Chicken Feathers by Joy Cowley Read Free Book Online

one wing, then the other, and said in a sniffy voice, “Buddy, I ain’t no dumb cluck. Tell him I want more brown water.”

    Tucker nailed that loose board so tight that an elephant couldn’t have pushed it aside. Then to make doubly sure, he nailed another plank across the outside of the barn.
    “Son, you were right on target about that fox. I feel mighty ashamed pushing words back down your mouth like that. Pete Binochette just told me. He said it hangs out in the woods, big red fellow, slippery as custard. Beats me how you knew.”
    Josh handed him another nail. “You know how I knew. Semolina.”
    Tucker smiled and shook his head. “I’m reminded of my aunt Maureen, who lived in Columbus, Ohio. Well, she was a fine woman, mighty fond of talk. When she told us something she’d heard in town, she’d add, ‘And if it’s not true, it’s a good story.’”
    Josh folded his hands across his stomach and stared at the nailed-up wall. Tucker had given him this lecture before.
    “When I was young, I set that in my mind. Truth is truth, and a good story is a good story. We get them mixed up and we’re in trouble, Josh. I seen fine people mess up their brains not knowing which is which.”
    Josh felt his eyes prick with tears. He lowered his head and said in a slow, easy way, “If Semolina doesn’t talk to me, how come I knew about the hole?”
    His father got his sad, soft look. “Don’t get me wrong, son. I know that old chicken’s smart—more cunning than a jungle of monkeys. I believe she could lead you to the hole. But talking human talk?”
    “She does.” Josh swallowed. His throat was getting thick.
    Tucker got to his feet and stepped away from the wall. Putting his long hand on Josh’s shoulder, he bent over until their faces were level. “Josh, sometime you go stand by the mirror and watch the ways your lips move with words. Folks’ mouths are made for folks’ language. It’s the gift God gave us. In the beginning was the word. When you done that, you look again at the shape of a chicken’s beak. Bird talk. That’s all it’s made for. Come on, let’s have ourselves some lunch.” And Tucker was striding away toward the house before Josh had a chance to say, but Dad, what about parrots?

    In the yard, the first thing Josh saw was his patchwork quilt, wet on the clothesline. He guessed why, but Grandma told him anyway. “Chicken poop!” she said. “That filthy bird in your room! On your bed! Haven’t I told you a dozen times? I didn’t come five hours on a train to clean a menagerie. I declare, that scrawny chicken gets in your room one more time and I pack my bags.”
    Josh crawled under the house where Semolina was leaning against the base of the chimney. “You okay?”
    “Yeah, yeah.” Semolina looked weary. “I got chased with a broom.”
    “You had an accident on my bed.”
    “It happens,” she said. “It happens.”
    “It happens with brown water,” Josh told her.
    “Where’s the thanks?” she snapped. “Where’s good Semolina! Well done, Semolina! You saved the eggs from the fox, Semolina!”
    “I’m sorry.” He reached out to stroke some cobwebs off her feathers, but she backed away.
    “Never trust a biggie,” she said.
    “You can trust me, you silly old bird.” He smiled. “I’m your pet, remember? Your little chickie?” He tucked his hands under his arms and wagged his elbows. “Cluck, cluck, cluck!”
    She ignored him.
    “You adopted me!” he insisted.
    She lifted the foot with the silver ring and came one step closer. “What’s for lunch?”
    “I don’t know, but I’ll find out. You want room service?”
    She gave him a sharp-eyed look. “Under-room service, and don’t forget the ketchup.”
    That evening, Grandma said she was too tired to go to the hospital, and Josh was more pleased than he thought he should have been. He and Tucker would have Elizabeth to themselves, just the three of them as always. He picked some yellow flowers from the