Chicken Feathers (8 page)

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 crossed 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.

F
OR 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.”

What was she talking about?

“So—do you want me to tell you the happy thing?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded.

“This little baby is putting on weight. She’s a whole eight months grown and the doctor says she’s out of danger.”

He raised his head to look at her. “You’re coming home?”

The silence was too long. He put his head down again, wiping his wet cheek on her pillow.

“Not until she’s born.” Elizabeth hugged him. “We’re going to call her Tori. On paper it’ll be Victoria, like you’re Joshua. Josh and Tori Miller. Does that sound like a happy thing?”

She wanted him to nod, so he did.

Tucker cleared his throat. “I’m thinking it’s too early to think sad. That crafty old bird might be on the back porch waiting for us to get home.”

“Could be,” said Elizabeth. “Could well be.”

Then Josh felt it. His mother’s round belly suddenly moved like it was trying to push him clean off the bed. He sat up, astonished. “The baby kicked me!” he said.

That night he opened his bedroom window as wide as it would go. When Grandma came in to say good night, she looked at the window but kept hush about it. As she was going out the door, she turned and shook her head at him. “Animals don’t live as long as us, Josh. That’s a hard, God-given fact.”