Chickens & Hens Read online

  The sun shines through the windows. The open doors carry the heat inside. Ma grabs my hand. “Be strong, Marnie. Make your daddy proud. Walk straight and tall.”

  I can only nod. I don’t know if I can be strong.

  We follow the hearse as it heads to the church. The walk is a mere fifty yards. It feels like miles. Ma and I are dressed in black. Black dresses are not appropriate for little girls, so mine is homemade. Bags bunch under Ma’s eyes. They testify that it took all night to sew the simple frock.

  Ma stumbles as she walks on the uneven road. She holds my hand tight and pulls me along with her. She rights herself before she hits the pavement, righting me along with her.

  We arrive at the church. Wide cement steps seem endless. Why is it so difficult to enter a church? The doors are large and inviting, but only until you feel the weight of them. They shut on you if you don’t push with all your might.

  The cathedral is one of the oldest in town. Ceilings soar, plunging you into irrelevancy. Subdued lighting casts shadows on the holy paintings. They appear secretive and sinister. A priest I don’t know clears his throat and begins the ceremony. I sit like the statues before me and hear droning but no words. Body heat circles, but I feel cold and alone.

  We leave the church to drive to the cemetery. The full sun consumes the glow of headlights. Nonetheless, cars stop to let all of us pass. The procession must not be broken. When the limousine stops, Ma and I step out. She grabs my hand.

  Green grass and mature oaks grace the land. Bird songs fill the air. “Paddy was born minutes from here,” Ma says. “He always wanted to return to the country.”

  I’m sure he didn’t want to return in a box, but I don’t say it.

  We gather around the coffin. A steel apparatus holds it above the hole. The priest prays. Someone thrusts a clump of soil into my hand. The coffin lowers. It bounces as it hits the ground. Handfuls of dirt pelt the coffin. As the earth leaves my fingers, I wonder why we are obliged to do such a dreadful thing.

  The glass empties. I am not a big enough person not to envy children who have both parents. I resent having a loved one yanked away before I’m ready to let go.

  I’m ten, my mother forty-one, when my father’s massive coronary strikes. We’ve been a traditional family, so Daddy has been the sole breadwinner. Ma’s theories on attitude can’t change facts. Daddy’s death has broken our hearts and our pocketbook. I see us as doomed—emptied—and I expect Ma feels the same.

  Chapter 3

  Monday arrives. I go to school. Eyes follow me as I enter the schoolyard. No one says a word. I’m now different—separate from the rest of them. Marjorie Burton explains why.

  Marjorie has bristly carrot-red hair and freckles so irregularly shaped, it appears she was looking through a screen entry when a bucketful of poop pelted the door. Freckles drip from her face down her neck, chest, arms, torso, and legs. Furthermore, when a knife scrapes across a plate, it hits the same pitch as her voice. There’s not much to like about Marjorie, and like her I don’t.

  “Marnie O’Sullivan is a bastard,” she announces to the children who surround me yet don’t acknowledge my presence.

  My resistance is swift, even though I don’t really know what I’m defending. “I am not,” I declare with as much force as I can muster.

  Marjorie takes a few steps and stands before me. Her piggy eyes look gleeful as she declares, “You are so, O’Sullivan. You’re just too stupid to know it.”

  “I’m not stupid, and I’m not a bastard.” I want my voice to ring strong and clear. Its trembling disappoints.

  Her piggy snout smells weakness. A filthy laugh rings out. “You probably don’t even know what a bastard is, you stupid mick.”

  She hurls the term as if it carries no weight. Normally, I wouldn’t feel its power. I’d return the insult and think nothing of it. This day is different, though only because of what took place the day before. Time consistently advances, but on certain days, it hops, pushes, grabs, stomps, and demands notice.

  Eeny, meeny, miny, mo… I grew up in a time when you didn’t catch a tiger by the toe. Yep, it was the n-word.

  We weren’t ashamed, because we didn’t know any better. Everyone followed suit, and none of us looked at ourselves in a mirror. If we had, we would have seen the wrongness of certain words. The wrongness in us, actually. I was as blind as the rest of them until a day seized my attention and revealed that it is only tigers that are caught by their toe.

  Ma and I live in the town’s core, where a few blocks change the essence of an area. People move into neighbourhoods that mirror who they are. Districts are French, English, Italian, and Irish—working class, poor, or professional. I live on Elm Street. It’s the Irish working-class neighborhood adjacent to the Italian working-class district.

  The kids in the Italian neighbourhood eat different foods and speak two languages: English, like the rest of us, and the tongue of their native land, which sounds foreign and loud. Despite these differences, we are the same. We like to have fun. We like to play games, usually outside, since children fill the rafters, and mothers don’t want them cluttering the house.

  War is my favourite game. It guarantees excitement for lives that don’t otherwise have any. We climb trees with bows and arrows made from the new growth of the elms. We chase each other through alleys or plan lines of offence and defence in tight groups. Sometimes it’s rather elaborate. Sometimes it’s dangerous. It’s always energizing. You choose teams with one factor in mind—ethnicity. I don’t see anything wrong with that, because that’s how it’s done. You never question how it’s done.

  Since the Italians are right beside us, we Irish always fight them. Sometimes we declare war, and sometimes they do. It usually begins over an injustice suffered by one child. Both sides make sure there are plenty of injustices.

  Ma knows nothing of the games I play. I never tell her, because having one child makes her overprotective. Hand-to-hand combat would not sit well with her. Bows and arrows land you in the middle of a discussion on poked-out eyes. Protecting the eyes is a major lecture since most kids have BB guns and firecrackers. Parents buy the artillery but worry about consequences. Blind acceptance rules the day, so some kids do lose eyes. Life holds many dangers, and that reasoning excuses everyone from doing anything about it.

  Once the funeral is over, no one calls. “They probably don’t know what to say,” Ma explains. I nod in agreement but silently call them jerks. Saying something would have been better than saying nothing at all.

  I spend Saturday with Ma, but on Sunday, I leave the house, telling her I’m going out to play. I have no intention of playing. I want to be by myself. I’m angry with my friends for not being there when I need them the most. I’m angry with myself for needing them. I’m just plain angry with everyone and everything.

  I map out detours in case I run into anyone. I walk the familiar blocks, but something is wrong. Bolo bats don’t smack. Hula hoops don’t sway as ball bearings clank. It doesn’t make sense. Church is out. The streets should swarm with children. But I enjoy the solitude and don’t think it through. If I did, I would realize only one thing forces the neighborhood children to relinquish their turf—Kelly, the Saint Bernard, is on the loose!

  Kelly O’Shea lives in a row house with a tiny backyard. A five-foot wooden fence surrounds the property, but it’s broken in so many places, it no longer serves any purpose. Kelly often escapes. He’s an Irish dog, but he doesn’t care who he terrorizes: Italian, Irish, French—he has no preferred cuisine. All children are equal culinary dining pleasures.

  I’m at the cusp of the two neighbourhoods when muted barks and muffled screams sound behind me. Kelly has taken control of my neighbourhood. Word must have spread, clearing the streets. Some unfortunates walked into his path. My guess is choirboys. Since they leave church late, they didn’t hear the word.

  Given it’s Sunday and Mr. O’Shea likes to spend Saturday night drinking, it will be some time before the streets are
once again safe. I have no choice. I venture into the Italian neighbourhood. My neighbourhood has gone to the dog.

  Sunday is a typical war day. I don’t relish going into Little Italy, but visions of Kelly’s big teeth and slobbering mouth make my decision relatively easy. I proceed into enemy lines, alone and defenceless.

  The second my foot crosses the invisible border, Luigi Pucci, their lookout, squeals, “Grab her!” Ten children dash from hiding places. They dart from behind garbage cans, shoot out from under rotten porches, or bound from trees. A circle forms around me. It keeps getting smaller.

  “Stupid dumb mick!” they shout.

  “You stink!” Maria yells.

  “So does your mother,” another Maria declares.

  “You’re ugly,” a third Maria says.

  Let them say what they want. I’m not dog food, and that supersedes their taunts. “Kelly is on the loose and he’s coming this way!” I shriek, trying to overpower their tirade.

  “It’s a trap,” Fat Frank says. “Her friends are hiding, waiting to pounce. Don’t fall for it. As soon as we let our guard down, they’ll attack.”

  The other children aren’t so sure. Eyes flit as they silently ask one another if I should be trusted.

  Fat Frank will have none of it. “She’s trying to fool us. She must pay for her treachery.” I half listen to his threats as my eyes stare past him.

  “She’s a dirty rotten liar,” he bellows with such force that the three spare tires around his waist bounce. A proficient orator, he requires little effort to convince his friends he speaks the truth.

  The circle tightens until we are a solid mass. I stop thinking about Kelly when I see the rope in Fat Frank’s hands. He snaps it to ensure my attention.

  Frank is tall, but he’s so fat, he looks short. He also has the largest breasts of anyone in school. Frank likes the public pool. When the lifeguard blows the whistle signalling it’s open, Frank runs the fastest. As he gains momentum, his ponderous breasts sway back and forth to block his face with massive nipples that grow pinker in the scorching sun.

  “Hey, Busty Barducci, quit smacking me with your big boobs,” I once said after he pushed me to get into the pool first. The children around us snickered as they pinned the nickname to his weighty chest like a sewn-on badge. He’s detested me ever since.

  Fat Frank nods to two of his friends. Each grabs me by an arm. My mind conjures up all the tortures one can do with a rope. Fat Frank is dim witted, but when it comes to being vindictive, he’s rather clever. He holds the rope in both hands. His lips twist in an odd grimace. His eyes shine black with excitement. The children grow quiet, relishing their anticipation.

  His eyes focus on the lowest branch of the elm to our left and then swing back at me. He plans to hang me. Surely, the branch won’t hold my weight. It will only trap me in terror for a few seconds. Fat Frank raises the rope over his head as the first growl fills the air.

  The circle loosens as children disperse like jawbreakers breaking free from a paper sack. They scatter in every direction until there’s only Fat Frank and me. Our glances lock. Before we exchange a word, he drops the rope and runs so fast, it’s a wonder his boobs don’t knock him out.

  I would have laughed if Kelly weren’t looking at me with his bloodshot eyes. I take cautious backward steps, praying my big feet won’t cause me to stumble.

  “Good boy, good boy,” I murmur. My mind silently screams, “Get away from me, you rotten beast from hell!” Positive he has eaten the choirboys from Saint Peter’s, I decide he’ll rip me apart, not devour me. Ma will bury pieces of me rather than dog vomit.

  Hard bricks scrape my hand as I inch myself into further trouble. I move to my left. Grasping fingers touch flaking wood. I explore the surface and feel a doorknob. Kelly looks at me stupidly. It’s a ploy. I might open the door, but I know I’ll never pass through it. To earn his reputation, you have to be more than just mean. You have to be mean and smart. One sudden move, and he’ll spring into action. I close my eyes and begin to pray. “Our Father who art in heaven…” I’m at the part where I’m asking Him to forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us when a hand snatches me and yanks me through the doorway.

  Chapter 4

  My body hits the warmth of another. I look up. It’s Johnny Scarpetta, the most handsome, the most perfect boy in school. He saved my life! I love him more than ever. I’m now sure he loves me, too. I always suspected he did, because whenever we were at war and he caught me, his punches never left bruises.

  Emotions plug my throat, making it tight. I slump on the first step of a large stairway. We are in an old rooming house, the type that has twenty-five rooms that people rent and one bathroom that people fight over.

  Kelly throws himself against the door. Johnny says, “Listen to his nails rip the wood.”

  “As long as I’m on this side of the door, I don’t care.” I kick at the door, and Kelly barks louder. “Thanks,” I say a moment later without looking into his soul-grabbing eyes.

  “It was nothing,” Johnny replies modestly. His bang falls onto his forehead in a careless fashion reminiscent of movie stars.

  Kelly jumps some more, growls deep in his throat, and barks angrily, but you can tell he’s becoming bored with it. Johnny leaves the door to sit beside me on the step. “I was really sorry to hear about your father,” he says as he studies the floor.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  “I had an uncle that died,” he offers.

  I don’t say anything. Sometimes there’s really nothing to say. Johnny must feel the same, because he changes the subject. “You’re going to have a lot of homework. We started a new lesson in English and in Math.”

  “Sister Mary Theresa makes us do too much,” I complain. “She’s so mean.”

  “I hate her,” he admits. “She is mean. You’re lucky you’re a girl. She’s meaner to the boys.”

  “True, but I still have to see her ugly puss everyday just like you.”

  Johnny makes a face that looks a lot like Sister Mary Theresa’s mug. I laugh until I have to pee. I squirm for a few minutes. The pressure forces me to ask, “Can I use the bathroom?”

  He hesitates before nodding. “I hope there’s not a line up,” he mutters as he leads me upstairs and then points to a closed door. A toilet flushes, but water doesn’t run. A skinny old man shuffles from the room, and a repulsive odour rushes out to greet me. If I wasn’t so desperate, I would have turned around. I hold my breath and march in.

  When I’m finished, Johnny waits for me outside the door. “Hungry?” he asks before I have a chance to make my way downstairs.

  “A bit,” I say, edging him away from the door. I don’t want him to think I stank the place up.

  “Let’s ask my mom for something to eat,” he says, and I gladly move down the hallway and up another flight of stairs. When he opens the door to their room, I notice it isn’t one room. A large area serves as a kitchen and a living room. A small alcove leads to a balcony. A washing machine chugs as tins on a wooden shelf rattle. Tops of tomato plants peek over the balcony. Johnny sees my eyes roam. “We also have two bedrooms.”

  “It’s nice,” I mutter.

  “It’s not, but it’s clean. We had a nicer house in Italy.”

  The balcony door opens and clatters shut. Mrs. Scarpetta’s face breaks into a welcoming smile. “You Johnny’s friend?”

  “Yes,” I reply without thinking.

  “You hungry?”

  I nod shyly.

  “Sit, sit,” she commands.

  Her large frame flies into action. Within minutes, the battered table holds unfamiliar food that smells better than anything I’ve ever smelled before.

  “That’s gnocchi,” Johnny says when his mother hands me a plate filled with odd-looking dough balls covered with spaghetti sauce. “My mom makes the best food,” he mumbles as he covers it with parmesan cheese. He sprinkles some on mine and then attacks the food.

  Tentativ
ely, I pick up my fork. I spear one of the balls and chomp down. My taste buds break into song. It’s soft and light, and the sauce isn’t sweet like the stuff Ma pours onto our spaghetti.

  I attack my plate with gusto. Manners assert themselves, and I try to slow down. My mouth falls open when Mrs. Scarpetta pours each of us a small glass of wine. I hesitate.

  “Drink. You too pale.”

  She’s a grownup. I can’t argue. The wine is cold in the glass but hot in my belly. After a few sips, I like it.

  “Kelly almost ate Marnie,” Johnny says between mouthfuls.

  “That dog no good. Someone should beat it with a stick.”

  “Someone should blow it up with a stick of dynamite,” Johnny says.

  False bravado fills the table as we talk about what should be done. It’s just talk. Old age will end Kelly’s tyranny.

  Time passes. I leave the kitchen/living room and disembark to a foreign land as Mrs. Scarpetta tells me stories about Italy. Rows of sunflowers flourish, and ancient earth warms my toes.

  I don’t just look at her face. I study it. She has a large nose and wide lips, but she’s so full of life, you can’t take your eyes off her for a second. Her beauty comes from the inside and reworks her harsh features into something of splendour.

  “Where are you family from?”

  “Ireland.”

  “Irish, good people,” she remarks. She sees my empty plate and laughs so hard, her belly jiggles. “No wonder you like the gnocchi.”

  I stare at her stupidly.

  “Gnocchi is made with the potatoes,” she explains. “And the Irish like the potatoes.”

  Surprised, I blurt, “I didn’t know a potato could taste so good.” My hand covers my mouth after the words escape. Thank God my mother isn’t around to hear me. My words would crush her heart.

  Johnny’s mother continues to laugh. Her gold tooth catches the sun coming in from the balcony screen door. Her face is awash with kindness and generosity. I never knew you could wear such things on a face, but Mrs. Scarpetta does.