It should have shocked him. Though Nick wasn’t the shockable type, and maybe that was half the problem, it should have brought more than a passing “Hmmmmmm.” That was it. That’s all he said. It might have had everything to do with uncertainty. Was he crazy? And if so, how long had he been? And if not, how long had his wife been a chicken? Why hadn’t he noticed before?
When had it happened? It hadn’t really been gradual. Kind of an all-of-a-sudden thing. There was that long period when she would talk—a lot—and he sort of didn’t listen. Probably, listening would have helped, but she talked all the time and she always said the same things. It didn’t matter when he stopped listening, or when he started, because it would just circle around anyway. Even when he tried to respond, she kept on without him, saying whatever she had to say. The kids’ grades, hospital appointments, take Rufus to the vet, work schedules. Every day with her, talking was like the litter scattered around a train wreck. So he’d just stopped listening, which meant he’d stopped caring. Then he’d found that he couldn’t understand. She’d talk but it was all gobble and cluck, just rolling out, and that was worse. And then this morning? Chicken. Had he gone to bed with a chicken? He wasn’t really sure. There’d been a lump on her side of the bed. With the covers pulled up and snoring, she hadn’t seemed different. He hadn’t really looked at her yesterday either. He’d always joked that she had chicken legs but yesterday they didn’t seem any bonier. And he hadn’t really told her the chicken leg joke since he’d stopped listening. And that was a while ago.
Could a chicken even make breakfast? She was standing on the stove between two fry pans. And clucking. Food was sizzling inside the pans. A chicken wouldn’t cook eggs for breakfast would it? He turned his head as his children entered, both saying, “Hi Mom …” and not looking surprised that a chicken was cooking. He turned back to discover the chicken standing on the table and a plate of steaming food in front of him. And as he stared stupidly at the plate, wondering how it could have gotten there if the chicken hadn’t brought it, his kids said “Thanks Mom!” and that’s when he saw they had plates too.
It had to be a joke. Nick stood up and pretended to want something from the fridge. Then he couldn’t figure how else to look in the pantry and gave up pretending there was a reason. So he opened the doors in the kitchen and couldn’t find anyone. He went through the house. Maybe it was like leap frog. By the time he got to one room, his wife was just leaving it so he wouldn’t actually find her. He got back to the kitchen in time to see both kids kiss the chicken on the head, say “Bye Mom!” and run out the door. But the kids hadn’t said bye to him ... and they hadn’t said good morning either. In fact, they hadn’t even spouted as much as a “Get out!” Maybe they couldn’t actually see him. That meant he was dreaming and now that he knew it, he would wake up. He waited. Nothing happened. Fine, then. There was a joke and he was the butt of it. Easy enough. He’d seen the chicken with a set of car keys in its beak even though he hadn’t bothered to watch it leave. Mostly, he wondered how long they’d had to train that bird to get it to do that. Besides, he was pretty busy waiting for the joke to end. His wife’s car had already been started and driven off. Presumably with the chicken behind the wheel? Certainly, it was too late to check. Anyway, he’d just catch her at work because no joke could be carried that far.
