The Inglewood Evening Dispatch, Vol. 21

Dearest Cecilia,

The Dominique is the oldest documented breed of chicken in North America. A demure and cool-headed bird, the hens lay eggs every other day. You know them when you see them. They are zebra striped and their combs are bright red. In Davidson County, it is legal to have up to five of them in your backyard, provided that you do not have a rooster. Three Dominique hens are idly pecking around my kitchen floor as I wait for my morning coffee to cool down. One of them is staring at me with a reptilian disdain, and I do not blame her for it. I will explain.

I told you previously that Addison and his family moved out of their home and sold it for a price that has made me question the very idea of money and worth. The new people that reside in Addison’s home are from New Jersey. I have met them twice. They are the Cathcarts: Joseph and Barbara. I want to tread lightly in my early appraisal of their impact on the neighborhood. I also want to tell you the truth: they are capital-V Villains.

What did we decide about villains, Cecilia? You were always careful to point out the humanity in everyone. Yet we agreed on a few truths. Villains are fearful. They seek empty triumphs. They must put others down to rise. Above all else, they are motivated. Most villains have a great deal of time on their hands. Barbara Cathcart has nothing but time.

Barbara Cathcart is the only person to have ever posted a Gantt Chart to the Inglewood Nextdoor. I know that she saw me witness her taking clandestine pictures of Fred Lopez’s mulch pile. She doesn’t care. The smoke from Carly Shannon’s post-holiday cardboard bonfire nearly burst a blood vessel in her forehead. I sincerely doubt that we are all “lucky that she didn’t call the fire department.”

Wanda Clifton has had a chicken coop for as long as I can remember. The number of hens has varied based on the weather and the courage of local bobcats, but Wanda takes great care of her brood. I adore the way that she wiggles back into her house to give me eggs when she sees me out for a walk. Fresh eggs are superior, there is no doubt about it. Stuffed Crust the cat particularly enjoys the boiled yolks.

Do you remember that time that we smoked three chickens for Memorial Day, Cecilia? We had an entire extra bird and I suggested that we give Wanda the leftovers. You thought I was insane. Wanda was and still is a worthy and honest barbecue critic. She turned out to be appreciative and legitimately surprised that fools like us could produce such a good bird. I consider her sly smile as she returned my tupperware as one of the invisible trophies on my culinary shelf.

Wanda texted me yesterday, and I reproduce it here:

Wanda Clifton: Tuesday, February 6, 2:11pm:

“Hector the new jersey neighbors called codes about the chickens and I don’t know what to do.”

Wanda Clifton: Tuesday, February 6, 2:14pm:

“They’re after Ike Turner.”

According to American lore, it was a man named Watson that received the first telephone message. It too was a request. It too was brief. Yet it was not as important as this. Before I enter a lengthy yet relevant personal reverie, I must point out that Ike Turner is the name of her rooster. “He keeps them women in line,” is a direct quote from Wanda.

I am eight years old. I am in Mt Juliet, Tennessee. It is so windy that to this day I think of Mt Juliet as a windy place. My Uncle Walter is whistling over and over again at a huge flock of ambivalent Rhode Island Reds. My OshKosh B’Gosh jeans don’t fit worth a damn. The chickens are pecking around and their little eyes look like Saturn, black in the middle with a bright yellow ring.

“Okay now Hector. Yatta get in theren sack em up. Git me a dozen.” He told me. He handed me a sack that had previously held malted barley.

“They might spur ya first but they’ll settle down in the bag. They like the dark.” He said.

These chickens would absolutely try to spur me and I would deserve it. Walter was going to butcher these hens and he was too lazy (and portly and drunk, in retrospect) to collect them on his own. The wind was trying to pry the salty Volunteers hat from his head but it hung in there as he leaned on the corrugated tin fence and smiled at me. Despite my juvenile stature, I made short work of collecting the hens. The rooster was far more nasty.

“Shake that old boy out. Grab ees neck’n shake it like yeah.” Walter gave a hand motion. I looked at the rooster and the rooster looked back at me. Walter fiddled with his foil pack of Red Man and watched me hesitate. A plane bound for BNA slowed down overhead. I lost concentration and looked up at it. The rooster rushed forward and ripped the left shin of my jeans. I reached out and snatched his neck. The bird looked at me with a dinosaur’s hatred. Walter never told me the rooster’s name but to me he will always be Old Boy. Both of us became Old Boys that day.

I marched into Wanda’s backyard with my least favorite pillowcase in my left hand and a leather glove on my right. Eight hens were milling about pecking at the ground. Wanda rushed over.

“Hector, I don’t know if”

I interrupted her.

“Wanda, we will talk about this later.” I said. She gave a deep dip of her chin and backed off.

I grabbed the hens by the legs as though I was picking flowers. They were easy marks. I stuffed three of them head-down into the pillowcase and cinched it closed behind each new entrant. They each thrashed twice and settled down in the darkness. I started after Ike Turner. He was every bit the rascal that you would expect. He was pissed at me for grabbing his hens. He ascended to the crown of the henhouse and crowed at me. I reached out and he tried to spur me.

“Ike, it’s either me or the Romans at Codes.” I told him. Wanda was watching from inside the sliding glass door. The rooster shrugged his shoulders and shook his comb. I looked up at the sky to see a jet slowing on its approach to BNA. I looked back at the old boy. He was still looking at me.

As I carried the pillowcase of birds back up to my porch I saw a beat-up Maxima with Codes insignias pull up in front of Wanda’s house.

The following afternoon I knocked on Wanda’s door. She opened the door but not the screen door. I was holding a large orange tupperware. She scratched her temple and I waited for her to speak.

“You smoked him, dintcha?” she said. I nodded.

“Should I put the girls out back?” I asked. Wanda just looked at me.

“I don’t know about all this. I might go on up to Clarksville. Cash out like the rest of ‘em. We’ll see.” She cracked the screen door and I handed her the tupperware. She opened the lid and took a look.

“Okay.” She said with a smile.

“Okay.” I said.

Later that evening I noticed that one of the hens had laid an egg in the bowl of apples on my counter. An excellent brown oval with one tiny imperfection near the crown. I put it in my pocket and walked out to the far corner of my backyard. I took the egg in my hand, wound up, and launched it as hard as I could at Addison’s old house.

Yours,

Hector Fogg