Chicken Feathers

by Joy Cowley

  “I’ll look after you,” he said.

  Most days, Semolina walked at Josh’s heels, jumpy as a cricket, and at night she insisted that he lock her inside the tractor shed—which was safe enough, having a concrete floor and steel walls. He let her out each morning when he watered the Swiss chard.

  Josh begged Grandma to allow Semolina back in his bedroom, but she wasn’t having any of that. “Filthy old bird! I told you before, if she comes in, I move out.”

  “What if the fox gets her?”

  Grandma smiled, showing all her teeth. “Bring her to me and I’ll give her to the fox! Here, Mr. Fox! Nice little snack, Mr. Fox!”

  Josh swallowed back bitter hatred. Forgive people, always forgive people. He chanted his mother’s words as he walked away, clenching and unclenching his fists. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Saying it didn’t make a speck of difference. Grandma might be his mother’s mother, but she was downright miserable, cantankerous mean.

  After that, Josh stayed away from the house as much as possible. When he wasn’t helping Tucker in the barns or Annalee with egg sorting, he worked on his boat in the tractor shed, sanding down the hull to get it ready for painting. Now it looked like a real boat, two seats fore and aft, a metal plate on the stern to hold the outboard and fittings for the oarlocks. There were only three coats of paint between Josh and the river. He’d take Annalee out fishing before the end of the summer vacation.

  Semolina, nervous of the tractor shed’s open door, roosted among old tools in the rafters above Josh’s head.

  He told her he’d heard the fox was over on the other side of town. “The guys at Semco told Dad—big red fox down at Loon Lake.”

  “Semco,” repeated Semolina.

  “The place we go every week.” Josh sometimes forgot that Semolina couldn’t read. “Sampson Egg Marketing Company,” he added, hoping she wouldn’t take offense.

  But Semolina was too jittery about the fox to get political. “Don’t matter where the fox is. He’s got his gang on the lookout. Ferrets and wildcats, raccoons and rats. Word from the girls is, they got this place staked out.”

  “Semolina, you been watching too much television.”

  “I don’t get to watch nothing excepting my back,” she snapped.

  Josh blew ahead of the sandpaper, and a fine wood dust filled the air. “Why would a fox have a gang? Semolina, that doesn’t make an inch of sense. Foxes always work alone.”

  “Carriers,” she said.

  “Carriers?”

  She put her beak in the air. “Excuse me. I didn’t tell you foxes don’t have shopping carts. Most eggs a fox carries is two or three in his mouth. Takes him all night to shift a hundred eggs. So he has a carrier gang. Raccoons, rats, pack of thieving critters. Now nobody ain’t getting no eggs, and they’re all after the one that got the hole closed.”

  “You’re safe here in the tractor shed.” Josh ran his hand over the hull, now smooth enough for the first primer coat. “When Grandma goes, you’ll come back in the house.”

  “I might be deady bones by then,” she said gloomily.

  “Don’t think like that. It isn’t healthy.” He looked at her. “Semolina, you never told me if you had a family.”

  She shifted on her perch. “No, I never.”

  “Never told me? Or never had chicks?”

  “Both,” she said.

  “You could still have babies. You ever thought about that?”

  She made a coughing noise. “Excuse me, buddy. You might know biggies, but you don’t know birds. I ain’t laid an egg in four years, and even then…” She stopped and put her head on one side. “How do I say this? One bird don’t make life. It needs two.”

  “No rooster?”

  “You got it. No rooster.”

  “Spittin’ bugs, Semolina, I knew that all along. But if you had a hankering for a family, we could get you some fertile eggs. You still go broody?”

  “Don’t get personal!”

  “Sorry. I just wanted you to know— if you get that brood itch to sit on eggs, you tell me. I’d get eggs for you. Mr. Pojurski, he’s got hens and roosters.”

  A membrane came over her eye. “I might be fox supper by then.”

  Josh wished she’d shut up about the fox. He knew if he hadn’t insisted she show him the hole in the number-three barn, she wouldn’t be in this sad, shivery state, scared stiff about being slowly chewed by an angry fox. “Tell me another Tarkah story,” he said.

  She was silent.

  “The one about snow. Go on.”

  “I told it last winter.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Semolina opened her beak. “I ain’t in the mood, but here goes, buddy. Tarkah laid a fire egg every day so her chickens on the big earth egg could have heat and light. All the chickens were busy, busy, busy. Every day was new life, and the birds were tired. Tarkah said, ‘My children need a rest time.’ So she plucked out her breast feathers, white and soft, and dropped them down on the earth egg. The earth egg turned white and too cold for new life. That’s why animals and birds do not make young in the time of Tarkah’s feathers. You know all this, buddy. I told you before. Winter is slow time. But some animals like the fox, they don’t rest.” She shivered. “Sun egg or moon egg, fast time or slow time, foxes hunt chickens with big sharp teeth.”

  Josh locked Semolina in the tractor shed the day he went to town with Tucker and Annalee. It was Semolina’s idea. She’d talked herself into such a terror that she insisted on having the door bolted while Josh was away.

  “You don’t have to worry,” he told her. “If I’m not here, I’ll lock you in, just like I lock you in at night, end of story.”

  It was a mighty big building for one scrawny little chicken. The tractor, plow and harrows were at one end with Tucker’s old motorcycle and several drums of oil and diesel. At the other end were Josh’s boat and a thick wooden workbench that ran the length of the wall. Across the rafters, Tucker had nailed sheets of chipboard to hold storage boxes, old garden tools and spare hoses for the sprinkler system. Semolina fluttered from the oil drum to the workbench and up into the rafters, where no fox was likely to find her.

  Josh said she could roost where she liked as long as she promised to stay off his boat. “You know you’re a lot safer here than under the house,” he told her.

  Tucker had promised that on this egg trip, they could pick up the outboard and get marine paint at the boat store. If that wasn’t good news enough, Annalee had asked if she could come along too for the ride.

  Josh scrubbed up extra smart, put on his nearly new jeans and combed his hair with Brylcreem. Annalee was so pretty that sitting next to her made his breath hurt in his chest. She had on a dress with a skirt that spread over the backseat of the car and touched his knee. Her lipstick was pink and so shiny it made her mouth look wet. He stared at her and forgot to talk.

  Tucker drove carefully, the egg trailer swinging along behind them. No missing eggs these days. The trailer had Sampson Egg Marketing Company painted across each side. It was filled with wooden pallets that were in turn stacked with cartons of eggs sorted by Annalee and Josh. They would leave the full Semco trailer at the Sampsons’ warehouse and take an empty one back to the farm.

  Sampsons’ was a mile or so out the other side of town, but Tucker pulled up in the main street. He turned to the backseat with his big slow smile. “You kids hop out here and amuse yourselves. When I’m done with Sampsons’, I expect I’ll find you near the marine shop.”

  Josh scrambled out and held the door open for Annalee. He’d been to town with her before heaps of times, but not this year, not with her so growed up and looking like a movie star. When his father drove away, there was just the two of them on the sidewalk in the hot sun. Josh knew he should say something, but his mouth was dry and there weren’t any words. It was a relief when Annalee clapped and said, “Let’s go to Duigan’s ice cream parlor. My treat.”

  They crosse
d the sunbaked street and pushed through glass doors to cool shade and the familiar smells of fudge, lime and caramel. Most of the tables and booths were full, and the staff was running around, busy as fleas at a dog show. Duigan’s hired high school kids during the vacation. Some of them started not knowing how to make a sundae or do a real thick shake, but they soon learned.

  When Annalee walked up to the counter, the guys stared and someone whistled. Josh moved closer to her. She put her hand on his shoulder and said, “What are you having, Josh?”

  He stood taller. “Butter pecan, waffle cone.”

  “One scoop or two?”

  “One. What are you having?”

  “Same.” She leaned against the counter and called out her order to one of the kids, who was still staring at her. He was tall and skinny with silver-edged glasses and a rim of black fluff like chicken feathers on his top lip. He gave her the biggest grin. “You didn’t tell me you were coming in today.”

  Annalee smiled. “Bob, meet my neighbor Josh Miller. Remember I told you about the boat he’s building?”

  Josh stopped breathing. Bob! Was this toe ring Bob?

  “Hi, Josh.” Bob leaned over the counter, holding out his hand. “Annalee’s told me heaps of stuff about you. She reckons you’re like a little brother.”

  Josh stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. “She’s already got a little brother,” he said.

  Bob quickly became another of Josh’s worry wrinkles. It felt bug-spittin’ bad hating someone who was so nice. Bob said he and Annalee were going to the movies Saturday and would Josh like to come too? Josh said no, he was going to see his mother. Bob said he forgot that she was in the hospital, and he hoped she was okay. Seven months pregnant, said Annalee. Near eight months, said Josh, and Mom was okay, they were all okay, everything top of the pops okay. Bob said how about if he came out to see the boat sometime? Josh said, what time? It was busy on the farm. Sorry. Besides, no point seeing the skiff before it was finished. Sorry, sorry. Then Bob made him a butter pecan sundae with hot fudge, whipped cream and cherries—on the house, he said.

  They came to visit anyway, on egg-sorting day, Harrison and Bob led up to the tractor shed by Annalee, who was telling them how Josh was going to take her fishing on the river. He had to show them the boat. Well, truth was, he actually liked showing them the boat. The paint was only at undercoat stage, but it looked real good, white, smooth, classic, he had to admit.

  Harrison forgot to be a smart-aleck. He ran his hands over the bow. “Neat, Slosh! I didn’t know a kid could make a real boat like this. Would you show me how you did it?”

  Josh unrolled the plans on the tractor bench, and they all bent over them while he talked them through the long process stage by stage—laminating the beech wood, cutting out the stern and the stays, solid bronze screws and glue for the joints, strips of ply bent over the steaming boiler, more gluing, caulking, sanding, painting, fitting the stern plate for the motor, the oarlocks. They were impressed.

  “You’ve done a fine professional job,” Bob said.

  “What do you mean fine?” said Annalee. “It’s hogsnorting brilliant!”

  Bob said he wanted to build a small sailboat to take out on Loon Lake, and he thought now maybe he could if he got the right plans.

  Harrison couldn’t keep his hands off the skiff. “Can I come fishing too?” he begged.

  Right-way up and gleaming white, Josh could clearly see it was a boat to be admired. Longer and wider than his bed, it had a shallow curve to the hull and a nicely flared bow, the sort of boat that would be stable on the river. There were two bench seats in it, one in the bow behind the oarlocks, the other nearer the stern. Under the seats was space for two polystyrene flotation blocks that would make the skiff unsinkable. The Johnson five-horse power motor was standing proud against the wall next to two brand-new varnished eight-foot oars.

  Grandma didn’t usually come to the tractor shed, but a visit from the Binochette children brought her out with a jug of lemonade and some applesauce muffins. “So this is the famous boat,” she said, looking it over. “Well, each to his own fancy, I always say.” She poured lemonade for Annalee. “Joshua is crazy about boats. Always has been. Funny obsession for a dryland chicken boy.” She brought the jug to Josh. “I will say this for my grandson. When he does something, he makes a good job of it. Doesn’t get that from either of his parents.”

  She walked away, leaving a silence in the shed. Josh picked up a muffin and wrapped it in a paper napkin. “I’ll save this one for Semolina.”

  Bob looked blank for a second, then he hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Your pet chicken!” he said. “The chicken wearing the ring I won at the fair!”

  “Yeah.” Josh smiled. Annalee forgot to tell him the ring had come from a fair. So they hadn’t bought it special from a jewelry store, like some kind of going-steady ring.

  “I have to see this crazy bird,” Bob said. “Annalee says it practically pecked the ring off her toe.”

  Josh’s smile faded. He turned to Annalee. “Wasn’t Semolina in the egg room with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then she must still be here.” He peered in the dark corners under the eaves. “Semolina? Semolina!”

  There was no movement, no rustle of feathers.

  “Semolina! Applesauce muffin!”

  “Maybe she’s under the house,” Annalee said.

  Josh shook his head. “No. She doesn’t go there anymore. She’s always here or in the egg room.” He felt a tightening in his stomach. He went to the door of the shed and yelled for her.

  The others came out. Side by side, they stood outside the door, calling for all they were worth, “Semolina! Semolina!”

  Tucker came out of the number-one chicken house, a wrench in his hand. “What happened?”

  Josh didn’t know if anything had happened, but he was feeling bad. When had he last seen her? He wasn’t sure. Lately he’d grown careless. He hadn’t always closed the door.

  “You kids all right?” Tucker yelled.

  “Semolina’s missing,” Annalee replied.

  Chapter Seven

  FOR THE REST OF THE DAY, UNTIL dark, they hunted for Semolina. They called her name from one end of the farm to the other, walked the rows of Swiss chard, crawled under the house. Inside, they went through every room with Grandma not saying a word and searched all closets, bins, boxes lest she got shut in somewhere. Josh even checked the laundry cupboard.

  They found nothing, not even a stray feather.

  Josh’s bad feeling got worse when they looked in the number-three chicken house. The hens in number three had been squawking as though they had a big conference going. When Josh opened the door, they flew up, filling the air with dust and feathers and noise. It might have been because the other kids were with him, but he thought not. Most times those chickens were so quiet a stranger could lift them out of the straw and stroke their feathers.

  Come evening, there was such dread in him, he didn’t want Bob and the Binochettes to go home. “I think it’s the fox,” he said.

  “She could have hidden in the woods,” said Annalee.

  “Why would she go into the woods?”

  “If the fox came looking, she could have run anywhere. She could even be on our farm.” She put her arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Josh, we’ll look for her tomorrow.”

  Josh wanted to hold on to hope, but the bad feeling wouldn’t go away. Sure, it was possible that Semolina had gotten scared and run for the woods or the Binochettes’ farm—only if something was chasing her, she’d never make it, her being old and not much of a runner. You could be certain if a fox had her in his sights, she’d be sitting meat.

  These thoughts so filled his head that he couldn’t eat his supper. He mashed the tuna sauce and pasta with his fork and worry-wrinkled about trying not to blame Grandma. Tonight, though, tonight he was going to leave his window wide open, and if Semolina jumped through it, she could poop all
over his quilt if she wanted. Then Grandma would pack her bag and go home and he and Semolina could be together and happy again.

  Grandma had poured herself a big helping of brew. She stared at him across the froth on the glass. “Don’t fret,” she said. “She’ll come home when she’s hungry.” Then she turned to Tucker. “Saw his boat today. Good job for a young one. It’s in his blood. Elizabeth told you my granddaddy was a sea captain?”

  Tucker put down his fork. “No! I don’t think she knows that!”

  Grandma sniffed. “Memory on her like a bottomless bucket. Captain of a collier, he was, a coal ship—” She stopped and said briskly, “Josh, you need a tissue?”

  He realized that tears were running down his nose and dropping onto his plate. He shook his head and leaned sideways to get a handkerchief out of his jeans pocket. What he pulled out was a paper napkin full of squashed applesauce muffin.

  He didn’t say anything while Tucker told Elizabeth. He was all right until his mother’s eyes filled up with water and she said, “Oh, Josh! Dear, dear Semolina!” Then in one movement he was out of the hospital chair and onto the bed beside her, his head against her shoulder, crying wetness on her nightgown. She held him, her fingers tracing little circles on the back of his head. “Josh, I’m so sorry.”

  Tucker said, “Danged chicken could have run off into the woods.”

  Josh shook his head against his mother’s hand.

  “You must be feeling very sad,” she said.

  A voice in his head was yelling, It’s Grandma’s fault! Semolina’s gone because of Grandma! He might have said it out loud except that Tucker spoke first. “Probably no fox,” said Tucker. “She’s old. Animals do that. They know when their time comes and off they go, just themselves, to lay down in some quiet place.”

  Again Josh shook his head.

  Elizabeth massaged his scalp and the back of his neck, and her fingers felt as if they were a part of him. “I’ll tell you a secret, Josh. Sad always comes with happy. That’s true. Always. But sad is so big, we don’t see the happy thing.”