Hug Chickenpenny Read online

  At the first stop sign, the caretaker braked, reached into his glove compartment, and extracted a bright green tape cassette, which he then slotted into the console. He thumbed the rewind button. Gears whirred for a few seconds and clicked. A chubby finger pressed the play arrow.

  Religious folk music enlivened the car speakers. Atop the canvas of mandolins, tambourines, and acoustic guitars was a children’s choir.

  “His gentle hands . . .” the group sang, “His gentle hands hold us. His gentle hands . . . His gentle hands carry away our sins.”

  This familiar hymn brought George comfort as he dialed the steering wheel and accelerated onto a new road. Fifteen miles below the legal speed limit, the green hatchback passed a factory. This imposing red brick edifice had thirty-seven cylindrical smokestacks of varying height and width.

  The caretaker sang aloud during the second verse.

  “His gentle hands shield us from wickedness . . . His gentle hands help us ascend . . .”

  George knew that he could not sing very well, but that did not stop him from so doing when nobody else was around.

  Fifteen minutes later, he dialed the steering wheel clockwise and drove into the parking lot of a big concrete building. The narrow windows and utilitarian design of this edifice resembled those of a prison.

  The caretaker shifted gears, shut off the engine, and fingered the eject button, which violently launched the cassette from the console. A chubby hand snatched the recording from the air and replaced it in the glove compartment. Pocketing his keys, he exited the little green hatchback and strode to the paved walkway.

  In front of him stood a sign that read: Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted.

  Thinking of the most anomalous orphan, George neared the entrance, straightened his emerald tie, and flung wide the door. Ahead of him was the reception area, an antiseptic off-white space that was adorned with children’s drawings, many of which depicted nonexistent beasts, castles, and parents.

  Clanking, the entryway closed. The caretaker continued forward.

  Sitting behind the front counter was Jennifer Kimberly, a twenty-four-year-old bleached blonde who had a sullen expression on her heavily made-up face. The receptionist averted her gaze in order to avoid making any eye contact with the caretaker.

  Thinking of far pleasanter people, George maintained his cheerful attitude. “Good morning, Miss Jennifer Kimberly.”

  No response came from the receptionist.

  “As always,” the caretaker resumed, “I’ll interpret your silence as a friendly reciprocation of my own greeting.”

  Unresponsive, Jennifer Kimberly stared at her desk. It seemed as if a red ballpoint pen, a stapler, and some liquid eraser had suddenly become objects of great interest.

  “Thanks for rationing oxygen,” George said as he passed the desk and continued toward the hallway that stood on the far side of the room.

  One quietly muttered word escaped the array of bleached-blond hair:

  “Weirdo.”

  The caretaker did not remark upon this remark, even though he knew that he was not weird.

  His footfalls echoed as he walked down the front hallway. A dozen strides brought him to the Employees’ Lounge, wherein sat Carol, a thirty-one-year-old woman who had freckles, glasses, and very short hair, and Thomas, a black fellow of a similar vintage who had a two-inch Afro and a pair of impressive sideburns that looked like peninsulas.

  “I’ll finish telling you later,” Carol said to Thomas.

  George had noticed that his co-workers often ended their conversations when he entered the Employees’ Lounge, and he was not sure if this was evidence of politeness or a conspiracy. In either case, his cheerful disposition was undiminished.

  Teal chairs squeaked as the seated duo turned and looked toward the caretaker.

  “Good morning to both of you,” said George, who was smiling.

  Empty cheer was forced to the faces of Carol and Thomas. “Good morning.”

  “G’mornin’.”

  The caretaker walked over to the water cooler, and from the cylindrical dispenser gently tugged a waxen paper cup that had a smiley face on its side. This receptacle he held very close to the spigot, which would minimize wasteful splatter in the very near future. His chubby thumb pressed a button, and water drained into the cup.

  Carol, Thomas, and George monitored this not very remarkable act.

  At present, the caretaker released the button, brought the beverage to his mouth, and drank two inches.

  “How are the little ones today?” asked George.

  Thomas scratched a hirsute peninsula. “Sleeping.”

  “Good—that’s a very important part of the infant itinerary. Have all their diapers been changed?”

  The seated duo exchanged furtive glances.

  “Mostly,” replied the black fellow, who then raised a brown mug of coffee to his lips.

  George arched an eyebrow at the slightly oblique response that his inquiry had just received.

  Rather than offer any clarifications, Thomas slurped a hot hunk of coffee.

  “Mostly . . . ?” prompted George. “We’re not short on diapers again are we?”

  “Nah. Not that. But Hug started to make such a racket . . . I just couldn’t stay in there to do it.”

  Carol nodded in agreement. “I could hear it screaming all the way from outside the building.”

  The black fellow sighed. “I meant to go back and try again.”

  George eyed the steam that rose from the brown mug.

  “After my coffee,” defended Thomas, who then looked toward a teal wall that did not contain anything at which to look.

  The caretaker finished his water, carried the empty cup over to the counter, opened a drawer, withdrew a thick black marker, and popped off the cap. Applying the thick felt tip to the waxen surface, he wrote a G and an E and an O and an R and a G and an E and an ’ and an S and a C and a U and a P.

  The seated duo silently watched this endeavor.

  At present, George set George’s cup on the counter, snapped the cap upon the marker, and eyed his peers. “I’ll go change his diapers.”

  Relief shone upon the faces of Thomas and Carol.

  “And Carol,” the caretaker said, “would you please not refer to Hug Chickenpenny as an ‘it’? I find that offensive.”

  “Sorry, George. His screaming is just so loud . . . and . . . and so fierce . . .”

  “His screaming is loud and fierce, and he has a hard life ahead of him because of being an orphan and how he looks. So now is the time to fill his heart with kindness and hope and love so that he won’t ever, ever run out of it . . . That’s why I named him Hug.”

  Guiltily, Carol fingered a plastic orange paperclip and nodded her head. “It was a good name to give him.”

  “I think so too.”

  George smiled and turned away.

  III | They Crawled Away from Him

  Eighteen sets of buzzing fluorescent lights illuminated the long, gray passageway through which George Dodgett walked while humming the hymn that he had listened to on his way to work. In his right hand he held a steel ring from which depended keys that jingled like the holiday season.

  The caretaker reached the far door, which he unlocked and swung wide. Keys clanked as he passed into a small white cubicle that resembled an airlock. The door opposite the one that he had just used was adorned with a sign that read: No Children. Below this proclamation was an illustration of a crawling boy who had received a giant red X.

  George inserted a long key that had seven teeth into the next lock and turned his hand. A bolt snapped. The door retreated two inches, opening, and the automated one that was behind him swung shut.

  From the area that lay beyond came the sounds of children talking, laughing, and yelling.

  The caretaker withdrew his key and walked into the inner hallway that he himself had painted green. Orphan noises emanated from behind the many closed doors that were connected to this passage. Th
ese familiar sounds filled him with warmth.

  George locked the entryway, sat down on the carpet, and took off his loafers, revealing white socks, which had green, segmented toes and matching stripes. The sounds of children percolated as he rose to his feet and walked toward the Nursery, which was at the far end of the inner hallway.

  A terrible, piercing shriek eclipsed all other sounds. This horrendous cry was followed by utter silence.

  Dismayed, George shook his head and continued forward. “Poor Hug.”

  Frightened infants began to cry. Several traumatized toddlers wailed. A second otherworldly shriek sounded.

  The complainers quieted, and silence returned to the inner hallway. George continued toward the Nursery.

  A door thudded against the wall and slammed shut. The caretaker watched the far end of the passage.

  There, a tiny Spanish woman of fifty years who wore a teal skirt and matching blouse backed away from the room that she had just exited. Her shaking hands were pressed against her ears so forcefully that the pressure threatened the integrity of her skull.

  “Leticia,” George called down the hallway, “there’s no need t—”

  “¡Mis oidos! ¡El muenstro es horrible! ¡El es un diablito del infierno!”

  During these exclamations, the caretaker traversed the hallway and reached the frightened nursemaid, who was still covering her ears.

  George reached out and gently took Leticia’s hands from her head. “Is the diaper cart still inside?” inquired the caretaker.

  “Si—it is. Inside . . . In there . . .”

  Fearfully, the nursemaid glanced back at the room from which she had just emerged.

  “That’s great,” remarked George. “Why don’t you go check up on the toddlers while I handle Hug?”

  Relieved, Leticia nodded. “Gracias. Thank you, Mr. Dodgett. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  George proceeded toward the closed room in which lay the loudest resident of Johnstone’s Home for the Unwanted. Soft, chubby feet in toe socks carried the caretaker past six unmarked doors, four Sleeping Quarters, as well as The Playroom, Arts & Crafts, The Junior Academy, The Senior Academy, Infirmary, and the penultimate room, which was labeled: Interrogations & Discipline. Beyond that dreaded place and on the opposite side of the green passage was the last room. A chubby shadow landed on this final door, which was labeled: The Nursery.

  The inner hallway was eerily silent.

  George felt uneasy, despite himself and the various gentle reprimands that he had given his peers regarding their treatment of the baby, Hug.

  At present, the caretaker shut his eyes, muttered a few words, thought of his Lord, inhaled deeply, exhaled, and looked directly ahead. A key that did not tremble overmuch proceeded toward the lock and slid into the opening.

  George twisted his hand, and the bolt clicked.

  A terrible shriek resounded beyond the door. This noise was a dense mixture of wails, bleats, and squeals that seemed far beyond the production capabilities of any human being, much less one undersized infant. Although the anomalous baby had been at the orphanage for more than two months, nobody had grown accustomed to his hideous cries.

  The shriek stopped.

  Cautiously, George pushed the door forward.

  Two frightened, wide-eyed infants crawled through the opening. The first fugitive had lush golden curls upon his pale head, and his successor was a doughy, dark-haired Asian.

  “Hamilton. Egg Roll.”

  Guilty babies looked up.

  George leaned over and scooped the infants from the ground with his soft, but very capable hands.

  “Come on, you two.”

  The caretaker carried the fugitives into the Nursery, an air-conditioned, sky-blue room that had matching shag carpets and off-white ceilings. Fifteen toy mobiles dangled over the exact same number of cribs.

  George turned to the right and set Hamilton inside a vacant baby bed.

  The pristine little blonde looked up. His bright blue eyes bespoke innocence.

  With a broad index finger, George tapped Hamilton on the nose. “I don’t know how you got out, but don’t do it again. You might hurt yourself.”

  The caretaker took two steps and set the Asian fugitive in the adjacent crib. “Same goes for you, Egg Roll.”

  George brushed raven black hair from Egg Roll’s eyes. The baby cooed, eliciting a grin from the caretaker.

  A terrible shriek startled George.

  Three seconds later, the hideous cry ended.

  The caretaker turned around and faced the tented, emerald-green crib that stood in the farthest corner of the room. Abandoned there was the nursemaid’s cart, a tiered apparatus that contained three milk bottles, a box of cloth towelettes, a plump roll of paper wipes, several neatly folded diapers, and a cup that was filled with safety pins.

  George inhaled, exhaled, and walked directly toward the crib in which lay Hug. A black infant whom the caretaker passed was pulling at the bars of her crib as if she might try to escape.

  “Cocoa. Don’t let Hamilton and Egg Roll give you any funny ideas. You stay put.”

  Admonished, Cocoa tossed her rump upon crinkly bedding.

  George continued toward the tented crib. The smell of baby waste struck him, and he waved his right hand in front of his face in order to clear the air.

  “No wonder you’ve been cryi—”

  A shriek pierced ears. Wincing, the caretaker continued across the room until he stood beside the tented crib.

  Obscured by diaphanous muslin was the anomalous baby, whose respirations were loud, thick, and wet.

  George drew the fabric aside and looked upon Hug Chickenpenny.

  The baby’s pink torso was shaped like a lima bean and discolored by rough patches of white skin. From his diapered waist sprouted two undersized legs; the right one was straight, albeit small, and other one was curved. A limp, rarely-used appendage dangled from his left shoulder, and a healthy arm that had four fingers (but no thumb) depended from the other.

  His bald, venous, and asymmetrical head was swollen at the top and had no small amount of lumps. Thin lips and wide nostril slits sat below his eyes, which were large and mismatched; the left one was brown and the right one was red.

  Inscrutably, Hug stared up at George. “Smells like you need some new diapers.”

  The anomalous baby scratched his left ear, which was purplish-red with irritation.

  “Don’t do that,” said the caretaker. “You’ll just make it worse.” Little fingers continued to scratch the inflamed region.

  George gently took Hug’s wrist and halted the activity.

  “Well, Hug . . . it looks like I’ll have to once again cover up your hand with that padded bootie.”

  The anomalous baby eyed at the caretaker and shrieked.

  IV | The End of His First Orbit

  George Dodgett entered the lobby, carrying good cheer and a stomach that had gained five pounds since the previous summer. Behind the front desk sat Jennifer Kimberly, an array of mascara and teased, bleached hair who avoided making any eye contact with the new arrival.

  “Good morning, Miss Jennifer Kimberly. How’re you today?”

  The blond receptionist stared at the teal telephone that sat upon her desk.

  “Are you waiting for a call? Or maybe trying to figure out how to communicate through the telephone, without actually touching the telephone? That would certainly save the orphanage some money on—”

  George stopped his teasing at the exact moment that he saw the extraordinary thing.

  Sitting amidst the magazines, romance novels, and pens that covered the front desk was a box covered with maroon wrapping paper and glorious golden ribbons.

  This item strongly resembled a birthday present.

  Hopeful, the caretaker walked forward. “Could it be . . . ?”

  The blond receptionist rolled her chair to the farthest corner of her desk.

  “Who’s this for?” in
quired George, who was pointing at the giftwrapped box.

  Unable to deny a direct inquiry from a fellow employee, Jennifer Kimberly offered a shrug.

  The caretaker leaned forward and inspected the giftwrapped box more closely.

  Tucked under the golden ribbon was a small, white envelope, which was approximately the size of a business card.

  “How did this get here?” inquired George.

  Again, Jennifer Kimberly shrugged.

  The caretaker plucked the tiny envelope from beneath the golden ribbon.

  Written on the parcel in fine calligraphy were the words, For Meredith Chickenpenny’s Baby.

  Warm feelings filled George, and his eyes sparkled. Delicately, he broke the tiny wax seal that adhered the flap of the little envelope. The card that he extracted was white and edged with golden filigree.

  Upon this miniature missive was written, Happy Birthday!

  George tucked the anonymous card back into the envelope and slid the latter underneath the golden ribbon. Cheerfully, he claimed the package and strode across the lobby.

  The caretaker passed through the front hallway, the two doors, and the inner passage. Quietly, he entered the Nursery, where he proceeded directly to the tented, emerald-green crib. Upon the ground nearby, he set down the birthday present.

  George stood up, leaned over, and raised Hug out of the crib. The anomalous baby had gained four and a half pounds since his arrival. None of this weight had helped to standardize his shape, though nine tufts of white hair now sprouted from his lumpy and venous scalp.

  “Hug Chickenpenny,” the caretaker said, “allow me congratulate you on your first successful orbit of the sun.”

  With mismatched eyes, Hug blankly regarded George.

  “Today you’ve achieved the status of a child who has lived one full year. And that achievement must be celebrated!”

  Accidentally, Hug opened his mouth. The glistening and bumpy insides of this cavity were purple.

  “Happy birthday!” exclaimed George.

  Mismatched eyes stared.

  The caretaker smiled and hugged the anomalous baby to his chest.

  For the duration of three heartbeats, the orphan hung limply yet comfortably against a chubby male bosom.