What Came First (16 page)
“Maybe you can do a paternity test, at least? So we can at least know. You too. Surely you want to know? Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe we’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Really?”
That was way too easy.
After I turn off the phone, I sit there shivering for a while, listening to a pack of coyotes yelping in the moonlight.
I feel weird—sort of numb. Eric Fergus’s voice echoes in my head, but it is the voice of a stranger. He is nothing to me. Nothing to my family.
A light turns on upstairs. Darren has gone into our bedroom. I hurry into the kitchen, turn on the dishwasher, turn off the lights, check the front door.
I meet Darren, eyes weary from too many hours in front of the computer, coming out of the bathroom. He is wearing a T-shirt and cotton pajama pants. His breath smells of peppermint toothpaste.
I slip my arms around him. He stiffens for an instant and then embraces me. I inhale peppermint and fabric softener and Darren, his underlying scent the same as it was on the day we fell in love.
We stand there for a few moments, still except for our breathing. I close my eyes, remember the past. Finally, he releases me.
“Early day tomorrow,” he says.
I nod.
He kisses the top of my head and climbs into bed.
9
Laura
I still don’t understand how Wendy Winder got Eric Fergus to agree to a paternity test. She sent me an e-mail late that night:
RE: That thing we talked about
He said he’d do it. The test. I gave him the info. He said he’d go by there tomorrow afternoon. So you might want to call them in the a.m. and make arrangements. Can you tell me what the results are? E-mail is usually best, but I can also talk between 9:30—11:30 a.m. on weekdays.
I responded, of course.
RE: RE: That thing we talked about
Dear Wendy,
I cannot overstate the extent of my appreciation. I hope it is not causing him any marital tension. I will make the necessary arrangements and advise you of the results.
Warmly,
Laura
Laura
The next morning, I received her reply.
RE: RE: RE: That thing we talked about
Oh, he’s not married. That was just his crazy girlfriend on the phone.
Now, driving home from work a week later, I rehearse the conversation I plan to have with Eric Fergus.
“A genetic counselor from the DNA lab called me this afternoon to confirm your paternity of my son.”
Too cold.
“I understand your ambivalence about the situation, but I hope you will greet the confirmation of your paternity as happy news.”
Absurd. He will not be happy.
“Congratulations! You’re the father of a bouncing eight-year-old boy!”
No! He is not Ian’s father!
When I walk into the kitchen and see Ian sitting on the floor, clutching his knees and sobbing, I forget all about Eric Fergus.
“What . . .”
Carmen slumps on a kitchen chair near him, looking helpless. “The yardman. He leave the gate open.”
Ian tilts his head up. Tears slick his red face; a grimace distorts his beautiful mouth. He doesn’t cry much, but when he does, he makes no sound.
My chest tightens. “The chickens.”
“Just one,” Carmen says. “When he come home from school, Ian go outside, he let the chickens out of the coop, he give them food. Then we come back inside. We think the chickens are okay in the yard. We think the fence is closed.”
“Is it just missing, or . . .”
Carmen shakes her head. “A car. The Davies boy—you know, the teenager down the street. He drive too fast.” She shakes her head.
Glass sliders lead to the backyard. There’s movement in the coop, but between the chicken wire and the shadows, I can’t tell which chickens are there.
“Which one was it?”
“The brown.”
“One of the Rhodies?”
Ian looks up, his red face streaked with tears. “Sam!”
“Oh, no!”
We’ve lost our only Americana, the plainest of the chickens but the source of our precious green eggs. I sink to the ground next to my little son and take him in my arms. His body convulses in a steady rhythm.
“I love her,” he says, his voice barely audible.
“I know.” Now I’m crying. And I never cry. I tilt my face so Carmen can’t see.
“I love her!” he says again.
“I know.”
“I tell the yardman,” Carmen says. “I tell him, you no leave the gate open. Three times, four times, I tell him.”
“I know you did,” I say.
“That boy, he drive too fast,” Carmen says.
“You can go now, Carmen.” When I realize how that sounds, I force myself to look up and add, “It’s after five-thirty, and I’m sure you want to get home. I know this day has been . . . stressful. Thank you. For everything you did today.”
She goes off to the laundry room to retrieve her handbag. When she comes back, she looks toward the front door and then back at me. “There’s someone you can call? The yardman, maybe?”
I shake my head with confusion. Does she really expect me to call the gardener to complain about the gate right now?
“You want it gone soon,” she says. “Before it gets dark and someone else hits it.”
“Want what gone?”
She points toward the front of the house—in the direction of the street. And then I understand.
“Oh my God. Is Sam still out there?”
She nods. “You want . . . you want me to . . .”
“No, Carmen. That’s okay. You go home. I’ll deal with it.” For some reason, it feels like disposing of the dead chicken is something I need to do myself.
“Okay,” she says, her relief obvious. She forces something like a smile. “Your dinner is in the oven. Fruit and green salad in the refrigerator.”
“Thank you, Carmen.” In a vain attempt to turn the conversation back to normal, I ask, “What are we having tonight?”
She bites her lip. “Roast chicken.”
Ian insists on coming with me to get Sam. The body lies near the curb in front of our elderly next-door neighbor’s house. The boy who hit Sam lives farther down the road.
I expect the body to be mangled and maybe even flattened, but it is worse than that. Blood and feathers stain the road. The chicken’s head, only partially attached to its body, bends back at an unnatural angle. Guts spill from its abdomen.
I never liked skittish Sam for more than her eggs, but pity spikes my heart. I take a deep breath, thankful there is no rot-smell yet, and open a black trash bag.
Ian sniffles.
“You okay, buddy?”
He nods and hugs himself.
My hands shake and sweat against the black plastic. My stomach twists with revulsion. For the first time since my divorce, I think,
I wish I had a husband.
I wish I had a husband.
The upside-down bag positioned over the chicken’s body, I cradle the form through the plastic, lift, flip, and knot. My arms quiver. I force myself to breathe.
We trudge back to the house in silence. Steps from the trash can, it hits me: “Should we give her a funeral?”
Ian nods.
In the backyard, we choose a burial spot in front of the avocado tree. I place the bag on the scruffy grass and retrieve a shovel from the garage.
The clay soil, packed tight, resists my efforts. I heave from exertion. Ian takes a turn, but his skinny arms are even weaker than mine, and we can’t dig a big enough hole.
We move to a softer, sunny spot where I sometimes plant tomatoes. Soon, we have a hole big enough to plant a shrub—or bury a chicken.
“Her sisters should be here,” Ian says. “To say good-bye.”
As he opens the coop, I say, “Is the side gate latched?”
He races to the side of the house; the gate is closed.
The chickens squawk at me, miffed to find me empty-handed. Ian, the black plastic bag, and I form a triangle around the hole while Salt, Pepper, Rusty, and Red go off in search of grubs.
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