A Work in Progress: The Gambler's Daughter Chapter 6

stuck

The Set Up

If you’re new, you can start the story from the beginning HERE or go ahead and jump in.

This is the working draft of a new Roosevelt County Novel about Maxine, a ten-year old girl growing up in Eastern New Mexico in the 1930s. Think Little House on the Prairie, but on the edge of the Dust Bowl and Pa is a gambler.

In these installments, I pull back the curtain on my revision process, posting drafts-in-progress, complete with the typos, question marks, and random “add more here!” notes to self. I’ll explain what has me “stuck” in the chapter or what problems I’m still working to resolve.

For aspiring writers, I hope it gives you permission to write terrible drafts, and learn to work with them to make mediocre drafts, and then keep working until you have something great.

For fans of Roosevelt County fiction, you’ll get early access to my next novel and see how the story develops along the way. You’ll also be invited (begged) to give feedback, so stick around for the Issues section and comment button.

Chapter 6

Momma and I crawled out from under the table. Momma tossed her rags into a pile, wiped her hands on her apron, and followed Claude outside. I noticed Gordon standing just outside the door with his head down and his hands in his pockets. It occurred to me in that moment that I should have let him stay under the bed.

Even though I dreaded Claude’s performance and Gordon’s cowed response, I followed them outside. Sure enough, a hen hung awkwardly from the fence, its neck broken and feathers askew. Momma walked faster, though it was obvious even from a distance that the hen was already dead. She bent down and lifted the wire, freeing the bird without complication.

“I wonder how it got its head stuck in there,” Momma asked, loud enough for anyone to give an answer.

“Remember when one of them got stuck last year?” Claude offered.

“Yes, I do recall,” Momma said as she carried the lifeless bird by its feet. I forgot my chores for the moment as I followed Momma and the boys to the shed. Momma picked up the hatchet hanging on a side wall, laid the bird on the chopping block, removed its head, and tossed it aside for the cat. She hung the rest of the bird to let the blood drain.

“Boys, you better go get that fence cleared,” Momma said.

“C’mon, Maxine! You’re supposed to help us,” Claude insisted.

“She was,” Momma answered, “but now I need her to take care of this chicken.”

Once the boys were gone, I considered telling Momma what I suspected. I hated to see Gordon tangled in Claude’s web. Of course, Daddy wasn’t likely to see much difference in their roles when it came to the dead bird. I held my tongue, but my stomach clinched as I swallowed another suspected truth I wouldn’t share.

I fetched water while Momma carried out the iron pot and built a small fire under it. While we waited for the water to heat, I ran inside to get my apron, two buckets, and a sharp knife. When the water was warm, but not boiling, I removed the bird from its ties and put it in the water, using my hand to submerge it fully.

The smell of the chicken and memories of last summer struck me all at once. It surprised me that the odor of a scalding bird could conjure mental images of my cousins’ visit, Sunday picnics, and the disappointment of another withered garden.

Momma interrupted my rumination with instructions to test the feathers. I grabbed a feather between my thumb and forefinger and lifted a wing out of the pot with it.

“Needs another half-minute,” Momma said. I stared at the bird and counted to thirty, then pulled on another feather. It slipped away from the skin without resistance.

“Once you get it clean, bring it in and we’ll fry it up,” Momma said. She wiped her hands on her apron and headed back toward the house.

I felt sorry for the dead hen. Of course, it was always meant for the frying pan, and maybe it would have been the first one to go anyway, but its life had been cut short, if only by a couple of weeks. After Daddy’s efforts to save the flock yesterday and our pride at not losing a single one, it seemed a shame that this hen might have met its end under questionable circumstances.

As much as I loved fried chicken, I dreaded getting the birds from pecking to pan. I’d watched the process all my life. Momma started teaching me and expecting me to help last year. My hands weren’t as expert at it and my birds were sometimes a little worse for the wear by the time I finished, but I got better as the year went on. After all, I’d had nearly two-hundred chances to practice.

Now, months since processing my last chicken, I worried I might not remember everything, especially without Momma there to help. But as soon as I started, I discovered my hands had memories of their own. I held the bird in place with one hand and ran the other over its back, pulling out feathers by the handful and shaking them off into an empty bucket. The back and breast went quickly, but the wing feathers required more time and attention. They were small and slid off easily, but they clung to my hands, and there were more crevices to contend with.

Once the visible feathers were gone, I put a metal rod with a wooden handle through the bottom end of the chicken, and I knelt beside the fire. I passed the chicken the flames to singe what remained on the otherwise bare skin. After a pass on each side, I wiped the knife on my apron and held the bird in the water as I scraped off the last of the stubble.

I used the knife to separate the skin of each foot from the flesh beneath. Grabbing the resulting flap, I peeled it away as though removing a pair of gloves. I placed the feet in the pocket of my apron so that Boots wouldn’t have the chance to snatch them. The head was the only part of the chicken we wouldn’t use.

I guessed I had as many feathers on my apron as were in the bucket, but I made one more effort to clean the bird. Finally satisfied, I carried the chicken into the house and delivered it to Momma. I removed my apron and stepped toward the back door, ready to resume the tasks Daddy had assigned, but Momma stopped me.

“Where are you going, Sugar?”

“I thought I better help the boys clear the fence. Was there something else you needed me to do?”

“I believe Claude can get that fence cleared by himself today. Why don’t you have a seat and read that poem for me again?”

Puzzled, I retrieved my grammar book from under my bed and returned to sit at the kitchen table. There were ways I’d rather spend my Saturday, but it beat having my arms scraped up by thistle and wire. I recited The Village Blacksmith, mostly without looking at my book, while Momma finished the job of dismembering the chicken.

While I’d been cleaning the bird, I had only considered Claude’s crime. Now, as I smelled the lard heating in the frying pan, I thought of how delicious dinner was going to be and realized that Claude would get away with it. Forgetting the poem, I watched Momma dip each piece of chicken in an egg and milk mixture before dusting it with flour and placing it in the pan. As I listened to the meat sizzle, it occurred to me I couldn’t be certain the hen’s premature end came at my brothers’ hands.

The Issues

I spent WAY too much time processing that chicken. I don’t know why I got so into the weeds of that description, or why I’m reluctant to cut it. It will stay for today, but I bet it doesn’t make the final draft.

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