One chicken was dead.  Its head was oddly twisted, stuck between the rusty wires of a knee-high fence.  Its eyes, such as they were, fixed on nothing.  The other chickens pranced by it occasionally, but they had long ago forgotten about the dead chicken.  They were still very much alive.

Normally, Jimmy would drive his full-size Dodge Ram at breakneck speed along Route 70, but today he had to drive deliberately, guiding his truck with great care between the cars parked on both sides of the street between mileposts 12 and 13.  “Wish I had me one of them little foreign jobs,” he muttered, flicking a half-smoked cigarette out of his window and into the open window of a parked ‘94 Cadillac.

The air was heavy and warm, but an occasional breeze lifted the smells of hot dogs and barbecued chicken through the air of Talbot county.

Aunt Millie squeezed her Lincoln between the mailbox and a red Buick.  She sighed as she shifted the big Lincoln into park.  “Wish I had me one of them little Japanese cars,” she said, unaware that the cat, “Fireball,” was pinned beneath her left rear tire.

The house is big, pushed back about twenty yards off the road by large crab-apple trees.  Old Mr. Whistle bought it in 1949, after the War.  “I’ve had just about enough of folks,” he’d told his wife.  When his wife died of lupus five years later, Old Mr. Whistle lived comfortably with his two boys until his oldest boy graduated high school.  On graduation day, he gave the boy a wrinkled manila envelope containing the deed to the house and the property, and then hung himself naked from a support beam in the basement.  The boy, Elvin—now a fifty-three year old man—lives here with his wife, the second Mrs. Whistle.  The first Mrs. Whistle, Chloe, ran off with Houston Hobbs, a professional stock car driver, just after the Vietnam War.

“I hear tellin’ he might go into politics,” Louise informed Delilah.  Delilah was rummaging through her purse for some lipstick.  She frowned.  “Awful lot of coloreds in Washington,” she said.

The welcome mat is blue, embroidered with five gray and white ducks.  A placard beside the door says, “The Whistles.” The placard shows two ducks in a lewd position.  Nobody ever mentioned as much to the Whistles.

Sounds poured from the fenced-in yard behind the house.  A little girl and two little boys were shooting baskets on a cracked concrete and gravel slab.  “Foul!” one of the little boys screamed.  “Go fuck a duck,” the other little boy told him.  The little girl twirled around and around until she fell on the gravel and skinned her knee.  “I told you not to spin,” the first little boy said flatly.  The girl looked up at him, bewildered, and tried to fight back her tears.  “I can’t help it,” she said.

The sky was blue and clear like the water in a fancy toilet.  The leaves of the big trees seemed to droop with the heat, but then the leaves here always seemed to droop.

“He’s gotten so big!” Aunt Lula said, spooning some potato salad onto her paper plate.  Aunt Fran grabbed a fistful of mixed nuts.  “He sure has,” she said.  “I got him his very own expensive pen.  Heavy as a work boot.” Aunt Lula stopped spooning.  “Gold or silver?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on her plate.  “Silver,” Aunt Fran told her, “and shiny, like a new toaster.” Aunt Lula spooned some tomato and cucumber salad onto her plate.  “Oh,” she said.  “Nice.”

The Whistles had set up three picnic tables in the back yard, along with thirty or so lawn chairs.  A badminton set poked out of the lawn, its poles bent and facing inward—the net itself buckled and drooping in the middle like leaves.

Suzy Molbrick grabbed Roy Spangler by the arm and pulled him toward the barbecued chicken platter.  “Where in the hell have you been?” she asked him.  Roy shuffled his feet and jammed his hands into his pockets.  “I was just, uh, well . . . you know, darlin’—” “Shut up.  You just shut the hell up!” Suzy said, and stormed off toward the beverages.

The second Mrs. Whistle stood by Darby’s side and smiled famously.  Cameras clicked and clicked.  “You must be so proud!” Miss Irving shouted.  “Oh I am, I am,” the second Mrs. Whistle beamed.  “Can I go inside now, Momma,” Darby whispered.  The second Mrs. Whistle grabbed his hand and squeezed his fingers as tight as she could.  “It’s your party, Darby.  Greet your guests.” “Yes, Momma,” he said.

“T’aint no big deal,” Eddie-Joe told the three boys standing in front of him.  “A college education don’t mean shit nowadays.” One of the three boys scratched his head.  “Suzy told me he’s gonna run for congress someday,” he said.  Eddie-Joe scoffed.  “He can run,” he said, flashing a crooked grin, “but he can’t hide.” Another boy scratched his head.  “Huh?” that boy said.

“I got Darby a leather-bound copy of Treasure Island,” Annie Pritchard said.  “I wrote a nice little inscription in it, wishing him luck on his future and all.  Wrote it in calligraphy.” Sandy Jenkins smiled.  “That’s so nice!” she said.  But what she was thinking was this:  I wonder how long my hair can stay up in this heat?

“Howdy, Darby,” Eddie-Joe said, pumping Darby’s hand.  “Congratulations.” He spat a glob of tobacco juice on the lawn and stood nodding his head.  “So . . . “ he asked after a moment, “now what are you gonna do…?” Darby looked him over blankly.  Then, “I think I’m going to go inside,” he said.

Mr. Whistle counted the number of gifts on the table.  Twenty-one.  He looked around the yard and counted up the people.  “Goddamn’ freeloaders,” he muttered.

”Mom-ma,” Jane whined.  The second Mrs. Whistle was talking to Mr. Bobkins, who owned the second biggest Cadillac dealership in the state.  The conversation was going splendidly.  She wasn’t at all happy at the interruption. “Not now, young lady,” she said firmly.  “But Momma,” Jane persisted, “I can’t find Fireball nowheres.” “I said not now,” the second Mrs. Whistle hissed, smiling all the while at Mr. Bobkins.

The day swept on.  Streaks of purple and pink stretched across the sky like gaudy shoe strings.  Elvin grilled more hot dogs and the second Mrs. Whistle stood beside him, frowning.  “His own party and he disappears,” she said, turning her eyes on her husband’s back.  Elvin Whistle didn’t look up.  ”His party.  It’s his goddamn’ party,” he said, poking at one of the hotdogs.  “If he don’t want to mingle he don’t have to.  Now shut up and get me some more buns.”

“I just saw him a little while ago, but I think he went inside,” Delilah said.  She was putting on more lipstick.  Louise looked around, squinting and shaking her head.  Then she looked back at Delilah.  “Hey,” she said.  “How much of that stuff you gonna put on, anyway?”

Uncle Frank hit the birdie just long.  “Out,” Uncle Leroy said.  Uncle Frank threw his racquet into the net and stomped off.  “Next!” Uncle Leroy shouted.

“He’s not the first one from these parts what’s graduated,” Eddie-Joe was saying.  “Stu Levin graduated six or seven years ago.” “Yeah,” Jimmy said.  “But he’s a Jew.” Eddie-Joe spat a glob of tobacco juice into the hedges and scratched his head.  “Good point,” he said.

“He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” the second Mrs. Whistle informed Aunt Millie.  “There’s plenty of time yet for getting married.  That’s what I told him, too.  That girl weren’t nothing but trouble anyway, if you ask me.  Knew it the first time I laid eyes on her.” Aunt Millie nodded and popped a cashew into her mouth.  “Did he take it well?” she asked.  The second Mrs. Whistle frowned.  “Hard to say,” she said.  “Most days he just sits in his room and writes poetry.”

“I met his fiancée once,” Louise told Suzy Molbrick.  ”Ex-fiancée,” Delilah corrected her.  Louise frowned but continued on.  “Sure, she was pretty alright, but she was definitely a strange little thing.  Had legs like a couple of fence posts.” “I hear he took it pretty hard,” Suzy said.  “He’ll get over it,” Delilah shrugged.  “And besides, she was Italian.  Not like she was real Christian folk.”

Jane stood in the road yelling “Fireball!  Fireball!” Fireball lay stiff, his eyes dull and vacant.  A large, green Lincoln sprung from his back like some hellish metallic wart.

Darby sat in the bathroom with his pants around his ankles and banged his head repeatedly on the porcelain sink.  Every once and a while he would stop to take a swig of Maker’s Mark whiskey right from the bottle.  Then he would go on banging his head against the porcelain sink.

“I don’t know where the hell he is, damnit,” Mr. Whistle told the second Mrs. Whistle. “I reckon he’ll open the damned presents when he’s good and ready to open the damned presents.” The second Mrs. Whistle glared at him.  “You’d better flip those burgers,” she said.

“Hell, he might be governor one day,” Delilah said, spreading more lipstick across her swelling lips.  “Maybe even president.” Eddie-Joe spat.  “Or maybe an aluminum siding salesman,” he said dryly.

“Next!” Uncle Leroy shouted.

The faucet continued to run—steam covering the bathroom mirror and otherwise hanging in the air like a swarm of heavy bees.  Darby’s nose was bloody.  His left eye had started to swell.  “Angie,” he whispered.

“This is some of the best dern barbecued chicken I think I ever had,” Uncle Frank said.  He put another dripping thigh on his plate.  “Plenty more where that came from,” Mr. Whistle said.  He tossed a few more pieces on the grill.  Goddamned freeloaders, he thought.

“All’s I was doin’ was talkin‘ with her, Sugarsnacks,” Roy said.  Suzy Molbrick looked him over and sneered.  “Zip up your damn fly, Roy,” she said.

“He’s probably just inside freshening up,” the second Mrs. Whistle said.  “He’s had an exhausting last couple of weeks.” Miss Irving smiled.  “Such a handsome boy,” she said.  Aunt Lula stuffed a hunk of buttered roll into her mouth.  “I still can’t get over how big he’s gotten,” she said between chews.

“She dumped him,” Eddie-Joe was telling two boys standing in front of him.  “Told him it wouldn’t work out.” One of the boys scratched his head.  “On account of him comin’ back here and all?” he asked.  Eddie-Joe smiled.  “No.  On account of her meetin’ somebody else.”

Darby stood in front of the mirror and wrote a poem in the steam.  The poem read:  “Why now, Angie/Just when things got good/Our days were filled with sunshiny skies/But now those skies are cloudy.” He examined the poem for a moment, then rubbed it away with his sleeve.  All that was left was “cloudy.”

The second Mrs. Whistle looked around happily.  “Havin’ a good time, girls?” she asked Delilah and Louise.  “Yes, Mrs. Whistle,” they assured her.  “Good,” the second Mrs. Whistle said.  “Darby’ll be opening his presents soon.  Y’all know how he loves presents.  By the way, have you tried the beans?”

“Next!” Uncle Leroy shouted.

The little girl sat on the gravel and watched the two boys intently.  The boys were spinning around and around as fast as they could.  One of the little boys stumbled and, after making a few desperate grabs at the air, fell forward and scraped both his elbows.  “See?” the little girl asked.

The second Mrs. Whistle tugged at the back of Mr. Whistle’s apron.  “I’m gonna go find him,” she whispered.  Mr. Whistle didn’t look up.  “You do that,” he said.  “And while you’re in there, wipe that mustard off your face.  You look sickly.”

“She left him for a woman,” Eddie-Joe announced triumphantly.  The two boys standing in front of him scratched their heads.  “Gawd,” they said, almost simultaneously.  Eddie-Joe looked around dreamily.  “Yup,” he said.  “Gives me a hardon just thinking about it.”

The sun began to sink into the nearby hills, draping long shadows across the lawn.  Some of the shadows were sharp, but most weren’t.

“Fireball!  Fireball!” Jane screamed.  She hadn’t cried for half an hour.

The second Mrs. Whistle crept back down the porch steps.  I’ll just have to open the presents for him, she thought.  “What do you mean you couldn’t find him?” Mr. Whistle asked—louder, perhaps, than he should have.  The second Mrs. Whistle looked around anxiously.  “Keep it down,” she whispered.  “Is the mustard gone?”

“Angie, I think her name was,” Louise said.  “Yup,” said Delilah, “Angie.”

“Angie,” Darby whispered.  He took a big gulp from the bottle of whiskey and squeezed the trigger.  Nothing.  He squeezed it again.  Nothing.  “Angie,” he muttered, and dropped the gun back into the drawer.

“What did you get him?” Suzy Molbrick asked Sandy Jenkins.  Sandy smiled, fanning herself with her left hand.  “A real nice pen,” she said, chewing on a piece of hot dog.  “And a leather book.”

“Darby ain’t feeling well,” the second Mrs. Whistle announced.  Everyone gathered around the gift table quietly.  “But he insisted that I open his presents for him.  And he asked me to thank you all for coming, and to apologize for his getting suddenly sick and all.  He must still be exhausted from that long ride home.” Uncle Frank coughed, and a piece of chicken flew out of his mouth.  Two or three people laughed.

Inside, Darby stripped himself naked and stretched out on the basement floor.  His head ached.  From his back, he looked up at the heavy wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling.  “Goodbye, everybody,” he whispered.  “Thanks for coming.”