The God of Chickens
by P. Fern Phillips
Don was nervous. He’d just made his second mistake. The first was disclosing the exact amount of the lien on the church building. He’d thought Presbytery more transparent. This time he’d suggested the wealthier parishioners might contribute to a special ministry fund. At the Annual General Meeting last night, there was unrest.
It was impossible to recruit Louise, another wealthy but eccentric parishioner, they said. God would help him with that. Between God and his people skills, he could do the impossible!
Don’s face was red as he trudged through the wind and ice, walking from town to the outskirts of cold blue fields. He would have to pick words with care.
“Tell her about the Christmas dinner, she will want to come.” Good advice given by others, which boosted his flagging enthusiasm for this job.
Rumor had it that she was overly sensitive to being told she shouldn’t be alone at Christmas, something about grasping relatives and inheritances and the usual family dynamics. There had even been a rumour of elder abuse. OK, he wouldn’t ask about family. Still, she would be naturally cautious about his visit. Wouldn’t she crave human companionship? His past experiences assured him she would.
As Don walked slowly up the driveway, he could see that the field was covered in about six feet of snow. The fields and rolling hills were stark yet stunning.
Louise saw him coming and opened the door. Warm air rushed out, and he could smell baked apple coming from somewhere in her kitchen. She wore a cheap dress and dirty apron. Her hair was uncombed. There was a distinct body odor around her as he shook her hand, and he stepped back quickly.
He was the new minister in the little town full of church steeples. He gave her the room a socially isolated person would need. Somehow, he talked his way in after introducing himself. He had the determination; he had the need. He had a favour to ask, but he couldn’t just blurt it out.
She said, “Normally, I wouldn’t give you the time of day, but there was something in your posture, your tone of voice...” Had she seen something unusual in him? Probably those well-practiced people skills coming to his aid.
“Sure, I know the Jesus story.” She answered his question in a gravelly voice. “This time of year, I think about what a mixed message that gave.”
“May I read it then? Sometimes, in hearing the words...” He struck away unwanted moisture in his eyes. It was just the effect of dry air.
He sat and read the Bible to her in a quiet voice. She was an irregular attendee to services, but he soon realized that she knew her Bible verses. As they discussed the verses, he noticed how she watched his lips move. He didn’t think it was due to a hearing problem. He put his hand over his throat and tugged at loose skin on his neck.
In a flat voice, and with no change in expression he heard her say, “But, I also know those old church ladies, you know the ones who shred reputations like carrots for salad?” Her hands demonstrated strong downward strokes.
He winced. He wondered if he had anything she wanted. What better way to negotiate?
The small-town gossip was frosty and as unforgiving as the deep winter cold. She would not forgive him if he were too bold. He watched her reaction when he asked what she did for social networking.
“No family,” was the terse reply to his gentle query. She turned away. He had done his research, and he knew better. She just did not trust the family relations.
He couldn’t tell her age; she had few wrinkles and only a bit of grey in her hair. Her rooms glowed warm against the winter view out the windows.
“Bought the vineyard about ten years ago. Worked the fields myself.” She set water to boil for tea.
He sensed that she preferred to spend Christmas alone, rather than attending the charity dinner. Still, wasn’t Christmas a time of change and transformation? Maybe the concert would be a better fit. Unlike Louise, Don wasn’t accustomed to living alone. If he could only convince her... Perhaps she needs a specific invitation from someone she trusts, he thought. But still he waited.
“Sell to the factory maybe.” She answered his next question. “Don’t care for the wine-making anymore; too dependent on supply and demand, takes too long to get to market. Too many troubles last year, the winepress owners wouldn’t pay the market price for the grapes. I’ve got the best hybrids in the valley, yet they felt they had to try to cheat me. Then the regulatory board stepped in, but it took months to settle. The way this country works, it’s enough to make a woman want to spit.”
He was afraid she would give him a demonstration, but she had turned her back, lifting the kettle and pouring hot water into a teapot. He waited.
“Perhaps the spring will uncover something different?” Don kept his tone light.
The weak winter sun lit up her face, a halo formed fine wisps at the edge of her forehead. She smiled at his innocent manner. The atmosphere lifted.
“I love the wooden flooring, white poplar, is it?” Don pointed to distressed planks.
“Someone had cared for this place once,” she told him. “Not me, a previous owner or a relative, perhaps. In my ten years I’ve barely made a change. I spent a lifetime in a gentler environment, then I came here.”
“So did I. Expectations can be a downfall,” he whispered, and she inclined her head.
They talked for a half-hour about countries, politics, books, and political leaders. They could have talked for days. Yet, he had to work around to the favour he was going to ask. It was awkward because he knew about her circumstances.
He pointed to a painting. “Mine,” she responded softly.
The town was full of artsy types, difficult people, often disturbed by alcoholism and mental illness. Would this turn out to be her nemesis? What would be a way to engage? Oh, they had already got engaged, now it was time. “I need to ask something of you.”
“I am not a puppy.” This was her only attempt at explanation to Don. He could see something in that image all right. Apparently, she did not appreciate being coddled. “Don’t bother inviting me.” Was she referring to the Christmas concert.
He decided to change the subject, talk about the inheritance program. Many parishioners gave their estate over to the church, especially those who have lived beyond any value to their aging and diminishing families. The vineyard was worth millions. It was worth a try. He explained how the declining bureaucracy was in need. She remained unmoved. “Well, that’s not what I want anyway. I’m not one to give donations. “ She turned to the sink and started running hot water over dirty dishes.
He was undiscouraged. “What are you doing to keep busy away out here? I think I would get depressed.”
Her eyes went from blue to gray and her chin jutted as she pointed around her, but they were all things he already noted. There was no emotion on her face when she pointed around her. Art was everywhere, and fine embroidery, silk cushions, and unusual gold artifacts from eastern countries.
“I’d like to borrow your gold angel for the pageant,” he blurted out and silently chastised himself for his unskilled approach.
“What?!” Her eyes bulged. Her mouth was tight, her lips thinned. She tried to stare him down. He stared back, silent. “How will I know it will come back home?” Her voice was rough. “Anyway, it’s not an angel, it’s an effigy of a pagan god!”
“It would be perfect, do you see?” He was sweating in the small, overheated room. It seemed like there was only room for one person in her house.
“What if I put a chair next to it, and you sit through the play and parade afterwards? You can keep your eye on it.”
She reflected, “It’s got a rather odd story behind it. It’s the God of Gossip!” His eyes widened and he took a deep breath.
“Oh, not quite the exact interpretation,” she quickly corrected herself before he could interrupt, “but God of Chickens as I recall, and the chicken represented women who gossip.”
Why tell him, he wondered? He sensed she was intrigued by his suggestion.
“It’s known to have an effect on church women in particular. Perhaps... not what they would expect, you think?”
“Oh, I don’t—” He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, and then she abruptly stood up and handed it to him.
“I won’t attend.” Her voice was flat. “In fact, it’s yours.”
He was speechless.
“I think you need it more than I do, but you can do one thing for me...”
“What, sure, anything.” He clutched the priceless statue tightly. It had turned out to be a good day after all.
“Say a prayer for my sister. She’s not going to get a dime, the grasping bitch.” Louise abruptly showed him to the door.
There were a few people out walking now in the weak sunshine. She did not wave, and no one said “Good day” to her.
Copyright © 2023 by P. Fern Phillips
