A Chicken in the Hand

 

 

 

 

 

A Short Story

 

 

“What's that supposed to be?”

The girl turned around and met the eyes of a young man standing behind her. She looked back at the window where the advertisement was pasted, blaring out into the street. The woman portrayed was thin and angular with a full head of glossy hair. Her eye had been altered to look bruised and her eyebrows were screwed into an anguished expression. Underneath her was written, Don't Let Taxes Knock You Out. She didn't understand the undertones, but the man did. He tilted his head and bent forward, his turned-up nose inches from the glass. Then his jammed his finger against the woman's black eye and snorted.

“I don't get it,” he said.

“The taxes knocked her out,” said the girl.

“It's domestic abuse,” said the boy. “Who the hell buys things after seeing an ad like that?”

The girl didn't understand but she kept her mouth shut. Instead she focused on his reflection in the store window. He was tall, over six feet, with a rounded face and a mop of brown hair. He had the stretched look of someone who had grown a lot in a short time. His eyes were light blue and his lashes were thick and dark, like feathers against his cheek. He had an angsty look, as if he smoked and threw eggs at cars just for kicks. The girl decided right away that she did not like him.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Ceaser Augustus,” he announced. He pushed his hands in the pockets of his dark wash jeans.

The girl was unimpressed. “I'm not stupid,” she said. She walked past him and started down the hot sidewalk, her sandals slapping against the pavement. The town was empty because it was a Sunday, and the dust had settled on the street. As she walked little sand devils whirled around her feet, the sweat between her toes making mud in her sandals. Behind her Caeser Augustus started after her, his expensive blazer flapping against his sides. She lifted her nose in the air and ignored him as she ducked into a dime store.

“What's your name?” he said.

She picked up a pack of strawberry bootlaces and went to the checkout. “Mary Jane,” she said. She slapped a quarter on the counter and took the bag and left the store. He followed her as she unwrapped it and wound the strawberry candy around her neck and inserted the end in her mouth.

“Like the sweet?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

She began twisting and braiding the bootlaces, making a lasso. When she was younger she had spent a good deal of time pretending she was a cowgirl and she was proficient at snagging wooden horses. She hung the noose around her neck and continued biting down at the other end. The candy gathered, sticky and sweet, in the back of her teeth. Behind her the young man was following at a safe distance.

They were almost to the woods when he saw the chicken. It was round and orange, it's feathers fluffed like a down pillow. He started laughing and kicked a pile of gravel at it, making it squawk and dance aside. Its tail fanned out as it skittered back, skinny legs peddling.

“It's a chicken,” he said.

She stood, staring at the chicken. “Stop it. Don't kick it,” she ordered.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Cause it ain't your chicken, dummy,” she said. She unwrapped the bootlace from her neck, the noose hanging from her limp wrist. Then she swirled it over her head, around and around, until she let it fly through the air. The chicken darted out of the way, aiming a savage peck at the bootlace. Then it ruffled its feathers and headed towards the woods.

Mary Jane gathered the bootlace and started after it. Caeser was right behind her, leaves crunching under his expensive, leather shoes. The woods were cool and moist in contrast with the town, the trees empty of birds until high afternoon was over. She kept to the path, the chicken just in sight, and swung the bootlace back and forth.

“What the hell do you think you're doing with that chicken?” said Caeser.

“I'm catching it,” said Mary Jane.

“Why do you want that chicken?” said Caeser.

“So I can make Chicken Caesar salad. Ha!” said the girl.

“Wee hawkins,” said Caeser. “You're a funny little squirt.”

“Where are you from? I haven't seen you around here?” said Mary Jane. The chicken began skidding down a hill, heading towards a mossy creek. She planted the edges of her feet into the loose soil and scrabbled down. Mud smeared the sides of her legs and hitched her skirt up to her thighs. She stumbled to a stop on the slippery rocks of the creek and watched the chicken hop through the water.

“Do you need that chicken?” Caeser asked. “I'm from the good side of town. There isn't chickens up there. We keep our birds cool and processed.”

“You haven't seen a real, live chicken?” she asked. They started up the hill, pushing through the ground cover of ferns. Caeser took the lead this time, long legs eating up the distance. He put a cigarette between his teeth and lit it, shaking his head as if to get the smoke from his lungs.

“Smokes will kill you,” she said.

“So can chickens,” he said. “You go to the supermarket and buy a frozen chicken and it's got salmonella all over it. Then you don't cook it well enough and you're a goner.”

“I want that bird,” she said. “I need it for later.”

“What happens later?” he asked. They had arrived at the crest of the hill, the chicken already heading down the other side. It seemed to have sensed that it was being followed closely and it had picked up its pace.

“If I need it later, I'll have it,” she said.

“But you don't need it now,” he said. She glanced at him, noticing that he had dark circles underneath his eyes. Down his cheeks were faint scars, as if he had had acne and had scraped open the blisters too many times. He filled his scarred face from the cigarette and blew it out, making her cough as the smoke hit her. Then he smiled, the corner of his mouth turning up, and began walking down the hill. She scowled at him and looked around, trying to locate the chicken. It had disappeared.

She took off running, long hair flying behind her. “Where is it?” she howled. “What have you done with it?”

He stopped. “I don't know. How could I when I can't even catch it same as you?” he said. “It's gone now and you're not going to find it. Let's go.”

“You go, I'm not leaving,” she said. She blinked rapidly, unwilling to cry in front of him.

“I'll help you find the stupid chicken,” he said. He scowled and pushed his hair from his eyes. She hiccupped and wiped her face, putting the bootlace back in her mouth. He waited, cigarette hanging from his lips, as she squared her shoulders. There was a stick jabbing her foot, tangled in the strap of her sandal. “Take off those shoes. You don't need them.”

“I need my shoes,” she said. She pulled the stick out and threw it away and he scowled again. “Now where did the chicken go?”

“Probably to lower ground,” he said. “Chickens mostly spend their time on lower ground.”

They set off, the thin, pale girl with a mess of brambly hair following the tall, young man. The woods were quieter than they had been, and the ground under their feet was dappled with yellow and white. They kept going for at least an hour, treading in silence as the girl chewed the bootlace. He asked for a piece eventually and she broke one off, handing it over. Her palms were sticky, but he didn't seem to mind.

“My father owns that store,” he said. “The one you bought the bootlaces at.”

“Good for him,” she said. “I don't see no chicken.”

“Why are you so obsessed with this chicken?” he said. “It's better if you just forgot about the chicken. If you need a pet to play with, just find some bug or something.”

“No, I got to have that bird,” she said.

The woods cleared and they paused at the edge of a clearing, a sheer drop below them. The girl peered over the edge and gave a sharp cry, waving her arm. “There it is,” she said.

The young man frowned, squinting over the edge. He could see that something was different. The feathers on the bird were red, not orange, and it was a rooster. He looked at the girl, bending closer to inspect her face; her eyes were red and strained. She needed glasses. He opened his mouth to tell her that it was the wrong bird, but then he stopped. She wanted a bird and he wanted to go home, so this bird was as good as any.

“Let's go down,” he said.

They found a roundabout, a trail squashed by many tramping feet. He kicked in disgust at the empty wrappers and Popsicle sticks, feeling repulsed by the trash. He did it himself, flicked cigarette butts on the edge of the highway and spat tobacco out the window. She barely seemed to notice, her eyes alight and her gummy fingers holding the tangled bootlace. They skidded into the dry valley, dust rising from their feet. The chicken was sitting still, watching them with its head turned sideways. He held the cigarette partway under his tongue, the burning tip near his lips. She indicated that he stop, and he crouched down, his hands hanging between his knees.

She lifted the bootlace above her head and swung it around. He watched with bated breath, hoping she would not realize it was the wrong chicken. The bootlace noose flew past him and fell around the bird's neck, jerking tight. The girl crowed, jumping forward and seizing her captive chicken with glee. The bird didn't make a sound, its neck stretching higher until it looked her in the face. He waited, expecting her to recognize her mistake. Instead she pulled it tighter, feathers ballooning around her arms. He headed back to the trail, and she followed after him. She thought about the chicken, warm in her arms, and he thought about how she had left her sandals behind.

 

 

 

The END.