“Excuse me for a moment, will you? I have to see a man about a chicken.”
I called her Evelyn, for no other reason than that Franken crowed when I suggested the name. She and Franken spent considerable time together in those first few days, and I worried that Franken preferred her company to mine. If I hadn’t been in the midst of courting Gretl, I am sure I would have been jealous. Of course Franken would want to spend time with someone of his own species, if not genus, though I often wondered to myself what they could possibly have in common.
Evelyn took no notice of the classics, except once when she pecked a bit of the corner of Romeo and Juliet. That did seem to irk Franken; his hackles raised in annoyance, but he quickly recovered himself and nudged her towards his bowl of seed on the desk. The incident caused no lasting acrimony. It was then that I realized that chickens are no different from humans in many ways. Beauty is often valued above intellectual acuity.
Franken and I introduced our two ladies to many of our daily rituals, and the four of us spent many lovely times walking through the woods, sharing laughs and clucks. It seemed the world was our oyster, and all was right in our little love haven.
But then misfortune visited our idyllic farm.
I was repairing a leak in the drinker in the Great Barn when Franken came running, his wattles flapping. I could see by the crazed look in his eyes that something was terribly wrong. I followed him back to Evelyn’s roost, to find her looking a little pale and drawn. I checked her wings and her feet for wounds, and finding none, chastised Franken for the false alarm.
To his credit, Franken didn’t leave Evelyn’s side but perched upon the window sill nearby where he could keep an eye on her.
I didn’t see it at first, but it all became clearer in the next few days. It started with Evelyn’s loss of appetite, and soon she had no appetite at all. Franken implored her to eat some seed, even plucking some up in his beak and tossing it at her feet. But she ate nothing. Shortly after that a great amount of blood appeared in the droppings at the bottom of her nest.
Gretl grew as concerned about the quick deterioration of Evelyn’s health as Franken and spent much time in the Great Barn encouraging her to eat. I was concerned too, but from my experience raising chickens, I knew that nothing could be done.
Evelyn had coccidiosis, a miserable parasite that attacked her small intestine. No doubt she was infected when I brought her home that first day. None of my other hens had become ill, so I quarantined her in an attempt to prevent an outbreak. Alas, I had diagnosed Evelyn too late to help her in any way. It was only a matter of time, but I had not the heart to tell Franken or Gretl.
Gretl arrived at the farm early one morning with a little basket under her arm containing chicken broth. Franken crowed with untempered horror at the sight, flapping his wings and running in circles. I quietly explained to Gretl the inappropriateness of her well-intended gesture, and she burst into tears at her thoughtlessness. “Cannibalism!” she whispered in horror. Never had I felt so helpless. Evelyn died the next day.
Franken was inconsolable. His comb visibly drooped, and his eyes were listless. Gretl cradled him in her lap and stroked his wings, but I think Franken was beyond comforting. We had a funeral for Evelyn and buried her underneath a young beech tree on the property, marked with a lovely cross that Gretl had made herself. After I spoke a few words, Franken let out a blood-curdling crow filled with despair and anguish. He perched on a low-hanging bough of the beech and refused to leave her grave for two days.
As time passed, Franken drifted through his days. Even our evening ritual seemed to bring him no joy. One night I noticed him reading a pamphlet on the raising of poultry that I had neglected to tuck inside the desk drawer. Halfway through it, he looked up at me with sorrow. It didn’t dawn on me at the time, but now I comprehend fully what that glance meant. That was the moment Franken realized that he was…livestock. A commodity, a tool of the trade, not even possessing the stature of the family pet. I believe that up until that moment, Franken believed that he was just a shorter feathery version of a human being. His eyes filled with tears, and he set his beak in a grim line. I could offer him no comfort. That night I fell into a fitful and uneasy sleep.
Over the next few weeks, Franken rallied to become a somewhat subdued version of himself. He joined Gretl and me on our walks past Evelyn’s grave. He started reading again, and I took that as a good sign. And as ever, his choice of material was ambitious, if unusual. The Bible had recently become the tome he most often buried his beak in. I glanced at the passage the Good Book was opened to: John 11:25–26.
“Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
Right beside it lay Galvani’s text on galvanism: De viribus electricitatis in motu musculari. Perhaps I should have paid more attention. I wish now that I had.
Three weeks after Evelyn’s passing, Gretl paid me another visit. We sat on the veranda, with Franken pacing at the stairs, staring into space. We talked of many things and partook in a little gossip. Franken took no interest until Gretl said, “I heard in town that a large storm is coming this way, probably two days from now. I must confess, rough weather scares me.”
“Then why do you not come here and spend the day? From this vantage point you can see the storm come in over the lake. It really is quite beautiful in its way. Perhaps you could learn to quell your fear, and I would love to have your company.”
She smiled shyly, and we made a date. She would come in the afternoon for a picnic before the storm hit, then we would watch it together from the safety of the farmhouse. Franken stared at us with interested eyes and cocked his noble head.
Intent as I was on getting everything together for my stormy rendezvous, I failed to notice Franken’s declining spirits. Nor did I observe the disappearance of particular objects from around the house and shed.
The day of our date dawned gentle and fair. In the late morning Gretl arrived, and we enjoyed a lovely, leisurely picnic on the hillside. We were enjoying each other’s company immensely, and I had even been so bold as to steal a kiss, leaving us both quite breathless. But as we settled ourselves on the veranda to watch the storm roll in, I was suddenly grasped by a sense of foreboding.
“What is it, darling?” Gretl asked affectionately. “Have you noticed Franken about?”
“No, now that you mention it. I haven’t seen him all day.”
I had secured the henhouse for the impending squall, and not seeing him there, supposed that my friend had retired to the house to wait out the storm. I was gripped with panic. We searched the house room by room, but Franken was nowhere to be found. The coming storm rattled the windows, and distant arcs of lightning brightened the dim interior of the library. A crack of thunder split the sky at the moment that my eye fell upon Franken’s reading material: Galvani’s text on reanimating dead cells.
A thought hit me with almost physical force. “Evelyn!”
We ran to the beech tree where Evelyn was buried. Wind whipped the leaves above us as we gazed at the horror at our feet. The gravesite had been recently disturbed and Evelyn’s body was gone.
Just then, lightning struck the end of my property line where a small dirt road separated my home from the edge of the cliff that overlooked Lake Geneva. I squinted and could barely make out a structure that seemed to attract Nature’s wrath. Lightning bolts zigzagged in the dark sky overhead. Below, Franken toiled at some mysterious purpose; his body was bent double against the wind. Three more times the lightning struck that unholy spot. Then I heard that blood-curdling crow—the very same one Franken had unleashed at Evelyn’s burial.
“Franken!” I screamed, but my words were torn from my lips by the ferocity of the storm. I made my way across the meadow to the rough scaffolding near the edge of the cliff. My clothes were pinned against my body by wind and rain, and I tried to shield Gretl from
the worst of it as she followed close behind me. We drew near, but Franken had already left that damnable spot. Fighting the wind, looking like an avian Heathcliff making his way across the moors, Franken was crossing the road.
There was nothing there except for the cliff. Despair gripped my heart as I recalled Franken’s grief and depression, how he pored over the Bible in the days following Evelyn’s death. That’s why Franken is crossing the road, I realized with horror! To get to the Other Side.
As we approached the rough-hewn scaffolding, the air was full of the scent of roasted chicken. It pains me to remember that I involuntarily salivated. As my eyes took in the terrible scene, I realized that Franken had somehow put together a makeshift laboratory. Evelyn had been placed between two large metal spikes, and her earthly remains bathed in some unknown solution. Franken had tried to reanimate her, but it had all gone horribly wrong. Charred feathers lay strewn about, and poor Evelyn’s carcass was scorched and blackened. Franken, driven mad with grief, had tried to bring his love back from the dead but had succeeded only in barbecuing her.
My only thoughts were of Franken. And as I ran with all my might to catch up with my dearest friend, I knew deep in my marrow that I had not the time or the speed to stop what was happening. Gretl and I screamed at Franken to stop, to reconsider, to live. But he ignored our cries and increased his pace. He was never much of a runner (he could sprint for a very limited time), but Franken was an excellent fast walker. Adrenalin pushed me to the limit, so that I was able to close the gap between us to approximately fifty yards. But it was still too far. I kept running, tears stinging my eyes, wind whipping my hair, but to no avail.
Franken paused at the edge of the precipice, the wind tearing through his feathers. Just before he jumped, he turned to me and smiled. It took quite an effort to contort his beak, but Franken smiled: a sad, sweet, broken-hearted smile.
I ran to the spot where my friend had stood mere seconds before. Below me, ceaseless waves crashed upon the shore, and above me, the heavens continued to rage… Franken’s small, sturdy body floated on the churning waters of Lake Geneva, a small speck. I prayed that he was at peace. Tears, mixed with the driving rain, poured down my face as I stood at the edge of the cliff watching his body float away. Gretl reached me and put a tender arm around my shoulders. Together we wept.
We stood watching as he floated farther and farther from shore. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
Waterhouse Five
INSPIRED BY KURT VONNEGUT’S
SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE
All this happened, more or less. Don’t focus on the less. The less is unimportant. A few bits of dialogue here and there may be slightly changed or exaggerated. Never a big deal, unless you’re arguing with your spouse. The more of the “more or less” is the main thing. These events did actually happen. There is documented evidence proving it. Trust me, I’m the narrator. And narrators never lie.
Billy Jonah was the unluckiest man in history. Unluckier than Tsutomu Yamaguchi, who was having breakfast in Hiroshima at 8:15 A.M. on August 6, 1945, when the A-bomb detonated and destroyed his apartment building. Tsutomu survived, but three days later he travelled to Nagasaki to convalesce. Unluckier than Terry Rydell, who was hit by lightning seven times. On the seventh and final time, he was struck while flying a kite beside the train tracks of his Kingston-area home. His body was completely magnetized, which, unfortunately, resulted in a three-hour ride courtesy of a Via train en route to Montreal. The worst part wasn’t the mode of travel—it was the destination. Terry hated bagels and jazz. And the Habs.
Now to be sure, Billy didn’t have the dramatic, traumatic, life-threatening bad luck that Tsutomu and Terry did. That one big misadventure that would put him in the “Odd but True” section of the newspaper seemed to elude him. Sometimes he wished it would happen in one big chunk. But his bad luck was more like a constant stream of unfortunateness; an irritating and incessant dribble of misfortune.
Minor things went wrong in Billy’s personal life and professional life every day. One Monday morning, as Billy walked to work, a disoriented bat flew into his head with such force that it almost knocked him over. As he grabbed on to a lamppost for support, a German shepherd escaped his leash, bounded over to him, and humped his leg like a sailor on VE day. Then there was the time, only three seconds before giving a speech at his younger brother’s wedding, that an inebriated waiter spilled a gallon of jalapeño blue cheese dressing straight onto Billy’s crotch. Billy hated public speaking. The tenants of the apartment building that Billy lived in three years ago are still talking about the day when a mysterious gust of wind slammed his door closed as he was picking up the morning newspaper, pushing him into the middle of the hallway naked as a newborn babe.
And yet, a lovelier, more positive man you could never hope to meet. Billy Jonah lived life with a constant smile on his lips; he happily held doors for women and children, he never failed to nod or say hello to anyone who passed him in the street, and he paused to smell every flower, no matter if the bee drinking its nectar got lodged in his nostril, requiring an emergency room visit and a shot of epinephrine to the heart. It seemed cruel that someone so pure of spirit and intent should be repeatedly kicked in the balls by life. Yes, Billy had little victories, like getting the last sticky bun at the local bakery, or winning a free ticket in the lottery. They raised his hopes that they might mark the turning point in his fortunes. But alas and alack, it never seemed to be.
On the day that Billy Jonah became a legend in the annals of misfortune, he was trying to find a way to make Cramer’s Cheese Chunks sound appetizing. He was failing spectacularly. Writing copy for an ad agency was a pretty entertaining gig—most of the time. But Billy had made the cardinal mistake on this particular campaign. He’d actually tasted a Cramer’s Cheese Chunk. Billy didn’t have a problem with the Cramer part: the product was indeed made by the Cramer Dairy Company. And, as one could plainly see, it did come in chunks. The cheese part was the part that flummoxed him. No cheese produced anywhere in the world tasted like this bright orange, sweaty-foot-smelling dollop of fake food. Still, it was a sight better than how he felt the rest of his afternoon was going to go.
Billy had a doctor’s appointment. Billy was leery of doctors. Of course, given his life experience, that wasn’t totally illogical. When bad luck is your constant companion, going to a man in a white coat whose job it is to discover how your body is betraying you is not something you look forward to. Still, Billy tried, as he always did, to find the positive in every situation. He had recently turned fifty and it had been a while since he had had an annual. A clean bill of health always provided a sense of calm, Billy reasoned, and a sense of calm was always welcome in his world. True, the examination could reveal a disorder of some sort, perhaps a tumor—but these things would still be there if Billy didn’t go to a doctor, and wasn’t it better to nip these things in the bud?
So, after eight hours of working in a small gray cubicle coming up with a commercial spot for Cramer’s Cheese Chunks, he shut down his computer, spilled coffee over his campaign notes, cut his thumb on a piece of foolscap, and readied himself for Dr. Feldman’s.
Making his way out onto the street, Billy noticed that Tommy One-Bird was working the corner. One-Bird was the only person who made Billy feel lucky. A small, wizened, full-blooded Navajo, One-Bird begged and hustled money from passersby. He wore old army fatigues with his name stitched over his breast pocket. No one knew what One-Bird’s history was, but he was extremely odd. Billy wondered if he’d suffered a grave misfortune of his own, like a traumatic brain injury. For when One-Bird spoke, it was total gibberish. Billy had, at first, assumed that One-Bird was speaking in his native tongue, but as he grew accustomed to Tommy One-Bird’s curious way of speaking, Billy could pick out English words. Strangest of all was that the little Navajo spoke only in impressions. One-Bird was a marvelous mimic. When a passerby tossed coins into his w
ell-worn cap, One-Bird rewarded him with an uncanny impression.
“Oom-tay my la, you dirty rat.” An impeccable Jimmy Cagney.
“Ya monto la-pe-ya Cowbells.” He had Christopher Walken’s halting cadence down pat.
“Lo-farwa been lay, Mr. Freeze.” He even did George Clooney! No one did George Clooney!
Every one of One-Bird’s impressions was spot on, from Gene Kelly and Alan Alda to Daniel Day-Lewis and Meryl Streep. He could have made quite a living had he had just a few more English words in his repertoire. Nevertheless, One-Bird’s impromptu performances never failed to cheer Billy up. No matter how bad his day, Tommy’s John Wayne impression would put a smile on his face.
Billy stopped at the corner and put ten dollars in One-Bird’s cap. “How about the Duke? John Wayne.”
One-Bird looked at Billy with rheumy, watery eyes and smiled. “Om-pay-la, way bert, Pilgrim.”
My God he’s good, Billy thought as he smiled back and gave Tommy One-Bird a respectful salute. At the bus stop, Billy bent down to pet a beagle and stepped into a dog turd big enough to be declared a country. Billy looked down at his shoe just as a street cleaner jetted water in a clean arc at his feet, soaking his cuffs.
Well, he thought, at least now my shoes are clean.
On the bus ride over to the Waterhouse building where Dr. Feldman had his office, Billy tried hard not to dwell on the one part of the examination that worried him the most. He was now at that age where the doctor would be examining areas of Billy’s body that had never been examined before. The Procedure That Must Not Be Named. He didn’t want to think about it, but nothing could distract him. Not the crossword puzzle he was working on (24 down: dark cave explorer), not the billboards that flashed past the bus window (“Let your fingers do the walking!”), not even the street signs. Billy had never noticed the corners of Benn and Dover or Probe and Payne before.
Not QUITE the Classics Page 10
