Chickens & Hens Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Support Indie Authors and Small Press

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Recommended Reading

  Grey Gecko Press

  Chickens & Hens

  Nancy-Gail Burns

  To my granny, Melina Ladouceur, and my ma, Leona Burns. I'm forever grateful for the lessons taught with love, strength, and fairness.

  Prologue

  The day blows in with a force that strips me of the foolishness we all wear. My mission hurries me out the door. The station swarms with people. Ticket in hand, I hope I’m going the right way. I’ve never had a sense of direction, but of all days, this is the day to find one.

  I tell myself to make the best of the journey, obligatory and unplanned as it is. The train’s whistle shrieks as rows of railway cars line up. The engine’s roar asserts that this big fellow waits for no one. I join the throng of people, leap aboard clumsily, bang my knee solidly, and pretend I didn’t. I cart my grimace to my seat, lifting it high until it resembles a smile. Minutes later, the rhythmic click-clack of wheels on joints, like kneading hands, drive the day’s stress away.

  Simple pleasures… ah.

  I tuck a pillow behind my head and peer out of the rectangular window, but the thick edging steals much of the view.

  Pavement turns to gravel, and I welcome the countryside as one would a rare treat. Cornfields and pungent smells whisper that I’m nearing my destination. Wrinkled noses reveal that I’m the only one who appreciates the undercurrent of cow dung.

  A mood of formality permeates the train as fine suits and elegant dresses surround me. Flinty stares accost my casual attire, and conformity thrusts excuses into my brain—if I’d foreseen the journey, I’d have done better, but I didn’t, so there.

  Judgments are despicable, and unfavorable ones carry a particularly rank odor. Oddly enough, the cloud of stink doesn’t bother me. After spending years blending into the milieu, always afraid to stand apart, I’m done hiding who I am. My thirties have delivered some wisdom. I’m Marnie O’Sullivan, and if you don’t like what you see, walk away—I won’t stop you.

  Passing miles transport memories closer. Glasses clink as a steel pushcart lumbers down the aisle, and the sound brings back memories of my mother. Full glasses and rainbows were important to her.

  My childhood was a happy one. Ma refused to let me see it as anything but. I swear she could take the most sullen child on Earth and force them to be happy, for her suggestions had a way of becoming the God’s-honest truth, and who can ignore the God’s-honest truth? She fed me hearty food and euphemisms, and when I grew, she shoved me from my safe haven and forced me take chances.

  Her labour yielded rewards, but I repaid her by voicing complaints and hoarding compliments. It’s now too late to rectify the situation. Death ends discussions. It doesn’t give a darn about unspoken words. It barges in, not giving one time to prepare.

  Our final exchange lodges in my brain. I could probably recite the conversation verbatim. My memory is a gift akin to the knickknacks that clutter a house: trivial conversations reside in every crevice, leaving little room for matters of consequence. When final words are important solely because of their timing, it’s never a good thing. They would have been meaningless had we spoken again, but we didn’t, so heigh-ho, the derry-o, the cheese stands alone, and believe me, it’s one piece of stinky cheese.

  Why did I say such things? It could be because I enjoy being difficult. The rattle of a cage excites me. I take pride in my ability to exasperate anyone. Worthless traits, but they’re mine, and I grasp them tight.

  Dissatisfaction pokes at me. I foolishly waited for the ideal moment to divulge my feelings. Refusing to consider expiration dates, I never saw the logic of seizing a given moment and declaring it ideal. Death kills while birthing regrets. The guilt magnifies until I feel wretched and small, yet to suffer without results is senseless. Ma taught me that much.

  “Where are you headed?” the woman beside me asks.

  “Farley Falls,” I reply, expecting the bewildered look that follows. Although Farley Falls is a dot on any map, I see it as immense, for it encompasses everything dear in my life. Its smallness no longer embarrasses me. Everyone’s world is small, regardless of what they think. I turn away from the woman before she can ask where Furley, Fooley, or Falley Falls is. Her eager eyes tell me she’s the gabby sort. Today is not about idle chatter. It’s the day I must right a wrong.

  Does death slam the window on life, or does it close it slowly, allowing words to drift into the parting consciousness? I want to believe it falls unhurriedly, and I’m going to. Why set myself up for failure?

  Memories flash before my eyes. I take hold of them to wring every drop of life from them.

  Chapter 1

  There are no drum rolls, no dark premonitions. The start of the day is ordinary.

  “Breakfast!” Ma yells.

  Daddy’s boots pound the back steps. “We’re going to have a lot of roses this year,” he says as he makes his way to the sink. “I tried to count the buds, but I had to give up. There’s too many to count.” Water splatters as he scrubs his hands. Ma comes up behind him. She wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes. “Bad boy, how many times have I told you not to wash your dirty hands where I do the dishes?”

  “Can’t help it, Ell. Your food smells too good. It’ll take me forever to go upstairs and come back down.” He turns around and pulls her close. “Will you forgive me if I cover you with roses?” They smooch, and I look away.

  Daddy sits down, and Ma brings him his plate. He immediately grabs a piece of bacon and stuffs it into his mouth. “Delicious as always, Ell.”

  Ma pats his shoulder. They always touch each other. I pretend not to notice. Ma puts a plate in front of me. She returns to the stove and makes two more eggs. Daddy loves eggs, and she spoils him every weekend.

  As soon as she sits
down, Ma turns to me. “We should go shopping. I need material, and you can use a new pair of shoes.”

  “Can I pick them myself?”

  “Only if you choose wisely.” The screen door whines. She gets up and returns with the newspaper. She gives it to Daddy. He opens the paper and says, “You two run off.”

  Ma’s eyes dart around the room. “I should tidy up first.”

  “I’ll attend to the dirty dishes, just go. Don’t spend too much of my money,” he teases.

  Ma kisses him goodbye. “I’ll only spend a few million.”

  “All right then, have fun.”

  We leave him sitting at the table, reading the paper.

  We roam for two hours as we hunt for bargains. When we get home, Ma opens our front door. “Paddy!” she calls. She clutches a bag of humbugs, Daddy’s favorite treat. “Paddy!”

  Daddy doesn’t answer. “Bet he’s back in the yard,” Ma says. I nod in agreement. He’s always in the yard, coaxing azaleas to bloom or forcing trumpet vines to exist in a cold climate. He doesn’t see the hours of labour spent in his garden as work. “That man has no concept of time,” Ma mutters.

  We make our way to the back of the house. “I love this blue gingham. It’s crisp. I’m going to make new curtains for the kitchen and maybe even a tablecloth.” Ma touches the stiff fabric with satisfaction. “It’ll hang properly.”

  I’m jumping around. “I can’t wait to show Daddy my new shoes.” I yank them from the box. They are so shiny, you can see your reflection in their black lustre. I stick my tongue out and gawk at the glossy tongue staring back at me.

  “Don’t lick your shoe,” Mom says.

  As if I would do something so stupid. I make another face, not aimed at the shoe. Oblivious of my annoyance, Ma chatters about her curtains.

  “They will need a lace trim,” she says. “Do you think I should…”

  “Should what?” I hate it when people don’t finish sentences. I look up.

  Ma looks different. Her small features have collapsed like a rotten apple. The bag of sweets falls from her hand. I track her glance. It lands on my father. Sprawled on the kitchen floor, a horrible grimace twists his face to make it barely recognizable. His hands clutch his chest.

  At that moment, I would give anything to transport him into his garden, where he can happily tend plants whose names I cannot pronounce.

  “Ma, what’s wrong with Daddy?” I ask, already knowing the answer. My eyes dart to the dish rack. Plates line its rungs. The counters gleam without smears of butter or the crumbs that toast dumps. The clean kitchen mocks the last moments of my daddy’s life. I despise its neatness.

  My words shatter Ma’s stupor. Reality springs forth. Her small hands push me from the room. “Go outside,” she orders, making no mention of my father’s crumpled body. Her arms hold no strength, but I leave the room nonetheless. I do not want to see my father’s dead body. I do not want to witness my mother’s pain.

  I run up a flight of stairs and sit on the top step. Ma’s moans follow me. I cover my ears with my hands. She sounds like an animal caught in a trap. Moments later, the sounds of sirens mix with her baying until I can no longer tell them apart.

  Neighbours venture over. I sit in solitude, but their voices carry. Emotions grow until there is barely enough room for me, never mind others. I have to be alone. I don’t want to hear pity-filled words, barren of solutions. I do not want to feel warm embraces as my father’s body turns cold. I run to the third floor to sit on the unlit steps. Once there, I look up. “I hate you,” I whisper to God. “I will hate you forever,” I promise as I call Him every foul name I’ve ever heard.

  My mother abhors swear words. She sees them as pointless. I like them, because I recognize their purpose. They are filthy, ignorant, and worthless. Isn’t that exactly how the world sometimes appears?

  I curse until my chest constricts and I can only wheeze. My hands tighten on my new patent-leather shoes as I struggle to breathe. They were so important, only minutes before. My hands open. They fall and I relish the hollow sound they make as they plunge to the bottom.

  This day is no longer about shiny new shoes. It is the day the Lord stole my daddy. I curse Him until I am confident I will never enter His kingdom.

  A police car, a fire truck, and an ambulance pull up in front of our home. They’ve come for Daddy’s body. Why does it take so many men to haul away an empty shell?

  Daddy is gone, and now I will never have a father. Daddies are for little girls. Fathers are for teenagers and adults. Daddy’s life is over. His skin will not wrinkle. His back will not bow. Our relationship ends in my childhood as his toe barely touches middle age.

  The parade of vehicles leaves with sharp turns and squealing tires. Neighbours wander back to their homes. “Marnie!” Ma yells. I move toward her without conscious thought. Detached from my familiar surroundings, I am at the bottom of the stairs even though I don’t remember taking a step. My new shoes lie on the floor. I pick them up. I don’t look at them, because I no longer want to see my reflection.

  Ma holds out her arms. “Marnie…”

  I look at her, but I don’t take a step toward her. I can only squeeze out one word. “No.”

  Her arms drop to her sides. “Do you know what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  She makes her way to my bedroom to rifle through my closet. “We must find the appropriate clothes to wear,” she declares. Her eyes fix on the shoes dangling from my hand. Bewildered lines tangle and then branch across her face. “They’re barely out of the box. How can they be so beaten up?”

  She grabs hold of them to examine the scratches. I swallow the smile threatening to reveal itself. I like the shoes. Scuffed and marred, they’re just like me.

  Time blurs. People mill about like ants. Everyone brings casseroles. As if you can eat.

  Chapter 2

  Late Saturday afternoon, Ma sets the bag on the small entrance table.

  “What’s that?” I ask

  “I bought Paddy a tie.”

  “What colour?”

  “Blue.”

  She hurries to her bedroom and returns with Daddy’s only suit. A thin layer of dust coats the plastic cover. She wipes it with her hand. Particles fly in every direction. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

  I don’t ask her where she’s going. I know where my father is.

  Dust flits in the air and then settles.

  The front door unlocks with a stiff click forty-five minutes later. She darts past me without saying a word. Drawers open and close, and cupboards bang in quick succession.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask as I enter her bedroom. Every light is on, and she’s darting about seemingly without reason.

  “Paddy’s beads.”

  “Beads, what sort of beads?”

  “His rosary beads,” she cries without turning around. Her back bends and her fists clench. “He must have his beads.” She checks her watch and moans. “It’s six o’clock—the stores are closed. They won’t be open tomorrow.” She spins around. “What are we going to do?” Deep lines scrunch her face, but her voice booms.

  Suddenly the lines disappear. She seizes Daddy’s top drawer and places it on the bed. Carefully folded handkerchiefs fan out, cuff links clink, and papers rustle.

  The lines return to her face. “Where can they be? I was sure they were here.” The crease between her eyes deepens as she searches nooks and yanks contents out of her way. Tears course down her face when she bends to rustle through a basket.

  I leave the room and return a moment later. “Here, Ma,” I say as I hand her my crystal beads.

  “But they’re yours.”

  “I want Daddy to have them.”

  “But we gave them to you for your First Communion. They’re special.”

  “That’s why I want him to have them.”

  Ma takes the beads from my hand and our grip lingers. “Thank you. I’m sure he’ll appreciate them.”

  Th
e beads are my final gift to him.

  That night, before we go to bed, Ma calls to me. “Come join me on the porch. I poured each of us a glass of lemonade.” I sit on the chair as she rocks back and forth on the wooden swing.

  Her hand plays with the hem of her blouse. Whenever words leave her slowly, they are weighty. She looks off in the distance, and I wonder what she’s hoping to see. “We can’t control what life gives us, Marnie. If you could, we’d all be happy. Paddy’s death was a shock, but we mustn’t stand still and let our sorrow crush us. We have to move on.”

  The rocking stops as she plants her feet. Her eyes bore into my own. “Find strength in your grief. Move beyond your pain.” She smiles, but it’s a thin smile lacking gladness. “At least we have each other.” The anemic smile returns. “See the glass as half full, not half empty.”

  I can’t trust myself to speak, so I nod.

  “Promise,” she says.

  Daddy’s death and my reaction to it are cut from the same grim cloth. There are no choices. There is only one way to see it. I stand up. “I’m tired. I’m heading off to bed.”

  “Good night, sleep tight.”

  By sheer habit, I finish the silly saying for her. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  The next day I enter the funeral home to visit my father. Waxlike, his stiff fingers clutch my beads. Light reflects off the crystals, and I’m glad he has them to hold and admire.

  Ma’s fingers brush the red roses resting at the foot of the coffin. “Paddy was right. Old-fashioned roses are the best.” She inhales deeply to capture the heady, spicy scent. The roses are from Ma and me. Flowers in every color and design surround the coffin like sentinels. I hope that they will be with him always. He would like that.

  The room holds my father’s lifeless body and holds me captive, too. It teems with tears and condolences, repeated so often they become meaningless. The fourth day brings our final goodbye. The double doors swing open.

  Suddenly, sitting with his dead body is not so bad. It’s better than having nothing of him at all. Wants are of no consequence.