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Show Chick Sales 6 "Find anything yet?" his father called. Herman wouldn't take the necessary breath for an answer. His father lowered the rope another six inches. When Herman heard the noise of the hen, her fussing and clucking, he grabbed at the sound and gulped for air. "Chick sales," he yelled, saying the only words he could think of as a password that might release him from that dank place where breathing made him see white. He yelled the words again as the chicken pecked his arm, i t s one free wing flapping wildly. He had heard lots of the oldtimers excusing themselves to the privy, saying they had to go to a "Chic Sale," and they'd walk off fancy like a lady in a style show. They'd laugh and slap their thighs, but Herman didn't laugh as he shouted "Chick sales" all the way to the top, gripping the rope and the wing of the frenzied captive. In the open air and on firm ground, Herman stripped, threw himself and his overalls into the creek, and then streaked through the meadow, bare and bumpy as a plucked chicken himself. "Chick sales," he shouted again. The wary bull shifts weight as Alfred opens the makeshift pen. "Old Ben awaits your coming, El Toro," he says. "Ondalay." Herman watches his father f l i p his suspenders with his thumbs and pull himself taller. "Herman, stay behind the gate. Stay out of his way." Herman waits with the prodding stick at bay, closing his eyes, imagining at least a r i v e r 's width between him and the animal. The bull's hair |
