Brooster the Untimely Rooster

The still July heat was smoldering on the farm!  Rays of heat made the space where

 the horizon met the earth look like a mirage of steaming water.  Sweat trickled

 down Amanda's young face before nine in the morning, stinging her eyes.  She

 was sitting on the back porch with her head bent forward while she busily shelled

 the pan of Dixie Lee peas.  Wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts abated the heat

 but the white enameled pan stuck to her hot bare legs.  Something was going to

 happen today.  The air was still and you could almost hear your thoughts the

 countryside was so quiet.  A feeling of foreboding lay on her heart and she couldn’t

 figure out why.

The peas rolled like little green pearls out of the long pods tumbling into the pan.  Grandma had told Amanda to have them shelled by the time she returned from the vegetable garden. Grandma believed in saving every morsel that was not used immediately. She was gathering ripe red tomatoes that grew in bounty to can in sparkling mason jars that afternoon.  The peas were going to be part of the noonday meal and she would not accept nonsense as an excuse for having to rethink her menu.

  Daddy and Grandpa would be hungry because they had been plowing cotton since sunup.  They expected to have their dinner ready and waiting for them at noon.  After they ate their fill of the hearty meal of fried pork chops, peas, rice smothered in stewed fresh tomatoes, homemade buttermilk biscuits and washed down with glass after glass of sweetened iced tea Amanda knew the men would “lay down” as they called it for a short nap.

  How she despised this quite time.  At least, it was supposed to be quiet time.  It was her responsibility to see to it that it was.  For years that had simply meant that she was to play quietly if she didn’t take a nap herself.  She remembered how painfully difficult that had been when she was not sleepy.  It was too hot to sleep. 

She would toss and turn on the old patchwork quilt pallet that her grandmother would make for her on the floor in front of the screened side door.  If any breeze stirred through the old oak tree in the yard, it would drift through the house affording a refreshing breath of coolness for the little body sticky with sweat.  Now, Amanda longed for those days.  How she would love to content herself on grandma’s pallet with a good book to fill her head with dreams.  Alas, that was no longer her privilege.

        The baby chicks hatched in spring.  They had been so beautiful wearing their

 coats of soft yellow down with orange beaks and yellow toes.  When they grew to

 what grandma called pullet size most of the roosters had faced the farmers sacrifice. 

 They were put in the freezer for later use. 

        One hatchling grew into an especially beautiful rooster.  As soon as his pen

 feathers  came in it was obvious he was going to be brilliant shades of red and

 green.  His  plumage was the envy of all self-respecting roosters and one by one he

 dominated  each until he was officially “Cock of the Walk”.  He grew to an

 enormous size for a  yard rooster becoming quite a sultan over his harem of hens. 

Proudly, he strutted about the yard, displaying his colorful tail feathers of iridescent

 green and black while thrusting his red and orange chest out to catch the reflections

 of the sun.  Tossing back his head with its crown of blood red comb, he would

 announce his majestic presence loud and clear for all to hear. 

        Most roosters only crowed with the rising of the sun.  “Brooster” as Amanda

 had taken to calling him, seemed to think it was his right and privilege to crow as

 timely as the striking of the old mantle clock.  For some unknown reason, he

 seemed to be the proudest and loudest when the sun began its decline from noon.

 For it was then that he crowed incessantly.

Leaning back in his chair and giving his tummy a satisfied pat, Amanda's father firmly instructed her that he was going to take a nap.  She knew what that meant. Every day was the same.  Daddy would “lay down”.   It was her responsibility to keep Brooster the Rooster quiet while he rested. Every day Brooster would get crowing hiccups!  Regardless of his obvious beauty, he was fast becoming a pest!

Thump!  Thump!  Daddy’s work boots tumbled off his feet and dropped to the floor as he stretched his tired body out on the couch.  Within what seemed like seconds his deep breathing told her he was asleep.  He would be snoring soon.  She wondered, only to herself of course, why the racket he made when he slept didn’t wake him and Brooster’s crowing did.  Heaving a heavy sigh of resignation, she trudged outside into the heat of the day.  If she was lucky, she could find the feathered bugler and chase him out of the yard and into the cornfield behind the house before he began his nerve-shattering serenade.

Where was he today?  She went into the back yard and looked toward the hen house where he was usually strutting his authority over all fowl present.  She didn’t see him.  Gnats swarmed her face.  Maybe it was so hot he was going to be quite today.  Almost before she could finish the thought she heard him.  His crow split the quiet midday like lightening from an unexpected thunderstorm.  Blast him!  He was in the front yard!

Running with the speed that only a ten-year-old farm girl possessed, she rounded the corner of the house with braids flying behind her. There he was!  He was in the far corner of the yard.   Flexing his wings as if pumping himself up, he threw back his head and cut loose again.  She dared not yell at him for a number of reasons.  First and foremost, she would get in double trouble for making as much racket as the rooster.  Secondly, at that moment, what she would utter would earn her at least ten Bible verses to learn.  She already had five to master before Sunday for another minor transgression.  She truly did love to read the Bible but she found Nancy Drew to be far more entertaining.

Waving her arms and running menacingly toward him she was able to startle him enough to stop him in mid-crow.  He raced around the house like he was happy the chase was on.  She really believed he enjoyed this ‘round-house’ everyday.   Oh! If she could just get her hands around his warbling throat!  She had never willfully injured another living creature in her young life but she felt she was capable of making Brooster think she was going to.

Stopping to catch her breath, she realized he was gone.  Maybe he was in the cornfield looking for juicy worms.  Wiping her face on her shirttail left a wet, mottled streak that Grandma was sure to notice. “Well, you were supposed to get dirty on a farm!” she thought to herself with justification.

Just as she was almost hopeful that quiet had finally returned to the tranquil countryside; he crowed again!   This time it almost sounded like he was teasing her because it was shriller than any before.  She started running toward the sound.  He saw her and finished his performance on the run as he headed toward the cornfield.  She knew that if this continued her Daddy was going to come out of the house with his boots in hand and he would not be happy with her.

Running fast, propelled by the anger that possessed her, she gave chase to Brooster.  The rows of corn were freshly plowed and were clean enough to see through. Brooster ran up and over the rows, darting in and out between the tall stalks.  Instead of running farther from the yard, he insisted on darting back and forth only three or four rows from the edge of the field. 

The heat in the cornfield was stifling and Amanda's lungs were beginning to burn.  She knew if she gave up pursuit Brooster would only return to the yard to bugle his triumph.   In complete exhaustion and frustration, she stopped running for a second.  With no forethought of what she was about to do, she reached down and picked up a hard clod of dirt in her tiny hand.  It was quiet in the cornfield.  The drying fodder didn’t even rustle for there was no breeze to stir them.  The only sound was from the whine of gnats that buzzed about her face and her own heavy breathing. 

Holding her breath, she listened.  Brooster listened.  Making a decision that could have proved to be his last; Brooster spread his strong wings and pumped up his proud chest again.  Amanda  heard him.  Her arm rose as if it didn’t belong to her and took aim in the direction of the sound of flapping wings.  The clod of dirt left her fingertips with a swooshing sound.  The last crow anyone on that farm heard from Brooster began magnificent enough but it stopped midway on a sour note and all was quiet again.  

What had she done?  Realization slowly began to settle over her.  How would she ever explain to Grandma about the prize rooster that she set such store by?   Tears began to run down Amanda's face as she ran in the direction that she had flung the hard clod of dirt.  Almost in a whisper, she started calling him.  “Brooster…(sniff - sniff) Broooooter, here chick, chick, chick.”  Quiet.  There was no sound in the cornfield except her sniffles, and heavy breathing.   She looked and she looked for the elusive fowl.  He seemed to have vanished!

Woefully walking back to the house she tried to figure out what had happened to Brooster.  If she had stopped him in his tracks he would still be there.  He had not been found.  Picking up the water hose, she dragged it over to the spigot and turned the handle.  Cool water gushed from the pipe and splattered on her dirty bare feet.   Holding the flowing water close to her face she drank her fill, allowing the refreshment to spill over her face.  Drying her face again on her shirttail, she turned the water off and went to the back porch steps and sat down.  Resting her chin in her hands and propping her elbows on her knees, she wondered what she should do.

Grandma had advised her often that when one was in doubt they should do nothing.  Well, she decided, that was exactly what she was going to do.  She made up her mind.  If no one asked her about Brooster she would not mention him either.  Maybe he was resting somewhere just like she was.  Maybe he would be home later.  But, Brooster didn’t come home.

That afternoon as she helped Grandma wash and peel the tomatoes for canning she kept a watchful eye for the returning rooster.  He didn’t come home when it was time for the chickens to be fed their daily ration of shelled corn.  He didn’t come home when the sun started setting and it was time for all chickens to go to their roost.  He didn’t come home the next day either.  Amanda worried and wondered about the minstrel rooster for days.  She felt like she was living in a world where she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.  She was dreadfully sorry for what she had done.

Amanda tortured herself with thoughts of having willfully harmed and possibly killed something in anger.  She knew that was wrong.  Daddy went about his naps as usual and didn’t say anything about Brooster.  Grandma never mentioned him either.  Did they know?  Were they waiting for her to confess?

What should she confess to?  She had not been able to find Brooster.  He vanished.  She knew she couldn’t tell them that he vanished because nothing just vanishes.  Everything has to go somewhere.  

Several days later Amanda was visiting a friend’s house on the adjoining farm.   She was asked to stay and share their noonday meal.  She was delighted.  After everyone had finished eating, her friend’s father announced, not unlike her own father, that he was going to take a nap.  Amanda's friend got a pained look on her face.  After the two girls excused themselves from the table and went outside she found out why.

  Do you know why?

Rosalene H. Abrams