Hug Chickenpenny

by S. Craig Zahler

  From beneath a lumpy pillow, Hug Hannersby withdrew a stack of construction paper.

  A brown eye blinked, and a red one dilated. Quietly, the anomalous boy sorted through these colored pages and laid them out upon his bed. The end result was a rectangle that had four horizontal rows and five vertical columns.

  Scanning eyes blinked asynchronously.

  Thus arranged, the twenty sheets formed a very detailed blueprint for a rocket ship that was covered with lightning bolts, racing stripes, fins, portholes, satellite dishes, and laser cannons.

  Hug put a pencil in his mouth, nibbled the wood with his fangs, and scrutinized the plan. Things looked pretty good, though the outboard gear might create too much drag during liftoff and whenever else the vehicle was stuck inside of the Earth’s atmosphere.

  The anomalous boy erased the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth satellite dishes.

  “Antennas will decrease resistance,” he said to himself.

  Hug drew these wires as gently as possible so that the scratching sounds of his pencil would not awaken any of the other orphans. The antennae were soon in place.

  At present, the anomalous boy leaned back and appraised the grand design.

  Things looked good.

  His eyes fixed upon the thrusters.

  “A greater power supply might be needed,” Hug said to himself.

  Gently, he drew lightning bolts upon the rocket boosters.

  “That should get it off of Earth.”

  XVI | The Instructor’s Lesson

  A summer wind tickled the green leaves of the trees that surrounded Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted.

  Panting and uneven footfalls echoed in the inner hallway of this facility as Hug Hannersby carried his plastic orange chair and matching desk toward the door of The Junior Academy. Sweat dripped down his lumpy brow, stained the armpits of his inherited suit, and stung his mismatched eyes. The brown one blinked twice as quickly as did the red one, which had grown slightly cloudier during the previous

  six months.

  Into the classroom, the anomalous boy carried his cumbersome plastic burden.

  “Once Hug Hannersby has settled,” Mistress Jennifer Kimberly said from behind her desk, “I will begin today’s lesson.”

  The faces of fifteen students eyed the tardy arrival, who was late that day because he had been told to wash his special furniture.

  Hug ambled past the orphans and reached the far corner of the room, where he stopped and arranged his orange plastic chair and table.

  “Hug Hannersby?”

  Wheezing, the anomalous boy sat down. “P-p-present.”

  “Some of the children said that you have been staying up late and doing things.”

  Perplexed, Hug filled his little lung and then the big one. “W-w-what?”

  “Speak courteously. If you do not understand something that I’ve said, please say, ‘Pardon me, Mistress, will you please repeat yourself?’”

  “S-s-sorry. Pardon me—” the anomalous boy gasped. “Mistress . . . will you p-please—” He sucked oxygen. “—please repeat y-yourself?”

  “You heard me. What were you doing late last night when you should have been asleep?”

  “I-I was trying to fall asleep.”

  “You are a liar, Hug Hannersby. A deceiver.”

  Mistress Jennifer Kimberly opened the top drawer of her desk and extracted a stack of construction paper that was twenty sheets thick.

  Instantly, Hug recognized the rocket-ship blueprint that he had been working on since the summer. His heart thudded, gurgled, and thumped as he recalled the fate of his previous secret project.

  The instructor grabbed the stack of paper with two fists.

  Hug opened his mouth and shook his head. “Be nice. Please . . .”

  A nubbin waggled.

  Mistress Jennifer Kimberly ripped the papers in half. “You are a deceiver, Hug Hannersby, and you are a thing—a gross, deformed thing. Look at you. Look at you!”

  A door slammed against the wall.

  The instructor and all of the orphans looked toward the entryway, where stood an unknown woman who had a black business suit, sharp high-heels, and short brunette hair that was twined with silver.

  “If you say one more mean thing to that boy,” the stranger hissed, “I’ll grab that stapler from your desk and close your mouth permanently.”

  Outraged, Mistress Jennifer Kimberly rose from her chair. “I don’t know who you think you are, but in this place—”

  “I’m Abigail Westinghouse, and I filed adoption papers for Hug Hannersby last month. Now sit down and be silent.”

  The instructor opened her mouth, but said nothing.

  Confused, Hug looked at the stranger who was named Abigail Westinghouse. Very few orphans were ever adopted from Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, and it seemed unlikely that a deformed one would be chosen over those who were regular.

  The instructor bristled and cleared her throat. “This is my classroom, Miss Westinghouse, and if—”

  “Shut up. No need for this to get any uglier than it already has.”

  Cowed, the instructor said nothing.

  ———

  Abigail Westinghouse turned away from Mistress Jennifer Kimberly and looked at Hug for the second time in her entire life.

  Despite herself, she felt a pang of revulsion when she saw her deceased friend’s offspring, whose lumpy head, mismatched eyes, protruding fangs, mottled skin, and uneven limbs were more pronounced in person than they had been in the blurry photographs that she had been given by the orphanage.

  Effortfully, the brunette stuffed down her discomfort and smiled at the anomalous boy. “Hello, Hug.”

  Hug gaped at Abigail. It seemed like he was awestruck.

  “I’m Abigail.”

  Mismatched eyes blinked a complicated pattern. “Hi.”

  “Would you like to leave the orphanage and come live with me?”

  Unsure, Hug looked towards Mistress Jennifer Kimberly, who sat silently at her desk. Her eyes were focused on some red pens.

  “May I be excused, Mistress?” asked the anomalous boy.

  Abigail shook her head. “You don’t have to listen to her anymore.”

  The instructor remained silent, as did the other fifteen orphans. Cautiously, Hug stood up from his seat.

  “Let’s get out of this place,” said the brunette.

  The anomalous boy pointed his stump at a chair and desk that were made out of orange plastic. “Should I bring my special furniture?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s too small. And it hurts my back.”

  Abigail glared at Mistress Jennifer Kimberly, who did not raise her gaze from the pair of red pens.

  The brunette walked to the far corner and opened the window. “Throw that junk outside.”

  Hug heaved his chair and desk through the window. Small plastic furniture bounced upon the lawn and settled. Orange legs pointed up at the gray sky like the limbs of slain animals.

  The anomalous boy rubbed his lower back, chittered, and ambled to the instructor’s desk. From the surface he claimed some torn sheets of construction paper.

  Hug turned and looked up at Abigail. There was a cataract in his red eye.

  “Can we leave now?” asked the anomalous boy.

  “Yes.”

  Hug brought his limbs forward and hugged Abigail.

  Eyes stinging, the brunette patted the curved back of the anomalous boy and pulled him closer.

  Mistress Jennifer Kimberly looked at Abigail and cleared her throat. “I’m . . . I’m really sorry about the way I treated him.”

  “Apologize again, and I’ll slap your face off.”

  Silence spread throughout the room.

  The brunette picked up the anomalous boy, cradled him against her chest, and carried him from The Junior Academy.

  A smile that contained both joy and fangs shone upon the face of the adopted child.

  ———
>
  Leaning over, Abigail Westinghouse pulled a maroon seatbelt across Hug’s chest and slotted the buckle, which snapped.

  Fastened, the anomalous boy adjusted his baggy old man’s suit. His eyes blinked and dilated, independently, and his curved left leg bent in a way that looked painful, though the smile on his face said otherwise.

  “Are you comfortable?” inquired the brunette.

  “I am. Are we going to your home?”

  “Yes, we are. And it’ll be our home—you get to live there with me.”

  “Does my last name turn into Westinghouse now?”

  “Actually, I thought that we should change it back to Chickenpenny, which was the name that belonged to your birth mother. She and I were very good friends.”

  “Okay. Can you drive fast?”

  “I only go fast.”

  “Splendid.”

  Abigail ignited the engine, flung the gear, and accelerated.

  Tires screeched, and Hug waved goodbye to Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted, which had twice been his home. The anomalous boy did not look sad when the gray edifice finally disappeared from view.

  XVII | Wishes Realized

  Holding a small, four-fingered right hand, Abigail Westinghouse led Hug into the living room of her apartment. The art magazines were now organized, and the takeout food containers, cigarette cartons, and pizza boxes had been discarded. All of the black and white surfaces were lustrous.

  The brunette shut and locked the door while the anomalous boy looked around.

  “It’s nice,” remarked Hug. “Far more stylish than the orphanage.”

  Startled by the visitor, the obese feline leaped from the kitchenette counter, thudded on the floor, and scrambled into the bathroom.

  “That’s Oboe—my cat. You’ll get to meet him later.”

  “I like cats. I once saw one that was deformed like me.”

  The brunette did not like hearing the anomalous boy describe himself as “deformed,” but decided against correcting his vocabulary at this time. “You must be hungry . . . ?”

  “Stupendously.”

  Abigail walked Hug to the kitchenette and placed him upon a padded chair. Only the top half of his head rose above the glass surface.

  Wrinkling her nose, the brunette ruminated. The anomalous boy was a lot smaller than she had expected him to be.

  “I’m not tall enough,” a mouth with purple interiors said from below the glass.

  Abigail raised Hug, grabbed a pile of bundled magazines, and set the stack upon the chair. “This should help.”

  The brunette reseated the anomalous boy, who then wiggled his rump atop the periodicals until he was settled.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll buy a proper chair for you soon.”

  “Okay.” Hug gestured with his stump. “I’ve never eaten off of a glass table before—though it seems quite stylish.” He looked through the translucent surface. “I see a cigarette down there.”

  This fugitive butt the brunette snatched from the floor and tossed into the trash. Three weeks earlier, she had stopped smoking because she did not think that the habit was an appropriate one for a mother to have.

  “Are we going to eat soon?”

  Abigail circumvented the table and faced Hug. “Do you know what day it is today?”

  “Thursday.”

  “That’s right. And do you know today’s date?”

  “August thirty-first.”

  “Yes. Does that date mean anything special to you?”

  Hug raised his hand and stump in triumph. “It’s the day my new mommy saved me from the mean people at the orphanage!”

  Bittersweet feelings filled Abigail. “That’s right.”

  “Yay!” exulted the anomalous boy, who then shook his upraised limbs. Odd crackling noises that sounded like maracas came from his spine.

  The brunette grew concerned. “Does your back usually do that?”

  “All the time. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Okay.”

  In the very near future, Abigail intended to have a very respected physician examine Hug.

  “Something else important happens today on August thirty-first,” stated the brunette. “Do you know what it is?”

  “Is it a meteor shower? Or a harvest moon? Could it be a solar eclipse? That would be the most notable.”

  “Something even better than those.”

  Blinking asynchronous polyrhythms, Hug ruminated. “What is it?”

  Abigail grinned, turned away, and walked to a tall, stainless steel refrigerator, which she then opened. Cool air and bluish white light poured into the kitchenette.

  Something clicked and clacked behind the brunette, who then spun around to see what was happening.

  Hug was looking over his own back. His head was turned all the way around.

  Abigail shuddered.

  “What’s in the refrigerator?” asked the anomalous boy.

  “Does it hurt you . . . to do that?” inquired the brunette. “To twist your head all the way back?”

  “Nope. Owls can do it too.”

  “I bet they can. Well . . . now I’m going to ask you to face the table again and close your eyes.”

  “Should I count to five thousand?”

  Perplexed, Abigail wrinkled her mouth. “Five thousand? Why?”

  “Whenever it was recess, Mistress Jennifer Kimberly told me to shut my eyes and count to five thousand before going to the playground.”

  Abigail snorted angrily and shook her head. “You won’t do that here—that’s a stupid game.”

  “I thought so, too—I could never finish in time.”

  “I want you to turn around and shut your eyes so that I can give you a surprise. You only need to count to ten.”

  “That’s simple.”

  “No peeking.”

  Vertebrae clicked and clacked as the anomalous boy swiveled his head forward and shut his eyes.

  Abigail reached her hands into the chill air of the refrigerator and withdrew a long, narrow box.

  “One . . .” Hug counted, “two . . .”

  Holding the package, the brunette elbowed shut the refrigerator door and crossed the kitchenette.

  “Three . . . four . . .”

  Abigail set the box upon the glass table and raised the lid, which revealed a twelve-layer cake that looked like a rocket ship. Seven gold candles extruded from the silver hull of the vehicle.

  “Five . . . six . . .”

  From the countertop, the brunette snatched a gold lighter, which was engraved, For Abigail W. with love, Meredith C.

  “Seven . . . eight . . .”

  Time was running out. Abigail thumbed the gear, which snapped.

  Sparks flickered, but the flame did not catch. “Nine . . . t—”

  “Wait. Start over from one.”

  “Okay,” said Hug. “One . . . two . . .”

  Again, the brunette thumbed the lighter. This time a flame was conjured and successively installed upon the tips of seven candles.

  “Three . . . four . . .”

  Abigail spun around, opened a drawer, and withdrew two polka-dotted party hats. The first one she donned herself and the second one she set atop a lumpy scalp that had a thicket of white hair.

  “Five . . . six . . . seven . . .”

  The brunette pulled the elastic band under her chin and one that was anomalous.

  “Eight . . . nine . . . ten!”

  Hug opened his eyes and looked at the cake that lay before him on the glass table. Candle flames sparkled brightly within his mismatched eyes.

  “Happy birthday, Hug!”

  The anomalous boy blinked. “It’s my birthday today?”

  “It is.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “Am I seven?”

  “Count the candles.”

  In succession, Hug pointed his stump at each flame. “Seven. I’m seven. That’s the best! I’m a real man now.�
�

  “Almost. Now make a wish before you blow out the candles.”

  “Can I say more than one?”

  “You’re not supposed to say your wish out loud.”

  Mismatched eyes blinked, and a stump waggled. “Who’s going to hear my wishes if I don’t say them out loud?”

  “Um . . . God?”

  “Doctor Hannersby told me that there’s no such thing. That God was invented by people who weren’t smart enough to understand science.”

  Abigail was spiritual, but not a member of any specific organized religion, and she did not want to discuss theology with Hug at this time. “Well . . . you can make your wish—or wishes—out loud if you want to. It’s your birthday.”

  “That’s sensible.” Candle flames flickered as the anomalous boy ruminated. “Are there any wars going on right now?”

  “Yes, but far away from here.”

  “Are there any starving people?”

  “There are.”

  “I wish for all of the wars to stop and for cake to feed all of the starving people.”

  “Those are very nice wishes.”

  “And for a rocket ship.”

  Hug sucked air into his lungs and exhaled a whistling, but powerful, breath.

  Seven flames turned into luminous wicks that trailed smoke.

  “You got them all!” said Abigail, who made a mental note to bring Hug to a good pulmonologist as well as a respected physician.

  Nodding, the anomalous boy eyed the cake. “I’d like a big piece, please. I’ve never had a birthday cake before.”

  “How about the nose cone?”

  “Splendid.”

  A purplish tongue slithered across three fangs as the brunette decapitated the rocket.

  XVIII | Television Tutelage

  Shades were drawn over the windows in a place that was dimly illuminated by a lime green Tyrannosaurus Rex who wore a sombrero and was a nightlight. The bedroom door opened, admitting Oboe. Whiskers and eyes flickered with purpose.

  The obese feline crept across the room and jumped up to a desk by using a shoe and a chair as its steppingstones. This ascension could not be described as graceful.

  Oboe trod upon comic books and action figures and leaped from the desk onto a soft bed, where lay Hug Chickenpenny, who wore astral-themed pajamas that had been tailored to fit his unique form.