LITMIR.BIZ

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girl’s name Joy-ce Carol because this seemed to her a happy name, there was joy in the name, when people spoke the name they smiled.

      The Mother was a happy person, too. The Mother was not much older than a schoolgirl when the little girl was born but the little girl had no notion of what “born” was and so the little girl had not the slightest notion of how old, or how young, her pretty curly-haired Mother was, no more than Happy Chicken had a notion of anyone’s age.

      This was the time when the little girl was an only child and so it was a happy time for the little girl who had her own room (separated by just a walk-in closet from her parents’ room) upstairs in the clapboard farmhouse. One day soon it would be revealed that the little girl was just the firstborn in the family. There would come another, a baby brother with the special name Robin, competing for attention and for love the way the squawking chickens competed for seed scattered in the barnyard at their feeding time.

      The little girl had no notion of this amazing surprise to come. The little girl had no notion of anything that was to come except a promise of a drive to Pendleton for ice cream, or a visit with the Other Grandmother (the Father’s mother) who lived in Lockport, or a holiday like Christmas or Easter, or the little girl’s birthday which was the most special day of all June 16 when dark-red peonies bloomed in profusion along the side of the house as the little girl was told, just for her.

      On her fourth birthday, the little girl was allowed to feed cake-crumbs to me, while the adults looked on laughing. Happy Chicken was allowed to sit on the little girl’s lap, if the little girl held me snug, and my wings tucked in, inside her arms.

      Pictures were taken with the Father’s Brownie Hawkeye camera.

      Pictures of little Joyce Carol and Happy Chicken, 1942.

      With a frown of distaste the Grandmother would say, in her broken English, A chicken is dirty. A chicken should stay on the floor.

      The Grandmother did not like me though sometimes the Grandmother pretended to like me. In the Grandmother’s eyes, a chicken was never anything more than a chicken. And a chicken was only of use, otherwise worthless.

      Outdoors, when the little girl was nowhere near, and the Grandmother approached, I knew to flee, and to hide. Always to flee and to hide away from the other chickens, so brainlessly scratching and pecking in the dirt, in the darkest corner of the barn or far away in the orchard.

      A chicken is not dirt-y, the little girl protested. Happy Chicken is nice and clean.

      And so when a small dollop of hot wet mess came out of my anus, which I could not help, and onto the little girl’s shorts, the adults pointed and laughed, and the Mother quickly cleaned it away with wadded tissues as the Grandmother made her clucking-tsking noise.

      The little girl was embarrassed, and ashamed. But the little girl always forgave me. And soon forgot whatever it was I’d done, because she was such a little girl, and forgot so easily, and was soon again stroking and petting me, and kissing the bone-hard top of my head.

      Happy Chicken—I love you.

      BECAUSE SHE WAS SUCH a little girl the little girl was always hoping that all the chickens would like her, and not just Happy Chicken who was her pet. Naively the little girl hoped that the rooster—(who was even more handsome than Happy Chicken, and much larger)—would like her. And so the little girl was continually being surprised—and hurt—when the rooster ignored her or worse yet bristled his feathers indignantly and rushed to peck at her hands or bare knees sharp enough to draw blood.

      Many times this happened, that the little girl cried Oh!—and ran away frightened, and sometimes Mr. Rooster would chase her, and if the Grandfather was watching he would double over in laughter as if he’d never seen anything so funny. The Grandfather had a loud sharp laugh like bottles popping corks. His barrel chest would shake, his small shrewd eyes would shrink in the fleshy ridges of his face, his laughter turned into snorts, wheezing, coughing. Such loud, protracted coughing. And still, the Grandfather was laughing. For nothing amused the Grandfather more than someone chased by that goddamn bird unless it was the sight of the Grandmother’s white sheets billowing on the clothesline so hard, in such wind, clothespins slipped and a sheet sank to the ground and the Grandmother came running out of the house, furious, agitated, muttering in a strange guttural speech the little girl did not understand and that frightened her, like the loud shrieks and squawks of the chickens when something threw them into a panic, so the little girl stood very still and cringing and shutting her eyes pressing her hands over her ears like one who is waiting for something distressing to go away, stop.

      If the little girl was inside the farmhouse, and heard a sudden squabble outside, a sign that someone or something was agitating the chickens, the little girl would run outside immediately to search for me. Oh oh oh—where is Happy Chicken?

      The little girl knew about foxes and raccoons and stray dogs that might drag away chickens and devour them—(though it would be very unusual for any creature to make such a foray in daytime)—and so the little girl had to find me amidst the commotion, scoop me up in her arms and kiss the top of my head and smooth down my neatly folded wings and carry me quickly away promising that nothing bad would ever happen to Happy Chicken.

      WE WERE RHODE ISLAND Reds. Three dozen hens and a single rooster.

      Other male chickens in the flock had been squashed as soon as it was evident that they were male. Our rooster had not a clue that he’d come close to oblivion. Or, our rooster had not a care that he’d come close to oblivion. Through the day Mr. Rooster strutted in the yard and roosted in the lowermost limbs of trees showing off his spectacular tail feathers, and the ruff around his neck; bristling red-brown, dark-red, yellow-red feathers that shone in the sun. Yellow-scaly legs, and nasty-sharp spurs just above the talon-claws. Though Mr. Rooster was as stupid as any hen pecking brainlessly in the dirt, or rolling in the dirt in the (mostly futile) effort of getting rid of mites, yet Mr. Rooster was fascinating to watch for you never knew what Mr. Rooster would do next. (You never knew what any hen would do next, but anything a hen can do is of so little significance there is no point in observing her.) Mr. Rooster could leap into the air fluttering his wings, for instance, and devour a dragonfly three feet above the ground, and Mr. Rooster could rush in a blind rage at an unsuspecting hen, or two unsuspecting hens, or, as if he’d only just thought of it, and now that he was doing it, it was a significant thing to do, throwing himself down and rolling over vigorously in the dirt until his gaudy feathers were dull with dust like those of an ordinary chicken.

      Mr. Rooster gave no sign of knowing who I was—who Happy Chicken was! Ridiculous how this stupid bird seemed not to notice even as the little girl singled me out for special attention and treats in his very presence. (I’d have liked to think that Mr. Rooster was jealous of me, but the fact was, Mr. Rooster was too vain and too stupid for jealousy.)

      That is, Mr. Rooster was indifferent to me unless I stepped brashly in his way, or failed to get out of his way quickly enough when he charged forward into the midst of the chickens at feeding time.

      Sometimes for a reason known only to Mr. Rooster’s pea-sized brain he crowed loudly and irritably and flapped his wings in a show of indignation and flew clumsily to alight on a rail fence, like a person clumsily hauling himself up by a rope.

      At dawn, Mr. Rooster woke everyone with his crowing. He was the first rooster to wake in all of Millersport—soon after Mr. Rooster crowed, you would hear roosters crowing at neighboring farms. No other rooster at any neighboring farm woke earlier than Mr. Rooster, and no other rooster crowed as noisily.

      The hens took for granted that Mr. Rooster’s crowing tore a rent in the silence of the countryside-before-dawn that allowed the sun to appear. The little girl may have thought this also, but only when she was very little.

      The Grandfather who took little interest in the chickens—(these were the Grandmother’s responsibility)—was yet proud of his goddamn bird. The Grandfather liked it that Mr. Rooster chased away other chickens and barn-cats who ventured too near and had to

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