The Architect of Flowers Page 2

  Why hello to you too, my love, I said to him. And how was your day today, sweetheart?

  Seriously, Anna, what’s with the fricken chickens?

  Guess I was thinking omelets, I told him—oh, such dreams I had for how our life would be—and I smiled up to the man, saying, Watch this. I sprinkled breadcrumbs into my palm and told Bob to just hold still a second. One, two—and ta-dahhh!—this bright yellow chick bouncing up into my hand, creature so soft and weightless, poor thing trembling as I brought her to my cheek, smell of hay and cedar.

  That’s nice, said Bob, real nice—and he nudged one of the chicks aside with the toe of his shoe—man asking what did we have in this house to eat anyway? He took a can of beer from the fridge and turned and looked tired to me. These little friends of yours, he said, not thinking they’re going to stay in the kitchen forever, are they?

  Actually, I said, we were hoping you’d help make us a coop.

  Oh, I’ll help make you a coop all right—and he leaned against the counter and drank his beer—and such an urge I had to kick him, hurt that smirk off his face, yellow chicks on the floor in every direction, and Bob asking if anyone called for him.

  Told him nobody called for him. Told him his father called for him. Told him his friend Domo called for him. Told him to leave my contradictions alone, saying the Mormon Tabernacle Choir called for him, asking, Who cares who called for him? Started to gather the chicks back into the box, Bob just watching all the while as I got the birds put away, crazy things scratching at the cardboard, peep, peep, peep, peep.

  Finally covered the box with a dishtowel to try to get them quiet, washed my hands at the sink, asked what would His Highness like for dinner this evening? He opened the refrigerator for another beer—and I smiled all fake and false when he turned to me again—Bob staring like he’d never seen me before in his life, like he’d wandered into the wrong house and was standing in some stranger’s kitchen, these chicks in the box at our feet, whole flock peeping their lungs raw, Bob saying, You’d think we were drowning the little fuckers, wouldn’t you?

  You know, I said, sometimes I just don’t like you very much.

  No kidding, he said—and he took a good long slug of beer—and I started to straighten the chairs at the table. I picked up the dishes from the floor and explained this sign I saw on the side of the road. BABY RABBITS AND CHICKENS FOR SALE, CHICKS TWO FOR A DOLLAR, farmer saying we’d be lousy with eggs by summer, the man’s wife giving me a bag of cornmeal for free.

  And still, said Bob, your happy little larks always seem to cost me something, don’t they?

  Could always be worse, I told him. I mean, I have been thinking a lot about milk lately. Found myself following an ice cream truck through town the other afternoon.

  Don’t even joke, he said—and he leafed through the day’s mail—and how I wanted to ho-hum him right back in the face, make Bob feel the way I felt for once, make his chin go all quicksand, have him begin to cry for no reason. Like any of this would happen—Bob becoming me—him having to swallow that warm backwash of tears, chew some emotion off his mouth. Yeah, right, almost had to laugh out loud, part of me wishing to catch these feelings in the room with us, trap these emotions like birds against the walls, keep and hold and finally tame these things I felt, and then part of me needing to open the windows and let this all just fly away already.

  No wonder he just stood there, Bob picking his ear, looking at his fingernail, waiting for me to settle myself down. Phone bill to open, few peeps from the chicks in the box, and eventually Bob set his beer can empty in the sink, switched on the light to the basement, said to c’mon and follow him.

  Had a stack of old doors downstairs, some two-by-fours, a roll of garden fencing, and we built a pen at the foot of the patio. Nearly dark by the time we finished. Looked like a house of cards, this chicken coop all leaning and shipwrecked in the yard, chicks closed up inside with a few blankets for the night, peep, peep, peep, peep, peep.

  Think they’ll be okay? I asked.

  Never know, said Bob—and he clucked his tongue and put his arm around me—and I let myself ease into that old fit of his body. Even the chicks grew quiet, world as still and smooth as a pond, and those little champagne bubbles of baby inside me again. Might have been nothing, tiny fish in my imagination, faint brush of tail toward my chest, but I took Bob’s hand and pressed his palm to my stomach and held my breath for this little boy or girl to move for him.

  Wasn’t anything there for Bob to feel yet, though he went along much longer than I expected—and he let me be the one to pull away first—Bob’s hand touching my shoulder as we drifted toward the house, gesture so gentle and rare that I actually stopped and turned to him in the dark, that faint crackle of saliva as he smiled, Bob asking how was I feeling by the way?

  Next morning became next week became end of June became a dozen and a half roosters, one hen, and a sharp shining hatchet in our future. What started as two dozen of my sweetest little whims all sunny and cartoon-cute—peep, peep—soon became a nightmare of roosters all mottled and nasty and mean. Roosters crowing from dawn to dark, roosters crowing from the street, roosters crowing from the nearby yards and fences and tops of cars. Chased them home with a rake. Sprayed them from shrubs with a hose. Promised vast harm upon the birds. Swore to chop each of their ugly heads off.

  Went from fragile and breathless if a single chick turned up missing—God forbid a clump of feathers by the side of the house, a string of blood in the grass—and a few short weeks later I have gone from maternal and happy to whatever is the opposite of maternal and happy. Paternal and miserable, according to the dictionary, Bob laughing out loud at the kind of luck I seemed to have, all but one of my chicks turning into roosters—hardy, har, har—glad to amuse him so much, pleased to give him something to joke about down at the Elks.

  Wasn’t funny, of course, but it got me thinking at least, and I drove myself back to the farm the next day for some clarification. Same sign on the side of the road, baby angoras and leghorns for sale, huge pen filled with chicks under heat lamps—peep, peep, all over again—me asking, What were the chances of someone getting so many roosters anyway? Woman looked at me—little air pocket of quiet between us—and she smiled and asked when was my baby due? Put my hands to the small basketball of my stomach—easy to forget sometimes—baby, pregnant, fact of it not always real to me yet. Still, I was not about to let myself be distracted now.

  Mission: chickens.

  Told her a few months, end of September, and I looked at the pen, the lamps, the chicks, and breathed deep the noise and stink, and then I asked was it even possible, all but one of my chicks turning into roosters? She smiled and said she was sorry. Really no way to tell with hatchlings, she said. Supposed to startle them, and then watch what they do by instinct, cockerels clucking and standing upright, pullets silent and crouching down. Nothing too very scientific about it, I’m afraid. And again that smile of hers, that good-witch tilt of her voice, woman saying she didn’t know what else to tell me, asking if I played the lottery, because my luck was bound to change.

  She gave me a carton of eggs as a gift, and I stopped at the library on the way home. Returned Common-Sense Poultry and Barnyard in the Backyard (All You Need to Know About Raising Chickens). Took out One Hundred Chicken Recipes for Summer, The Creative Chicken Cookbook, and Basic Butchering of Livestock and Game. Stopped at the hardware store and asked where might the ax department be? Bought the sharpest hatchet, the heaviest trash bags, and the deepest aluminum baking pans. Rode through town looking for Bob, wanting that big white Impala around every corner, hoping to find him at the shopping center, at the diner, man wherever he was, doing whatever he did, me just wanting to be with him. Rehearsed how I’d ask if he happened to be in the mood for some poultry tonight? Had the hatchet ready to make him laugh. Had the recipe books to show him. Wanted to ask if he felt like baked chicken or fried chicken or chicken salad? What kind of chicken would he like for dinner tonight? Bar
becue chicken? Parmesan chicken? Want to pick out some new surprise of chicken together?

  Sometimes I’d drive the whole town like this and find him at those huge supermarket windows, Bob and his father on opposite sides of the glass like mimes, both with the same long pulls of blade, same quick swipes of chamois. Sometimes I’d go all the streets and never find him anywhere, my last hope that he’d be in the yard as I pulled in, his car waiting at home all along, hood cool, joke on me. And I’d sink a little, of course, driveway always empty when I arrived, rooster on the steps of the patio, another running out of the flowerbed, another crowing on top of the garbage barrels as I started into the house.

  That underwater feel of late afternoon—no note, no dirty dish in the sink, no evidence of Bob anywhere—and back outside to the coop, the nesting boxes in the corner, that one little hen sitting nervous and watchful. Asked her how was she doing this evening—cluck, cluck—hatchet hidden behind my back as I reached my hand under her. No eggs, I said—and I pet the bird along that soft grain of feathers—was talking to her calm and quiet, telling her not to worry, whispering how I’d keep her safe, everything all right, everything just fine.

  Left her alone and walked to the middle of the yard and started to singsong the roosters home. Tossed seed to the grass, bits of bread and crackers, my least unfavorites strutting across the lawn to me first. Cesar Romero, Rudy, Earl, The Fonz. Here you are, I cooed. Look at the nice pieces of apple I have for you.

  I fed Larry right out of my hand, bird rubbing at my ankles like a cat, playing with the laces of my shoes. Scooped him up and carried him to the patio—no scratches, no struggles—could have sworn he purred as he tucked his face against my arm.

  Brought the cutting board to the back step outside. Had a cooking pan, a few towels, and I held the rooster down with one hand, hatchet raised with my other, closed my eyes, and then that chuck of the blade as it struck. Lifted the bird by its feet and let the blood drain into the pan, his head lying there on the patio, other roosters standing wide-eyed in the yard. Let this be a warning to you! I called—and I held Larry up by the feet to make sure they could see—blood sprinkling on the patio, blood on my hands, blood starting to jelly along the edges of the pan. Began pulling feathers from the bird, feathers off the wings like leaves, soft down underneath like hair, feathers sticking to my hands, garbage bag soon full of feathers, tufts floating like seeds in the light, a chalky taste to swallow away. Followed the directions from a book, chopped off feet, singed hairs with candle, washed bird in ice-cold water, peeled skin from around shoulders, removed crop, removed neck to base, cut away oil gland at tail, scooped insides out of bird—heart, liver, gizzard, all the edible viscera of a fowl good for gravy and stuffing—flushed water all through body, patted skin dry with flour, rubbed with salt and pepper and butter, kept in refrigerator until ready to roast the damned thing.

  Nice fresh salad, sweet corn, baked potatoes, table set with candles, napkins in napkin rings, chicken in oven. So domestic—scene straight out of Better Homes and Gardens—called my sister in Flushing as I waited for Bob. Wanted to tell Jean my latest chicken adventure. Wanted to tell about the baby kicking field goals into my chest. Wanted to have someone excited for me, hear some echo of my own voice tipping back chipper and happy to me, show myself buoyant as a cork in the world.

  She wasn’t home from work, most likely—phone ringing, machine picking up—Just wanted to say hello, Jean, thinking of you, will try later. Next came my mother in Greenpoint to dial as I waited for Bob to come home. Still wanted to tell about the baby kicking, the meal I made, the chicken feathers everywhere, give this glimpse of me happy and light to someone, phone ringing and ringing with no one there either. Caught my face in the mirror of the toaster, nose and chin all fun-housed and warped, touched my hair into place, turned away from the counter and sink full of dishes. Bird from the oven, deep breath, and I called the Elks Club, the VFW, the Knights of Columbus.

  Sorry, they said, haven’t seen him all day—murmur of voices, drone of television, laughter in the background—and I placed the phone in its cradle and waited. Could hear a rooster crowing, but when couldn’t I hear a rooster crowing? Called the Lions, the Legion Hall, the Elks again. Said, I’d like to leave a message for my husband this time. Thought to try his father, the man telling me he’d not seen him all day, Bob’s father asking, Everything all right, kid?

  Everything’s fine, I said, the baby’s kicking is all. Told him this child must like chocolate or ice cream. Told him felt like popcorn going off in me. Told my father-in-law how you’d think there were birds inside me, like little sparrows fluttering in a cage.

  He didn’t know what to say to any of this—all this girl gush of mine—and I said I’d better let him go now. Was like a movie you’ve seen how many times—house so quiet you could hear the clock chewing minutes the way an insect chews a leaf—woman sitting at the table alone, candles burning down, faraway sound of cutlery as she eats her ruined dinner, chicken almost impossibly bad, meat both dry as sawdust and tough as butcher’s string.

  And the rest of the summer? Rest of summer became a countdown of chickens. Rudy, Raphael, Fonzarelli—oven-baked chicken, lemon-ginger chicken with rice, chicken tetrazzini with cream of mushroom soup—poor Earl going into the crockpot as chicken cacciatore with noodles, meat as tough and dry and terrible as all the others. Dreamed raccoons in the coop one night and Oscar and Carlton Fisk were gone the next morning, stray rooster foot under back steps like a gypsy curse. Smelled Randall after a few days under the hood of my Chevelle, bird in the engine where he must have climbed to keep warm one night. Caught Romero inside the house one afternoon, chased him into the bathroom, wrung his neck over the toilet, scratches up and down my arms, needed pliers to pull the pinfeathers out, bird marinating for three and a half days, yet still that bitter tang as we sat down to eat him, meat thick with the taste of metal washers and rubber tubes.

  Bob suggested we go to dinner somewhere nice for ourselves. C’mon, he said, before we need a babysitter.

  Really tried not to cry in front of him. Still had six roosters and Matilda to go—everything so emotional for me these days—seven months pregnant by now, bone tired all the time, ankles swollen, baby inside with hiccups, baby tossing and turning, baby never still for a moment. And if he—yes, he, somehow I just knew it was a boy—and if he did stop moving, how long before I pushed and poked him back to life again out of fear?

  In the meantime, had roosters crowing all hours of the day, neighbors calling with another in their garden, another in their garage, another shitting all up and down their car again, old man Auger phoning to say he’d shoot this goddamn chicken if I didn’t march myself over this very minute!

  Go ahead! I yelled—my voice more sharp and strained than I hoped—me telling him to save us the trouble and shoot the thing! I’ll send another over in the morning! Anything else I can help you with? Or can I go back to my life now?

  You used to be such a nice girl, he said. What happened?

  Oh, shove it up your ass, I said—and I went outside and glared at the houses on the street, stood defiant as a rooster on the lawn—and then I strutted around to the coop for Matilda, skinny old spinster of a hen. Put her in a box and brought her down to the Farmers’ Co-op. Carried her into the store and asked if they could look at a chicken for me. Asked why she might be losing feathers like this. Poultry lice, they said, and showed how to spread her feathers so the powder got all the way to the roots and skin. Asked if lice might be why she never laid any eggs. Try a golf ball, they said, and they dug an old ball from a drawer. Sometimes tricks a hen into starting a clutch, they said. Worth a try at least. Put it in the nesting box with her. And now what else? they asked. What else did I need? Well, I smiled and wondered aloud how to keep roosters off the roof of the house. Piece of rope, they said, and they cut a length of clothesline the size of a snake, telling me to just toss it up there. I laughed at how easy life could be—and I paid for the chicken f
eed and lice powder—and these three wise men walked me to the car, none of them letting me carry a thing in my condition, one with the twenty-five-pound bag of seed, one with the canister of lice-and-mite powder, one with Matilda clucking in her box.

  Rode home thinking I should have asked about the bitter taste of Romero. Probably nicked the gallbladder, they’d have told me, smallest touch of bile enough to ruin a whole bird. Should have asked, Why were all the chickens so dry and tough? Probably the way you kill them, they’d have said, all that struggle and stress releasing enzymes, turning the meat stringy and gamy, feathers hard to pull. Should have asked what did these men feel when their wives were expecting? Did all their worries boil down to money or work or painting the kid’s room? Were they afraid to come home for some reason? Did their wives go through town looking for them, wishing their husband’s car around every corner, wanting each turn to be the man caulking windows, hoping for them on the sidewalk finishing a cigarette, always a hundred things to do, endless list of errands to run? And did they ever ask their wives along for a little company?

  Bob would sometimes ask me along if I found him. He’d clear whatever papers and bottles from the passenger seat, and we’d drop the vacuum at the repair shop, hit the post office and bank, ride to Chepachet to pick up supplies, and maybe stop for lunch along the way. Might start to rain and he could take the rest of the day with me. Couple more chores off the list—return a power drill to Georgie, baby clothes and a crib to pick up from my girlfriend Lydia—and how about a case of beer for his father? Three of us out on the porch, watching the rain come down, Bob and his father going over who’d paid, who hadn’t paid, and who had work for them in the next week or two.