I loved my view, holed up in the woodsy Y of our pecan tree’s branches surrounded by nothing but pointed green leaves and pecan clusters still shelled in green husks. It was so peaceful I didn’t even bother to swat flies or gnats. The pecan tree made the perfect reading spot, with its far-reaching arms and its cradle high enough to keep me above fighting sisters or Big Ma when wash day came around. As long as my sisters couldn’t climb its trunk to get to the cradle, I’d always have a place to go.
I decided I was done with Things Fall Apart for now. No one had to know I’d grown tired of reading it. Instead, I followed The Soul Brothers and Sister Lou on their way to becoming a singing group in Philadelphia. That was more my speed. And Sister Lou? I might as well be inside her skin.
After sailing through a few chapters of my book, I took a break to slow the story a bit. I didn’t mean to spy on Fern but I couldn’t help watch her down below in the chicken run with her new friends. Ma Charles gave her the job of gathering up chicken poop for the garden, and Fern went right to work with a garden spade and a dust pan.
Between the pecking hens and the chicken-poop smell, I couldn’t get Fern to go near the henhouse when she was five—let alone inside the chicken run. Now she spoke to the chickens, expecting them to understand her. So when Big Ma had announced she’d be baking chicken for tonight’s supper, I saw the gears turning in Fern’s mind. She was up to something.
She left the run to grab a twig that had fallen from the pecan tree. I watched her poke her hand with its tip to test its sharpness. She marched back inside the run like she had been a chicken feeder and egg collector all her life. The hens paid her no mind, seeing that she came with a crooked stick and no feed. They let her do what was on her mind to do.
Fern pushed the straw aside in the center of the run to reveal patches of grass but mostly dirt. She bent down with her twig in hand and began to write in the dirt, all the while shooing her hens away. I couldn’t tell what she wrote but whatever it was, she took a second to admire it and clunked her turtle head, congratulating herself. Now, I had to know. I inched out farther and leaned over. From what I could see, Fern had scratched out chicken feet. Big chicken feet. I wanted to tell her that chicken feet aren’t that big, but she seemed proud of her work so I said nothing.
She talked to her hens. “Now, Henny Pennies,” she said, “I’m doing this for your own good. When Big Ma comes out here, just look smart.”
The hens clucked back.
Then she called out, “Big Ma! Big Ma! Come quick!”
Big Ma didn’t post herself up in the door frame immediately, so Fern left the run, but not without warning her chickens, “Look smart, Henny Pennies. Extra smart!” She framed hand goggles around her eyes and pressed her face against the back door screen. “Big Ma! Come here! Come here! I have something stupendous to show you. Unbelievably stupendous.”
Finally Big Ma appeared, her hands caked with flour, her face puzzled. “What?”
Fern pointed to the chicken run with one hand and motioned, Come on, come on, with the other. She jumped away from the door. “You have to come out and see, Big Ma!”
Big Ma cracked the screen door but remained inside. She had no time to fool with Fern, but Fern stamped her foot, confounded by the effort it took to get Big Ma near the chicken run. She pointed to her chicken-feet drawing, and waited for Big Ma to be unbelievably astounded.
“Fern Gaither, what are you trying to show me?”
There was a commotion in the chicken run, but not the spectacle that Fern had in mind. Some insect, maybe a grasshopper or worm, found its way to the center of the chicken run and all the chickens went crazy pecking, flapping, and scratching to get at it. Fern’s chicken-feet etching had all but eroded in the pecking frenzy. Still, Fern pointed to what was left of the twig scratchings like the drawing was as clear as day.
“Free Hens!” she cried.
Big Ma’s face scrunched in on itself. “What?”
“Free Hens! Like ‘Free Huey!’”
“Don’t start up that Black Panther mess down here. Not today. Not any day.”
“No, Big Ma,” Fern said. “You’re not seeing it.”
“Seeing what, child?”
By now, Fern’s arms were crossed, and that was not the right way to get Big Ma to see anything, especially when Big Ma had other things to do. “Like in Charlotte’s Web. These are some chickens,” she said, expecting Big Ma to have read Charlotte’s Web and to get her meaning.
“I know they’re some chickens,” Big Ma said. “There’s going be one less chicken after supper.”
“No, Big Ma. You can’t. You can’t.”
I expected Big Ma to shoo Fern off to play. But Big Ma marched around to the door of the wire chicken run and snatched up a plump, light brown hen. If I had been inside, instead of up in my tree, Big Ma would have sent me out to the run to get a good-size pullet and bring it to her—lifeless, still warm, and ready for plucking. This was how I knew not to name a chicken, even the ones that strutted around the run as if they had a name. But Big Ma pushed past Fern, grabbed “Bertha,” snapped her neck while her light-brown-feathered body fussed about before stopping cold, and brought supper into the house. The screen door slammed.
Fern stood there. Arms crossed. Then arms down at her side. Fists balled. She wound herself up and marched to the screen door, put her face against the screen, and yelled, “Chicken killer! Chicken killer!”
I didn’t bother with climbing. I jumped out of the tree. The Soul Brothers and Sister Lou lay somewhere in the dirt. I ran and dragged my baby sister from the door.
As sure as I knew she would be, Big Ma was in the door frame in nothing flat. “Delphine. Go get me a switch.”
The nearest switch was the twig Fern used to scratch the message that was supposed to save her hens.
I never disobeyed Big Ma but I wasn’t about to bring her any switch. Fern was beat down enough after seeing that hen’s neck snapped clean while its body did a dying funky-chicken dance. Wasn’t that punishment enough? Even when I was nine and Big Ma had told me to bring her a chicken for supper I knew better than to do it in front of my sisters. I waited until Vonetta and Fern were inside taking a nap before I did my chicken killing.
At supper Fern ate bread and corn but she wouldn’t touch the gravy-coated drumstick Big Ma put on her plate.
“If you don’t eat that chicken you don’t get any ’nana pudding.”
Fern lifted her little turtle head higher instead of saying “So?” to her grandmother.
Ma Charles laughed at this war between the two. She lifted her arms. “Come on, give your great-grand a hug, you rascal.”
Fern leaped out of her chair, ran around to Ma Charles, and buried her face in her neck and chest.
Big Ma wasn’t pleased. “See how you do, repaying the wicked? That’s not right, Ma.”
“Oh, hush,” Ma Charles said, burying Fern in all that love.
“Look at the baby,” Vonetta said. She stabbed her fork into the thigh on her plate and took a big bite. “Mm. Mm. Mm. Tasty.”
Tears rolled down Fern’s face.
“If you’re pleased to make a spectacle of yourself over chicken you been eating since you had teeth, go on to your room. You know better than to be crying at the table while hungry people are trying to take in the good Lord’s bounty. All them starving children in Africa going to bed hungry. You get in your bed and have a taste of hungry along with them.”
Vonetta found religion. “Amen. Tasty. Tasty.”
Fern marched off to our room, her turtle head high, her fists clenched.
“It’s that wife of his’ doing,” Big Ma said. “Women’s liberation and can’t boil a turnip. That woman’s going to turn my girls into useless jaw-jerkers.”
I expected to find Fern tummy-down, spread out on the bed and fast asleep after a bout of crying. Instead we found her sitting up with her arms folded and her neck still high. She had gone from twig-and-dirt writing to a blue fountain pen on lily wallpaper. Like our mother used to.
Books lie.
Lie. Lie. Lie.
Charlotte lied.
Webs lie.
Web of lies.
What is a word for a lie?
A story.
It was signed “Afua,” the African name our mother had tried to give Fern when she was born, but Pa wouldn’t let her. Now Fern was trying to be like our mother. If Cecile could have a poet’s name—Nzila—then so could Fern.
I’d read her words but all I could see was blue ink over Big Ma’s wallpaper.
“Ooh!” Vonetta cooed, her eyes bright with glee. “Ooh! You’re gonna get it.”
“Fern. You’re asking for it,” I said.
“So.”
“You have to wash that off.”
“That’s my poem.”
“That’s not a poem,” Vonetta said. “All the lines end in ‘lie’ except for the one that ends in ‘story.’ You call that a poem?”
Fern was most proud of that. All those “lies.”
“It needs a rhyme with something like ‘pecan pie,’” Vonetta said. “And you’re gonna need a beating once Big Ma sees that ink on her wallpaper.”
I hated to admit it but Vonetta was right. After a day like today, Big Ma would have gone out to the yard and found a switch herself. She would have stung Fern’s legs extra hard to whip the Cecile out of her. Cecile was forever writing on walls when she lived with us, and Pa was forever painting over them.
I soaked a rag in pine cleaner and water and gave it to Fern. “Scrub,” I told her. But I didn’t say what Big Ma used to tell me: “Scrub like a gal in a one-cow town.” I didn’t want to start bringing cows into it.
In the morning, one single scrambled egg sat on Fern’s plate. It, along with all the food on the table, had been blessed.
Ma Charles’s eyes twinkled Fern’s way. I think she liked Fern’s stubborn little face. “Go on,” Ma Charles said gently. “Eat your breakfast.”
Hungry but turtle-headed Fern stared at the egg.
“Go on,” Vonetta said. “Eat the baby chick-chick.”
Ma Charles crooked her pointer finger at Vonetta. “Get back, wicked one.”
Vonetta smiled, pleased with her mischief.
“Eggs are just eggs, baby,” Ma Charles said, warm like Papa.
Fern looked up.
“We need a rooster to turn eggs to chicks. Tell her, daughter.” She meant me, although I was her great-granddaughter.
I didn’t know anything about roosters and eggs but it sounded true. I nodded.
Ma Charles winked. “Delphine studied her science in school. She knows.”
That wasn’t the science we learned in the sixth grade, but I wasn’t going to contradict my great-grandmother, especially if Fern would begin to eat.
Fern pushed the tines of her fork into her scrambled egg. After playing in it she speared a sliver and ate it.
Vonetta waited until she swallowed. “Buck-buck-buck-buck-kawk!”