Chapter One, Continued

The Chicken Asylum

Introduction

Excerpts:

Chapter One

Chapter One (cont.)

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

An Interview with the Author

The Chicken Asylum
Chapter One, Continued

By Fred Hunter

You could cut through the skepticism permeating the room with a knife. It didn't go unnoticed by Nelson. The silence was broken only by the gentle thumping of Duffy's tail against my loafer.

"I realize the arrangement might seem a bit unusual to you, but we actually use private homes for this kind of thing more often than you'd think."

"Well," said Mother, "wouldn't it be better to use someone who's had more experience, then?"'

Nelson shook his head. "No. In this case your inexperience is an asset."

"Gee, thanks," I said.

"Someone more experienced in this type of affair might make him feel like he's being watched, and that's the last thing we want."

"You're being uncommonly accommodating to him," said Peter.

"It's in our best interest, and I think it's best for him. You have to remember how this man has spent his life. Living in Iraq is bad enough, living in the Iraqi army, especially for someone who never wanted to be there, is hell. We don't want to bring him to this country and make him feel like a prisoner. So yes, we do want an eye kept on him, but as discreetly as possible, and in the friendliest manner possible. I thought you would be the best people for that."

I could feel Mother's heart melting from across the room. If only we could believe Nelson. I'd never known him to lie outright, but past experience had shown that he had turned the sin of omission into an art form.

"How long would it be for?" Mother asked.

"No more than three days. During the day I would be here with another agent doing the debriefing. The evening is the only time you' d have him alone."

"What happens to him after that?" I asked.

"He goes on to his new life as an American citizen."

Nelson didn't bother giving this any particular inflection, choosing to let the words carry their own weight. Mother, Peter, and I looked at each other, then rose in unison.

"Well," Mother said, "I think this calls for a family meeting. If you'll give us a minute, Larry, we'll repair to the office."

"The office?" I said.

"The kitchen," she replied with a purposeful nod. Then she added to Nelson, "Excuse us."

She led Peter and me into the kitchen and closed the swinging door, which provided the illusion of privacy. We huddled close together in the center of the room.

"Well, what do you think?" said Mother.

Peter and I exchanged glances, then I slowly said, "Gee, I don't know . . . "

Both of them raised their eyebrows at me.

"You don't?" said Peter.

"Why are you so surprised?"

"Because you're the on that always wants to rush into this CIA nonsense."

Mother added, "I expected you to be jumping for joy at the thought of doing your spy bit again!"

"This isn't exactly a spy bit!"

"If you mean we probably won't get shot at for doing it, then most likely you're right," Peter said with an impish smile.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm beginning to worry about you. You seize every opportunity to put us in danger, but you don't want to do something relatively safe."

"I didn't say I don't want to do it." My tone was coming awfully close to a whine. "I just . . . don't know that I want to have an Iraqi solider around the house. Is that so wrong?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Why would you?" I countered. "You never want to get involved in this CIA business."

He put his hands on his hips. "There's a difference between trying to save someone from a burning building and throwing yourself into a fire."

"That sounds profound," I snapped. "What's it supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean! You rush into things without thinking. Just because I try to get you to consider the dangers is no reason to accuse me of not wanting to get involved!"

"Boys, boys!" said Mother. "We're getting a bit afield. Could we please stick to the matter at hand?"

It was a good thing she'd interrupted, because Peter and I were on our way to the worst argument we'd had in years. It didn't matter that I was in an untenable position: I knew he was right. In the past I'd been far too eager to run ahead, and Peter had been the one to remain rational in the face of situations that could most charitably be called bizarre. But I was still angry. I didn't care that my position didn't make sense. Your husband is supposed to support you in your inconsistencies, not point out the facts.

"Now," Mother continued, "Alex, exactly how much do you object to having this soldier here?"

"Well . . . what would we do with him?"

"He's not a piece of furniture, darling. We don't need to fit him in with the décor. We would just treat him the way we would treat any other guest."

"How many guests have we had who've spent their lives killing people?"

She looked at me quizzically. "This man was conscripted—or whatever they call it over there—into his situation. And he's trying to get out, if we can believe Larry."

"That's an awfully big if."

"And if it's true," she concluded, "then I think we should help him."

"I agree with you," said Peter. Then he turned to me and asked quietly, "Alex, are you afraid to have this man in the house?"

I started to protest but could feel the blood rising to my face again. "The only thing I know of these people is what I've seen on the news."

"And that can't exactly be the whole story," said Mother.

"That's just the thing! I don't think we're getting the whole story from Nelson -- as if we ever would. Is it just me, or does it sound like there are people after this guy? I mean, despite what some people may think--" here I shot a pointed glance at my husband-- "I do know better than to throw myself in front of a firing squad!"

"You do?" He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

I sighed, then laughed myself. "I can see I'll forever be haunted by my past record."

"Maybe there are people after him," said Mother, "But he'll only be here for a few days, and I think Larry is perfectly right when he says that nobody would suspect that a soldier is being kept here."

"Well," said Peter, looking as if he was going to take a baby step over to my side, "we never can be too sure of who knows what when it comes to Nelson and his cronies."

"And there's another thing," I said. "Even though he'd probably be safe here, I still think Nelson has some other reason for wanting us to take this guy in. It can't just be because he considers us the Perle Mestas to the Iraqi army. It would be much easier to keep him in Washington, wouldn't it?"

"It would be the first place anybody would love for him," said Peter.

"Exactly. I have to think this is much more dangerous than Nelson is letting on."

"Come on! Despite some of our exploits, Nelson wouldn't ask us to do it if it was that dangerous."

"Are you talking about the Nelson out there in our living room?"

From the look on his face, Peter was doing a quick survey of the past. "You're right."

Mother raised her hands to forestall further argument. "So are you both saying that you don't want to do this?"

We turned to her in unified disbelief. "No!"

"You mean you want to do it?"

"I think we should," said Peter.

"I don't want to," I added, "but I think you're right. We should do it."

There was a beat, then Mother threw her hands up in the air. "Why do I bother with these meetings?" With that she marched out through the swinging door, propping it open as she passed. We followed close behind.

"It's settled, Larry," she announced. "We'll do it."

"Good," he said, getting up from the couch. "He's on his way."

"Now? You were pretty sure of us, weren't you?"

Nelson headed for the door. "As I said, we had to act quickly. He's not in the country yet, but he's on his way. We should have him here by late tomorrow afternoon." He paused with his hand on the knob. "And yes, I was pretty sure of you."

He pulled open the door and started to make his exit, but I stopped him.

"Nelson! You haven't even told us his name!"

He glanced at me over his shoulder. "We haven't chosen it yet."

He passed through the door, and Mother closed it behind him.

"Well, this is a short ‘op from the average," she said. "How exactly does one prepare for a soldier, I wonder?"'

"We could dig a trench in the living room and erect a bivouac," I said.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "I hope you're not going to be tiresome in front of company."