The Lover's Children

Chapter 66 – April’s Tears #17

JAMES

Squeals come from somewhere across the garden, Cara’s infant shrieks of delight. Then Michael’s

words... “Exciting isn’t it. There, we’ll put him in here…

And more squeals…

“Yes, there’s another one…”

Charlotte gives me a questioning glance.

I shrug.

No idea…

Together we follow the sounds to Michael’s chicken run, fenced off now within a large wire mesh

enclosure. I unhook the entrance gate - in truth more an entrance door as I realise my head is brushing

against a wire mesh ‘roof’ to the enclosure. At base level too, the mesh overlaps the ground, the edge

turfed over. No fox is going to dig its way into Michael’s galline answer to Fort Knox. Various small runs,

arks and coops line the inside of the run.

A child’s vocal enthusiasm spills from inside the main shed. As I enter, a finger of light slants over

Michael and Cara, both turned away from us, intent on something: a large plywood box, perhaps a

couple of feet high, set on the ground, a lantern… no, a heat-lamp… dangling above. Assorted

paraphernalia hangs on hooks and nails. Another container sits on a low bench: despite its transparent

plastic top, it’s too steamed up to display the contents.

Michael, squatted on his haunches, glances over his shoulder. “Close the door, would you. Keep the

heat in.”

Charlotte follows me in, closing the door behind her.

My infant daughter holds in her cupped hands, an egg. The shell partly cracked open, a small body

inside heaves, forcing the two halves apart.

Michael beams. “You picked a good time.”

Cara babbles delight, holding up her cupped palms for inspection. “Chikkie, Nunky Jammy. Mommee…

Chikkie!”

Michael holds his much larger hand under hers. “Be careful. Don’t drop it. Just watch.”

With a herculean effort, the tiny creature surges and half the shell falls away. Another surge, the other

half follows, and Cara holds in her hands the tiny, wet panting body of what looks like a small dinosaur.

Michael guides her. “Now, we’ll put him under the lamp, then he stays warm.”

The plywood box, lined with newspaper and shavings is not just warm, but hot. Three chicks, in varying

stages of drying out, cluster together in the centre of the beam. One is already completely fluffed up:

bright yellow with a pale brown stripe down its back. The others lie quiet, tiny chests heaving, their

down still damp, dark and matted.

Her tongue poking out in concentration, and with exaggerated care, Cara places her newly hatched

chick beside them.

“There you see,” says Michael. “She can dry out her feathers and she’ll soon be all yellow and fluffy.”

The door creaks open. Klempner pokes his head in inside.”What…?” He halts mid-sentence and steps

inside, gazing into the brooder box. Cara gapes and points. “Chikkies, Gandy Kay. Chikkies!”

Klempner regards his granddaughter, stares into the box. After long seconds, “When you said you were

planning on hatching chickens, I suppose I’d not thought through what that meant.” His voice is gruff,

but even he sounds charmed.

Michael wears a cat-that-got-the-cream grin. “I wanted it as a present for Cara. And since I’ve never

done it before, I needed to be sure all was well before I said too much about it.” He glances up. “Vicky

can help in a year or so.”

Cara squeals, pointing. “Nuther chikkie, Dada!”

Sure enough, in the incubator, through the cloud of humidity, more shells are chipping as their

occupants fight the hardest journey of their small lives.

Klempner peers through the steam. “They look a mixed bag. Are they all the same breed?”

“Nope. I ordered several different varieties over the internet. I wasn’t sure what would do best here so

like I said before, I thought some variety would be a good idea. See what works, and what thrives here.

But they’re all general-purpose breeds, good for eggs and…” He glances down at the enthralled Cara,

presses a finger to his lips… “… and other things.”

She’s not noticed. “Addie?”

Michael hooks an arm around his adopted daughter. “Yes, when they get back, we'll get Aunty Beth to

bring Adam to see them, shall we. They'll be nice and pretty and fluffy then.”

“They’re already back,” says Charlotte.

Cara punches a little arm upward. “Ya ya yay ya!”

*****

By the end of the following day, Michael’s ‘nursery’ homes twenty-some cheeping occupants of

assorted shades, stripes and spots. Two eggs remain in the incubator.

Cara refuses to move from the hatching shed. And I’m inclined toward Michael’s view. It’s good for her

to learn about such things. Rather than drag her indoors, I take out some warmed milk and a chopped

banana for her.

Cara remains glued to the incubator, watching intently…

Hell of an attention span for a toddler…

… waiting for more signs of chipping. She tugs at Michael’s pullover, pointing at the unmoving eggs.

“Chikkies, Dada?”

He swings his head. “I don’t think so, Sweetheart. Let’s have a look, shall we.” He produces a torch,

shining the beam through the egg from behind. The shell glows orange, but inside is only a turgid swirl.

“No chikkie in this one, Cara.”

Her face crumples. “No chikkie?”

“No. No chikkie. Not in this egg. It happens sometimes.”

Cara’s little face screws up, reddens up.

He squats down, takes her tiny hand in his. “It’s alright, Sweetheart. It’s just Nature’s way of saying

something was wrong with the egg and it can’t make the chikkie properly. It’s better the chikkie doesn’t

hatch, than it’s born and it can’t have a nice life.” Cara’s lip still trembles. “Don’t worry about it. You

have all these pretty chikkies. They’ll be yours if you help me, help them to grow up big and strong.”

Cara beams, tragedy forgotten. “Cara’s chikkies?”

“Yes, yours. So, it’s important you learn to look after them. I’ll show you how to do it.”

*****

RICHARD

Mitch whisks around the lounge with duster and spray, moving wine glasses, bottles and decanters.

“Am I in your way?”

“Not at all,” she smiles. “I just thought I’d freshen up the room.” She opens the back window, swinging it

wide and the scent of blossom and cut grass floods in. “It’s a lovely day. Time to let some air through

the house. You get back to your reading, Richard. Don’t let me disturb you.”

Sounds good to me…

In fact, I’ve finished with my newspaper. The financials are everything I would hope. The sport is of no

interest. And I’ve no time for the glitterati rubbish and the so-called information on ‘How To Spend It’ in

those interminable magazines that come with the papers.

Who reads that stuff?

Crossword maybe?

But I can’t be bothered.

Folding up the paper, I stash it in the rack.

Mitch swipes a finger over the top of the bookshelf, examines the finger, Tuts, then tiptoes up with her

cloth. “Have you done with those old papers?” Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Sorry?”

“Your old newspapers. If you’ve finished with them. I’ll put them in the kindling bucket. The glossies can

go in the recycling bin.”

“Oh, yes. All yours.”

What’s next?

I check my diary.

Oh, yes…

Fill James in with progress on that refuge project…

Where’d I put those meeting notes?

And I’m halfway down the hall before I remember…

… and I dash back to the lounge.

Mitch is on the settee, sorting through the contents of the magazine rack, separating newspapers into

glossy magazines into separate piles on the cushions.

“I’ll do that, Mitch. I just remembered there was an article I wanted to cut out.”

“Oh, right. No problem.” She stands, brushing down her sweater. The cushions shift and the two stacks

avalanche down, fanning over the floor. Will’s photos, carelessly tucked inside a newspaper, slide from

their hiding place.

“Damn!” Mitch hunkers down, gathering the fallen papers. “Sorry, Richard, I didn't mean...”

I move sharply, trying to intercept her, but not sharply enough.

She stalls, recoils. “Oh, my God.”

“Mitch, don't...” But I'm way too late.

Hands trembling, her breath uneven, Mitch stares at the police photos. “Who would do this? It’s…

She’s… Oh, God…” She chokes up. “You wouldn’t gut a pig like that.”

Easing closer, I try to reclaim the photos, but Mitch snatches her hand away. Her voice harsh, “Is this

what Stanton wanted to talk to Larry about? Is it that serial killer?”

“Yes, but Mitch, Will doesn't believe Larry had anything to do with it. That’s not why he was here.”

“What then?”

“He was asking for Larry’s help.”

Mitch swallows, shoots me a toxic look. “And you were all going to simply hide this from me? Not say

anything?”

“Larry refused. Because of you. And Charlotte. And Vicky. He said he had to put you first and he

refused to get involved.”

Mitch deflates. “Oh.” Her eyes slide over the horror in her hand. “But whoever did this, he has to be

stopped.”

“Of course, but do you want Larry to be a part of that?” Once more, I try to prise the photos from her.

This time, she doesn’t resist and I slip them into my jacket pocket.

Mitch presses a fist to her mouth, talking behind it. “These women, they're all street girls?”

“Yes, so Will tells us.”

“So...” She meets my eye… “It could have been me he came after.”

“I… suppose… It’s a long time since you were working, Mitch.”

Shrugging, she turns away. “I’m going to talk to Larry.”

*****

KLEMPNER

“You’re sure about this, Mitch? I refused in the first place so I didn’t upset you.”

“Yes, I’m sure. This is too important. If you can help catch this murdering bastard, I want you to do it.”

“Very well, I’ll call Stanton. Mitch…”

“Mmmm?”

“Jenny wanted to be involved.”

She stalls, then, “I think we can rely on James and Michael to put a stop to that.”

*****