Mother Carey's Chickens

by
Larry Eugene Meredith

Mrs. Carey led. She was well to the front with her chicks strung out down the street behind.

On the way between town proper and the junior high school was a large field with a few cows. A single strand of thick-gauge wire supported by far-flung posts surrounded it.

“I wonder how they keep the cows in?” asked Frank March.

“Sheer terror.” said Ruben Rayzel, known to his friends as Ray and Ru to all others

“What’s that ‘posed to mean?”

“You don’t know? I’ll show you.”

Ruben grabbed Frank’s wrist tugging him off the sidewalk. Frank was as thin as Ruben was heavy. It was like a cup tugging a spoon as they shuffled toward the wire. Roger Walters laughed to see such a sight.

Roger was walking a bit apart from his friends, but now he moved nearer chuckling. Frank, reaching for help, grabbed his arm just as Ruben dropped a hand on the fence.

Roger screeched, stood bolt upright before stooping toward the ground. He began hopping up and down as Ruben slid his hand along the wire. When the pasture ended, Ruben broke contact and Roger fell panting to the ground.

Ruben looked at Frank. “See, sheer terror.”

“You 'maphrodite,” yelled Roger getting back to his feet.

“What’s that mean?” snapped Ruben.

“If you don’t know, you’ll have to show us,” said Roger.

Ruben glanced at Frank with a shrug.

 “He’s sayin’ you’re a hermaphrodite,” explained Frank. “It means you...it means…”

“It means what?”

“It means you’re a perfect person.”

Ruben pumped a fist in the air. “I’m a ‘maphrodite,” he yelled, “I’m a ‘maphrodite.”

Nearby students heard and heads began turning down the line toward the school. At any moment Mrs. Carey would hear and come fluttering back clucking, demanding to know where Ruben heard such a word.

Frank waved a hand in the air, “No, no, not that kind of perfect. Like a plant, you know, like a flower.”

Ruben gawked at him.

“Perfect, y’know…both male and female.”

Ruben’s fist lower, and then shot forward to smack Roger on the shoulder.

“Know-it-all,” Roger hissed at Frank.

Mrs. Carey led her flock across a quadrangle of walks, through a side entry and down a corridor, through another door into the gymnasium. Waiting beneath the basketball hoop was another gathering of kids, behind which waited a small cluster of adults. They were the West Warders and their chaperones. Mrs. Carey joined these adults leaving her East Warders facing across at their sixth grade counterparts from the “bad side of town”. A moment passed in silence before a thin man slipped from the adult pack waving his arms for attention.

The man gave a brief smile, unused or uncomfortable doing so. His arms still waved, pulling his jacket up a little on his neck. He had a long nose, gray hair and slightly lopsided mouth.

Somebody giggled.

A teacher went, “shhh!”

“Good morning.” said the man. “My name is Mr. Maxilla. I will be your principal next year. I welcome you here. I expect in the three coming years, in fact am certain, you will bring to us much honor, much credit to Wilmillar Junior High. Meanwhile, I wish to make perfectly clear why you are here today.

“As you have probably heard, the school board, with my full agreement by the way, has long felt the transition from grade school, with its one teacher, one classroom tradition, to junior high school, with its many teachers, many classrooms technique, can be traumatic.

“Therefore, it is felt, and I agree, make no mistake about that, a gradual withdrawal from the elementary milieu is best. This visit allows you to obtain knowledge of your future and thus be better prepared to conduct yourselves with honor and dignity when you arrive full time next September.

“Now I must be about the important business of a principal. I leave you to your guides. Thank you for your attention, and good luck.”

With a nod, he rushed from the gym. In the next minutes, they counted off into groups of three. Each group was assigned to a seventh grader to guide them through the labyrinth of junior high. Frank March, Larry Brown and a west warder, one,  Cary John Masters had a guide named Doug Virgilson, a skinny, freckled youngster with floppy brown hair and sleepy eyes.

“The first thing, y’know,” said Doug, “is to see the locker set-up, y’know, and get my books, y’know.”

The lockers lined the corridors, great gray metal cabinets with combination locks. They were a foot wide and five foot high. Inside were bookshelves and clothes hooks. Doug had his books stacked on the locker floor.

“The thing is, y’know, is you sixth graders gotta carry my books, y’know.”

“Which ones?’ asked Frank, looking at the dozen or so stacked in the locker.

“Which ones?” said Doug. “All of them, y'know.”

There were twelve books and a notepad. Doug picked up the notepad. Divided between the three sixth-graders it was not too difficult to carry the load, but Frank wondered about next year when each would have their own twelve-book burden.

“Do you always haffa take all your books?” he asked.

“Hurry up,” said Doug. “Y’know, before the bell rings.”

Frank stooped and grabbed four books, handing them to Larry Brown. It was a lot easier in Sixth Grade where all books were kept in your desk. When you needed one you reached in and grabbed it. Frank picked up the next four to hand to the West Warder, but when Frank turned he saw Doug, Larry and Cary had gone down the corridor and left him alone at the locker.

A bell was ringing.

“C'mon,” called Doug, “if the second bell rings, you’ll be late, y’know.”

“Cary,” Frank called, offering the books to the air.

Cary waved a hand. “Next time,” he said disappearing around a corner.

“C’mon, man,” yelled Doug, and he too went around the corner.

Another bell was ringing as Frank clasped the remaining eight books against his chest. He banged shut the locker door with his foot. From the side of his head he saw Larry Brown waiting down the hall. There was a final flutter and rush of students and when Frank spun around he stepped into the flight path of a tall girl. Her elbow catching his chest was like a pin erupting a balloon. Frank exploded into the air, books flying in every direction. The girl never paused. She skipped on, moaning a bit beneath her breath, but never looking back at the wreckage upon the floor.

Larry came to help retrieve the scattered books. Quickly they scooped up the fallen library. When the last volume was plucked from behind a water cooler they found themselves in a very empty hallway. Every door was closed.

“Where did Doug go?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know. They went around the corner. I didn’t see what room.”

They hurried down the hall, peeking through tiny windows in each door. Each time every face in the room swiveled toward them, but none of the faces was Doug. In one room was Ruben, in another Roger – who waved at them. In a final room there was such a crowd of students they could not see to the rear. They had to press their cheeks against the glass and strain to see the back row of desks. They still did not see Doug, but they plainly saw the heavy woman looking at them. She wore rimless glasses and held a pointer before a map of Europe in 1848. She made a motion with her free index finger that they should enter the room.

They entered.

“Are you looking for someone of consequence?” she asked.

“We lost our guide,” said Larry.

“Oh, I see. Well, do you see your guide here?”

They looked. Doug was in the last desk by the inner wall. Cary sat before him.

“There he is,” said Larry, pointing.

She looked at Doug. The entire classroom looked at Doug. Frank looked at the class. They appeared unreal to him. They had turned pale and did not seem to breathe during this entire interrogation between the teacher and Larry. Frank became aware that he was not breathing either.

“Douglas James Virgilson,” said the teacher, her voice slowly fondled each syllable of his name, “I might have known. How you ever were selected as a guide is beyond me.”

She turned to Frank and Larry. “Has Douglas explained the bell system to you?”

Larry shook his head. Frank simply listened.

“That is to be expected from Douglas James Junior. It is a family trait. I had Douglas James Senior for a pupil many years ago. We must forgive Douglas some of his lapses for the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Doug slid down on his seat, no expression on his face.

“But surely you boys understand you must never be late for class. We frown on such immature behavior at Wilmillar Junior High School, do we not Douglas James?

Doug said nothing.

She looked his way and smacked the pointer across her other palm. “Do we, Mr. Virgilson, Junior?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, ma’am,” said Doug in a whisper.

The woman nodded, turning her attention back to Frank and Larry. “Please find a seat somewhere while I get my attendance book.”

A few desks were empty near the front of the room. They rushed into them.

She produced a small black notebook from her desk. She sat setting her pointer near at hand and picking up a pencil. Carefully she flipped the notebook open to an empty space.

“I would like your names, please,” she said. Looking at Larry, she tapped her pencil. “Suppose we have your name first.”

“Lar…”

“Stand up, please.”

He stood. “Larry Brown,” he said.

She peered over her spectacles at him.

“Your full name, please.”

“Larry Wilson Brown.”

She took a deep breath, laid down her pencil and interlaced her fingers.

“Your full name. Please.”

Larry blinked. He had no other name to give. He glanced at Frank, who shrugged.

“Larry Wilson Brown,” he repeated with a gulp.

Her jowls quivered. “It is the standard at Wilmillar Junior High School that we use our proper given name. Your proper given name is Lawrence, is it not?”

“Not. It’s Larry.”

One eyebrow danced above her spectacles.

“I understand,” she said in measured tones, “that you prefer ‘Larry’ in the company of your friends, but school is not your friend. Education is quite serious business. Here we have important, ernest rules, which must be obeyed without question. Remember, obeying the rules is the first and most important aspect of education. So in here you will be called Lawrence. Your parents gave you that name and you should be proud of it.”

“But they didn’t. They named me Larry.”

She rose from behind the desk, her large bottom flipping back her chair, which hit the wall with a bang. Spittle sprouted on her mouth.

Sweat embraced Larry’s upper lip.

“No intelligent parent would give their child a name ending in ‘y’. The ‘y’ is a diminutive meaning ‘little’. Such a child would go through life as Little Bill or Little Joe.” She glared at Larry. “You are not Little Lar, are you? It is Lawrence, and enough of that. We must return to the revolts of 1848.”

With the bell ending the period, Frank realized his own name would not be taken. He was glad to escape the fate of Larry, who ran pass him out of the room in tears. Frank did not see Larry the rest of that day. Larry threw up in the Lavatory and had to be taken home.

“My books, y’know,” said Doug as he passed Frank.

Frank turned to the tall pile. Cary stood nearby watching.

“Well?” Frank asked.

 Cary punched him on the arm. “Next time,” he said.

“Hey, come back here.” But too late, Cary was gone.

Frank picked up the twelve books and stumbled to the hall. Cary met him at the door and punched him in the arm again.

“Doug went ahead,” Cary said. “We’re due in Room 109,” and he punched Frank’s arm a third time.

Every few steps, Cary punched Frank. He would laugh, punch, laugh, punch, laugh, punch, a piston of annoyance. Room 109 was the length of the building from the room they had left. All the way Cary punched and laughed.

The corridor was full of hustle-bustle as kids ran the mid-bell gauntlet and Cary’s punches sent Frank stumbling into oncoming throngs. His burden of books would jab his ribs after every jolt to his flesh. When rounding a corner a vicious punch sent Frank into a flying wedge of giggling girls. The books scattered beneath their feet to be trampled and kicked down the hall. The final straw was broken.

Frank spun toward Cary, startling his tormentor in such a way that Cary covered his head with both arms in fear.

Frank hit him in the stomach.

Frank laughed when his fist sank deep into soft flesh, hearing the explosion of air, feeling the warm whoosh on his face. Cary bent over and fell backward into the lockers with a bang and a shout, his howl echoing down the halls. Holding his pained anatomy, Cary staggered off into a nearby classroom.

Frank began retrieving books. He had nearly completed this task when someone grabbed his upper arm. Guessing that Cary had recovered, Frank came up swinging, but his fist dropped limply to his side when he discovered a beefy, pig-faced man clutched him. The man had a brush haircut and wore a baggy suit.

“What homeroom are you in?” asked the man.

“N-none.

“You have to be in one.”

“I...I don’t go here yet.”

“You’re one of the visiting sixth graders?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know what you do at your grade school, but don’t expect getting away with this rowdy behavior here. We do not punch people at Wilmillar Junior High School.”

“No, sir.” But where were you when I was being pummeled?

“I’m glad you understand, young man. However, just to be certain you do remember, I shall report this incident to your principal. Which Ward do you attend?” He pulled a pen and pad from his coat pocket.

“Uh...West Ward,” Frank mumbled with head down.

“West Ward?”

“Yes.”

“Then your principal is Mr. Dreiblebist, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your name?”

Frank peered up from the floor briefly and glanced about. The hall was clear except for him and this man. He lowered his head again. “Cary. Cary John Masters.”

"Spell that.”

“M-A-S-T-E-R-S.”

“All right, Cary, you may go. But don’t think for a moment you will go unpunished. I shall report this matter to Mr. Dreiblebist, and I understand Mr. Dreiblebist is a very strict disciplinarian.”

Frank had heard before that Mr. Dreiblebist was a strict disciplinarian, even mean. It was rumored the kids at West Ward lived in sheer terror of his wrath. Every kid at East Ward was glad not to be at West Ward. Mister Dreiblebist would indeed act upon this pig-faced man’s report

Frank smiled at Cary as he entered Room 109. Cary smiled weakly back. Cary took this to mean all was forgiven between them for after the period he grabbed his share of the books, and did again after the third class.

After third period was lunch, and then the Sixth Graders were to attend an assembly.

Lunch was served in the basement cafeteria. Doug showed Frank and Cary where to store the books. They all got into one of the two great lines looping around the sides of the room. Being guests, the Sixth Graders were entitled to a free meal. Frank was not hungry. There was too much noise, confusion and shoving about him. The seating area was chaotic. Conversations buzzed about his ears like angry bees. Occasional words would sting him and leave an itchy impression. He saw the West Ward principal seated at a table and Cary said, “I see Mr. Dribblepiss is here.

At the table, bread flew pass Frank’s nose as food flew from kid to kid.

“Hey, Frank,” shouted Doug above the ruckus.

“What?”

“My friends here, y’know,” Doug point to two leering boys with thin cases of acme sitting at the next table. “They was wonderin’, y’know, what you did, y’know, when you were home alone, y’know? Play with yerself?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“You mean you play with yerself?”

“Sure, when I can’t find anyone else to play with.”

The two other boys laughed, bending to grasp their sides. Doug smirked. Frank didn’t see anything funny. What was the joke? Something evil about their snickers told him he was being made the fool. He had no appetite. He got up and found his way outside. In the parking lot behind the building he saw Ruben sitting on the fender of a pickup truck.

“Hey Frank,” Ruben called, “how’s it goin’?”

“Okay.”

“Did you have some lady named Hurle?”

“I don’t know. What did she look like?”

“Like a witch, with a B. She was fat and wore rimless glasses half down her nose.”

“I think I had her. I didn’t like her.”

“Yech! I hope we don’t get her for anything next year.” Ruben sighed. “Maybe we could find out where she lives. Then we’ll go there at midnight and kidnap her and tie her to the electric fence.”

“You better be careful somebody doesn’t tie you to that fence after this morning. You shouldn’t have done that. Somebody could have gotten hurt.”

“Ah, Frank, you gonna start that stuff again? You’re gettin’ to be a real bird of bad omen.”

“I’m not startin’ anything. I’m just givin’ fair warning. Things even out in life. You bring trouble on your own head when you do a friend dirty. And I think when we get to this place next year, we’re gonna need our friends.”

“Roger wasn’t hurt. It was just a little joke. A little thing like that you can bet God kept no record.”

Ruben jumped down from the fender accompanied by a concert of ripping cloth. He looked at Frank wide-eyed.

“I think my pants tore on something. Look and see if they ripped.”

Ruben turned around. There was a great gap down the seam with little hope of closing. A bell rang. Those loitering about the lot began drifting into the building. Ruben backed against the truck.

“What’ll I do?” he looked at Frank.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t go inside like this.”

“I’ll find Mrs. Carey and tell her.”

Frank hurried into the building. He saw Doug waiting by the bookracks.

“Hey, there you are. I though I’d have to carry my books myself, y’know.”

“Where’s Cary?”

“Don’t know, man. He disappeared, y’know.”

“I’m not carrying all those books," said Frank.

“No?”

“No. Why should I? I haven’t noticed anyone else I know toting books. Why should I carry yours?”

Doug grabbed Frank’s shirtfront and cocked a fist. He pulled the smaller boy close. “Need I show you why, y’know?”

“No,” said Frank.

Frank silently trailed behind Doug to the auditorium. Outside the doors was another bookrack where he piled his load. A crush of students was shoving its way through the doors. Frank decided to wait awhile. As he waited he finally saw Mrs. Carey, but before he could move, a woman stopped her. The woman took Mrs. Carey aside and gestured toward the Nurse’s Office. Frank saw Ruben waiting by the door, a great towel wrapped about his waist. He looked glum.

“I’ll drive him home,” said the woman as she left Mrs. Carey.

Frank waved as Ruben was led away, but received no wave back. Frank was certain Ruben saw him. He had looked directly into Frank’s eyes for a moment, but then looked down, studying the floor.

The crowd had thinned. Frank went into the auditorium. His East Ward classmates were seated together on one side with their guides. Frank had to take a seat directly in front of Doug, who was busy whispering with his friends. Mr. Maxilla stood center stage ready to lead the flag salute and singing of the National Anthem. After singing, he motioned the audience to sit.

Frank was a bit slow.

There was an explosion beneath him, a terrible cracking, splintering of wood. He leaped to his feet. Every eye turned to watch him, except for Doug, who had his head down giggling. Frank saw Doug’s feet jammed between his seat and the chair back. Doug looked up, bowed his head mockingly and slowly removed his feet. Frank sat and seethed.

Mr. Maxilla’s speech rambled. Frank’s attention waned and wandered. He examined the stage, the walls and the ceiling. There was handwriting on the walls, words carved in the border beneath the ceiling.

JUSTICE IS THE CONSTANT DESIRE AND EFFORT TO RENDER TO EVERY MAN HIS DUE.

“And we look forward to your coming back next fall for a longer visit,” concluded Mr. Maxilla. There were a few chuckles from the teachers present. “Now is the time for you to take leave of us today. The West Warders will leave to the left and the East Warders to the right.”

The East Warders gathered in the hall while Mrs. Carey counted noses. Ruben and Larry were missing, but accounted for. Mrs. Carey marched the group out to the sidewalk. Frank slipped to the rear of the parade and joined Roger. They passed the cow pasture in silence.

Frank knew now how they kept the cows in – sheer terror. He understood everything that had happened today and what it meant for tomorrow. He was deep in thought about survival when Roger tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey,” said Roger, “where did you get all the books?”

“What?” Frank glanced down, suddenly aware of the weight tucked under both arms. He had carried them so often he had automatically picked them up from the bookrack as he left the auditorium. He took a glance at Roger and then stepped off the sidewalk to carefully pile the books on the ground. He shoved them as far as he could to the other side of the electric fence.

There were clouds darkening the sky.

“It’s going to rain,” said Roger. “They’ll get wet.”

“Yes,” said Frank.

It had started to drizzle.

Frank found a stick and used it to knock the pile of books over. They scattered across the grass, loose papers blowing out of the pages and across the meadow.

Roger looked at him.

“Thus it is written, ‘every man his due’” said Frank.

Roger said nothing.

“Don’t dawdle, children,” called Mrs. Carey, “hurry before the rain gets worse. You have no resources.”

And Frank smiled.

___________________________________________________________________________

I wrote this story in 1954. I was 13 years old at the time. Though slightly fictionalized, this tale is basically true. I am represented by two characters in the story, Frank March and Larry Brown. Frank March would become my alter ego in my writing. Larry Brown was created because in real life I was the Larry the teacher attacked for my name. The other characters were based on real life people. I even used a real name for one, Mr. Dreiblebist, who was the principal as West Ward in Downingtown, the place Wilmillar represents. 

The background for this story was each year the sixth graders were taken for a day at the Junior High School they would be attending for seventh grade. The idea was to acquaint us with the difference between elementary school and junior high. We East Warders were marched across town, about a mile, by our sixth grade teacher, who was also the East Ward principal, to a day at the junior high. The incidences described all did occur, although not all on that one day. Some happened, such as Cary punching me down the hall, during the coming year. I compressed time for dramic effect.

The photograph is of "Mrs. Carey's Chickens", taken in 1953. "Mrs. Carey" stands before the blackboards on the left side. I sit not too far from her in the second row of desks, the second boy from the rear. I didn't wear glasses yet in sixth grade.