Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Lisa Mason

Chicken and Rice

"Stay out of the chicken house," George said. "I mean it, Billie Jean."

”I got plenty to do 'round here without doing your work too." Billie heaved a steaming pot from the stove and poured peas into a colander balanced in the sink. She pushed back a thick wave of gray hair that had loosed itself from the tight bun low on her neck, and then patted her face with a dishtowel that was slung over her shoulder.

"I know you don't want me going into Shreveport to get that tractor part, and I know you'll go in that chicken house and fix it just to spite me."

Billie took the colander of peas from the sink and poured them onto a towel she'd spread across the counter. "I don't know why you don't just let them mail the part to you. Save yourself a trip," she said with her back to him.

"Cause they'll charge me an arm and a leg for postage."

"Cheap old coot," she whispered, still fussing over the peas.

"Hard-headed old woman," he mumbled back.

Before the screen door slammed, George yelled, "Stay out of the chicken house, Billie!"

The old truck coughed to life and then the sound of its engine disappeared as she poured the next batch of peas to be blanched into the pot.

By noon, Billie finished most of her chores and sat in her rocking chair to watch the weather on the noon newscast. Her eyes wandered to the lopsided little house in the corner of the yard. "Probably just needs a nail or two," she muttered. "And we got all that brand new wood on the back porch . . ."

The dog at her feet looked up at her with liquid brown eyes. He stretched in the dappled sunlight that fell across the rug, and sighed, then rested his head on his paws.

"Don't be trying to talk me out of it now, Roy," she said to the dog. "You heard the weather report just like I did. What if that house blows down tonight with all my hens in there setting? What've I got then? A tractor part come special delivery from Shreveport, that's what."

The old hound scrambled to get out of her way as she marched to the bedroom to get into her working clothes. She took a pair of George's starched tan work pants from the closet. She rolled a cuff in them till they looked like knee pants and then tried them on. She took one of his work shirts, rolled up the sleeves and put that on too, and finished off her outfit with her floppy straw garden hat.

On the way out of the bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. Roy eased up beside her and stared at the reflection.

"Yes," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I do look like I’ve been swallowed whole. If you tell George, I'll have your hide."

She found George's hammer and filled her pockets with an assortment of nails. Roy shuffled behind her taking every opportunity to give her a worried hound dog look. Billie ignored him as she dragged one long two-by-four to the chicken yard, then carried out an armload of short ones.

Hens scattered, flapping their wings and stirring up a cloud of dust and feed as Billie marched through the yard. Inside the hen house, the air was thick and smelled of mildew.

She brushed the hay from the ledge and laid down the hammer and a handful of nails. It was dark and cramped in the corner, and she leaned back at a precarious angle over the nest box to see what needed to be repaired.

"I'm gonna make a little noise, ladies," Billie said. "But you'll all be dry tonight." She gave the rotted two-by-four a whack with the hammer. It didn't move. One more blow, then another, and still it didn't budge.

Billie braced herself and raised the hammer, landing a blow at the base of the wood where it met the ledge. With a splintering crack, the wood gave way and folded under the larger beam above it, trapping Billie's arm. Roy sprang to his feet and bolted from the chicken house, returning seconds later to eye her sheepishly from the doorway.

"Yes, I know," she said. "Now I've done it."

She wanted to scream for help, but it would do her no good. The farm was thirty-five miles from town and ten miles from the closest neighbor. There was a chance that an unexpected visitor could free her, but that wasn't likely. At two o'clock, Lester would bring the mail, but he would only come as far as the mailbox half a mile away unless there was a package to be delivered.

Billie rested her head against a nest box. Flies and gnats buzzed her face, and her forehead beaded with sweat as the afternoon wore on. She heard the squeal of Lester's brakes when he stopped at the mailbox.

Her stomach rumbled and her mind wandered. What if her arm was broken? Would she go into shock soon? Pass out from the heat? Would George come home to find her dead?

Ah, yes, when George got home. The humiliation was more than she'd be able to stand. Maybe there was a way to smooth it over, make him forget what she'd done. That was, if she survived.

"Chicken and rice," Billie said. "I'll make chicken and rice for supper. He'll be so happy he won't remember to be mad."

Chicken and rice was George's favorite dish, but she hadn't made it since they'd taken up irritating each other as a hobby. Fifty years ago, when they were newlyweds, she made it often. George would come in from the field and hang around like a hungry hound waiting to have his plate served. He'd stand behind her at the stove, wrap his arms around her waist and kiss her neck. A chicken and rice supper was good for at least a week of sweetness on George's part.

Tonight George would come home, find her out here, and set her free. He'd lecture her something terrible, and then he'd smell supper and it would all melt away. He'd smile and forget all about the mess she made in the hen house.

Chicken and rice would win him over. She might even turn the radio on like they used to. With the soft sunset light streaming through the windows, they'd get lost in the sounds of Henny Youngman and the shuffling of their feet across the hardwood floor.

After supper when they went out to the porch, George's belly full of chicken and rice; he might even tell her he loved her. Billie knew he still did love her. It had just been a while since she'd heard the words.

Through the open kitchen window, the phone rang. She'd turned up the ringer and the answering machine when she went to the garden earlier.

"Hey, Billie." It was George. "I'm gonna stay over in Shreveport. The part'll be in first thing. I'll be home sometime after noon tomorrow. And Billie—stay out of the chicken house."

Billie slumped against the wall. She'd been out here at least five hours and now she had another eighteen to go. "Dang it," she stomped the loose floorboards. "Why didn't he just have them mail that part?"

She was getting out of this hen house, and right now. Billie used her foot to nudge a piece of wood toward her. After several attempts to raise one end by stepping on the other, she succeeded and was able to grasp the wood. She shoved it between the boards close to her arm and leaned on it with all the strength left in her.

"C'mon, just a little," she urged. "Raise it up just a bit and I can slip my arm out. There!" Billie was free.

Her arm was bruised and stiff, but nothing seemed to be broken. She retrieved her tools and then hauled the wood back to the porch. Covering her tracks inside hen house with hay and swearing Roy and the chickens to secrecy, she latched the gate and left the chicken yard.

The next afternoon, she heard the rumble of George's truck coming down the road. She stood at the stove stirring dinner and smiling.

The screen door slammed and George called, "You fix that hen house?"

"No," she answered, her smile twisting into a crooked grin.

George stepped into the kitchen. He sniffed the air and stood behind her, peering over her shoulder at the pot on the stove. "That smells great. What are we having?"

Billie patted his hand lovingly as she turned from the stove, and said in the sweetest voice she could muster, "Pot roast."

Copyright © 2004 Lisa Mason

About the Author
Lisa Mason, originally from Louisiana, has resided in Texas for over thirty years. Her interest in writing began early. In high school she participated in many competitive writing events and won several state awards. She has won awards for both poetry and short fiction. Lisa has published poetry in college magazines and literary periodicals. Additionally, she has published short fiction in the literary genre. The charm of the southern traditions she was raised with is reflected in her writing. Lisa has been a member of WVU for over four years and was a finalist in the F2K competition. She is currently at work editing her second novel.