Chasing Jupiter (6 page)

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.”

I
watched Mrs. Greene out of the corner of my eye as I rolled out the dough for the cherry tarts. She dropped floured chicken into the frying pan, oblivious of the grease splattering on her clean apron.

“You know”—I cleared my throat—”I never thought I’d be here cooking in your kitchen.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you here.” She grinned and went back to flipping chicken.

I nodded. “I just always thought … well, you’re the preacher’s wife. And I was never really sure what to think of you. Because …” I blushed. “Well, Mama says there’s such a thing as being too honest.”

Mrs. Greene laughed, a full, hearty sound. “Well, my mama told me differently. Never be afraid to say what’s on your mind. Be kind, be polite, but be honest.” She rubbed her forehead, leaving a greasy black streak. “Lies are always ugly, and there is nothing you can do to make any beauty out of them. But you can take something honest—imperfect, maybe, but still honest—and make something wonderfully beautiful.”

Something tickled in my chest. I grinned. “Well, I used to think you were strange and overly perfect, but now I think you’re nice.”

Mrs. Greene nodded. “And I used to think you and your brother were odd and mischievous and darling, and I still think you are odd and mischievous and darling.”

“Thanks.” My flour-covered hands pressed out the dough, rolling it into small tart shells. “You should drop by our stand tomorrow. Cliff and I are selling peach pies every Saturday to make enough money to build a rocket.”

“Really? Why a rocket?”

I placed the cherries over the cream cheese–based filling I’d already spooned into the tart shells. The summer heat always brought out the fruity sweetness, and my mouth was already watering. “Cliff wants to be the first person on Jupiter.”

“He sounds like quite the boy.”

“He is. He’s smart and funny and sweet.” My face glowed. “He can be really strange and obnoxious sometimes, but I really love him.”

“He’s lucky to have you as a sister.”

I looked up from the dough and smiled. “He’s my best friend.”

“Ah.” Something sparked in Mrs. Greene’s eyes. She looked down and flipped the chicken out of the pan onto a plate to dry. “Tim and I want children. I think I’d like to have a daughter and son just like you two.”

I squirmed. It felt so weird to hear the esteemed Pastor Timothy Greene referred to so casually. In our home, his name was always synonymous with warnings and punishments. As in,
Remember what Pastor Greene said last Sunday …

“Well, I have an older sister too. Juli. She hasn’t been to church very many times, so I’m not sure if you’d know her.”

“The girl with blue hair?”

“Well, it’s not always blue. Normally, it’s a golden brown.”

“Interesting.” Mrs. Greene eyed my hair. “Your hair has such reddish tones.”

I nodded. “Mama was a blonde; Dad was a redhead. Juli just got to split the difference.”

“I see.” Another piece of chicken sizzled as it landed in the frying pan. “And what’s your sister like?”

For some reason, the words to describe Juli escaped my mind. I didn’t really think of the way she was now—shabby, wild, and reckless. I could only think of her three years earlier. That Juli was lovely and clean and sparkling.

“Juli has always been very beautiful. She’s much prettier than me. In the summer, her hair turns light brown with blonde streaks. It’s beyond lovely.” Pink and gold evening sunlight streamed into the room. I pinched the crusts of the tarts. “She has a beautiful singing voice, and she used to love country music. Johnny Cash was her favorite because she thought he was not only talented, but also really dreamy looking.”

Mrs. Greene nodded. “Tim has a few of his albums.”

“I think we still have some of my sister’s in a box somewhere.” My forehead scrunched up. “Anyway, Juli liked to sing along, and we all enjoyed it. She used to say she was going to be a singer when she grew up. Maybe she still will. I don’t really know her anymore.”

Mrs. Greene glanced at me. She wiped her hands off on her apron and leaned against the counter. “Now, I’m going to ask you to be honest, Scarlett. What is your sister like lately?”

I lowered my eyes. “Different,” I muttered.

She nodded, waiting for me to go on. When I remained silent, she pulled a picnic basket out of the cupboard. “Well, people change. Not just some people. Everyone. You either change for the better or for the worse.” She held up the basket. “Do you think this will be big enough?”

I nodded and began placing the already-baked batch of cherry tarts into the basket.

“Your sister is at a very impressionable age right now. And so are you. These are the years that determine what kind of person you are going to be.” She shut the lid of the basket and tapped her fingers on the rim. “Just something to think about.”

My fingers fiddled with the ties of my apron. “How old are you?”
My face immediately flushed. It was such a rude question.
Mama would beat me with a spoon if she was here
. And yet I didn’t take it back. I really wanted to know.

She laughed in surprise. “Twenty-seven. Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “It’s just hard to imagine grown-ups ever being sixteen.”

A soft wind blew in from the open window, lifting the stray hairs from Mrs. Greene’s beehive. She smiled. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember being sixteen.” She sighed and leaned against the sink, tapping a wooden spoon to her cheek. “Let’s see, when I was sixteen, I was carefree and wild too. I had long blonde hair that stretched to my waist. I keep it a bit shorter now.” She touched her piled-up hair. “Tim likes it long, but it gets in my way sometimes.”

I watched her green eyes dance.
How could I have ever thought she was lifeless and dull?

She bit her lip. “I was awfully bad and wild. I think I said that already.” She shrugged. “I might have never changed if I hadn’t met Tim.” A smile pulled at her lips. “He was a student at the local seminary. His father was good friends with the pastor of our church. So when Tim came to town, my parents offered our house to him for the first year of his classes.”

“And you fell in love.”

Mrs. Greene’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh, not at first. At first, I hated him. He was so pious and polite and good all the time. I had a serious beau, anyway. I was rarely at home. But that winter I caught the flu and was on my back for two weeks. Tim offered to read to me in the evenings. I think that’s what I first fell in love with—the way he read. His voice is so rich and … well, you’ve heard it at church, obviously.” She blushed.

I nodded. “He does have a nice voice.”

“Right. Anyway, Tim sometimes read out of the Bible. For the first time, I heard about sin and God and our need for repentance.
God brought all kinds of sins to my mind. Times I’d been disobedient or rebellious toward my family and others. It all sank in—how far from Him I was and how there was no chance for forgiveness apart from His grace. I mean, I’d heard it in church, but I guess things just stick with you more when you’re flat on your back.” She laughed.

“Whatever the reason was, I know now that sickness was from God, because that winter I turned from my sins and trusted Christ for salvation. And I also fell in love with Tim. We married four years later, when I was twenty.” She twisted the ring on her finger.

I rubbed a flour-coated hand across my cheek. Dough covered my apron. “That was a nice story.”

Mrs. Greene glanced at the clock. “Yes, but we’re running late. Thanks for helping me with that second batch of tarts for me and Tim. I’ll get those in the oven once you’ve gone home.” She pulled off her apron. “Come on, let’s get these delivered to the shut-ins, and we can come back for Mildred later.”

With a firm hand, I knocked on Frank’s door and stepped back. No answer. Mildred squawked, squirming in my arms. I glanced at Mrs.

Greene. “Maybe they’re not home.”

She shrugged. “Try again.”

I had just lifted my hand for the second knock when the door flew open.

Mrs. Leggett stood in the doorway staring at me and my risen hand. Her blonde hair was long and rumpled, and a cigarette hung from her lips.

I lowered my hand to my side and tried not to stare at her nose.

Mrs. Leggett had a reputation like no other in the county, all because of one Christmas vacation. In December of 1967, she went
to visit her sister in New York and came back with a different nose. The new nose was long and thin—much different from the short, bumpy one she had before. I’d heard Mama say it was a new type of surgery, but I couldn’t recall anyone actually mentioning it to Mrs. Leggett herself. And so we children were instructed to simply not look at her nose.

It was really, really hard.

“Well, darling, what are you doing here?” Mrs. Leggett lifted the cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. She glanced at the chicken in my arms but was clearly unfazed. I wondered if wild animals were constantly finding their way to her doorstep.

“I’d like to see Frank, if you don’t mind. I have a gift for him.”

Mrs. Leggett’s eyebrows rose. She straightened, looking again at Mildred. “A gift? Oh, how lovely. Do come in, darling. Make yourself at home.”

She opened the door and led us in. I stood in the foyer, holding the squirming chicken and trying not to mess up anything. Everything was white. The ceilings, the furniture, the linens. Except for one black wall, standing out starkly against the general whiteness of the living room. There was a whole lot of crystal everywhere. Great potential for a chicken-related disaster.

Mrs. Greene was clearly bothered by the possibility of danger. She pulled off her pristine white gloves. “My, what a lovely home. You have great taste in decorating.”

Mrs. Leggett shrugged, one of the sleeves of her silk robe sliding off her shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Why, might I ask, did you decide to paint that wall black?”

Mrs. Leggett took another puff of her cigarette. “Why not?”

I stepped around a chair into a small cleared area. “Why is this spot empty?”

“Oh, this is my cha-cha corner.” Mrs. Leggett brightened and placed her cigarette on top of the television. “Watch, darling.” She
leaned over and flipped on an old record. Swinging music filled the room. “Step back, please.”

I walked around a pristine white sofa and watched her from a window seat. She began to sway her hips, dancing back and forth. She threw back her head and began moving her arms, screeching, “Chicoooo! Cha-cha-cha!”

Someone bounded down the stairs, and then Frank was standing in the doorway of the parlor with a look of horror on his face. “Mother!”

“Oh, Frank, darling, would you turn up that record?” Mrs. Leggett shook her hips and let out another shout. “Ha!”

Frank’s eyes swept over the room and widened when they fell on me. His face turned red. “Mother,” he groaned, reaching forward to turn off the music. “Please.”

I glanced at Mrs. Greene. She held a hand up to her lips, clearly holding back a smile. I fought a grin of my own. “Here, Frank.” I held up the chicken. “This is Mildred.”

Frank switched on the light in the bomb shelter and looked around. “Gee, I don’t know where to put her.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose I could build a small attachment on the side to use as a coop. What does she eat? Corn?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Here, let me see her.” Frank reached out and took the hen, cradling it in his arms. At first Mildred protested, ruffling her feathers, but under Frank’s soothing hands, she soon settled down. “She’s got a pretty coloring. Nice feathers, strong talons.” Frank glanced at me accusatorily. “And you were going to eat her.”

“Well, actually the shut-ins were going to eat her.”

“Right.” Frank gave me a lopsided grin and began settling hay in a corner of the shelter. His tanned hands smoothed out the rough bed before he set Mildred on top of it. “This’ll have to do until I can build that coop.” He frowned. “I hope she doesn’t keep the other animals up at night.”

“She won’t. She’s good, I know.”

We stepped out as Frank closed the door behind us. Up on the hill, his house stood proud and bright. Mrs. Leggett and Mrs. Greene were visible in the big window. Mrs. Leggett obviously had the cha-cha music back on, because she was showing her guest how to shake her hips with great enthusiasm.

Frank groaned and leaned against the shed. “My mother is very embarrassing.” He waved a hand at the window.

I shrugged. “Everyone has their peculiarities. My mom slathers lotion on
everything
. You can tell where she’s been by the residue left on doorknobs.” I chuckled and nudged him. “And you? You’ll probably grow up to be the male equivalent of the eccentric cat lady.” I began to laugh.

Frank laughed—that full, rumbling laugh that turned his face from a simple ray into the glowing sun. He shook his head at me. “And your house will be so confused with different baking smells that your children will constantly be grossed out.”

“I suppose so.” I slid against the shed and settled on the dirt, watching the women dancing from the window.

Frank settled beside me. “Has anyone ever told you that your laugh is infectious?”

My brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“When you laugh, it makes me want to laugh too. I don’t know why, but it does.”

“Huh.” I drew my knees up to my chest. “Now that’s something I never knew about myself. Cliff’s never mentioned it. He talks a lot about my birthmark but never my laugh.”

“Oh, you mean this?” Frank’s hand brushed my cheek.

“Yeah.” I touched the small indent in the corner of my mouth. A little larger than a dimple. A bit smaller than a scar. It was just a little dent. Hardly noticeable, really. At least, no one outside of my family had ever mentioned it to me. Until now.

“My mother would say that means you were kissed by an angel. When you were born, I mean.”

“Really?” I smiled softly. My chest felt all tight and fluttery under his gaze. What could a boy like this possibly see in Juli?

“Yeah.” He grinned back.

I lowered my eyes, wrapping a strand of hair around my finger.