Chasing Jupiter

by Rachel Coker

  I flipped the apron so Frank could see the back again. It was covered with stains and streaks—everything from red sauce to chocolate. “I’m not the neatest cook.”

  He laughed. “That’s a really good idea.” He dug around in the soapy water, scrubbing a dirty pan. “It would be a shame if anything would happen to that apron. Although the back of it is already so dirty … I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to …” A second later he flung a handful of soapy water at me and the apron.

  I squealed and ducked, shielding the apron. “Hey!” Warm water splattered on my cheek and my jeans. I picked up the sponge I was using and threw it at him.

  Soon, the full-fledged water war was on. We were laughing and ducking and spewing soapy water at each other. Cliff heard and ran in. Grabbing a sponge, he joined the ruckus. I squeezed my eyes shut, soap stinging at my lashes. Blindly, I continued to splash water. And then, just as suddenly as it started, the laughter stopped. My eyes flew open and settled on Juli standing in the corner of the kitchen.

  Her mouth was twisted in a sardonic grin. Today she was wearing a long skirt and had a headband-ish thing tied around her head. Still pretty, still hippie. She looked us over, then her eyes slowly trailed across the room—from the soapy counters to the slippery floor to our drenched hair. Then she raised an eyebrow. “Make peace, not war.” She rolled her eyes and trailed out of the kitchen, slamming the screen door. Her boyfriend’s laugh sounded through the yard as he started up his Volkswagen and pulled out of the driveway.

  Frank was still staring at the closed door. “I’ve been wondering for a while … What’s with the blue hair?”

  I shrugged. “She’s not into ‘conforming to the age.’”

  His eyes were wide. “Incredible.”

  It sent little shivers up my spine to think about Frank pining for my sister. Juli, with the raccoon eyes and streaky blue hair and hippie boyfriend. My stomach churned. “Well, the color’s almost gone anyway. She gave up on it after a while.” I licked my lips and rubbed my hands on the corner of my apron. “Hey, let’s get this kitchen cleaned up for real this time.”

  Frank blinked and nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  Supper that night was pretty quiet. Juli was home, picking at her peas and complaining that she couldn’t eat beef because of her new diet.

  “It’s called vegan, Dad. Some people actually prefer it.”

  He rolled his eyes and took a large bite. “It’s called ridiculous. God made meat for mankind to eat, not to picket for.”

  Juli bristled. “Well, you just wouldn’t understand, would you?”

  He glanced at her sharply. “Watch it.”

  She lowered her eyes, her back still rigid.

  Mama glanced around the table and grimaced. Cliff was staring down at his plate, quietly counting his peas, while I pretended to be fascinated by the salt shaker. Grandpop Barley was poking his fork into the table, smiling at the little dimples it left in the wood. “Dad.” Mama’s voice was strained. “Please … don’t.”

  He frowned and dropped his fork, crossing his arms instead.

  I gazed up and saw Mama and Dad exchange a look. Then Mama brightened and turned to me.

  “Scarlett, I ran across Dotty Greene in the grocer’s today, and she asked if you could be spared one day a week to cook supper for the church’s shut-ins. The Greenes have a wonderfully stocked kitchen—everything you’ll need to prepare a nice meal. And Dotty seemed so eager to have you over to teach her a thing or two about cooking. Poor thing, they never really got past the honeymoon stage, it seems. I think she’s a little stuck.” Mama took a bite of meat, chewing carefully. “I told her you’d be more than happy to help her. You’re going every Friday from three to seven, starting tomorrow.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You told her that without asking me?”

  Mama raised her brows. “Honey, what else do you have to do?”

  I held my chin up, indignant. “Well, I have a lot of stuff to do this summer. We’re running a pie stand every Saturday, and I’ve got things to bake and, well, I’ve got to sell them and …”

  Mama cut me off. “Oh, Scarlett, surely you can spare a few hours one day a week. Don’t be so melodramatic.” She glanced at Juli. “It’s not healthy.”

  I pressed my lips together, willing myself not to say anything more. She wouldn’t listen anyway.

  Cliff began humming to himself. He looked down and picked at the dirt caked on his bitten nails. Then he glanced up with excited eyes. “Hey, can we play charades after supper?”

  Dad shook his head. “Your mom and I are going to a political meeting. It’s very important. These darned politicians—always trying to tell us what to do. Someone’s got to say something.”

  Mama reached out and placed her soft hand on his arm, calming him. “Save it for the meeting, Bill.”

  “Well …” Juli pushed away from the table. “I’m leaving. Peace.” She saluted us and brushed out of the kitchen.

  “Hey, wait!” Dad stood. “Where are you going?”

  The screen door slammed. Silence fell over the table. I poked my hand with my fork and winced. Dad’s chest deflated. He picked up his half-eaten plate of food and glanced at Mama. “Well, we better get going. We don’t want to get there after it’s started.”

  The house seemed so quiet once they were gone. Cliff, Grandpop Barley, and I sat in the living room in silence. Cliff was messing with an old toy airplane, examining it for possible ideas for fuel tanks and engines. Grandpop Barley sat near the fireplace, stroking his red tie. And I lay on the couch, watching them both. It was such a sad picture—both of them sitting so close, yet so disinterested in the other.

  “Well,” I finally said, pulling myself up. “Are you ready?”

  Cliff’s eyes darted toward me, a glimmer of hope in them. “Ready for what?”

  I shrugged. “To play charades. Who says we need Mama or Dad?”

  He leaped to his feet then bounced on the balls of his toes, swaying back and forth. “Yes! I’m ready! I’m ready!”

  I crossed over to the old gramophone and flipped through the records in the cabinet. I wondered if my parents had ever heard of the modern record player. Probably not. I blew the dust off an old record and grinned. The Diamonds. I placed it on the turntable and cranked the handle. Perfect. A little doo-wop to get things started. Peppy music filled the speakers, flooding the room with sunshine. I glanced at Grandpop Barley. “Are you ready?”

  He grunted. Didn’t sound like he ever would be.

  Oh, well. Two’s better than one. I stood in the center of the living room. “Okay, now you have to guess what I am. Are you ready?”

  “Yes!”

  I laughed and began strutting around the room. I flapped my arms out, pushing my head back and forth. My tail-end wiggled along with the tiny steps I took.

  Cliff sat up straight. “A chicken!”

  “Right!” I collapsed on the couch. “Your turn.”

  “Okay.” He stood in the center of the room, suddenly looking shy. “Um, what should I do?”

  “Anything!” I laughed and threw a pillow at him. “Just come on!”

  “Oh, I got it!” He grabbed the pillow and made a big show out of holding it in his arms. He began walking around, touching the pillow somewhat awkwardly. With a large sigh, Cliff kissed the pillow and pretended to pinch it. His face scrunched up into a funny look I guessed was meant to be adoration.

  I pressed my lips together, holding in my laughter. “Could it be your sweetheart? Has Cliff Blaine finally found true love?”

  “Ew, gross!” He made a face.

  I wiggled my eyebrows. “Are you proposing marriage? Who’s the lucky lady?”

  This time, Cliff thrust the pillow to his shoulder and patted it. Hard. “It’s crying,” he explained, clearly annoyed.

  My eyes widened in mock confusion. “Why, I have no idea!”

  “What?” That must have been the last straw. Cliff dropped the pillow and stormed toward me.

&nb
sp; I couldn’t hold back my smile anymore. “Okay, okay. It was a baby. You’re the daddy. I get it.”

  Exasperated, Cliff threw his hands in the air. “Yes! Finally!” He plopped down on the couch. “Your turn.”

  “Okay, okay …” I stood, still laughing. “Guess this one.” I began to spin around the living room ungracefully. I twirled and sashayed, waving my arms around above my head.

  “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” Grandpop Barley suddenly leaped to his feet and threw a pillow at me.

  The pillow landed squarely in my forehead, sending me to the floor in shcok. Cliff squealed and ran to help me. “Grandpop Barley!” I squeaked, climbing to me feet. What on earth? And what’s up with the pillows tonight?

  The veins were bulging out of his neck. He threw his red tie over his shoulder and wagged a finger at me. “You’re doing the devil’s dance, Scarlett, and I won’t have it! I won’t have it! Not in my household!” He shook his head. “Not in my household!”

  Devil’s dance? What kind of religious mumbo-jumbo was that? I couldn’t remember ever hearing that Grandpop Barley was against dancing. I doubted he even knew what I was imitating. I chewed the side of my lip. Maybe his mind was getting worse. He was losing more marbles in the brain department, that’s for sure.

  “No, she’s not! She’s a ballerina!” Cliff protested.

  I shook my head, cutting him off. “Okay, Grandpop.” Afraid to touch him, I reached one hand out and gently grasped his arm, leading him back to the couch. “Why don’t we sit down for a while? Would you like to guess a charade?”

  He grumbled under his breath and glared at us from behind bushy eyebrows. But he nodded and crossed his arms. “I suppose. But it better be respectable.”

  “Um, okay. Respectable, Cliff.”

  Cliff stood in the middle of the room, clearly still shaken. He took a deep breath and dropped onto his knees. Raising his head to the ceiling fan, he pretended to howl.

  “Well, that’s easy,” Grandpop Barley said gruffly. “He’s a dog.”

  “Good job!”

  Cliff stood and started to applaud. “Bravo!”

  Grandpop Barley’s face turned apple red, but his lips twitched slightly. “Bah!”

  Seeing his half-smile, my face blossomed into a full grin, and I settled back on the ground next to Cliff. “Why don’t we play a card game or something now?” No use getting Grandpop Barley all fired up like that again.

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  I glanced at Mama. “I’m not nervous.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Go on, ring the doorbell.”

  The house in front of me was white and clean. Very clean, like it belonged to the type of couple who scrubbed and bleached every inch. Red hydrangeas surrounded the steps, and climbing morning glories wrapped around the porch. A small white swing with two floral cushions hung from the edge of the porch. And suspended above the doorway was an engraved wooden plaque that read “God Bless This Home.”

  The pastor’s home. A sinking feeling grew in my stomach. What if I spill something? What if I say something rude? What if …?

  “Scarlett, why aren’t you ringing the doorbell?”

  Oh, right. I walked up the steps, careful not to touch the clean stair rail. My finger hesitated only a moment before pressing the bell. It sounded from within the house like a cheery death knell. Footsteps clattered, and then the door flew open.

  Mrs. Dotty Greene stood smiling at us. “Oh, do come in! I’m so glad your mother could spare you. I’ve heard so much about your cooking skills.”

  Mama waved from the sidewalk. “I’ll be back for her at seven.”

  “Oh, nonsense!” Mrs. Greene shook her head. “I’ll walk her home after we deliver the meals. Have a great day.”

  She shooed me inside and shut the door. The inside of the house was as quaint and sweet as the exterior. The walls were painted pale shades of robin’s egg blue, lemony yellow, and mint green. Framed floral prints lined the walls, along with black-and-white photos. The rooms were small and crammed together, but every door was open, leading from one room to another.

  “Come into the kitchen.” Mrs. Greene opened a closet and pulled out two aprons, tossing one to me. “I’ll show you what I’m thinking about making for supper tonight.”

  I took the apron and turned it inside out before tying it around my waist. Mrs. Greene raised an eyebrow. “Habit,” I explained before she could ask.

  She shrugged and opened the pantry. “Do you know how to make fried chicken?”

  “Of course.” Anyone could do that.

  “Oh, right. You probably do it all the time.” She grinned at my indignant face. “I also assume you know how to make buttermilk biscuits, butter beans, and cherry tarts.”

  I ran the list through my head. “Yes, but I don’t know the recipes by heart.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I have a cookbook. I just can’t seem to navigate it very well without a captain.”

  Mrs. Greene put on her apron. It was difficult for her to get her tall beehive through the small opening. Her blonde hair was always so coiffed and old-fashioned, even though she couldn’t have been over thirty.

  I wonder if her hair is stiff, like wood. My fingers itched to find out. Must resist temptation.

  “Okay, let’s start with the fried chicken.” Mrs. Greene bit her lip. “Now, we’ve a bit of a challenge with this one.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well …” Mrs. Greene exhaled heavily. “Do you know Mrs. Ima Nice? She, um, presented me with one of her chickens as a gift last week. I couldn’t say no, but now I don’t know what to do with it. I figured we could use it for the supper.”

  My mouth dropped open. “A live chicken? We’re going to use a live chicken?”

  “You mean you haven’t done it before?” A worry line creased Mrs. Greene’s perfectly smooth forehead.

  “Of course not! The only chicken I’ve ever touched is the frozen variety from the grocery store.”

  Her eyes widened. “I thought everyone around here killed live chickens!”

  I made a face. “Maybe some people, but not my family. I know I could never buy a chicken and then cut off its head.” The thought made my stomach churn.

  Mrs. Greene grimaced. “I didn’t buy it. It was a gift. Mrs. Nice said the chicken’s name is Mildred.” She wrung her hands in her apron. “Oh, at least help me try, Scarlett.”

  I sighed. “Where is the chicken?”

  “Out here.” She opened the side door.

  A makeshift wire pen surrounded the yard. In the center was a small wooden coop with a large hen clucking and walking around. Dirt clung to its snowy white feathers.

  Well, here goes. Taking a deep breath, I ventured out into the yard and attempted to grab the chicken. It jumped away from me, ruffling its feathers. I grimaced and chased it around the coop before finally scooping it up in my arms. Its sharp talons clawed at my chest. I held it away from me, dangling it upside down.

  “Here we are.”

  Mrs. Greene was chewing away her lower lip, clutching the door knob. “How do you suppose we should kill it?”

  The chicken cackled at us, obviously disliking the subject. I squirmed. “Well, we could cut off its head.”

  “In my kitchen?”

  “We could do it in the yard.”

  She glanced to her neighbors on the right and left and winced.

  I racked my brain. How did people usually kill chickens? “Or we could wring its neck.”

  Mrs. Greene slid her eyes shut and took a deep breath. I guess that didn’t sound much more appealing. I didn’t blame her. I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of wringing a bird’s neck and hearing it crack. Ick.

  I groaned. “Why do we have to kill it anyway?”

  Her eyes flew open. “Well, what else am I going to do with it?” Her voice grew hot. “I am not going to let that chicken sit around and dirty up my yard and take up space, if that’s what you’re thinking. This chicken
is going to die, and we are going to be resourceful and give it to the shut-ins for supper.” She stepped back and grabbed a butcher knife. “And we’ll do it in the yard.”

  Mrs. Greene led me to a tree stump in the middle of the lawn. I placed the chicken on the stump. The dirty bird settled into a comfortable position, finally happy.

  My heart flopped. Poor little . “Its name is Mildred,” I suddenly whispered, glancing at Mrs. Greene. “Isn’t that what Mrs. Nice said?” Poor little Mildred. Such a short life, ending with such a grievous tragedy.

  Mrs. Greene sighed. “Don’t look while I do this if you think you’re going to be sick.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself. A thought crossed my mind: Wasn’t I supposed to be the one teaching her how to cook? And here I am standing with my eyes squeezed shut in the middle of her yard. I heard the swish of the metal as Mrs. Greene raised the knife and then …

  I screamed. The sound of it hitting wood.

  The bird squawked. I peeked. How could it have …?

  It was still there. Perfectly unharmed. Simply ruffling its feathers angrily at Mrs. Greene and squawking.

  “What? But I thought …”

  Mrs. Greene gave a weak smile and held up the butcher knife. It was unstained by blood. She pointed at a notch in the wood. “It had a name.” She shrugged and put the knife down. “You can’t kill something that has a name.”

  I stared at the bird, unable to blink. It’s alive! My heart surged. It’s alive, and I love it!

  Possessed by a sudden rush of happiness, I reached out and hugged Mrs. Greene. “Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t kill it!”

  She sighed, wringing her apron. “Well, now what are we going to do with it?”

  “Oh.” My heart sank. It couldn’t stay in her perfect yard, lonely and hungry and exposed. I knelt on the ground and watched the hen jump off the stump and peck at some leftover kernels of corn. “I know!” I jumped up. “I have a friend who rescues animals. I’m sure he’ll have room for Mildred.”

  “Okay. We’ll take her over there after we’ve delivered supper. Now, come on. I think I’ve got some more chicken in the refrigerator—of the frozen variety.”