Long Division

by Jane Berentson

  “You know what you need after all this?” Loretta said, smoothing the skirt of her housedress. “You need a pet. Something to care for and nurture. Take your mind off all your worries.”

  “I don’t know, Loretta. I’ve been thinking about growing more plants outside, and I want to get a puppy for when David gets back, but I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

  “Responsibility? Aren’t you in charge of a whole gaggle of school-children?”

  “Yeah, but just for a few hours on weekdays. A pet requires around-the-clock consideration. You always have to know where it is and when it last ate and when it might need to shit again.” Loretta didn’t even flinch at my profanity.

  “Well, you could get a fairly self-reliant pet?”

  “Like a hamster? I don’t like pets in cages. Too depressing.”

  “My goodness, Annie Harper, I’ve got it. I know just what you need.” Loretta folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled at me in such a pleasant, self-satisfied way that if she’d have said “Komodo dragon,” I’d have ordered one that day.

  “What? What do I need?”

  “Do you have a backyard?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “I do. Yes! I do!” Six hundred bucks a month will get you a lot in South Tacoma.

  “Does this yard have a fence?” Eyebrows lifted, forehead so wrinkly.

  “It does! I have a fence!” I don’t know why I was so giddy, but Loretta seemed so sure of herself. It was thrilling.

  “Well then, it’s quite clear. You need a chicken.”54

  POTENTIAL NAMES FOR MY CHICKEN

  Tiger

  Spice Drop

  Janice, the Reference Librarian

  Danielle Steel

  Fingers of Victory

  Mrs. Feather Face McGee

  Gloria

  Desiree

  The Official Mascot of Oprah’s Book Club

  Rainbow

  Selena

  Subject: cluck cluck cluck

  Date: January 25, 2004 17:22PST

  From: missharpercandoit@yahoo.com

  To: david.peterson13@us.army.mil

  OMG, David! I am getting a chicken! It’s official. Loretta talked me into it. She had them for years and says they’re totally pleasant and don’t live long so it’s not like it’s this big commitment. I’m going to build a coop in my backyard and eat fresh eggs every day. Do you have any suggestions for names? It’s going to be a girl, obviously. Do you think I’ll get high cholesterol? Woop! I wish you were here to enjoy omelets with me on the weekends, but all in good time, my love. All in good time!

  So how’s everything going in the desert? Have things settled down after the bombing? Have they increased security measures? Are you having any bad dreams? Are you having any hott hott hott dreams??

  I miss you tremendously and hope you can call sooooon!

  Love love love,

  Miss Harper, future chicken owner of America.

  Subject: Re: cluck cluck cluck

  Date: January 27, 2004 03:34PST

  From: david.peterson13@us.army.mil

  To: missharpercandoit@yahoo.com

  Things are going alright. They’re having us each do an extra two hours of patrol every day b/c of the stepped-up security. I’m working with this dude Erikson, who used to be a bouncer in Vegas, so his stories keep the night pretty lively. He says Paris Hilton once hit him with her handbag. I said he should sue because if you have over $500,000 they can kick you out of the military. Damn, I gotta run, babe. Talk to you soon. David.

  I couldn’t help but be a little annoyed because he didn’t mention the chicken. I mean, maybe he was going to address it, but was pulled away from the computer before he got to it. I shouldn’t be hurt because Paris Hilton upstaged my future chicken. She’s doing that to people all the time. I resolved that next time he called we would definitely talk about it. And in the scope of things—wars and love and Vegas nightclubs—chickens are bound to stumble far behind.

  A few days later, David did call. I was making spaghetti, and the phone rang at the exact moment I threw a noodle at the fridge to check its level of al dente. I jumped, and the noodle inched a few steps down the fridge and froze. I turned off the burner.

  “How’s it hanging, sweetheart?” he said. His voice was so warm and friendly that for a moment I forgot that he’s in a war zone. He could have been driving along I-5 after a normal day’s work, calling to casually ask me what kind of Chinese food I want him to pick up for dinner. General Tso’s Chicken, please!

  “I’m great,” I said. “How are you doing, Lieutenant Peterson, sir?”

  “Not too shabby. Not too shabby. We had tacos today.”

  “Was there ground beef involved?”

  “There was.”

  “Oh, David. You do love the ground beef.”

  “Yep.” And here is where I paused and waited for him to ask about my chicken plan. The pause ended and he told me how he’s excited about this new equipment they’re getting in soon and that he’ll get to go to Mosul for a few days for some training. And it’s always so nice to hear these sorts of things, it really is, but then he reaches this point in the sharing where our wrists are slapped by the Vagueness Pact and the conversation abruptly ends. No What kind of equipment? No What will you be using it for? No Where is it coming from? He probably wasn’t even supposed to tell me about the training in Mosul. I say things like That’s great. Glad you have something to look forward to. Hope it makes your job easier. And I care. I do care care care. I just hate hate hate only knowing a few concrete nuggets of detail about his job. It’s not enough of a taste to generate a serious interest. Back when David was working here in Tacoma, I could at least see him and smell him at the end of the workday. I could physically assess whether or not his secret-keeping-secret-government-biz-with-secret-guns stuff was tearing him apart.

  A few minutes later: “So I’m getting my chicken on Sunday.” I said it nearly yawning. Like I wasn’t totally bothered that he didn’t remember to ask.

  “Oh yeah. You were serious about that?” David can’t help but sound condescending when he’s actually just incredulous.

  “Um, yes.” Then I told him how I was going to buy the materials and build my chicken coop the very next day.55

  “Jeez, Annie. A chicken? Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t want a kitten or something?”

  “No. I don’t. Loretta says chickens are the perfect level of companionship. They require little maintenance and they give back.”

  “You really like eggs that much?” He sounded tired.

  “Yes.”

  I really like eggs that much.

  Later, after we hung up, I slumped down against my fridge to pout over David’s lack of chicken understanding and wonder if he was feeling the same frustration over my lack of new-secret-army-machines understanding. I felt the spaghetti noodle flop into my hair, and I reached up to pull it out. Without even checking for hairs or dirt or anything, I stuffed the noodle in my mouth. It was a little dry, but the act of picking it from my hair and eating it made me feel so warmly animal. Like I was surely going to survive somehow due to my base but utilitarian instincts. And regardless of how stoked my boyfriend was about chickens.

  Earlier this morning in my class:

  “Kids, I have something to share today.” I fold my hands in front of my chest, a classic move of gentle authority. Show-and-tell has just wrapped up, and half the class is yawning in preparation for math class.

  “You can’t share, Miss Harper. You’re the teacher.”

  “Yeah, teachers can’t share.” Stupid, stupid kids.

  “Well, then if you want to jump straight into math, let’s go ahead. . . .”

  “Nooooooooooooooo.” Thank you, losers. I sit on top of my desk and cross my ankles. As fun and natural a pose as it is, I try to save the desk sitting to emphasize moments of extreme hipness. Teaching is a performance in several aspects, and the kids can sometimes tell when certain moves ar
e overused.

  “So I know that many of you have pets.” The shouts: Yeah. Me. I do. Snuffles. Three kittens. “And I very recently have decided that I am going to acquire a pet of my own.” A puppy? A guinea pig for the class. Get a dinosaur! “This weekend, I am going to get my very own chicken.” Self-satisfied, hip-teacher smirk.

  Silence. Silence. Silence.

  A chicken? What? Why? Chickens smell like poop. Can you teach it to talk? Gross. Why a chicken? Lame. I honestly thought they’d think it awesome.

  “But you see, kids, chickens lay eggs, and I will have fresh eggs every day for breakfast.” Can you bring it inside? Will it have babies? Max Schaffer’s distinctly adorable voice: “Won’t you need a rooster for your chicken to produce eggs?”

  Shit. A motherfucking rooster. Embarrassingly, I’m not sure. But at the moment, it kind of makes sense. A girl chicken needing a boy chicken to nudge her hormones along, to administer some chicken loving, to coax those eggs out. It’s probably just because I honestly believe Max Schaffer is brilliant, but I falter.

  “Um, well, Max, no. I’m pretty sure I don’t need a rooster.” Loretta would have mentioned this, right? First rule of teaching: Stick to your guns!56

  So maybe it’s not just David’s opinion on the chicken that’s getting me down. Maybe I’m not so annoyed at the fact that he seems uninterested in my daily life. It’s not just him; no one else seems to be into it either. In order to avoid total frustration, I’m not telling my parents until that chicken has settled her feathers on my land. Or maybe I’ll just have them over for brunch one day. “Like the eggs? Oh, they’re from my chicken. More coffee?”

  13

  Today I’m calling my book Inside the Yolk of the Sun, because I think it sounds calm and Zen-like. And I’m obviously really into this chicken business.

  I’m building my chicken coop when Gus calls to tell me about his new job.

  “But what about the linens, Gus? You love that gig.”

  “And I will still have it. Part time. The new job is also part time.” Gus is now a graphic designer for a Budweiser distributor. He gets to make those huge vinyl banners that swing outside of dive bars and convenience stores advertising deals on half racks and six-packs.

  “But you hate domestic beers.”

  “So. I’ll have access to some premium equipment. Design software. Laser printers. I can make whatever I want.” I almost drop a sheet of plywood on my foot, and I yelp. “Are you in the middle of something, Annie? I can call back.”

  “Yeah. Actually, I’m building a chicken coop.”

  “Sweet. Talk to you soon.” Gus always knows the right time to prod and the right time to leave me alone. He knows that if it’s important enough, I will certainly tell him later.

  My chicken coop is glorious. I have one blister from digging, two splinters from forgetting to wear gloves, and three scratches from unrolling that pokey chicken wire. I called my dad twice to ask basic questions about caulk versus wood glue, and he’s so amazing that when I tell him the project is a surprise he doesn’t pry in the slightest. It took pretty much the entire day,57 but it felt amazing. I can’t remember the last time I built something so elaborate that wasn’t a seven-layer dip or a craft project for eight-year-olds.

  I downloaded the building plans from this Web site about having pet chickens and then tweaked the plan a bit to suit my tastes. Future Unnamed Chicken of Mine will reside in a stately A-frame dwelling complete with a sunroom (the front section is just wire) and a more private bedroom suite (ideal for discreetly entertaining guests and sleeping late into the weekend mornings). The sunroom has a flapping, doggie-style door that can be latched shut by Chicken’s landlady (me!) if need be. The bedroom suite has a floor that pulls out like a drawer so Chicken’s housekeeper (me!) can easily remove waste, change the sheets, fluff the pillows. Now all my chicken coop needs is some decorative flair, which I will wait on until I’m familiar with Chicken’s personal style and coloring.58

  Despite his skepticism or maybe because of it, I wrote David this super long e-mail about the glamour-coop. I’d paste it here but it’s basically everything I just said. After I described the coop, I started talking about what to do when my chicken dies, and then that spun into more senseless blab about death in general and how I shouldn’t be worried about Chicken’s death right now. Then I ruined the e-mail by spitting out a series of really wack questions like this. I’m going to try really hard not to number them.

  Has anyone in your group59 of soldiers died yet?

  Do you read the New York Times Names of the Dead list?

  Do you know I look for your name there every day?

  Do you know anyone who has been seriously injured?

  Do you know why the army kicks you out if you have $500,000?

  Do you think I could make $500,000 raising prize chickens?

  The Names of the Dead list creeps me out. It somehow feels antiquated and otherwordly at the same time. It’s in between a simple, wooden announcement board in a sixteenth-century town and the harsh, news-dispensing method of some futuristic alien community in a Vonnegut novel. We get the New York Times at school, and I read it every morning in the teachers’ lounge before class. If there are names—lately there have been a couple every few days—I wait until school’s over and plug them into Google. Usually I end up reading the slain soldier’s hometown newspaper. He was a state champion wrestler. Third-generation marine. Those sorts of details are expected—sons of marines and wrestlers become soldiers all the time—so they don’t really trip me up. But every now and then one of The Dead will surprise me: an origami enthusiast or a ballroom dancer who volunteered at his local animal shelter. And then I weep. And if there are any photographs at all (even for the wrestlers) of the family, miscellaneous babies, a mother broken and slumped onto her companion’s shoulder as a flag-draped coffin passes, cradling the remains of her blown-apart babe, then I definitely weep. It’s never horrible. Never a lurching sob or a dam-breaking flood. I like to think it’s more dignified than that. I imagine myself as a graceful, painted movie star; sad and stoic, not scrunching my face and wailing in unflattering ways. Tears don’t fall on my keyboard. My mascara smears just a little. And what’s weird is that I’m usually comforted by these moments. Like I’m fulfilling this role as I’m supposed to. (It’s hard to explain the satisfaction being tied to the sadness.) I’m waving my white handkerchief into the breeze. My hand is resting gently on my chest while my heart labors courageously to keep on beating.

  Later we talk about the NOTD list on the phone, and David tells me there’s no need to look for his name in the newspaper. He says that if he’s killed, I’ll find out before a pressroom in New York. He also says that he’s certainly not the only David Peterson in the army and most likely not the only one presently deployed to Iraq.

  “What if my doppelganger dies and you freak out?” he says.

  “I don’t think I could reasonably not freak out in that situation.”

  “Well, just don’t worry so much.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I’ve got it under control.” David sighs. I say, “But maybe you should consider changing your name?” The sigh swings up into a laugh, and I’m pleased. “You can keep the Peterson because it’s your family and all, but how about something really unique for your first name, like “Sputnik” or “Jebadiah”?”

  “Jebadiah Peterson? Isn’t Bush’s brother named Jeb?”

  “Oh, so what. It’s still got this exotic, romance-novel feel. Like the son of an ambassador who abandons his diplomat family to become a woodworker.”

  “Hmm. I don’t see it, but I’ll take your word for it.” And then David has to go. The requisite parental phone calls are overdue, and it’s almost time for one of his shifts.

  “Check you later, Jeb,” I say after we hang up. Our conversations often end like this. He is hurrying away, and I puke out one last dose of goofy word vomit in a ridiculous attempt to lighten the mood. I’m not sure why I do it. We never
talk to our hearts’ content, so maybe it’s my last desperate stab to fit more into what was already a meatless conversation. Like when you pack a box to move—just books or shoes or something—then before you tape it up you throw fifteen pieces of miscellany on the top. A flashlight. A deck of cards. Two tampons. That way when you’re looking for a flashlight or a tampon days later, you’ll remember where you put it. Its image will stick out sharp in your mind’s eye. That freaky tube shape on top of all the rectangles. It’s like if David dies tonight, it will not be a generic “I love you I love you” that I will remember from our last conversation, it will be this crisp, original moment where we pretended his name was Jeb.

  Yeah, right. That was all such bullroar. I wonder if any of the Stitch Bitches are so recklessly inappropriate.

  I borrow one of those kitty carriers from Carrie to use for the official chicken transportation. It takes several phone calls to find a farmer who will agree to sell me just one chicken. They either say: We don’t sell chickens. We sell eggs. Or they say: We don’t sell chickens. We sell poultry. I gather that “poultry” is the word one uses for dead chickens. Edward Harrington, owner of Harrington Egg Farm in Puyallup, didn’t even flinch when I said, “Hi. My name is Annie Harper. I’ve built a chicken coop in the backyard of my Tacoma house and I’d like to purchase one chicken to raise for my own personal egg harvest.”

  “Sure,” says Edward Harrington. “Stop by anytime there’s daylight.”

  “Really? Great. How about this Sunday?” I am thrilled. Practically wiggling to my wishbone with delight.

  “See you Sunday, Annie Harper.” Edward Harrington is my hero. I wonder if he’s too young for me to hook up with Loretta. Or if he’s married. I imagine Loretta escaping from Violet Meadows into the fluffy, feathery solace of some beautiful country home. Edward Harrington probably has a live-in cook/maid, and Loretta can spend her days knitting and laughing and stroking the four hairs of Edward Harrington’s comb-over as they watch Wheel of Fortune side by side on a floral-patterned sofa.