a circle. “Whoosh!”
Abigail smirked.
“Did I get it right?” asked the anomalous boy. “Is that the answer?”
“There is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to see an abstract painting—whatever you see is valid.”
Skeptical, Hug pursed his lips and appraised the artwork. “I just see toilet water going down the drain.”
“Let me show you something else.”
The mother took the anomalous boy by the hand and led him to the opposite wall.
There hung a painting that had a pale, somewhat recognizable something afloat in a colorful haze that looked like a big mistake.
Hug pointed to the recognizable shape. “I see a cow right there. A white cow.”
“So do I. Do you like it?”
The anomalous boy wondered if he was supposed to like everything that his mother liked, and moreover, he did not want to hurt her feelings.
“You can tell me the truth,” said Abigail. “You’re allowed to like or dislike everything that’s in this gallery. Everybody has different taste, and I won’t be offended.”
“Well . . . it’s . . . sort of . . . kind of . . . okay.”
A big laugh came out of the mother, and the anomalous boy grinned with relief. It seemed as if he really did not have to like this stuff.
Abigail escorted Hug past more sloppy nonsense and around a corner. “The piece I’m taking you to is pretty different from those others. It’s a sculpture.”
“Okay,” said the anomalous boy, who did not have very high expectations.
The duo stopped.
Ahead of them and atop a pedestal was a large metal sculpture of a horse that was rearing up on its hind legs. Car tires were nailed into its sides; headlights filled its bleeding eye sockets, and a steering wheel protruded from its lacerated neck. The agonized mare was shrieking in pain through a silver grille.
Disturbed, Hug took a backwards step. “I don’t like this one.” His eyes started to sting, and his heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped.