The Last Road Home by Danny Johnson Page B

backyard while she went to get a chicken for our dinner. Gray clouds rushed across the sky like they had a storm to get to. She came back holding one by the legs, the chicken squawking to beat the band, pretty sure nothing good was fixing to happen. The hen figured right; one whack from Grandma’s hatchet left her head on the chopping block while her legs ran in circles until she flopped over. “How the heck you think a chicken can keep running around without its head? Seems like you’d need a brain to know where you were going.”
    Grandma laughed, picked up the bird by the feet, and dunked its body in the steaming hot water.
    â€œWhew,” I said. “That stink could spoil a buzzard’s appetite.” We sat on a couple of weathered hickory wood stools and pulled feathers, trying to ignore the nasty odor. I watched Grandma’s practiced hands. “How many chickens you reckon you’ve plucked?”
    That got a grin. “Let’s say I could stuff a lot of pillows.” She glanced at the darkening sky. “I remember the first time Momma made me help, must have been six or seven. I’d named all the biddies and played with them from the time they were little, especially a favorite hen I called Big Red. She wasn’t nothing but a pet. One Christmas Big Red was the one Momma picked to eat, made me sit while she chopped off her head and plucked her. Reckon she did it to show me that on a farm, animals were just food. I cried so bad over Big Red it was pitiful, and wouldn’t eat a bite.”
    Grandma stopped and looked out across the field. In spite of the story, I wondered if maybe she’d been happier then. Like mine, her childhood seemed to have started out good, but things hadn’t worked out the way she expected. I felt the same loneliness in her that I did in myself. We could both maybe identify with that headless chicken.
    In the middle of December, we took the truck to Apex to buy fertilizer, tobacco seeds, and other supplies we would need for spring planting. All the store windows on the street had decorations, some with angels or a Santa Claus, and the streetlight posts had big stars on top. The sound of Christmas music played every time one of the shop doors opened, happy tunes like “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” or “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.” People crowded the sidewalk, laughing and talking and shopping.
    Over the summer I’d saved up seventeen dollars, and was determined to get Grandma something for Christmas. A little ways down the block was Miss Adam’s Dress Shoppe, and I spotted a pretty blue Sunday frock in the window. The walls inside were painted in bright blues and whites, and it smelled of fresh pine from a decorated Christmas tree. The lady working behind the counter looked up. “Good morning, young man. Can I help you?”
    I pointed to the window. “Wanted to ask how much that dress might cost; looking to buy something for my grandma.”
    She walked over to lift the price tag. “Who’s your grandma?” The lady was dressed like she’d stepped out of a hatbox, prim and proper, not a working woman at all, and still had her good looks.
    â€œMrs. Rosa Belle Hurley.”
    The lady’s shoulder-length brown hair fell across her face in a way that reminded me of my mother. She had a bright smile outlined with red lipstick, and fingernails painted to match. “Oh, I know Miss Rosa Belle. Is she doing well? Real sorry to hear when your granddaddy passed. I’m sure it’s been hard on y’all trying to farm shorthanded.”
    â€œYes’um. We’re getting along pretty good.”
    â€œLet’s see.” She studied the tag. “Says here this dress is ten dollars even.”
    I stepped to get a closer look and rubbed a sleeve against my cheek. “Since you know her, do you think this might be something she would like?”
    â€œI believe she would be