Nobody's Sorry You're Dead

19

Hadley was hungry when she returned home from Maury's. Two pieces of coffee cake. That was only a snack in Hadley's book, and she was not just hungry for any old store-bought concoction. Hadley was in the mood for a great big, creamy, rich, homemade chicken pot pie.

The cell rang.

"Hey," Maury said. "Just checking to make sure you got home okay."

"What is it?" Hadley asked. "You don't usually keep tabs on me. What do you want?"

"Well," Maury said, "I forgot to mention this to you. I was so caught up in starring in your latest video. I was wondering if you'd like to deliver the meals to the shut-ins in a couple of months."

"The surprise shut-in boxes? Hot meals to the elderly. We'll see," Hadley said. "There's a lot on my plate at the moment, but maybe things will settle down, by then. Is that list long?"

"Not very."

Maury read Hadley the names off the list.

"Touch base with me in a few weeks. I'll let you know, 'kay?"

"Sure thing. Later, Sis," Maury said.

"Later."

Walking to the corner shelf where she kept all her recipe books, she ran her thumb over the titles until she spied the one she wanted. James Beard's American Cookery. That's the ticket. Opening it up she found the section on chicken pies.

"Serves 6, it says. Okay, this will cover my lunches for the week," Hadley muttered.

First ingredient – chicken. Just reading that word brought to mind Eula Miles and her pet chicken, Roosevelt.

Delano Roosevelt Miles.

An awfully long name for a chicken. Why name a chicken after a president? It just did not make sense.

Even if he was your pet.

Okay, Hadley reasoned, perhaps that bird carried itself grandly or nobly. Or like a president, but she doubted it.

She'd seen Roosevelt with her own eyes – in the flesh and feathers. That was a proud chicken to be sure, but Hadley could not see any resemblance to Franklin or Teddy. The hen did not wear glasses. She did not smoke cigarettes in a long holder, and she had never been, to Hadley's knowledge, chauffeured anywhere in a limousine or charging about on horseback in a fierce and raging battle.

The second thing that puzzled Hadley was why, if you are naming your chickens after world leaders, you picked a male name for a hen, but it went without saying that Eula Miles was a little eccentric.

In the South, eccentric is the polite term for weird. And Eula fit 'eccentric' to a tee. Hadley had never known another human being to give a grown hen regular baths. While delivering a shut-in box one Wednesday, Hadley had knocked on Eula's back door.

"Come on in. Door's open," Eula said.

Hadley entered carrying the box in front of her. To her utter surprise, there stood Eula at the kitchen sink. Roosevelt was standing amid a cloud of vanilla scented bubbles.

Eula had a blob of bubbles on the side of her head.

"I always find a good soak in the bubbles so relaxing, don't you Hadley?" Eula asked. "Roosevelt has been a little stressed out lately. You know a lot of things have been happening on the soap operas, and I just thought she could use a little spa time."

Hadley had to admit, the chicken did look relaxed. Hadley wondered if a chicken could lay an egg in the bubbles, but she was afraid to ask.

Eula had been on the shut-in list since last spring when her eyesight had gotten so bad, she gave up driving. It was just as well.