FICTION Chicken and Dumplings Estelle Darrow Rice When I see a plate of chicken and dumplings, I can smell the rancid, sickening odor of wet feathers, which-in case you have never plucked a chicken-smell worse than wet dog fur. Chicken and dumplings also remind me of the bishop, 'cause every year Ma'd fix them the weekend he came to visit our small congregation. He always ate with one of the church families, but he never told us in advance which family would have the honor. No one could relax except the people he ate with the year before. The only way to relax on visitation Sunday was to have a plan and Mama had one for sure. The bishop was a big man, and I thought he must look like God. My teacher showed us a picture on the "cistern" chapel, and God in white flowing robes, bushy eyebrows and a knotted finger pointing at some man floating by lookedjust like our bishop. Not only did he look like God but the bishop had a voice that must have been as loud as the voice Moses heard in the burning bush. The bishop was confident that he was welcome at any house at any time just like God would have been, and his visits caused just as much commotion as if God himself had descended. Everything had to be spic-'n'-span at church and at home, and we wanted to have plenty of food on the table-just in case. There had to be lots of food because the bishop was bigger than Pa and that was saying something. During the Depression, having extra folks for meals was not always easy, but, as I said, Ma had a plan. That's how I come to hate chicken and dumplings. She didn't want to kill more than one chicken, because the bishop might not come to our house. One fried chicken would feed the five of us, Ma and Pa and me and my two little sisters. But if the bishop came it wouldn't be enough. She could make it feed more than us by cooking chicken and dumplings. Pa'd wring the chicken's neck and hang it in a tree to drain. That old bird's wings flapped in the breeze like it was putting a voodoo Estelle D. Rice lives in Marble, North Carolina. Her stories have appeared in The Back Porch, The Eastern Shore Courier, and Mountain Lynx. 56 curse on us, and my dog sat under it and barked his fool head off until he couldn't bark no more. By the time the chicken stopped twitching, Ma had a big pot of boiling water waiting. I took it off the tree, dropped it in the water, and waited for the feathers to loosen. While I was plucking, Ma and the other ladies cleaned the church. I complained mightily, saying my middle sister was old enough to pick the chicken, but Ma said I was the oldest and besides I knew how to sling those feathers into a neat pile so she could use them later to stuff pillows. The smell was so bad I tied a handkerchief over my nose, but it didn't do no good. The stink just seeped through. I can't remember how many years I had that confounded chore the day before the bishop came. Finally it was our turn and, as usual, we was ready. Sunday morning Pa got up early and went to church to build a fire in the pot-bellied stove. With the bishop coming Pa said the church should be toasty when the service started. Most other Sundays the people in back nearly froze. While Ma dressed my two little sisters, she gave us all instructions. Not only did she know how to "stretch" that chicken, but she knew how to get an extra serving of the other food as well. "If the bishop comes to our house, we'll have syllabub for dessert. I don't have any nutmeg to sprinkle on it, but it will be just as good without it. Maggie [that's me], you can...