Long Division (16 page)

T
oday I'm calling my book
Inside the Yolk of the Sun
, because I think it sounds calm and Zen-like. And I'm obviously really into this chicken business.

 

I'm building my chicken coop when Gus calls to tell me about his new job.

“But what about the linens, Gus? You love that gig.”

“And I will still have it. Part time. The new job is also part time.” Gus is now a graphic designer for a Budweiser distributor. He gets to make those huge vinyl banners that swing outside of dive bars and convenience stores advertising deals on half racks and six-packs.

“But you hate domestic beers.”

“So. I'll have access to some premium equipment. Design software. Laser printers. I can make whatever I want.” I almost drop a sheet of plywood on my foot, and I yelp. “Are you in the middle of something, Annie? I can call back.”

“Yeah. Actually, I'm building a chicken coop.”

“Sweet. Talk to you soon.” Gus always knows the right time to prod and the right time to leave me alone. He knows that if it's important enough, I will certainly tell him later.

 

My chicken coop is glorious. I have one blister from digging, two splinters from forgetting to wear gloves, and three scratches from unrolling that pokey chicken wire. I called my dad twice to ask basic questions about caulk versus wood glue, and he's so amazing that when I tell him the project is a surprise he doesn't pry in the slightest. It took pretty much the entire day,
⁵⁷
but it felt amazing. I can't remember the last time I built something so elaborate that wasn't a seven-layer dip or a craft project for eight-year-olds.

I downloaded the building plans from this Web site about having pet chickens and then tweaked the plan a bit to suit my tastes. Future Unnamed Chicken of Mine will reside in a stately A-frame dwelling complete with a sunroom (the front section is just wire) and a more private bedroom suite (ideal for discreetly entertaining guests and sleeping late into the weekend mornings). The sunroom has a flapping, doggie-style door that can be latched shut by Chicken's landlady (me!) if need be. The bedroom suite has a floor that pulls out like a drawer so Chicken's housekeeper (me!) can easily remove waste, change the sheets, fluff the pillows. Now all my chicken coop needs is some decorative flair, which I will wait on until I'm familiar with Chicken's personal style and coloring.
⁵⁸

Despite his skepticism or maybe because of it, I wrote David this super long e-mail about the glamour-coop. I'd paste it here but it's basically everything I just said. After I described the coop, I started talking about what to do when my chicken dies, and then that spun into more senseless blab about death in general and how I shouldn't be worried about Chicken's death right now. Then I ruined the e-mail by spitting out a series of really wack questions like this. I'm going to try really hard not to number them.

Has anyone in your group
⁵⁹
of soldiers died yet?

Do you read the
New York Times
Names of the Dead list?

Do you know I look for your name there every day?

Do you know anyone who has been seriously injured?

Do you know why the army kicks you out if you have $500,000?

Do you think I could make $500,000 raising prize chickens?

 

The Names of the Dead list creeps me out. It somehow feels antiquated and otherwordly at the same time. It's in between a simple, wooden announcement board in a sixteenth-century town and the harsh, news-dispensing method of some futuristic alien community in a Vonnegut novel. We get the
New York Times
at school, and I read it every morning in the teachers' lounge before class. If there are names—lately there have been a couple every few days—I wait until school's over and plug them into Google. Usually I end up reading the slain soldier's hometown newspaper. He was a state champion wrestler. Third-generation marine. Those sorts of details are expected—sons of marines and wrestlers become soldiers all the time—so they don't really trip me up. But every now and then one of The Dead will surprise me: an origami enthusiast or a ballroom dancer who volunteered at his local animal shelter. And then I weep. And if there are any photographs at all (even for the wrestlers) of the family, miscellaneous babies, a mother broken and slumped onto her companion's shoulder as a flag-draped coffin passes, cradling the remains of her blown-apart babe, then I definitely weep. It's never horrible. Never a lurching sob or a dam-breaking flood. I like to think it's more dignified than that. I imagine myself as a graceful, painted movie star; sad and stoic, not scrunching my face and wailing in unflattering ways. Tears don't fall on my keyboard. My mascara smears just a little. And what's weird is that I'm usually comforted by these moments. Like I'm fulfilling this role as I'm supposed to. (It's hard to explain the satisfaction being tied to the sadness.) I'm waving my white handkerchief into the breeze. My hand is resting gently on my chest while my heart labors courageously to keep on beating.

Later we talk about the NOTD list on the phone, and David tells me there's no need to look for his name in the newspaper. He says that if he's killed, I'll find out before a pressroom in New York. He also says that he's certainly not the only David Peterson in the army and most likely not the only one presently deployed to Iraq.

“What if my doppelganger dies and you freak out?” he says.

“I don't think I could reasonably not freak out in that situation.”

“Well, just don't worry so much.”

“I'm not. I mean, I've got it under control.” David sighs. I say, “But maybe you should consider changing your name?” The sigh swings up into a laugh, and I'm pleased. “You can keep the Peterson because it's your family and all, but how about something really unique for your first name, like “Sputnik” or “Jebadiah”?”

“Jebadiah Peterson? Isn't Bush's brother named Jeb?”

“Oh, so what. It's still got this exotic, romance-novel feel. Like the son of an ambassador who abandons his diplomat family to become a woodworker.”

“Hmm. I don't see it, but I'll take your word for it.” And then David has to go. The requisite parental phone calls are overdue, and it's almost time for one of his shifts.

“Check you later, Jeb,” I say after we hang up. Our conversations often end like this. He is hurrying away, and I puke out one last dose of goofy word vomit in a ridiculous attempt to lighten the mood. I'm not sure why I do it. We never talk to our hearts' content, so maybe it's my last desperate stab to fit more into what was already a meatless conversation. Like when you pack a box to move—just books or shoes or something—then before you tape it up you throw fifteen pieces of miscellany on the top. A flashlight. A deck of cards. Two tampons. That way when you're looking for a flashlight or a tampon days later, you'll remember where you put it. Its image will stick out sharp in your mind's eye. That freaky tube shape on top of all the rectangles. It's like if David dies tonight, it will not be a generic “I love you I love you” that I will remember from our last conversation, it will be this crisp, original moment where we pretended his name was Jeb.

 

Yeah, right. That was all such bullroar. I wonder if any of the Stitch Bitches are so recklessly inappropriate.

 

I borrow one of those kitty carriers from Carrie to use for the official chicken transportation. It takes several phone calls to find a farmer who will agree to sell me just one chicken. They either say:
We don't sell chickens. We sell eggs.
Or they say:
We don't sell chickens. We sell poultry.
I gather that “poultry” is the word one uses for dead chickens. Edward Harrington, owner of Harrington Egg Farm in Puyallup, didn't even flinch when I said, “Hi. My name is Annie Harper. I've built a chicken coop in the backyard of my Tacoma house and I'd like to purchase one chicken to raise for my own personal egg harvest.”

“Sure,” says Edward Harrington. “Stop by anytime there's daylight.”

“Really? Great. How about this Sunday?” I am thrilled. Practically wiggling to my wishbone with delight.

“See you Sunday, Annie Harper.” Edward Harrington is my hero. I wonder if he's too young for me to hook up with Loretta. Or if he's married. I imagine Loretta escaping from Violet Meadows into the fluffy, feathery solace of some beautiful country home. Edward Harrington probably has a live-in cook/maid, and Loretta can spend her days knitting and laughing and stroking the four hairs of Edward Harrington's comb-over as they watch
Wheel of Fortune
side by side on a floral-patterned sofa.

 

Gus offers his van and his company for Chicken pickup day. I can tell he's kind of envious of my idea and its actual execution.
⁶⁰
He lives in an apartment the size of a toaster oven that could barely accommodate a guinea pig. When he calls me back Saturday to ask why I'm building the chicken coop,
⁶¹
he immediately asks to come along.

When he picks me up, Gina is perched in the passenger seat. I see her hair all sloppy and beautiful, tied up in an exotic-looking scarf. It's the kind of style sorority girls attempted to affect in college when they were wearing cutesy, low-rise sweatpants to their morning lectures. The casual look. But I've seen the sorority girls agonize over these hairstyles in the bathroom mirrors between classes, twisting and puffing the tucked-under ponytail poof to achieve the perfect semblance of carefree grooming. But Gina, you can tell she has just tossed it up there with her eyes closed and probably while walking or talking to Gus about eco-friendly microchips. I've met her once before back around Christmas—very briefly—and she managed to compliment my earrings, make a reference to pogo sticks, and say nothing about my boyfriend being in Iraq. Four hundred fifty-five points for Gina.

As I'm locking my front door, Gus rolls down his window. He shouts, “Come along, little lady. We're going down to the farm!” And then he whoops. I toss the kitty carrier in the back and fold myself into the van's only bench seat. In between my directions to the farm, Gina politely asks me about what I did the night before. I tell her I made pudding and watched the first three hours of the
Pride and Prejudice
miniseries that I own on DVD. And after I say it, I realize how lame it sounds, so I specify, “tapioca pudding,” like the clarification will prove that I'm actually interesting. Gina politely comments that pudding is definitely one of the things she misses most since she turned vegan over the holidays.

Gus and Gina are both very excited about my chicken (which convinces me that David would be too if he were here. It's his present living /working situation that's making pet chickens seem so absurd by contrast. Right?). Even though she doesn't eat animal products of any type, Gina totally supports me harvesting my own quasi-organic, semi-free-range eggs. And this makes me feel great. To have people understand me like that. To have their spirits lifted at the same time for the same reason. Gus turns the radio up when “Don't Stop Believin' ” comes on, and we all sing along. We really belt it.
People. Streetlights.
Everything. It's amazing. That song just makes me feel so good. I won't stop believing. Ever.

The gravel driveway that leads to Harrington Egg Farm is marked by a plywood sign with faded lettering hanging from a post by chains. And dangling from the sign by ropes are three rubber chickens. The classic jokester kind.
⁶²
I love the place already. We park alongside a long, narrow barn with a paint job that looks straight out of a dusty old movie. A sign on the barn says OFFICE and points toward the house just across the way.

Before we're halfway there, a man (Edward Harrington himself, I'm instantly sure) comes busting out the screen door. “Good afternoon, folks. How can I help you?” I pipe up.

“Hi. I'm Annie Harper. I called earlier about buying a chicken.” I shift my weight and start to question my footwear decision of rubber rain boots. Edward Harrington is wearing loafers. No socks.

“So you are. Right this way, Annie Harper. I've got someone in mind.” He leads us into the long barn, and I hear Gina muffle her gasp at the rows and rows of caged chickens. Chickens stacked on chickens beside chickens. It's like four dimensions of chickens. What's weird about it is the noise. A high-pitched jumble of cluckings. It reminds me of the sound a group of one thousand old women might make before the curtain rises at a burlesque show: nervous, fidgety, but somehow ready for a blush-inducing shock.

Edward Harrington doesn't take us in very far. Gus and Gina actually step back outside for air. “Right here,” he says, unlatches a cage, and reaches his hands inside. He asks me to hold my carrier up as he removes the fluttering bird with a gentleness that takes my breath away.
⁶³
His hands are thick and creased like tree bark, and I can tell that he knows the perfect way to hold the animal so that it calms and quiets just so. I wish Gus and Gina were here to see it. To see that this is a man who respects the creatures who earn his living. He murmurs things like
easy does it
and
in you go, love
as he guides my chicken into the kitty carrier.