by Alma Boykin
When Chicken Feet Cross the Highway
Alma T.C. Boykin
© Alma T.C. Boykin 2015
Cover Art: © Egal|Dreamstime.com Hut with Chicken Legs Photo
When Chicken Feet Cross the Highway
Sergeant Alexander Nikolai Zolnerovich was watching traffic and arguing with the radio call-in show when the little hut on chicken feet walked across the north and south bound lanes of I-25. Traffic had stopped for the usual wreck, and the house, about the size of the semi-trailer looming in Alexi’s rearview mirror, picked its way between and over the cars, apparently untroubled by the congestion. Alexi stared, open jawed, then said some of those Russian words he wasn’t supposed to have overheard his parents using. “I didn’t … no way … it can’t be. Is joke.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. The house stopped by the northbound shoulder, scratched up some of the grass with one of the chicken feet, and continued east-northeast. Alexi saw the shadow under the house, and the scratch-marks in the grass and dirt of the embankment. “Oh no.”
Before he could dig out his cell phone to call his father or grandmother, traffic started moving. Alexi muttered another rude word in Russian and crossed himself, both against Baba Yaga and against the Denver drivers. And here he though people in Wichita had automotive death wishes! The cars around him surged from dead stop into an insane rush and the rental car’s four-cylinder engine strained to keep the little shoe-on-wheels moving fast enough to match traffic speed. Apparently everyone and their grandfather had decided to make up for time lost to the wreck in the construction zone, and Alexi heaved a sigh of relief when he reached his exit. From there he turned west, into Golden, and began looking for the correct street signs. The last time he’d visited his grandmother, Babushka’s house had been out in the countryside, away from anything but the mountains and the wind. Now Denver, and Denver traffic, encroached on her doorstep.
After a wrong turn, a stop at a package store for some beer, and almost getting rear-ended by a colorblind idiot who thought that stopping for red lights was optional, Alexi reached his grandmother’s house. For reasons known only to her, she’d bought twenty acres of ground. She always kept as large of a garden as his uncle Alexander could plow and let the neighbor graze a few horses on the rest. Alexi got out of the car, reached over the top of the fence and unlocked the gate, or started to. Someone had removed the lock, leaving it hanging on the handle inside the white wood and pipe fence. The hair on Alexi’s neck shot straight up, as he heard his parents’ voices whispering about family who had disappeared in the night, never to be seen again. “Oh, stop that,” he told himself. “Babushka probably forgot to re-lock after she went to grocery store.” Alexi pushed the gate open, drove through, and closed the gate, locking it behind him.
The garage stood open and his grandmother’s enormous black Lincoln filled most of the space. Oh good, she was home; that explained the gate being unlocked. Alexi got out of the sub-compact rental, stretched, and strolled up to the front door. He rang the bell. No one answered. After a minute or two he rang again, since (according to his father), Babushka had gotten hard of hearing. Still no answer. “Maybe she’s in the garden.” It was August, after all. Alexi walked around the back of the house, stopped, and blinked.
Weeds encroached on half the garden, and something had torn out the other half. Alert, wary, Alexi stayed where he was for a long minute, watching and listening for trouble. He saw a jackrabbit and birds but no signs of people. When he got closer to the torn-up area, he noticed tracks. “No, it can’t be.” He crouched down, peering at what seemed to be brush marks in the dust, as if someone had tried to sweep away their tracks with a broom before they got into a car. “Well, if they did, they were stupid.” They’d left the car tracks, tracks that continued around the other side of the house before disappearing in the grass. The car tracks looked old, older than the brush marks, and had been rained on at least once.
Alexi stood up from his crouch. He walked around the white house with bright red shutters and trim, dug the keys his father had loaned him out of his carry-on bag, and unlocked the front door. Then he waited, just out of the line of sight or shot. Nothing moved inside the house so he entered. Alexi walked as quietly as possible from one small room to another. The house smelled fusty, as if it had been shut up for too long. Then he heard a faint sound from the kitchen.
Alexi picked up a heavy cane he found leaning in a corner of the living room and held it like a club. He eased up to the kitchen door and leaned around the frame. The harsh sound came again, and after looking around, he saw a dark shape on the floor. It moved a little “Magh. Mmagh.” The cat sounded terrible. Alexi set the cane down and walked across the room. The cat’s fur felt rough, and it could barely touch his hand with its tongue. The water bowl sat dry.
He couldn’t leave it to suffer. Alexi pulled open several drawers before finding a basting tool. He ran the tap. It coughed air, then a little dust, and the pipes rattled before water came out. He let it run for a minute to clear anything in the line before filling a cup with the water, then using the baster to give a little to the cat, then a little more, as if he were feeding a kitten. He didn’t want it getting sick. Since the ‘fridge, an old 1960s behemoth that Babushka must have bought at a rummage sale, was still humming, the power was on, but no one had run water in what, a week? Maybe not quite that long, but still, for the well to have air in it, it had to be at least several days. Alexi gave the cat more water, opened the ‘fridge, and found unopened tins of tuna and cat food. He shook his head. Babushka always insisted that any meat had to be refrigerated, even if it was dried or canned.
Alexi put water in the cat’s dish. Then he opened one of the cans and spooned a little into the cat’s mouth. It ate, and he gave it more water and more food. After a couple of tablespoons full he stopped. “I don’t want you getting sick,” he told it. The blue eyes gave him a reproachful look, but the cat drank more water and staggered to its feet. It sat on its haunches, scratched one ear with a hind foot, and made a sound like a question. “I don’t know. Where is she?” Because he could not imagine his grandmother abandoning her house, especially not leaving an animal to die of thirst. He topped off the water dish and brought his luggage and the beer in from the car. On a whim, he drove the small two-door around the back of the garage, out of sight of people on the road.
Since he had power, he plugged in his phone and laptop. Then he went to the bathroom. “That’s odd.” Someone had covered the mirror with a towel. He ran the tap and it worked, after a cough or two. The toilet also worked. He peered into the bedroom and found another covered mirror, and his grandmother’s icons all in a pile in the middle of the floor, covered with a blanket. In fact, as he looked around the rest of the house, he discovered that someone had draped every mirror with a piece of cloth, or taped paper over them, and every religious symbol had been covered up as well, with the icons laid face-down on the floor. Had the vandals taken anything? Alexi opened the closet in his grandmother’s room and to his surprise found the shotgun that he remembered, along with several boxes of shells tucked away behind a shoe rack. He found a second shotgun and shells in the guest room closet, and a very nasty looking knife under the sheets on the linen shelf.
“Right. None of this makes sense.”
“Mragh.” He looked down to see the cat nodding.
“And you need more food.” He picked the cat up and could feel every rib plus a few spare. Alexi took it back to the kitchen and gave it more food, which it ate slowly.
Then he called his father. After confirming that he’d arrived and had reached his grandmother’s place unscathed, he asked, “Father, did Babushka say
anything about going out today?”
“No. Her hair appointment is on Fridays. Why?”
How to phrase it so his father wouldn’t come running out to Colorado, or panic his mother? “Oh, her house looks as if she’s gone out of town for a few days. I watered the garden and brought in the mail. Did Cousin Iulia invite her up, maybe?” Iulia lived in Steamboat.
He could almost her his father, Boris, thinking. “Not that I remember, but Iulia does not talk to me. Maybe surprise? Go to party?” His father slid back into a thick Russian accent. “Wait and see, but do not mess with garden.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Father. My ears and backside remember what happened when Timofee and I built a fort in the bean rows.” His grandmother had grabbed each boy by and ear and dragged them into the house, then had swatted their backsides with a big wooden spoon until they cried for mercy, all the while carrying on in Russian and bits of French about wasting food and ruining her work and St. George and the Holy Mother save her from naughty boys. He and Tim had stood for the next two days. Compared to his grandmother, his brief stay in an Army disciplinary squad had been a vacation.
“Good. That you remember, I mean. I will ask cousins and Uncle Nick. Did you see anything else strange?”
Alexi almost said, “Yeah, a house on chicken feet crossing the road,” but stopped the words before they started. His father did not need to know about that. “No, Father, nothing especially odd. The house still has power and water, the plants were just a little droopy and the cat complained about not being fed on time.”
His father sighed. “Cat always complains. Mother should have gotten dog. I will ask. Your mother says don’t forget to eat.”
“I won’t.” After a few more words his father hung up and Alexi turned off the cell phone. He didn’t need any more roaming charges, thank you.
Part of Alexi wanted to box up the cat, leave the house, and go stay in Denver. The rest of him and his wallet argued for staying, and his wallet won. After all, he had free room and board here. After fixing a light supper, he and the cat went on the back porch. The cat disappeared for a minute, then came back and leaned against his leg. He drank part of a beer and watched the shadows of the mountains creeping down toward the house. With the hand not holding the beer he reached into his shirt collar and pulled out the gold chain with his cross on it. The cat started purring and Alexi felt better, then felt foolish. Still … he finished the beer and he and the cat went back in. He locked the doors, lowered the open window a little for some night air, loaded one of the shotguns, and went to sleep on the floor of the guestroom, the cat curled up not far away.
What was that? Alexi moved before he finished waking up, shotgun in hand. He slipped around the doorways and made his way to one of the front windows, where he could see the driveway without being seen. A diesel pick-up chugged up the drive, the front gate wide open behind it. The sound must have woken him. He didn’t have enough light yet to tell what color the truck was, other than dark. The truck stopped and two men got out.
“Damn it, I thought I told them to leave the garage open,” the man in the ball cap said.
His hatless companion shrugged. “You probably did, boss, but they don’t always listen to us so good.”
“They’d better have left the front door unlocked, at least.”
Should he unlock the door and wait for them to come in, then surprise them? No, that would be an ambush, and civilian juries tended to frown on those. Especially with no evidence of forced intrusion. Instead Alexi opened the door as the guy with the ball cap put his weight on the front step, pumping the shotgun as soon as the door opened. Both men froze. “Can I help you?”
“Um, ah, er,” the guy under the hat stammered, swallowed hard, and tried again. “Ah, yeah, yeah, you can. We’re here with the power company to disconnect Mrs. Zolnerovich’s house at her request, since she’s moved out.”
Alexi could smell the BS almost as strongly as he smelled fear. At his knee, the black cat hissed. “Really. At five forty five in the morning on a Sunday.”
The guy in the white tee shirt backed up another step. His boss tried to bluff. “Yea, we thought it was strange too, but it was a special call out. I’ll just come in and take care of it, and we’ll be off.”
“No. You’ll be off. Period. And I’m notifying Front Range Power about someone impersonating their staff, and the sheriff about your cutting the lock off the gate in order to get in. Scram.”
“Look, mister, just put that thing down and let me in and we’ll let you get back to— oh shit.”
Alexi sighted down the barrels. “I warned you. If I get to three, I fire. One … two …”
The pair set a new speed record getting into the truck, throwing it into gear, and backing down the drive. Alexi didn’t lower the gun until they’d reached the main road and sped out of sight. “I wonder if tee-shirt guy has a spare pair of shorts?” he asked the cat.
“Mrowp.” The cat relaxed, sat, and washed one ear.
Alexi got dressed and walked up to the gate, locked it again, and returned to the house. He needed to change the lock on the gate. How did they get a key? He snorted as he put the gun in a safe place by the door, where the cat couldn’t get to it by accident. “Half of creation has that kind of lock. And they probably all use the same key.” Or if not the same, they had very similar keys. Like the ones he’d come across in Djibouti and other similar vacation spots. He fed the cat and made a list.
First he called the power company’s emergency desk. “I need to report someone trying to impersonate you staff and trespassing.” That got a very fast, live, response and the guy on the other end assured him that he’d done the right thing and no, no one had been called out to that house, and the bills had been paid on time, and thank you for warning them. Alexi left out the bit with the shotgun.
“You know,” he asked the cat, “how stupid did they think I am? In a private truck, that early on a weekend day, not wearing company shirts, and using Dad’s name and not Babushka’s?” Alexi froze, dangling a piece of bacon in mid air over the frying pan. He lowered the bacon with great care. “How did they know Dad’s name?” The cat looked up at him with large blue eyes and blinked. “I don’t like this.”
The sound of sizzling reminded him of what else he didn’t like, and he grabbed an apron. Never, ever, cook bacon without a shirt on, he reminded himself. Another lesson he’d only had to learn once.
After he’d eaten and made a cup of tea, Alexi cleaned up the kitchen. As he did, he found his grandmother’s answering machine hiding behind a stack of kitchen towels. The light flashed and the machine showed five messages. Should he? Yes, he probably should, in case one of them explained where Babushka had gone. He found a piece of paper and a pen that actually worked, a freebie from some realty company, and tapped the button.
“Attention, seniors, this is a special message for anyone on Medicare. You or your family member may qualify for a low-cost medical scooter—” Beep. Alexi hit the delete button.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Zolnerovich, my name is Marsha Sokolov with Front Range Realty. I’d like to speak with you about purchasing your property. Please contact me at my office at …” Alexi copied the office and cell numbers down.
Beep. “Mrs. Zolnerovich, it is noon on Tuesday. I called yesterday about purchasing your property. Please call me immediately, the client would like to come out and inspect the area and confirm the water rights and it will be easier if you are available to let us in. My cell number is …” Alexi wrote it down, frowning. It was not the same as the first cell number.
Beep. “Mrs. Zolnerovich, my secretary informs me that you are not interested in selling. That is not an option. My client is most insistent, and has the legal resources to begin condemnation of your property for her use.” The realtor sounded a little scared as she continued, “I must insist that you meet with me, otherwise you will receive no payment for your property.”
At that point, his grandmother’s voice cut into the rec
ording, speaking rapid-fire Russian that culminated in, “That no happen—this America. Have so-called client’s lawyer call my lawyer. 316-555-1212.” Click.
Actually, Alexi thought, she’d probably slammed the phone down while muttering something really rude.
Beep. “Hi! This is Staci at Dr. Feemster’s calling to remind you that Ivan the Purrable is due for his rabies shot next month. Please let me know when you’d like to schedule a visit. Thank you.” Click.
The cat had hopped up on the counter and started batting at the answering machine as if trying to hit the delete button. Alexi had to grin, shaking his head as he fended off the paw. “Sorry, Ivan. That’s above my pay grade.” Ivan made a little growling sound, then turned his back, scratched sand over the answering machine, and ignored the man.
Alexi now had a name, Marsha Sokolov, several phone numbers, and a lot more questions. First, he needed to get cleaned up and finish dressing. Then he needed to do a little research before he called the realtor. Who probably would not be in her office on Sunday, he realized, although her cell phone would be on, if she was like his sister-in-law. Alexi removed Ivan from the countertop and went to the bathroom to shave and what have you.
He uncovered the mirror and looked at his reflection. The face that looked back could have stepped out of an illustration of Russian peasant life: round, red-cheeked, with pale brown hair that crossed into blond if he spent much time in the sun, pale blue eyes, and a sturdy neck on sturdier shoulders. Alexi would have been as broad as he was tall if he didn’t watch his weight. That, plus his low bass voice, had probably startled the intruders as much as the shotgun had. Several of his troopers had decided after one look at their shirtless sergeant that good behavior was the better part of valor. Holding the Division’s dead-lift and clean-and-jerk records helped too.
After he cleaned up, Alexi patted Ivan on the head, loaded up his computer and other tech junk, and drove back into Golden. Lord love Babushka, but she didn’t have Internet or even a computer. He found a bookstore with a coffee shop/café and wireless, and logged in. He riffed the spam, assured his parents that all was well at the house, and deleted an e-mail from an old flame without even opening it. No, he thought, you made your bed and you can lie in it. Alexi ate his sandwich, shaking his head as he read the sports news highlights of the Chiefs’ training camp results and resigning himself to another year of rooting for the Ravens. His Sergeant Major bled blue and orange, so of course Alexi cheered for anyone but the Broncos. Then he looked up Russian mythology, specifically the little house on chicken feet. Just in case someone was watching him, he also hunted up several Native American legends as well, including White Buffalo Woman and the Thunderbird and Raven and Coyote. One of his corporals had been a full-blood Navajo who delighted in talking smack about other tribes’ totems. Alexi had just rolled his eyes and kept his mouth shut at the time. Who would have thought remembering folk-tales would come in handy? As he skimmed the legends, he also made two phone calls.