When They Became Silent

He was surprised at how soft its neck was.

It was a hot and muggy day in Yinshan, but Hao’s throat was dry and his hands were icy.

“Harder,” his father said, but Hao’s hands froze once he felt the squirming chicken’s neck bones. Feathers swarmed around him like a cloud of gnats, as the bird’s chaotic fluttering quickened the pace of his heart.

“Now, Hao!”

His father’s words were drowned out by the chicken’s rattling cry. Make it quick, bo-bo-boy, it managed to say, but the grip of death upon its neck only loosened. The chicken flew out of Hao’s hand, scattering more feathers as it flapped around in panic.

His father leapt in front of the chicken and swept it up by its yellow, scaly feet. He inverted the bird and slit its throat in one swift motion. Dark red spurted and stained the dirt floor. It thrashed for half a minute, its wings jerking intermittently until it no longer moved.

“That’s how it’s done,” his father spat onto the floor, his saliva pink from chicken blood. “You prolonged its suffering by hesitating.”

His father submerged the drooping bird in a tub of fresh mountain water. “Leave. You’ll only slow me down here.” He sloshed the chicken around to clean it. “Maybe you’ll be less useless helping your sister dig up bamboo shoots. Go!”

On his way from the coop to the crop field, Hao repeated the chicken’s words in his mind…

—

“‘Make… it… quick!’… the… chicken…clucked.” Tommy enunciated each word his finger traced over. He smiled with pure delight as he caressed the swatch of faux down glued onto the page. “Baba? Can we turn the page now?”

“Ah, y-yes.” Hao had lost himself at the sight of the brown feathers in his four-year-old son’s tactile picture book. He turned the page and they continued to read along, with Tommy’s voice lagging a syllable behind.

“They chittered and chattered, jibbered and jabbered. Who knew cows had so much to say!”

Tommy giggled at the image of three cows gossiping over a cheese platter and sipping on glasses of milk. He stroked the swatch of cow hair—white with black splotches.

Hao and Tommy continued. “Chuck the chicken grew tired of waiting for the cows to finish their milk. ‘Fine!’ Chuck clucked. ‘I’ll find Finn the Fish myself! He will tell me who came first, the chicken or the egg!’”

Hao turned the page and saw another swatch. The shimmering blue and green sequins took him away from their Los Angeles suburb and back to his childhood village of rural Yinshan again.

—

“Don’t hesitate! It has nowhere to go, Hao!”

Hao looked at the grass carp swimming circles in the tub. He held his breath and plunged his hand into the frigid water. He had expected it to slip through his trembling fingers but was surprised to find it firmly grasped in his left hand. His index finger had accidentally hooked into the fish’s gill. Its tail kicked and slapped the back of his hand.

“Hao, the club! Quickly!”

The fish’s sharp fins cut his palm, but his hand was too numb to feel it. Its gills clamped down desperately on Hao’s caught finger. I can’t br-br-breathe!

Hao slammed the cold, slippery fish down on the leveled tree stump his father used for butchering. He raised the club in his right hand. The fish continued to flail, flicking droplets of water against Hao’s face. Its bulging eyes darted back and forth in primal terror. He closed his eyes and brought the club down swiftly, smashing the fish’s head along with his index finger.

That day, he discovered he could no longer hear the animals talk.

—

“’I… can… not… breathe!’” Tommy read. “Baba, of course Chuck can’t breathe!”

Hao puzzled over the ludicrous illustration of Chuck sticking his head into a pond to look for Finn the Fish. “Tommy, let’s stop for now.”

“Already?”

“We’ll pick it up tomorrow,” Hao said as he shut the book. It was a well-intentioned gift from his sister who had stayed behind in Yinshan to take over their parents’ farm.

“Yes Baba…” Tommy said, dispirited.

Hao placed The Chicken and the Egg back onto Tommy’s shelf, where it joined dozens of other whimsical picture books about animals and their adventures.

“Baba, can Simba join us tomorrow?”

“Simba? Why, sure he can. But don’t you think Simba would rather chew on his toys than listen to a story about farm animals?”

“He told me he wanted to listen to us read.”

“Ah, I see,” Hao said as he lifted Tommy to his bed. “Maybe you heard him wrong. Did Simba give you a woof or a woooof?”

“Baba, I mean it! Yesterday, I read Nothing’s Impawsible to Simba and he loved it.”

“You sure he didn’t just love the way your breath smelled after dinner?” Hao leaned in close to Tommy and sniffed teasingly. He stuck out a tongue and pretended to lick Tommy’s face.

“Baba, stop!” Tommy squealed before his face became serious again—as serious as a four-year-old’s can get. “Simba said he wanted to listen to more stories before he can’t anymore. He said he’s getting old and losing his hearing.”

A tingle went up Hao’s spine. He and Tommy’s mother hadn’t yet broken the news to Tommy that Simba’s recent bout of chronic ear infection would render the elderly dog deaf, according to their vet. Hao looked into his son’s eyes. They were unyieldingly patient.

“Please, Baba?”

“Of course.” Hao shuffled Tommy’s hair. “We’ll make sure Simba joins us tomorrow.”

“Okay!” Tommy beamed and hugged his father’s head.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Yes, Baba.”

“When we’re done with the story, tell me what Simba thinks. Baba can’t seem to hear him as well as you do. Maybe I’m getting a little deaf too.”