The Responsible Thing
A joyride down a country road leaves a child holding a dead chicken, five dollars, and the impossible moral burdens of growing up with addiction.
My mother was sick from the time I was 4. Whenever she had “a bad turn,” I was sent to my room or to my grandmother.
The year I was 8, my father, who was a doctor, moved us to a house in the country outside our small town “to start over without nosy neighbors.” For the first time, I heard the word whiskey.
After we moved, Mother could no longer get in and out of her regular bed, so my father got one that raised and lowered with a crank. She had a little rolling table for her phone, mirror, pills. A nurse came twice a week to bathe her. Grandmother moved in with us. I asked her what Mother was sick with.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she said.
Every morning before school, I went to Mother’s room. The small, sharp faces of her dogs poked out of the covers, their teeth bared. I kissed her cheek. Her breath smelled like nail polish.
In the afternoon, Grandmother said, “Go in, tell her about your day.”
Mother could no longer get in and out of her regular bed, so my father got one that raised and lowered with a crank. She had a little rolling table for her phone, mirror, pills. I asked Grandmother what Mother was sick with. “I’ll tell you when you’re older,” she said.
Usually, Mother didn’t say anything. Sometimes she didn’t even open her eyes. Sometimes she’d look at me, and I could tell she was mad. Then she’d start to cry, and I didn’t know what I’d done.
One afternoon I found her actually standing by the bed in her nightgown. “No one else is home,” she said. “We’re going to have some fun.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Go wait for me in my car.” She had a big old Oldsmobile. She hadn’t driven it in a year. “Go on!” she hissed. “Wait there for me.”
A few moments later, she slid behind the wheel. Her hands were shaking, but she’d combed her hair and put on lipstick. It made a red slash across her face. One of Daddy’s coats hid her nightgown.
“Now we’re cooking with gas!” she said, and we were out of the driveway, turning onto a dirt-and-gravel road.
She stomped on the gas pedal. The tires spun. Gravel spat and clanked. We were flying! From side to side, we whipped like a snake. I hung on to the armrest.
“Laugh!” she yelled. “Why aren’t you laughing?”
I was pressed against the seat, digging my toes into the floor. I couldn’t catch my breath. I laughed. But we were going like the wind.
“What if a car comes?” I shouted.
Mother slammed on the brakes. My head cracked against the door. All the way around we whirled, till we were facing the way we’d come.
“Bootlegger’s trick! The revenuers’ll catch you if you don’t watch out!” She hit the gas again, and off we roared.
“Laugh, dammit!”
“I bumped my head,” I said. It felt like a big bump.
“You’ll get well before you get married! Laugh or I’ll put you out on the road!”
Her hands were shaking, but she’d combed her hair and put on lipstick. It made a red slash across her face. One of Daddy’s coats hid her nightgown. “Now we’re cooking with gas!” she said, and we were out of the driveway, turning onto a dirt-and-gravel road.
Thump! went something.
“That wasn’t me,” I said.
We skidded to a stop.
“Jesus. I think I hit a chicken. Hop out and look.”
I sat frozen.
“What is the matter with you?”
I got out. I thought for sure she was going to drive away and leave me.
Behind us, in the middle of the road, was a rag.
“Go get that chicken,” she said.
I saw the feathers.
“Oh, you hopeless twerp! I’m in my goddamn nightgown. I can’t get out.”
Wind ruffled the feathers. But the thing under the feathers was still. Please, I prayed. Please, God, make the chicken hop up and run away. I could smell it: blood and whatever chickens squirt out their bottoms. I’d never been this close to something dead that wasn’t food.
Mother backed the car up and got out. She pulled Daddy’s big coat tight around her. She didn’t touch the chicken. Instead, she reached into the car to her purse and handed me a bill. Five dollars!
“Take this to that house,” she said, pointing.
Down a little weedy driveway stood an old building.
“Who lives there?”
“The person whose chicken I ran over.”
I held the chicken in one hand, the money in the other, trying not to throw up. For the first time in my life, I felt like two people. I could see myself. And I could see the me Mother was looking at.
She bent down, picked up the chicken, pushed it into my free hand. The feathers were warm and sticky with blood. I tried to jerk away, but she held me tight.
“Take it!”
I held the chicken in one hand, the money in the other, trying not to throw up. For the first time in my life, I felt like two people. I could see myself. And I could see the me Mother was looking at.
“I want you to go to that house. Take the hen and the money. Give them to the woman.” I watched her red lips form the words.
“What woman?” I asked.
“The woman on the porch. Tell her we’re sorry we killed her chicken.” She shook me. “Wake up! I’m teaching you the responsible thing to do. I’ll be watching! So don’t you dare forget the money!”
I remember the woman taking the chicken. And the five dollars. I don’t remember what I said or what she said. Maybe we didn’t say anything.
I ran back to the car, got in.
Squeezed my eyes shut. Squeezed my whole self tight as I could, till there was nothing left outside.
Sallie Reynolds is a near-nonagenarian who has published here and there for many years. Some of Reynolds' recent work has appeared in Dorothy Parker's Ashes, Oldster, and elsewhere.
This essay was co-edited by Erica Youngren.
Heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing this powerful work.
Sallie, you're a conjuror, summoning worlds into being, and you've done it again. I've read and love this and all the others, too.