by Mike Jenne
20
MAMA’S BEST CHICKEN
Airport View Apartments, Vandalia, Ohio
5:25 p.m., Friday, August 23, 1968
Henson planted himself on the rickety picnic bench in front of the apartment building. He checked his watch; the guy in 6-B normally got home roughly at 5:30, and by 5:45 he was usually locked into a heated squabble with his wife.
Tugging the tab from a cold can of beer, Henson mentally hashed over the names he had gathered during a brief visit at the Dayton City Hall. Two buildings down, someone was grilling pork chops on a hibachi. The fragrant, greasy smoke hung low in the motionless afternoon air. Salivating, he wished that his dinner menu held more substantial fare than two slices of stale white bread adorned by cold baloney and processed cheese.
Slowly savoring the beer, he watched some kids gathering under a spreading oak tree. Most brandished toy guns, and they took turns at playing US paratroopers or Viet Cong guerrillas. After watching them for several minutes, Henson discerned a recurring pattern. The Viet Cong would disappear into the dank storm drains that emptied into a massive flume adjacent to the apartments. They would lurk patiently, defending their concrete tunnels against the American GI’s sent underground to ferret them out. He observed that the VC always seemed destined to lose, but not before reaping their fair share of American lives in the bargain. Surely, the kids knew nothing of tactics and war, but their campaign wasn’t much different from the brutal conflict being played out several thousand miles to the west.
A blue city-owned Ford pickup truck cruised into the parking lot just as the kids dispersed to their battle stations. Its motor sputtered and coughed several times before it finally gave up the ghost. A short white man in blue dungarees stepped down from the truck’s cab; he clutched a dented black lunch pail in one hand, and a thick set of jangling keys in the other. Grossly overweight, he looked to be in his mid-thirties.
Henson intended to coax the man into a short visit to Walnut Hills tomorrow. He figured that it would cost him roughly ten bucks to close the deal, but he also guessed that the man would likely be eager for any excuse to be unfettered from his shrewish spouse on a Saturday morning.
“You work for the city?” asked Henson as the man drew near. He took a sip from his beer.
“Huh?” answered the man, obviously wondering how Henson could know that. He looked back toward the parking lot. “Oh, the truck. Yeah. Past fifteen years.”
“Me, too,” declared Henson. “Just hired on this morning. Part-time, anyway. I doubt I’ll ever rate a truck, though. Not for a while, anyway.”
“You said you were hired part-time?”
“Yeah. Just to scratch out some extra coin. I work another job out by the airport during the week. I came here from New Orleans a month ago, and my uncle arranged it so I could work as an independent contractor on the weekends. I might go full-time this winter, though, handling a shovel on a salt truck. I hear the city benefits are good.”
“Can’t complain. Hey, brother, that beer’s looking mighty good there. Spare one?”
A 707 roared by low overhead, making its final approach to the airport. With the oppressive jet noise reminding him why their rent was so cheap, Henson waited for the plane to pass over before replying, “Help yourself, babe.”
“So who’s your uncle?” asked the man, sitting down on the opposite bench. The picnic table shuddered as he shifted his considerable girth to face Henson. He pulled the tab from a glistening can of Carling Black Label, discarded it on the ground, and took a long swallow.
“Calvin Washington. Everyone calls him Cal.”
“Sure. Cal supervises one of Street Maintenance crews. Hard worker for a n—” The man didn’t finish his thought. “So you’ll be assigned to Street Maintenance?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Right now, I’m supposed to work for Bob Hendricks.” Henson swatted a mosquito drawing blood from his left forearm.
“Oh, sure. Parks and Recreation. No kidding? What will you be doing for P & R?”
“Mostly I’ll be mowing grass at playgrounds and ball fields,” responded Henson. “Plus they want me to inspect and maintain the playground equipment. I’m supposed to make sure the hardware is tightened up on the swings, slides, and other stuff. Safety, you know.”
“Makes sense,” observed the man. He used a pocketknife to peel a curling strip of green paint from the table. “Several kids have been hurt on those old playgrounds. It’s a damned wonder that some parents haven’t sued the city yet.” The man took another deep swig from the beer. “So when do you start?”
“This weekend. I’m supposed to go look at a playground and fill out an inspection form. I think it’s really just a test, to see if I’m dependable.” Henson reached in his pocket and extracted a scrap of paper, which he handed to the man. “Does this address look familiar? I figure I’ll just walk over there in the morning, while it’s still cool.”
The man studied the address. He guzzled the beer and chucked the empty can into a nearby trashcan. “Oh, man, that’s Walnut Hills,” he muttered. “That’s cross town, man, down near the university. That would be an awfully long stroll.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. I don’t have a car and I hate riding the damned bus. Takes forever to go anywhere. Hey, you want another frosty one? Looks like you’re a might thirsty.”
“If you insist,” replied the man, popping the top from another can. “So what’s your name?”
“Matt. Matt Henson.”
“I’m Ted Shouk,” said the man, extending his hand to shake Henson’s. “Good to meet you, Matt. Hey, I won’t need my city truck tomorrow. Since you’re doing city business, you want to take it down to Walnut Hills?” Shouk took a swallow from the beer, then removed a key from his ring and handed it to Henson. “Straight down and straight back, no side trips, okay?”
The benevolent gesture wasn’t what Henson expected, but it wasn’t something he could refuse, either. He nodded and solemnly accepted the key as if it would unlock the gold vaults at Fort Knox. “Straight down and straight back, no side trips. Man, thanks. I’m indebted to you.”
“It’s nothing. Just drop the key in my mail slot when you’re done. Apartment 6-B. There’s also a box of tools in the truck bed if you need them.” Shouk swiveled around, swung his legs out from under the bench, stood up and stretched. “Hey, thanks much for the brew, Matt. Good to meet you. Take good care of the truck, okay?”
Henson nodded and watched Shouk stroll away and climb up the stairs to his apartment. Shouk had no sooner closed the door behind him before the yelling started. Sipping his beer, Henson listened to the playful shouts echoing from the storm drains; the stalwart Screaming Eagles had yet to finish their assault against the wily VC, but he had achieved his first objective.
Walnut Hills Neighborhood, Dayton, Ohio
10:45 a.m., Saturday, August 24, 1968
Several white kids were cavorting in the playground as Henson parked the truck and climbed down from the cab. He selected a suitable assortment of tools from Shouk’s toolbox, jammed them into the pockets of some blue coveralls he had brought from Apex, and set to work. As he cinched the loose bolts on a teeter-totter, he awaited the inevitable, and it was not long in coming.
Six white men came out of nearby houses, armed with baseball bats and other implements. One hefty gentleman in plaid Bermuda shorts wielded a particularly lethal-looking pickaxe. Another—not yet out of his blue pinstriped seersucker pajamas—carried a hockey stick. They shooed the kids to a distant corner of the playground and swaggered toward Henson, brimming with malevolent bravado.
“Boy, are you lost?” growled a tall man with curly black hair. He menacingly tapped his left palm with a Little League Louisville Slugger as he fixed Henson with a baleful gaze.
Henson calmly pretended to ignore them as he applied more torque to one of the teeter-totter’s bolts. He whistled quietly, wiped sweat from his brow with his forearm, and looked up.
“I . . . I . . . I
. . . I think the man asked you a qu-qu-qu-question,” stuttered the pajama-clad man with the hockey stick. “Are you l-l-l-lost, b-boy?”
Henson gestured with the wrench, pointing it at the truck. “No, sir. I’m here for the city,” he asserted. “I’m here to make sure that all this equipment is up to safety standards.”
“Any reason they couldn’t have sent someone else?” asked the pajama-clad man with the baseball bat. “Someone with a lighter complexion?”
Henson wiped sweat from his brow as he answered, “I guess not. Look, gentlemen, I would be more than happy to leave if I offend you, but I’m obligated to warn you that if I do, the city’s not liable for any injuries that might occur on this property, and it’ll be at least another six weeks before someone else makes it out here.”
“Six weeks?” asked the man with the hockey stick.
“At least.” Henson balanced the teeter-totter on its pivot point and examined it before adding, “Well, if you fellows aren’t happy with me, I guess I better be pulling off.”
“Let’s not be too damned hasty about that,” retorted the man with the pickaxe. “If the city’s paying you good money to be out here, boy, then you need to get back to work. But let me tell you something, boy, we’re going to keep an eye on you.”
Henson nodded. “Seems reasonable to me, sir.”
The motley group withdrew to a picnic pavilion. Henson could see that the merry-go-round was woefully out of balance. In fact, most of the playground equipment was obviously in need of some simple maintenance. With a few nuts and bolts tightened, sharp edges filed smooth, oil applied here and there, it could be as good as new. Or at least safe as new, thought Henson. As the men drew straws to stand guard over him, he resumed his chores.
The tall man with the baseball bat was the first to stand watch. Doing his utmost to appear threatening and vigilant, he lingered in the pavilion’s shade. Paying scarce attention to Henson, the children resumed their play. After a while, the tall man set down his bat and joined Henson in his efforts to restore the merry-go-round to its proper kilter.
Within the hour, seeing that the merry-go-round spun as it should, at least a dozen more kids came to play. A stocky red-haired man with a crowbar relieved the first sentry. He was joined by a man carrying a Styrofoam cooler and another bearing a paper sack of charcoal.
Two men loaded a barbecue grill with black briquettes as the third tuned a transistor radio to a popular station and cranked up the volume. The playground was filled with the sound of “Jumping Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones. Laughing, the three enthusiastically sang along with Mick Jagger. The red-haired man doused the charcoal with lighter fluid, struck a wooden kitchen match, and flicked it into the grill.
Tightening the bolts on a slide, Henson studied the trio out of the corner of his eye. They were no longer making even the slightest pretense of watching him. Observing as the red-haired man started to lay chicken on the grill, he felt a combination of anger and disgust rising in his growling stomach. No longer content to hold his tongue, he summoned his fortitude, jammed his wrench in his pocket, and strolled purposely towards the pavilion.
Walking under the shade of the picnic shelter, Henson pointed at the flaming grill and observed, “Beg your pardon, sir. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you probably want those charcoals to burn down for at least twenty minutes before you put that chicken on.”
“So you work for the city and you’re also a chef?” smirked the red-haired man.
“No. My mama owns a little café in New Orleans, near the French Quarter, and I used to tend the barbeque pit on weekends.” Henson pulled out his wallet and showed them a picture.
“Man! This is your mama? She looks just like Aunt Jemima!” commented one of the men.
“But darker,” noted another.
“True, but she could flat cook some chicken, baby. And she taught me how to cook, too. If you lay that chicken on right now, before those coals simmer down, it’ll be charred crisp on the outside but raw pink on the inside.” Henson sniffed the air, smelling the unmistakable scent of yet unburned hydrocarbons. “And it’s also going to taste exactly like that lighter fluid.”
“Well now, that does explain a lot, Harry,” noted one of the men, nodding knowingly. He pulled the tab from a beer, and white foam gushed from the opening of the sweating can. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen to the boy.”
“Okay, okay,” muttered Harry, deftly using a pair of tongs to quickly snatch off the three thigh quarters he had already placed on the grill. “Got any other suggestions?”
Henson pondered the situation. “Do you have any barbeque sauce?” he asked.
“Knew I forgot something,” said Harry. “Bob, you want to dash up to the A & P and grab some sauce? Probably want to lay in another case of suds while we’re at it.”
“Tell you what,” offered Henson. “Instead of ruining that yardbird with store-bought sauce, why don’t I mix you up some of my mama’s best chicken sauce? I’ll guarantee you have the ingredients at home, and it’s a whole lot tastier than anything you’ll find on the shelf at the A & P. We’ll need some mayonnaise, vinegar, lemon juice, black pepper, salt and cayenne pepper.”
“Mayonnaise?” asked Harry. “We’re not putting any damned mayonnaise on chicken.”
“It’s a white sauce, not one of those gooey tomato sauces,” said Henson. “It’s a Southern thing. I promise you’ll like it.”
“Well, I suppose we can try it. I’ll send the kids to round up the ingredients.”
“You want a beer?” asked another man. “I didn’t catch your name. I’m Bob McManus.”
“Henson. Matt Henson. Good to meet you, Bob.” He shook each man’s in turn. At this point, with the sun quickly climbing overhead, a cold beer looked inviting, but he declined the offer. “I’m on the clock, but if you’ll hold one over for me, I’ll tip it with you in a bit.”
“So is there anything we can do to help you out with the playground?” asked Bob. “After all, it is our kids using it.”
“Well, I could definitely use some extra hands if you’re willing to lend them,” answered Henson. “By the way, would you all mind me taking some pictures after I’m done? It’s kind of a hobby for me, plus I like to keep a record of the work. I develop my own film.”
“No kidding,” replied Bob. “No, I don’t see a problem with you snapping pictures. Not at all.”
Apex Minerals Exploration Inc., Dayton, Ohio
6:30 p.m., Monday, August 26, 1968
Changing from his coveralls back to street clothes, Henson was tired, and he wasn’t looking forward to the long walk home from Apex. They had spent the entire day in a stifling hangar at the airport, learning how to evaluate aircraft to see if they were properly maintained and airworthy, and would spend the remainder of the week doing much the same thing.
Henson recognized most of the aircraft—including a DC-3 and a De Havilland Otter—from the hangars at Aux One-Oh. Besides showing them how to scrutinize maintenance records, which typically weren’t trustworthy documents in Third World countries, the instructors walked them through a detailed pre-flight inspection for each type of aircraft. It was the same inspection that a pilot would perform, so the instructors assured them that they would catch any significant problems if they methodically followed the checklists step for step.
Henson waited patiently for his turn at the sink. By the time it was his, the hot water was long since gone. Diligently scouring his hands with coarse Lava soap, he looked forward to returning to the apartment and spending some time in the shower. Of course, by the time he made it home, his roommates probably would have already exhausted all the hot water there as well. As he turned off the tap and checked his hands for any residual traces of grease, he heard a series of faint bumps and scraping sounds, growing progressively louder, in the hallway.
“Mr. Henson,” said Grau, leaning into the doorway of the locker room. Grau wasn’t involved in the more technical training, like this wee
k’s aircraft evaluation sessions, and had apparently spent the day looking over the results of the weekend photography assignments. “When you’re done tidying up, please join me in my office. We need to chat.”
Henson nodded, neatly stacked his aircraft inspection checklists in his locker, and then folded his blue coveralls and placed them atop the checklists. On the way to Grau’s office, he stopped by the break room in the hall and retrieved a brown paper sack from the refrigerator.
He saw that Grau’s desk was partially covered with the black-and-white photographs he had developed yesterday in the makeshift darkroom he had installed in the apartment’s bathroom. As Grau finished some paperwork, Henson studied a framed photograph on the wall behind his desk. It was a picture of Grau and his African wife. The Eiffel Tower was in the background. His unsmiling wife held an infant, and Grau’s expression was somber. His face, still young, was marked with fresh bruises and scars; a gauze patch was taped over his right eye.
Henson reached into the paper bag and retrieved a large barbecued chicken breast. “Mind if I eat, sir? I’m starving. I didn’t know we would be stuck at the hangar all day, and I missed lunch. Left it back here in the fridge.”
“Suit yourself,” said Grau, looking up from his papers.
Munching on the chicken, Henson held out the greasy bag to Grau. “Would you care for some, Mr. Grau? I have a boxful back at my apartment. I would hate to see it go to waste.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Henson. I appreciate the invitation, but I have dinner plans. I did notice that you fed your three wayward brethren this morning, though.”
“Every life has value,” quipped Henson. “And it seemed like the Christian thing to do. Are you sure you don’t want any? This is really good chicken. It’s my mama’s best barbeque recipe.”
Grau shook his head. “We need to discuss these photographs, Henson. Did you not understand your assignment?”