The chicken at the door

Stephen lived in a bedroom crawling with feelings. His duvet was shiny and slipped over him like a slug when he slept, and his headboard was hairy like a hyena and coarse if you stroked it the wrong way. Sometimes the headboard got a bit unruly and tried to eat him when he wasn't looking.

He was an active child in the womb with a big imagination: his mother Reeny had whined throughout her pregnancy at the ache of the wriggling worm inside her. The wriggle was his curse. As he roly polied in the amniotic fluid and rebounded off the walls of Reeny's organs, he made a macramé of his umbilical cord, and when he was finally squeezed out of his soggy sack the midwife proclaimed
"I've never seen anything like it, a perfect knot!
It took the midwife a minute to get over her surprise before she realised she should probably do something, as the baby was turning blue. She made a swift clamp and bloody snip, and was just in time ' another minute and he'd have been dead. But she was also a minute too late. Stephen was left with limited sight ' just the shadows of the midwife's hips against the window light.

Reeny spent several weeks lolling about the house in a guilty sleepless stupor, until her husband Jake said to her one day
"Reeny, you don't have to feel bad that this has happened, or guilty that you don't have to work. We've got a little life in the family, not a death. Lets enjoy it.
Reeny said to her hand-sized blue son
"I'm so sorry that my body did this to you my gorgeous; I'm going to make you a room so alive that you won't even realise you're not seeing it.

Reeny engrossed herself in hanging apples and oranges from Stephen's ceiling on pieces of string, which he could sniff and squeeze the insides out of. His wallpaper was embossed with hat and spurred cowboys on horses with flairy nostrils and rubbery lips. The floor was made of crushed velvet ' alternately furry then smooth, and in the air there was a constant clink of shells bashing on threads in the window. Reeny spent her leisurely time with Stephen in her lap, pushing his fat fingers into bread dough in the kitchen and breathing in the yeast fumes like an old fashioned mother would. In the evening she floated in geranium bath water with him sitting on her stomach, making him a bubble beard and soaking up the humid atmosphere through her flaky air-baked skin.

One day Reeny and Stephen were planting seeds in pots in the greenhouse. The greenhouse was narrow and warm, and was lined on each side by fleshy green smelling tomato plants. Stephen was rubbing his hands in the soil, and just to find out what Reeny would do he smeared his muddy hands on her face and laughed. Reeny shouted at him:
"That is a very silly, naughty thing to do Stephen, and you're not to do that again. Now I'll have to give up the planting and take you inside so I can wash my face.
"Mum?
"Yes Stephen?
"What does your face look like with dirt on it? he enquired.
"Well¦it looks pale, with bits of brown on it¦
"What's pale?
"It's sort of a colour, but when there isn't any colour¦like white, but a bit grubbier maybe¦ Reeny tried to explain.
"What does colour look like then?
"It looks different from other things¦it's how you tell one thing from another.
"I don't understand.
"It's¦its just colour! Reeny silently wiped the sweat off her head and bent over to squeeze the sick feeling out of her stomach.
"Are you ok mum?
"Yes Reeny said quietly, "I have to just go and check on the oven. But Stephen knew there wasn't anything in the oven ' he would smell it if there was; he heard her sniffing in the bathroom. He didn't ask her about colour again, and she didn't try to explain it again either. She didn't take him into the greenhouse to plant seeds, or do any painting with him anymore. And he missed it, but he didn't ask why in case she sniffed in the bathroom again.

On Stephen's sixth birthday at three o'clock in the afternoon he heard a knock-knock on the front door. This was unusual as no one normally came to the door until dad came home from work. He heard Reeny's shoes tip tap down the hallway and the door clunked open. He heard Reeny whisper and then walk back down the hallway and into his room. "Who was that mum? Who were you whispering to? Was it someone come for my birthday? Stephen felt his bed sag under Reeny's hips. She leant over to him and muttered, "Now, this is a secret Stephen. When I opened the door there was a fat, ruffled-up chicken on the doorstep. I asked it in my quietest voice ' so as not to disturb you - what it was doing here, and it clucked back that it was indeed here for your birthday. It brought you a birthday message.
"What did it say? Stephen squealed with excitement.
"It said that you are a very special boy, and it wishes you the best birthday a boy could ever have. It said that you will find a cake under your bed.
Sure enough, there was a cake under the bed ' a fruity nutty one that smelt sweet and cinnamony. "How did the chicken know that? Stephen asked, amazed.
"I don't know. It must be a magic chicken! It also told me to give you this. Stephen felt a breath of strange smelling air on his face. "What was that? he puzzled.
"That was a wish that the chicken blew into my hand. It told me it was a wish for eight years of good health, good luck, and all the cake you can eat. The cake under the bed was the first instalment.
"Wow! Stephen had always felt special and different, but this was proof. Surely no other boys get chicken wishes for their birthday, or eight years of cake!
"This must be a secret Stephen. I don't think Dad will believe us if we tell him that a chicken came knocking on our door.

Stephen sat in an alcove in the corner of his room with paper-thin curtains drawn around him, pulling pieces off the cake with his sticky hands. "Sit and eat the cake with me mum, he called through the curtain in a haze of food fumes. "No sweetheart Reeny shouted back, "that cake was brought especially for you, I'm not allowed to eat it. You have to sit and eat it on your own. I'll just be in the bathroom, but you're best not to leave your room until the cake is eaten, or it might disappear ' it is a magic cake after all.
"What will happen if you eat it? He asked.
"I don't know, the chicken didn't say. But it's probably best if I don't find out.
Stephen felt confused. He was grateful to the chicken for bringing him cake and wishes, but at the same time he thought it was a bit mean of the chicken not to let him share it. He really wanted to be with mum on his birthday. Furthermore, the cake was quite big, and he thought he might be stuck in his room all day before he'd manage to eat it all. Maybe if the chicken came again, he'd ask it if he could have a smaller cake next time.

Five afternoons later there was another knock at the door. This time Stephen heard Reeny say loudly "Hello chicken, good of you to come again. What a lovely cake, I'll be sure to give it to Stephen. Stephen thought he could hear two sets of tip-taps, so wondered if the chicken was coming in to see him.
"Mum, he shouted, "ask it if I can share it with you!
"It's too late sweetie, the chicken's already gone.
The cake felt loaf-shaped and gritty on top, and smelt like lemon pancakes. It tasted lovely, but Stephen didn't really enjoy it because he knew it meant sitting on his own. He sat and ate it anyway as he didn't want to seem ungrateful, but secretly he looked forward to the day in eight years time when the chicken would bring the last cake and never come again. Eight years was a lifetime away.

The chicken went on bringing cakes for seven more weeks, until one day when Stephen was tired and his stomach was stretched with food, he sat in his cubbyhole and cried into the cake and turned it sour. He squeezed the cake in his fists until it crumbled onto the floor, and wailed "I don't want this nasty cake anymore! He didn't eat it that day even though he knew he was supposed to, and hid the remains under the rotating night light. That night dad came to turn on the night light before reading Stephen "Rapunzel, and he came across the cake debris. Sitting on Stephen's bed, he stroked his head and murmured, "Why are you hiding cake in your room? Stephen told dad about the chicken, even though dad might think he was telling lies. Dad was stronger than mum, and he knew everything about everything; he'd know what to do.
"Please could you make the chicken stop coming? he asked, "I don't like being alone. Dad's brow crinkled and his voice wobbled. "When does this chicken come Stephen?
"All different times dad: sometimes once a week, sometimes twice a week, sometimes more. One week it came nearly every day and I thought I'd be sick from all the cake I ate!
"Don't worry Stephen, I'll speak to mum and find out why this chicken has been coming, and then we'll do something about it.

Dad's bones and slippers creaked together as he got up off his knees, and thumped back down the hallway. Stephen listened out for dad's comforting voice, or the tip-tap of mum's shoes. But all he could hear was the faint hum of the night light rotating, and the dull moan of the wind in the dark outside his window. He became frightened, and seeking reassurance he dragged his blanket with him off the bed and out into the hallway. He called out "What's happening? Dad, where are you?
Dad barked back "Go back to bed Stephen. Mum and I are talking. Stephen felt his eyes swell and start to water. Dad hadn't talked to him like that before. He ran down the stairs and through the hallway ' fingertips tracing the puffy wallpaper and feeling it's corners turn, tiptoed to reach the door handle, and out the front door. He crawled through the garden with his fists in the boggy grass, turning when his fingertips met the squidgy edge of the lawn. Eventually he found a gap between two Conifers at the edge of the garden and crouched inside it. This would be his outdoor cubbyhole now, where there were no chickens, no cakes, no sniffing and shouting. His arms felt prickly with cold. He pulled his blanket round him ' now rimmed in mud - and listened to his breathing go like a steam train, rolling the sickly smell of conifer needles between his grubby fingers.

He'd never been outside alone before. He felt an icy wiggle of excitement zip down his back. The wind felt big and swirly, and he imagined being lifted by it, and it sweeping him up into a wide pool of cold, fast, woody nothingness where he would float and turn into air.

He was pulled down from the sky by the sound of Reeny's voice calling out his name. He sat, unmoving and silent. There was an angry knot in his stomach, heavier than cake, which he couldn't explain. He could hear her shuffling and rustling, and then his face was covered in her hair and her hands were in his armpits, carrying him home.

Reeny pulled him inside, and sat at the kitchen table. She looked like she might say something at any moment, but not a sound came out. "What did Dad say? Stephen asked.
"He said that you don't like the chicken coming.
"I don't.
"I'm sorry, she whispered.
Reeny was quiet for a minute and Stephen reached up to her face to see what she was doing. He felt the rims of her hot clammy eyes. The air between him and her felt tight - as if it were being pulled in two directions, so tight that his words came out as a high-pitched squawk: "Are you sad mum?
"Sometimes I am. He heard her sniff again.
"Are you sad now?
"Yes. He felt sad too.
"I can eat more cake if you want, he offered.
"No sweetie, you eating cake doesn't make me happy. There was another long stretchy silence. Finally Reeny turned to him and said, "Never mind what would make me happy, what would make you happy?
"I am happy. Except when you're not.
Reeny huffed like the dog did when it got its food stuck in its throat. "Stephen¦what's it like not to see?
"It's not like anything really.
"Don't you wonder what it's like to see the world?
Yeah, but I wonder lots of things. I wonder what it's like to live at the bottom of the sea, or what it's like to be a cat, but it doesn't matter that I don't know. I'm happy as I am.
Reeny was silent again for a moment, and Stephen worried that she was sad again, but when he felt her face, it was dry.
Eventually she sighed and said: "I'll do you a deal. Dad and me talked, and we've decided that the chicken won't come anymore. But I won't be able to be here with you all the time. Sometimes I will have to go out of the house, and dad will be here with you then. I know you'd like me here all the time, but I think I might not be as sad if I go out sometimes. Ok?
"Ok. Mum, can I ask a favour?
"Of course.
"Can I play outside sometimes as well? I like it out there.
"Ok.
Stephen smiled for the first time that day. "Mum? he asked.
"Yes?
"Can chickens really knock on doors?
"What do you think? she replied.