I first met her on a warm spring Saturday, early in May, when the leaves were small on the trees, and the new green grass was poking through the matted brown stalks of the year before.
I found myself among a large group of friends that day, on an expedition to see a drive-in movie. This was in 1979, when the Dollard Drive-In still existed in the West Island of Montreal. We were on our bicycles, travelling through a sprawling new development roughly halfway between our home neighbourhood and our destination. Being out of shape after the long winter, I gradually lagged behind my more athletic friends.
We planned to ride our bikes to a grassy hillside, just outside the fence of the drive-in theatre. Then we would watch the movies for free, taking turns being the one to climb the fence and turn the volume all the way up on several of the unused nearby speakers. Nowadays, the drive-in just has wires that you clip onto your car radio, but back then, the device was a large, clunky speaker, designed to hook over the partly open window of the car. Every few minutes one of the drive-in employees would swing by in a car, to turn the volume down again, and yell at us through the chain-link fence. Once or twice a night, the cops would drive by, warning us that we had to clear the area, and we would slowly get on our bikes, pretending to leave, until they had driven off. It was a game, and everyone involved seemed to enjoy their part in it. But the event that makes that day stand out so clearly in my memory took place before we got to the drive-in. Tired, and knowing that I would be able to catch up to the others before the movie started, I pulled my battered old ten-speed over to the sidewalk and rested.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement in a vacant lot to my right. There, in the middle of the lot, was a large cardboard box, and it was moving! I hopped the curb and rode bumpily across the corrogated surface of the empty lot. Kneeling down by the box, I tentatively unfolded the flaps on the top and peeked inside.
The new leaves of the surrounding birch trees whispered secrets to the cool spring breeze. My knees pressed painfully into the solidified tracks of a small boy's BMX. The hanging flaps of the cardboard box waved messages about "Export A" and "This End Up." And huddled at the bottom of the box, staring raptly up to me like the faithful to their God, were three fluffy young chickens.
The largest one was almost full grown, about the size of a volleyball, and it spoke worriedly, chuckling and gulping. "Huh huh huh huckle," it said, quietly, "Buh buh buh buckle." The medium sized one cried plaintively. "Peeeeee, peeeeeee, peeeeee." The smallest, and easily the most attractive of the chickens never took its eyes off of me. "Beeep," it said. It danced daintily from foot to foot. "Beeep, beep, beeeep." The cauldron of my mind bubbled over with questions. How had they gotten here? How would I convince Mother to let me keep them? How would I get them home? What about the drive-in movie?
The answer to the first question required little thought. It had been Easter just a few weeks earlier. Some well-meaning parents with little foresight had given their children newborn chicks for a present on Easter Sunday. But now those chicks were quite definitely growing into chickens. How to get rid of them? The cruel, lazy and selfish answer to this question was as solid as the box in front of me.
I decided to hide the box of chickens and continue to the drive-in. It would be quite late when I returned home after the movies, and at that time it would be easier to sneak the chickens into the house.
I hid the box in a thicket and rode on to the drive-in, but I paid little attention to the movie, as worries about my new pets occupied my mind. I stole away early, and rode swiftly back to the vacant lot to retrieve the box. As I stood on my pedals, anxious not to lose any time, I fretted over the safety of the chickens. Visions of cats, dogs and nasty little boys fueled my fears.
The box was still there! Elated, I set about the task of providing a safe escort. With some difficulty and many stops to check on my charges, I balanced the box on my handlebars and held it there with my chin, pedalling slowly and watching out for bumps.
Arriving home, I dismounted from my bike in the street and walked it quietly down the driveway, through the gate, and into the back yard. I went to the shed that protruded from the back of the house, and gently placed the box of chickens inside. Then I circled the house and entered by the front door.
Inside, I found that Mother and my two sisters were each hidden away in their bedrooms, but with their lights on. I retired to my bedroom and waited for them to go to sleep.
When they were all snoring away at last, I crept down to the basement and turned on the light. A long, wide room, the basement was dominated by a large red furnace, from which issued metallic clangs at irregular intervals, and a grey water heater, hung with strips of tattered silver duct tape. The ceiling was a mess of ductwork and pipes, surrounding two bare light bulbs that were switched on and off by dangling chains lengthened with kite string. Most of the floor space was covered with a jumble of boxes and black garbage bags, stuffed with old clothes. And against the back wall, the best part of the house as far as I was concerned, stood a sturdy workbench, complete with a vice and a perforated backboard, from which hung my meagre collection of tools.
Careful not to make a sound, I opened the door into the shed, climbed the stairs, and retrieved the box. A chorus of chuckles and peeps welcomed me. Back inside, I placed the box on the workbench and set about preparing a suitable home for my chickens.
A sensitive boy, I was moving along the ill-defined but painful journey from childhood to adolescence. Quiet and studious, I had one passion, a love of animals. I had no pets, but wanted one badly. In my frustrated attempts to convince Mother that I should be allowed to get an animal, I had built numerous cages, which were arranged, empty and forlorn, around my workbench. Practise had improved my skill, and I quietly dug out my best effort to date; a large, wire-fronted cage that had been meant to contain a rabbit or guinea pig.
The cage bottom was a flat piece of presswood, about three feet by four, onto which had been nailed a few small strips near the edges. The main box of the cage was designed to be placed on top of this slab, fitting snugly within the wooden strips. Dowels could be inserted through holes in both retaining strips and cage walls, to make the structure escape proof. The entire front of the cage was made of chicken wire, so that the occupant would not suffer from lack of air or sunlight. The roof was another flat piece of presswood, nailed firmly to the walls. The middle of the roof had a hinged door, through which guinea pigs, rabbits or in this case, chickens, could be removed or inserted.
I scattered some wood shavings and torn-up newspaper on the floor of the cage, and placed the three chickens inside.
While I supplied them with water and some vegetables stolen from the kitchen, the birds explored their new digs and, apparently satisfied, settled down to sleep, pressed snugly together in a group.
I studied them, and concluded once more that the smallest was a most appealing bird. I named her Maria. She was different from the other chickens. She was my favourite.
When the food was ready, the chickens woke up and excitedly began to devour it. Maria proved to have the daintiest table manners, demurely swallowing a fragment of green pepper, then beeping a polite thank you before selecting another morsel.
The next two hours may have been the happiest of my young life. I played with my new friends, taking note of the differences in their small personalities and, when the other two had been dragged down to sleep by the effect of gravity on their full bellies, Maria and I conversed in a mixture of whispers and peeps, getting to know one another quite well.
At last, I reluctantly snapped off the light and retired to my own bedroom. I sat on my bed, with its bedspread decorated with tiny license plates, and pulled off my socks. The walls around me were hung all over with maps of faraway countries, and pictures of strange animals and exotic scenery. But I gazed at these familiar surroundings without seeing them, and fell asleep that night warm in the glow of my special new friendship with Maria.
"Wake up, dammit!" shrieked a petulant voice, from right beside my bed. I woke, my heart leaping into my throat. Next to my bed stood Mother, wearing a faded old pink nightgown embroidered with grey lacy strips that had been white, once upon a time.
"What the hell are those chickens doing in my basement?" Her swollen, dangling breasts swung wildly from side to side, adding emphatic punctuation to her fury. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I can't let you out of my sight for a minute!" I cringed, afraid of the breasts. "Don't you realize how many diseases they could be carrying?"
"I don't think they have diseases, Mother. They were probably abandoned by..."
"I don't give a good goddamn if they fell from the sky! Get rid of them right this minute!" She stormed from the room, her steel-grey hair bouncing jerkily up and down on the right side of her head, where it had been swept by her pillow overnight. Her scaly legs left a trail of flakes on the carpet and, after she slammed the door behind her, a gust of wind blew the dead skin up into the air, where it glistened and shimmered as it passed through the single, cold beam of sunlight that poured between the heavy brown curtains into the room.
Wearily, I dragged myself from the bed and dressed in yesterday's clothes. My brief moment of happiness was over, even more quickly than I had feared. I trudged down the stairs to the basement, where I found my sisters admiring the chickens.
"Oooooh, they're so cute!" cooed Littlesister. She knelt in her pyjamas before the cage, allowing the chickens to nibble at her finger through the wire. "Where did you get them? Can I name one of them?"
Bigsister was laughing at me. "What did you do?" she said, "Don't you know that bringing home a chicken from the movies is a capital crime?" I knew that while her words might seem to be mocking Mother for her cold-hearted attitude, she was really making fun of me and my predicament. I ignored her.
Kneeling next to the small sister, I explained, "I was going to let you name one of them, but I'm not allowed to keep them."
"Maybe she'll change her mind," she said.
We heard Mother's shrill voice from the kitchen, upstairs, "Are those friggin' chickens still here?" It was more of a threat than a question.
I went to the phone in the rec room and began to call my friends, hoping to find a temporary home for the birds. My pleas fell on deaf ears, however; nobody's parents seemed to want any livestock on their property, not even on the short term.
After half an hour of useless phone calls, I climbed the stairs to where Mother sat in the living room, holding one foot over a ceramic ashtray and trimming her thick yellow toenails with a large, rusty pair of wirecutters.
I begged her for more time. "Please, Mother, if I could just keep them in the back shed for one more..."
"But I don't have anywhere to take them," I said.
"I don't care what you do with them. Go put them on the highway, for all I care!"
She should never have said that. Littlesister's lips trembled and she ran from the room. Mother watched her go, then glared at me with eyes like daggers. Now the child was upset, and it was all my fault!
But her cruel comment had changed my mood from sadness to anger, and I cared little for her ferocious facial expressions. I glared right back at her, and stomped out of the house.
I was only gone for a little while, pleading with the custodian of our neighbourhood church to let me keep the chickens in the large basement, only until bingo night, please? But the man refused sanctuary, on the grounds that barnyard foul had no souls.
Returning home, I entered the house unseen through the shed door, hoping to spend just a few undisturbed minutes with Maria, before Mother got ahold of me again. I slipped through the door and quietly approached the area of my workbench. But the cage had been roughly disassembled, limp vegetables were scattered about the floor, and the chickens were gone!
Running frantically up the stairs, arms flailing, I was just in time to see the family car squealing from the driveway. Through the rear window, I could see the soggy Export A box shaking and thumping in the back seat. Mother sat behind the wheel, still wearing the threadbare nightgown, with her unkempt hair hidden by a bath towel that she had wrapped around her head as a kerchief. I ran to the back yard to get my bicycle, but it was too late to follow her. The car was no longer in sight, and I had no idea where she had gone.
Fraught with worry, I collapsed on the driveway, moaning with fear over the fate Maria might have in the hands of this madwoman.
When Mother returned, two hours later, I was sitting on the front steps, thinking sadly of how Maria would stare fixedly at me when I whispered affectionate endearments to her; how she would turn sideways in order to focus on me, and her nictitating membranes would slide coyly over her protruding eyeballs, from bottom to top. I had known her for such a short time, but she had left a canyon-like void in my life.
I expected Mother to refuse to tell me what she had done with Maria and her siblings, but when I asked, she said, matter-of-factly, "I brought them to Penfield Farm. I don't want to hear any more about it." She pushed me out of the way and strolled into the house, tossing her old, green plush slippers from her feet without slowing down. Penfield Farm! That was miles away!
Later, in response to Mother's shout, I reluctantly made my way to the kitchen for early Sunday dinner. Taking my place at the table, facing the window that looked out over the back yard, I studied the curtains with their pattern of tin cups and vertical stripes, the grease-covered walls, the chipped formica countertops, the cupboards with their many layers of flat white paint, their creaky doors that would never stay closed. I looked at anything in order to avoid Mother's icy glare.
I sat flanked by the teary-eyed Littlesister and the smiling Bigsister, waiting for the wobbly, cracked plate before me to be filled, so that I could get the meal over with as quickly as possible. Hesitating, knowing it was probably a mistake to bring up the subject at all, I asked Mother the one crucial question for which I had to have an answer. When she had heaped some runny cream corn and grey mashed potatoes on each of our plates, and was stooping to retrieve the large black baking dish from the oven, I said "You told the people at the farm that these chickens are for breeding, right? You told them not to kill the chickens for their meat, right?"
Mother straightened from the oven and turned towards me. She thought about her answer for what seemed a long time.
"Yes," she said, seeming unusually calm.
I was not reassured. Littlesister began to sob again. Bigsister chuckled. And Mother placed a steaming breast of chicken on each of our plates.
I stared at the food, confused for a moment, wondering if even Mother could have been so cruel as to serve Maria to me for dinner. But upon thinking about it more logically, it became clear to me that this chicken must have been thawing in the fridge since last night. Of course, Mother had not killed the chickens and then served them to us for dinner. She had not had time.
Mother would never have chosen to cook chicken today if she had known what was going to happen. Or would she? Did she think this situation was funny? I looked her in the eye, and the expression I saw told me that this was not a joke. If we refused to eat this food, I would be in big trouble.
I felt somewhat reassured, once I realized that I was not about to eat my own precious chickens. But Littlesister did not know this. She had not thought it through. She pushed away her plate and ran from the table. Mother said nothing. I was afraid to look at her, and when I did, she was clearly furious; she obviously blamed me for my sibling's tears. I picked up my fork and poked at the breast on my plate.
Chicken had never been one of Mother's strengths, as a cook. She usually just plopped the parts on a tray, dropped a slab of margarine on the top of each one, and then sprinkled it with too much salt and not enough pepper. But lately she had acquired a recipe that made wonderful chicken, and this was the type of chicken that sat on the plate before me. Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, it was neither dry nor greasy. On any other day I would have drooled at the sight of it.
Bigsister could not look away from me. This was the most fascinating dinner entertainment she had seen in years. She was having no trouble eating the meal; was wolfing it down, in fact, reluctant to look at her food for fear of missing some of the fun.
I ripped off a chunk and transported it, hand quivering, to my mouth. Placing it on my tongue, I attempted to chew. But then I thought of Maria. My tears burst forth as I removed the chicken from my mouth, pushed back my chair, and ran to my bedroom. My sobs mingled with the bawling of one sister, with the unsuppressed laughter of the other and, carrying over all, Mother's stern voice squawked, "I'm not finished with you! Not by a long damn sight!"
I spent the next few days trying to avoid Mother, and making desperate plans. Penfield Farm was too far away for me to visit after school. I would have to wait an entire week, until the next Saturday gave me enough time to get there and back by bicycle. I would start early in the morning, before Mother had even gotten up, and thus she would have no opportunity to remind me that I was grounded.
At last, Saturday morning arrived. Armed with a road map and street guide taken from the glove compartment of Mother's car, I began my journey by taking the same route I had used a week earlier, on the way to the drive-in theatre. I felt a pang of remorse as I pedalled by the vacant lot where I had first encountered Maria, but this only increased my determination to find her and ensure her safety.
When I reached the long avenue that led to the drive-in, I turned and travelled through a mall parking lot, then climbed an overpass above the Trans-Canada highway. The act of descending on the other side was dangerous, as the brakes did not work on my bicycle and I had to stop by dragging my foot on the pavement. I then made my way down Sources Boulevard, travelling on the wrong side of the road, facing the traffic. There were no sidewalks, and I proceeded by pedalling furiously down the road when no cars were coming, then retreating to the sloped gravel shoulder to let traffic pass. It was slow going.
Eventually I left the boulevard and had a more pleasant ride through residential streets, stopping occasionally to consult Mother's street guide. Then I made a confusing crossing of an industrial park, and somehow was successful in reaching the access road to the Mercier Bridge. Both the bridge and the access road were packed with vehicles, moving at a crawl, carrying people who were desperate to escape the city for a few hours. I pedalled up the ramp, between the cars and the sidewalk.
Once on the bridge, the cars moved faster as the lanes merged, so I moved onto the sidewalk. This ride quickly made me nervous, as the bridge climbed higher and higher over the water. The railing seemed little protection from the precipitous drop next to me. The sidewalk was exceptionally narrow, and was interrupted every few yards with poles, which I had to steer around carefully. At the other side at last, I had to wait for almost fifteen minutes for a gap in the traffic, to allow me to cross a lane and get to the required off-ramp. I was very glad to leave the bridge behind me.
After a twenty-minute drive along a busy road, I found the southbound highway I was looking for, and settled in for an uncomfortable ride on the shoulder. At this point I got a flat tire, from a piece of broken beer bottle. I spent half an hour fixing the flat by replacing the inner tube with a spare I carried in my knapsack.
By early afternoon I started to wonder if it was possible for me to make it back home before dark. It semed I had made a poor estimate of the time required for the journey. I became even more pessimistic when I stopped to consult the road map, and realized that the village I had just passed was located to the south of the farm! I had pedalled right by it. It was soon after I turned around and began to ride northwards, looking carefully at the signs posted next to each driveway, that I got another flat tire. But this second flat was beyond fixing; I had no more spares and no glue in my patch kit.
There was nothing for it but to ride on the flat tire. It would be the end of my rim, and slowed me down considerably, but I soldiered on, thinking only of Maria and the harrowing week she must have spent among the dogs, cats and night-prowling foxes of the barnyard. If I only could let the farmer know what a special chicken she was; how uniquely beautiful and highly intelligent a bird he had been trusted with, then he would be sure to keep her for breeding stock. If I could only get there in time. By now I had given up any idea of returning home before dark; I would be lucky if I completed the round trip by midnight.
At last, bruised and sore, I arrived at Penfield Farm. When Mother was a little girl, her school had occasionally organized picnics and other such school outings, which were often held here. At that time, the farm was a lonely outpost surrounded by forested hillsides, but now it was much smaller, and surrounded by a rugby field, a tractor dealership, and an establishment that allowed people to pick their own strawberries.
After being held at bay for a while by several scruffy dogs, I managed to approach the central buildings. Soon I spoke to Mr. Penfield himself, who was a kindly old gentleman in his eighties. He did not seem to understand my story about Maria, but soon we were joined by Young Mr. Penfield, the son, who was an old man in his own right.
Yes, he told me, Mother had given him three chickens a week ago. No, he said, she had mentioned nothing about them being breeding stock only. Yes, he said, I could see the chickens.
The two old men ushered me to a henhouse surrounded by a wire enclosure. My chickens were easy to pick out; they were the only white ones. First I saw the largest one, much larger now, chuckling over some seeds in a corner. Then I saw the medium-sized one, asleep on a roost. But I could find no trace of Maria.
I circled the enclosure, in case she was hidden from my view by the henhouse, but I still did not see her. I returned to the two old men and explained that I could not find one of the chickens. Young Mr. Penfield began to question old Mr. Penfield, who gestured towards the yard in front of the farmhouse. I could see no birds over there, just a dog sniffing around a tree stump.
Climbing the wire fence, I crawled into the opening of the henhouse, where slim rays of the afternoon sun filtered through cracks in the wooden walls, illuminating shelves and straw and a couple of black hens. I examined every shelf and peered into each of the dark corners, but could see no sign of Maria.
The peaceful farm sounds were shattered by an ear-splitting clanging. Emerging from the atrocious stench within the henhouse, I saw a friendly-looking old woman standing on the porch of the farmhouse, shaking an old-fashioned dinner bell. Old Mr. Penfield still seemed confused, but when I met the eyes of Young Mr. Penfield, he looked guiltily at his feet, and turned slowly away. Not understanding at first, I looked again at the yard in front of the farmhouse. Something white caught my eye and, with a ray of hope touching my heart, I ran for a closer look.
As I approached the dusty yard, I realized that the flash of white I had seen was simply the reflection of the late afternoon sun from the blade of an axe. The axe lay buried in the wood of a chopping block, which I had mistaken earlier for a tree stump. I stopped and retreated, horrified.
Another glance at young Mr. Penfield made it clear that I had guessed correctly at the meaning of the chopping block. Maria was to be their dinner that night. After all I had been through, I had missed my chance to save her by no more than a couple of hours.
I walked solemnly past the barking dogs to my bicycle and began to pedal slowly homewards. Heartbroken, I cared little about how long it would take me to get home. As I made my way slowly back into the city, I thought that the worst thing about my loss of Maria was that I had never had a chance to even say goodbye.
When I got to the house, late the next morning, Mother was waiting for me at the front door.