-Jeremy Stelzner
THE SUN IS STILL SLEEPING when Billy’s rooster Hal crows out the morning alarm. Billy knows what that means. Time to get to work. He wipes the sleep boogers from his eyes and slides on his Superman slippers. Sparkplug, his golden retriever, is still snoring away at the foot of his bed. She’s a good old dog so Billy lets her sleep in.
He slowly opens the squeaky screen door, careful not to wake his parents who were still nuzzled under heavy blankets in their giant bed. Zipping up his jacket, he straps the Velcro on his muddy work boots and pops on his wool cap.
The briskness of the morning air forces him to pull his cap down over his ears. He stands on the front porch with a pretend cigarette between his fingers, blowing smoke rings with his breath, pretending to be big. After his smoke break, Billy leaps off the porch, arms outstretched, eager to fly away. But he doesn’t fly away. Instead, his feet crunch on the frosted dew of the grass when he lands. Shaking his head in defeat, he breathes in the rich metallic aroma of freshly tilled earth and remembers there’s work to do.
He skips down the path toward Sadie’s stall. She’s the seven-year-old cow who shares Billy’s birthday. They’ve grown quite fond of their early morning chats.
On his way down to Sadie, he makes sure to say good morning to everyone on the farm.
“Good morning, Wilber!” he shouts, waving wildly at the pig pen.
Wilber oinks back in acknowledgment, a smile on his piggy face.
Billy scoots past the barn to the tune of a mighty “neigh” coming from their colt Mesquite’s stall.
“Good morning, Mesquite. How ’bout a ride later?” Billy asks, blowing into his cold hands.
“Neigh.”
“Me too, buddy. Can’t wait.”
Billy keeps bouncing along. But the faster he goes, the more his jeans slide down his tush. After taking a closer look, he realizes he forgot his belt. So, he rolls the top of his pants and hoists them up as far as they’ll go. His tailoring is interrupted by the familiar cluck, cluck, clucking coming from an old friend.
Mr. Cluckers! That chicken is the loudest of all the animals on the farm. That’s why Billy loves him best. Never afraid to speak his mind, that one. There’s no spot on the 300-acre property where you can escape his merry clucking.
“Good morning, Mr. Cluckers!” Billy hollers out.
Mr. Cluckers clucks back while strutting down to the pond for a sip of water and some chitchat with Hal the rooster and the Honkers, a family of six geese that lounge around in the pond for hours on end each morning.
There’s a magic to this place. Daddy, who’s worked this land all his life, he doesn’t see it anymore. But for Billy, it’s real. There’s magic in every animal, every bale of hay, every blade of grass. Some children dream of becoming astronauts, ballerinas, or firefighters. Billy dreams only of staying on this landwith all his animal friends, forever.
When he arrives at Sadie’s stall, the orange sun creeps over the horizon, painting the cotton candy–colored morning sky in purples and pinks and thawing Billy’s cold red fingertips. Sadie greets Billy with an excitable blink. She’s a good cow—a good friend. Billy sits on the stool beside her each morning and she lends him an attentive ear. He blows into his hands again before taking hold of her udders.
“Well, Sadie, I’ll tell you it was a strange party. For some reason everyone was dressed in black. Uncle Jim played sad songs on his fiddle, Cousin Leila was looking at old pictures in the den, and Aunt Marge cooked for everyone. You know how Aunt Marge can cook, I don’t have to tell you. There was so much food—those crunchy corn fritters, buttered green beans, hot biscuits with gravy, fried turkey legs, and mac and cheese. It was all so yummy that people couldn’t stop crying. Momma took a bite of the mac and cheese and whispered to me, ‘O boy, that Marge is a mac and cheese magician.’ I’m not sure, though. Aunt Marge doesn’t wear a funny hat and only has a little hair on her chin, not one of those real magician beards,” Billy explains, swapping a full pail of Sadie’s frothy milk for an empty one.
“Moooo.”
“That’s what I thought! But Momma said Marge isn’t really a magician. Momma said she was just being socratic.”
“Moooo.”
“I knew you’d understand, Sadie.”
Billy stops milking. He steps over to Sadie’s front, looks into her large, trusting eyes, touches his forehead to hers, and says, “Thanks for the milk, girl. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He takes his time hefting the metal pails back to the farmhouse, but no matter how hard he tries, Billy always spills a little milk with each step. It’s because he gets distracted. There’s so much to look at out there, and Billy can get lost inside his mind when imagining everything he’s missing when he’s forced to return to the human world. He imagines Sadie in a ballgown hosting fancy parties like Aunt Marge. He imagines Mr. Cluckers telling jokes in a suit blazer with rolled-up sleeves like a stand-up comedian and Wilber playing the fiddle while the Honkers dance an Irish jig.
Billy takes off his dirty boots on the front porch so as not to upset Momma. He sneaks back inside, removes his coat, and hangs it on his assigned hook so as not to upset Daddy. He warms his hands near the radiator in the foyer and listens. The house is quiet. He likes it this way. In the quiet he can hear all the stories in his mind. The one about the flying horse that almost touched the sun. The one about Morris the Bat who lives at the top of the big maple tree by the barn. The one about the small town that was invaded by an army of angry dragons and the boy who fought them off. Most of all, he loves the story of the Hulks, a family of Giants that live among humans. Being so little, he finds excitement in things that are big.
Creeping up the stairs, Billy nudges open the door to his parent’s room. He tiptoes toward the bed and slides under the warm blankets between his folks. The rumble of Daddy’s familiar snores like the ancient engine of their rusted Ford. Without even opening their eyes, his parents instinctively move toward him, snuggling him up and planting fresh morning kisses on his chubby cheeks. In this house, in this bed, with these people, there’s no safer place in the world.
A little later, he’s sitting on the front porch again, this time with Daddy. He towers over Billy with strong shoulders and a thick brown beard, a little gray at the ends. Sometimes, Momma and her friends talk about real men. Billy isn’t sure what a real man is but he knows his Daddy is one. When Daddy yawns, Billy yawns. When Daddy stretches, Billy stretches. When Daddy sips hot coffee out of a coffee mug, Billy sips hot cocoa out of a coffee mug. He pretends to be big, like the Hulks. Like Daddy.
“Man, I needed this,” Billy says with a little cough.
“Needed what, son?” Daddy asks, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself.
“Coffee. It’s gonna be a long day. Know what I mean?”
Daddy laughs, “Oh, I see. That’s coffee in your cup, is it?”
“It sure is. You know how I get when I skip my morning Joe,” Billy says.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to get big,” Daddy says while messing Billy’s long, rusty hair. “You finish your chores?”
“I fed Mesquite, Mr. Cluckers, and the rest of the chickens, and I milked Sadie just like you said.”
“That’s a good boy, Billy. What about Wilber?”
Billy’s legs shake. His toes tap on the wooden porch planks. It’s an involuntary response that kicks in when he gets nervous. Looking down at the top of his boots, he confesses, “Eesh. I’m sorry, Daddy. I forgot.”
Daddy places his large hands on Billy’s back, “It’s alright. Feed them now and then you can run off and play. I’ve got a lot of work to do before the big dinner tonight.”
“Big dinner?”
“Momma’s birthday dinner, remember?”
Billy slaps his palm to his forehead.
“I’m gonna cook up something special for her. You wanna help?”
“I sure do!”
“Well, run along then.”
And that’s exactly what Billy does. He runs along. First, he finishes his chores. Then he heads over to Mesquite’s stall and brushes his hair. He feeds Mesquite a couple of carrots and tacks him up for their morning ride.
It’s only a short trip down to the creek, and Billy likes to take it slow so that Sparkplug can tag along, prancing beside them. He’s cautious when riding Mesquite alone because he’s so little and Mesquite is so big. But that’s why he loves him so.
When they reach the creek, Billy ties up Mesquite and throws stones in the water for a while. He stares at the ripples through the water, imagining that each one opens a magical portal into another world. But the ripples don’t last long. They’re magical for only the briefest of moments, and then, just like that, they’re gone.
The stones are driving Sparkplug crazy. When they hit the water, she runs right up to the creek’s edge in pursuit, gets scared, and then scampers back to Billy. Over and over again, Billy throws those stones, and over and over again, Sparkplug gets spooked by the splashes. Billy giggles. But the amusement is fleeting. It’s quickly replaced by guilt.
“I didn’t mean to make fun of you, Sparky.” That’s his nickname for Sparkplug. “I’m sorry, girl. I’ll stop throwing the stones.”
Billy lies down on the wet grass. The creek waters burble, passing over stones that had slept undisturbed since before Billy’s great-great-grandfather took up this land over a hundred years ago. To pass the time, he tells Mesquite a story about when the Hulks had a town dance that shook the whole world. The moral of the story, he says, is never to invite a giant to a hoedown. Mesquite doesn’t get it.
Mr. Cluckers appears from behind a tree and struts up to Billy. He pecks the boy lightly on his belly.
“Mr. Cluckers! What are you doing all the way down here?” he asks.
“Cluck, cluck.”
“You don’t say? Well, how about a story? It’s about a whole town of giants that decide to have a town dance…,” he begins.
Billy retells the story exactly the way he told it to Mesquite.
“And that’s why you never invite a giant to a hoedown!”
“Cluck, cluck, cluck.”
“See Mesquite, Mr. Cluckers gets it!”
Billy can smell that it’s almost lunchtime. He decides to walk Mesquite back to keep an eye on Mr. Cluckers. He doesn’t want the little fella to get lost on the way home. The four friends return to the barn, Billy, Mesquite, Sparkplug, and Mr. Cluckers taking up the rear. On the way, he gives his pals a little history lesson on the farm like he’s one of those tour guides with the funny hats at the state park.
“We have close to 300 acres of land on the Drake Farm.”
“Cluck.”
“That’s right, Mr. Cluckers, it is a lot of space. You all have your homes, and then there’s our house and the pond, and the creek, and the barn. You know Daddy grew up here? He says he hopes that one day my kids will grow up here too.”
After a quick lunch, Billy plays around in his tree house for a bit. It’s not anything fancy, but the tree house is a perfect spot to hide out for a while and read a comic book or play with his Star Wars action figures. He decides to draw a picture of his Halloween costume for Momma. Billy and Mr. Cluckers are planning on going as R2D2 and C3PO. He spends about an hour in there, skipping from dream to dream, imagining endless afternoons of blanket fort battles, jungle gym castles, and cardboard spaceship rocket launches. But all that dreaming makes him sleepy. He dozes off with a half-dozen stubby crayons resting on his tummy.
A little while later, Sadie’s mooing and Mesquite’s neighing stir Billy from his snooze. Then the Honkers, honking and dancing around the base of the tree, fully wake him up. How did I sleep through all that action?
Billy rushes inside the house and washes up. Something smells good. Something smells really good. He pokes his head into the kitchen and finds Daddy working. Billy sneaks in, settles behind the kitchen island, and watches him for a while. He likes to spy on his folks doing grown-up things like reading the newspaper, paying the bills, and dancing with each other when they don’t think anyone’s watching.
He spies on Daddy dicing vegetables like a man possessed. Daddy slides his knife back and forth with metronomical precision. Every single carrot, onion, and stalk of celery is cut to a uniform size. Daddy moves the knife along the wooden butcher block, pushing the diced veggies over to a little pile off on the side before beginning the action again.
“Whoa,” Billy says, cupping his hands over his mouth.
He’s revealed his location. Spinning his head around, Daddy looks at Billy while continuing to dice.
“You’re not even looking, Daddy!” Billy yells, a look of shock on his face. “Can I try?”
“You’re too small, Billy.”
“Please,” he begs.
“You’ve got to spend some time learnin’ before doin’. You want to learn?”
Billy nods.
“Okay then,” Daddy says, grinning.
Daddy puts the knife down and wipes his hands on a dishtowel that he slings over his shoulder. He picks up Billy with ease. The boy’s small arms instinctively wrap themselves around his neck. A reward for good fathering. He plops Billy down on a stool by the kitchen island for a better view.
The lesson begins.
“Now, if you want to dice and chop real fast like me, you need to start with a sharp knife. Here’s how you do it.”
Daddy removes the sharpening rod from his knife block. It’s long and round and shiny. He takes his chef knife and slides the blade down the steel rod. Slish. Slish. Slish. The sound gives Billy the chills.
A cast iron pan smokes on the cooktop. Billy watches Daddy add a splash of olive oil to the pan. Then he tosses in the diced vegetables he’s been working on. Carrots, celery, onions, garlic, and rosemary—all picked from the garden. They sizzle when they hit the pan.
“You smell that, son?”
Billy nods. He does smell that.
“But Daddy, it doesn’t smell like onion. It doesn’t smell like garlic, either. Or celery. Or carrots.”
“They’re all cooking together. They smell better that way. They taste better that way, too.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You remember when Father Attaway was preaching about the choir last week?”
Billy shrugs his shoulders.
“Father Attaway was talking about why the church choir doesn’t have only one singer. He joked that Marie Williams would be mighty fine to listen to on her own but that the songs can only reach God if we all sing together.”
“I remember now.”
“All those single smells become so much more when you add them to other single smells. The more you add, the richer the flavors.”
“It sure smells yummy.”
“It sure does.” Daddy shuts the heat to the pan and lights another.
A naked chicken rests on a cutting board beside the stove. Daddy sprinkles salt and pepper over the top and tosses the remaining grains into the sink with the bloodied feathers and gizzard. He rubs the bird with melted butter, gliding his slimy hands over each crevice.
Then, Daddy pulls two large T-bone steaks from the refrigerator. He had hoped to find Wagyu–style beef from the farmer’s market over in St. Jerome, knowing the marbled fat of those cattle makes for a milkier texture.
“What are those?”
“Those are T-bones. They’re steaks, son. You like steak.”
“I do? What’s steak again?”
“Steak comes from cows, like Sadie.”
“That’s Sadie?” Billy shrieks. He tenses up, his toes tap wildly.
Daddy chuckles. “No. Of course not. These from the Parker’s farm down in Arthur’s Junction.”
Billy relaxes before asking, “What’s next, dad?”
Daddy removes a mixing bowl and a package of bacon from the refrigerator before retreating to his cutting board. “Now we make the stuffing. Want to help?”
Billy doesn’t need to say anything. The eager look in his eyes gives him away.
“Ok—this bowl has the veggies we’ve been cooking. There’s onions and carrots and celery,” Daddy says, walking over with a steaming bowl.
“It’s making steam.”
“That’s because the vegetables just came off the stove. They’re hot.”
Billy knows Daddy is wrong. When he went outside to feed Sadie this morning, his breath made steam, and it was cold. Not hot. But Billy lets that one slide because Momma always said that Daddy doesn’t like to be wrong.
“Now it’s your turn. Put all those veggies into this big bowl of mashed cornbread.”
Billy offers a little salute and begins his mission.
Daddy moves back to the cutting board and dices up some bacon. He pours some oil into a big pan and waits for it to heat up. Once he hears a crackle, he tosses in the diced chunks of bacon.
“That smells yummy too. What’s that in the pan?”
“It’s bacon, son.”
“Oh, I love bacon!”
“I know you do,” Daddy says, stirring up the chunks of frying bacon.
“What’s bacon, again?”
“Bacon comes from pigs, like Wilbur.”
“That’s Wilbur?” Billy shrieks.
Daddy laughs and says, “No. Of course not, Billy. I got this pork from the Jones Farm down in Weston.”
Picking a piece of crisp bacon from the pan, Daddy pops it into his mouth. It’s crunchy and salty and oily. He gives a second little piece to Sparkplug who’s waiting obediently by his leg for pieces of anything to fall on the floor.
Daddy removes the bacon bits, placing them into the mixing bowl with the mushed-up cornbread and Billy’s veggies. Then he shoves a couple of heaping handfuls of the stuffing deep inside the chicken’s empty cavity. Earlier that day while Billy was napping, Daddy emptied the organs from the inside of the bird. He had thought about using them in a soup stock but instead chose to toss them into the trash.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m stuffing the bird, son.”
“That’s a bird? Like Big Bird?” Billy shrieks.
“No, son, not like Big Bird,” Daddy says, flipping the burner back on to reheat the bacon fat. He ties the legs of the chicken together and seals up the cavity.
Seeing a look of concern spread on Billy’s face, Daddy takes a large mason jar of milk from the fridge and pours Billy a glass. The familiar taste of Sadie’s milk eases the boy’s frantic mind.
Taking another big sip, he wipes a milk mustache off his lip with his shirt sleeve and watches Daddy place the chicken into the skillet. Little splatters of oil splash out onto the stove, the counters, and the walls.
“All right now, Billy. That’s enough for today’s lesson. Finish your milk and then run out to help Momma with the table.”
Outside, Momma is tying down a red gingham tablecloth. Her hands were as soft as an angel’s pillow with fresh red polish painted on the nails of her delicate fingers. She clips the tablecloth on the picnic table so it won’t blow away. The family eats out by the giantoak tree almost every night if the weather is agreeable. The wind picks up and Momma has to scramble to gather the corner of the tablecloth that has blown free. She notices the leaves on the trees have started to turn. Greens have gone to reds and oranges and ambers. Momma buttons up her jacket. She thinks it’s almost the time of year to move dinner indoors.
Billy helps with the placemats and the silverware. He runs back and forth to the farmhouse with Sparkplug chasing close behind. He drops off the ketchup and grabs a tennis ball. Sparkplug sits like a good dog, waiting for Billy to launch it into the thick of the corn fields. He heaves it away. After the dog disappears in pursuit, Billy heads back into the house for more items. He brings out the soft butter, warm biscuits, and a large pitcher of sweet tea. After dropping off every item at the table, he tosses another tennis ball into the field for Sparkplug to chase. The dog is exhausted by the time the table is finally set, panting wildly underneath the picnic table.
The sun starts to set and Billy’s world turns crimson. Momma lights a couple of candles and ruffles Billy’s shaggy hair.
“You have a good day?” she asks.
“The best.”
Daddy appears from the farmhouse like an apparition. He’s carrying a large tray with a half-dozen-or-so serving dishes balanced atop. First, he sets down the chicken, then a bowl of mashed potatoes, then the steaks, then a plate of green beans so buttery they glisten in the dying sunlight.
Momma, Daddy, and Billy tuck their napkins into their shirt collars and adjust their cutlery. Momma pours him some tea.
He grabs his glass and prepares to chug it down.
“Billy Aaron Drake, are you forgetting something?” Daddy asks.
“No, sir.”
“Grace,” Daddy commands with Sparkplug huddling by his leg.
“Right. Sorry,” Billy says clearing his throat and straightening his posture. “Heavenly Father, bless us and these Thy gifts which we receive from Thy bountiful goodness through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”
Daddy doles out the Lord’s bountiful goodness and rubs his hands together before digging in.
Momma’s the type to keep everything on her plate separate. The vegetables, the beef, and the potatoes have their own separate space. Even the gravy is only permitted within the potato sector. Billy often wonders what would happen to Momma should a loose pea wind up in her stuffing. Would she disappear?
Daddy’s a mess—he mixes all the elements of the meal with his fork. He flops the potatoes over the beef and folds the green beans into the slop. Then he pours a heaping serving of gravy over all of it. Daddy takes a deep breath, smelling it all, and then looks across the table at Billy who mirrors Daddy’s actions. He forks up the creamy mashed potatoes, a couple of green beans, and a tiny piece of steak that his mother cut for him. He tastes the salt, chives, beef, butter, and cream, all of it deliciously intermingled like his own personal dinnertime choir.
Daddy slices into the bird with the sharpest knife Billy’s ever seen. The blade is so sharp that it looks like it could cut through the crust of the earth. But it doesn’t. Instead, it slides between the leg and breast joints—through the skin, the flesh, and the sinew. Then, after splitting the bird open, Daddy dishes out the stuffing.
Momma takes her first bite and the sauce drips off her chin onto her plate. She sops it up with a piece of her biscuit and smiles.
Daddy takes hold of a drumstick and rips off all the meat with a single bite. He slurps, smacks, crunches, and chews before sending a reciprocal smile back at Momma. Billy’s happy because they’re happy.
But something’s not right.
The farm is strangely silent. He listens closely. He can hear Sadie mooing softly in her paddock. He takes another bite of the beef, listening closely as he chews. He can hear Mesquite walking laps in his barn stall. He swishes down the steak with a sip of sweet tea and listens closely. There they are, his friends, the Honkers, the whole family leaving the pond after a long day of swimming. He can hear them honking up the hill, preparing to curl up by the hay bales and hunker down for the night. He feels relieved for a moment.
But something’s still not right.
“Can I be excused from the table, please?” he asks.
“If you want some of Momma’s apple pie, you’re gonna need to have some chicken.”
“Ok, Daddy.”
Daddy uses his hand and rips off the other drumstick. He passes it over to Billy. When Billy takes a bite, the crispy skin gets stuck in his teeth.
He chews apprehensively, still scanning over the farm for what’s amiss.
As soon as he swallows, he places the absence. His toes begin to tap wildly on the grass. A look of dread overtakes his face.
“Daddy?” he asks quietly.
“Yes, son,” Daddy mumbles. His hands greasy with chicken fat, he sucks the remaining meat off the bone.
“Where’s Mr. Cluckers?”
JEREMY STELZNER’s stories have appeared in the 2024 Coolest American Stories anthology, the 2023 Stories that Need to Be Told collection, Across the Margin magazine, Half and One magazine, The Jewish Literary Journal, the Hare’s Paw Literary Journal, and The After Happy Hour Journal of Literature and Art. He teaches literature and journalism in Maryland and is currently enrolled in the Creative Writing program at the Harvard Extension School. You can reach him by e-mail at [email protected], contact him on X/Twitter @jeremystelzner, and find him on Instagram @jeremy_stelzner1. His website is at https://www.jastelzner.com.
Appeared in rainy weather days volume 1, July 2024