TUCKER HELD A PLASTIC BAG open while Josh scooped up the feathers with a trowel. Some of the feathers were small and soft, breast feathers, like Tarkah’s snow except they were brown. He got every one, picking bits of fluff off straw, put it all in the bag. His eyes and nose were running, but he paid no heed to that. He needed to get every part of her, blood too, even if it meant digging up the ground under the little blood spots that led away from the puddle.
Tucker didn’t mention blood. He didn’t need to. Chickens had white flesh and their blood came from deep inside.
“I think it was quick,” was all Tucker said.
Josh said nothing. It had happened. Semolina had been eaten by the fox.
He carried the plastic bag back to the house. The lawn, clothesline, porch all shivered and swam in his tears, but the terrible feeling in him had gone. Now there was no feeling at all. He walked like a robot up the steps and across to the porch swing. In silence, he held the bag out to show Grandma.
She did a very strange thing. She lifted the bottom of her apron and put it over her head.
Josh looked for a fitting funeral box, but there was nothing in the house except an empty cereal box that Grandma took from a kitchen cupboard. He didn’t want to put Semolina’s remains in something as ordinary as a breakfast food box, but the pictures on the box had a rightness to them, sunshine on a farm, rows of corn, milk pouring onto a bowl of golden cornflakes. It made him think of all the times Semolina had sat by his bowl, dipping her beak into his breakfast.
As he took the box, Grandma said, “I hope you’re not fretting over what I said about the fox.”
He looked at her. “You mean about giving her to him?”
“That and some.”
He shrugged.
“You are,” she said. “I recognize a fret when I see one. I didn’t mean a scrap by it, you know. I worry about things. Your mother will tell you. I give tongue.”
He looked down at the cereal box, fair busting with happy pictures.
“Spit it out,” she said.
“You said to Mom—” He wriggled his feet.
“What did I say?”
“You said something about thoughts making things happen. Did you—” He stopped.
“Did I wish the fox into eating your chicken?” She sat with a thump that skidded the chair. “God save us, boy! Nothing of the kind! I just say things. I get tired. You know how little kids get when they’re tired? Well, it happens when you’re old too. I worry. I worry about mess. I worry about you and the baby. I worry about my daughter’s lack of ambition. I worry about the grass not growing on that godforsaken lawn and I worry about blocked drains. You got it in you. You’re a worrier too, and one day you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
He knew already, and he vowed sure as eggs, he’d never let his worries make him say mean things to people, no matter how old he got.
“It’s okay, Grandma,” he said. Then he added, “I’m sorry about your father running over your cat.”
Annalee and Harrison came over for the funeral. Annalee gave him a card from Bob, a real sympathy card with silver flowers, a poem on the outside and a message on the inside in Bob’s writing.
“It’s nice considering he never met Semolina,” she said. “I did tell him about her, how smart she was and all that.”
Josh wondered what else she’d told him. Gee, Bob, it’s so funny. Josh thinks Semolina actually talks to him.
Not that it mattered now.
Tucker dug a hole for Semolina in the flower garden outside the kitchen window. He said the ground wasn’t as hard as the rest of the yard, and besides, its meant that durn old bird was close to her favorite feeding place. He’d taken some care with the hole. It was next to a flowering geranium bush, neatly square with dirt in a little pyramid beside it.
Josh took the plastic bag out of the cereal box so Annalee and Harrison could have a last look. The blood and dirt had mixed up with the feathers, but the silver ring was plain as day, a bit twisted but still shining. Josh wondered if Annalee wanted it back. She didn’t. He carefully put the plastic bag back in the cereal box, and fitted it into the hole.
“Wait,” said Annalee. “We need to say something.”
“Like what?” said Harrison.
“Maybe a memory or something. I remember how Semolina used to crouch on my feet when I was sorting eggs. She was warm. Her feathers felt like old curtains. I remember when she saw that toe ring, she pecked it. Jeepers, it hurt. She was so intent on having that ring.”
Josh was silent. It was hard to think about Semolina as a memory.
“I know a poem,” said Harrison. He stood straight and saluted. “Beg your pardon, Joshua Hardon, there’s a chicken in your garden.” He looked at Josh. “Sorry. Miller doesn’t rhyme with garden.”
For a moment they stood looking at the bright top of the cereal box. Josh didn’t speak, so Annalee said, “Okay. At funerals they always have a prayer. Who wants to say it?”
“You,” said Josh. “Please?”
Annalee breathed deeply like someone about to swim underwater. “Dear God. Half of Semolina is here and the other half is in a fox. Let this geranium bush always have the most beautiful flowers and let the fox—let it be smart and—and funny like Semolina, and—and—”
“And never eat chickens again,” said Josh. “Amen.”
As they scooped the dirt into the hole, Josh imagined the prayer floating upward like a soft white feather. He thought of the Tarkah stories and vowed that never again would he tell anyone that Semolina had talked to him. Her hard cackly voice would be his biggest memory, and he wouldn’t share it with anyone. As he patted the dirt down, he said to Annalee, “Do you suppose that chickens think God is a big chicken?”
That night, Josh was sick to his stomach. Grandma said he looked pale and maybe it was the day that had done it. Tucker agreed but wondered if Josh was coming down with something. “It could be a virus,” he said. “Just to be on the safe side, no hospital visit tonight.”
Josh nodded. He didn’t feel like going out. His head was hot, the rest of him cold, and he was so tired that there was no energy in him for sadness. For a while he sat out by the new grave, hoping to feel something. The geranium bush was in deep shadow and the dirt under it looked as it usually did when the garden had been weeded. Tomorrow he would put a stone or a cross on it so his father wouldn’t forget and dig her up. Yes, a memory stone with her name on it would be good. He went back inside and turned on the television.
Tucker came in, showered and wearing one of his best shirts. “Next month there’s another batch of young chickens coming in. Fourteen weeks old. You want to choose one of them for a pet?”
Josh shook his head.
“Think about it,” Tucker said.
Television was like a landscape rolling past a car window, of no interest to him. He got up, said good night to Grandma, who was sitting in Tucker’s chair, knitting something small and pink. For a while he stood inside the door, looking at the orange light of sunset, another of Tarkah’s eggs falling out of the sky. It was then he realized he had nothing of Semolina in his bedroom. This morning he had been careful to collect all her remains, every little feather, yet he had not kept one feather back for himself. Everything was buried. It was as though she had never been.
He kicked off his shoes and lay on top of the bed, his hands behind his head, and although he was very tired, he did not sleep. He heard the car come back, heard Tucker coming to his room. “You awake, son?”
“Yeah.”
Tucker put on the light and sat on the end of the bed. He had a sheet of white cardboard stuck with photographs of Josh and Semolina and messages from Elizabeth. On top of the card, his mother had written, The Story of the Little Red Hen.
“She made it for you,” Tucker said.
Josh’s eyes prickled as though they had sand in them, but he was too worn out for tears. His father must have searched for these photos and taken them up to the hospital. They’d done this together, Mom and Dad. There was a picture of him seven years old and laughing, Semolina dragging the meat out of his burger. In another, a picture he hadn’t seen before, he was asleep, arms flung out, Semolina perched on his chest, her head under her wing. Eight—no, nine photos of Semolina.
These were better than feathers!
“Thanks, Dad,” he said. “I’ll put it on the wall.”
Tucker nodded and scrubbed Josh’s hair with his hand. “You okay, son? Maybe it’s time to brush your teeth and get into your pajamas. Your grandma’s a mite worried about you.”
Josh swung his legs off the bed. “Grandma’s always worried.”
Tucker smiled, eyes half shut. “You only just found that out?”
Although the room was breathless warm, Josh dreamed of snow. Little white feathers were falling from the sky and piling up in the yard, soft as fluff but icy to the touch. They blew across the lawn, lay on the clothesline and covered the red geranium flowers with white. Josh needed to make a tombstone for Semolina in the shape of a big chicken. He knew exactly what to do. He gathered mounds of feathers, shaped and patted, and the white chicken seemed to grow by itself, beautiful, wings outstretched like an angel. Then something happened. The falling feathers were no longer snow but hail. Little white stones rattled on the path and the tombstone chicken slid away in an avalanche of tiny ice pebbles. He couldn’t save it from flattening out over the garden.
He woke, heart beating fast.
Outside, the sky was dark as pitch and brilliant with stars. He rolled over, his back to the window, and closed his eyes. Then it came again, the hail noise. Pebbles. No. Not pebbles! Something else!
He rolled to his knees on the bed and pushed up the window.
“You there, buddy?” rasped a familiar voice.
