“Now, Stanley,” she said, “when you kill that chicken, leave a generous neck bone.”

“Sure will, Winnie,” said Stanley, grinning his best son-in-law smile.

Stanley Carlsen aimed to please. This time, however, his aim was off. Stan removed most of Andy’s head, which he placed in a jar. However, the brain stem, which controls a chicken’s reflexes, remained attached.

“Girls! Come on out here and take a look at this ol’ bird! There must be a blood clot or somethin’ or he’d be dead.” Stanley regarded the chicken, which was runnin’ around like a chicken with its head cut off. Mama and me, hearing the commotion, joined Stan in the yard, standin’ by the stump used for killin’ chickens. In the background: a bloody headless chicken, runnin’ from back yard to back yard, wings a-flappin’.

“What the hell is goin’ on, Stanley?”

“Mabel, I don’t rightly know what to tell you. I just know I ain’t gonna kill this particular rooster. I tried, but he’s got nine lives. It’s a wonder! I’m callin’ him Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken. I’ll kill us another chicken for dinner tonight.”

Stanley got me and Mama into the act, helpin’ feed Andy with an eye-dropper. We cleared his esophagus and gave him grain and water. I’d say Andy had an eye for the ladies, ‘cept he didn’t have no eyes. The ladies… chickens, I mean… liked him. He was in the hen house doin’ his thing ten times a day, which just proves that bein’ different don’t mean you can’t have a fulfillin’ life.

Word got around quick that we had a chicken with no head livin’ in our backyard in Boonesville, servicin’ hens and actin’ normal. (As normal as you can be with no head, that is.) Crowin’ early in the mornin’ was out. It’s hard to crow when your head’s sittin’ in a jar; Andy was never much of a crower, anyway.

Town reporter Gayle Begley from the Boonesville Times did a story on Andy. Stories in Time and Life headlined “Amazing Andy: The Wonder Chicken.”

We took out an insurance policy on Andy for $10,000 and hit the road. New York. Atlantic City. Los Angeles. People was willin’ to pay hard-earned money to see Andy. Times was tough and cash was scarce.

Mama said she’d like Andy to sleep in her room at night, “to make sure he’s all right.” This seemed kind of dumb, since it was because of Mama that Andy had no head in the first place. Me and Stan humored her; after all, she was helpin’ us keep the books.

The tour was lucrative, as headless chicken tours go.

It wasn’t until Chicago that we noticed money missin’.

“Mama,” I said, “do you know what happened to Amazin’ Andy’s money?” Mama didn’t answer. The look on her face said it all.

We started to watch Mama close, since she always had a love for other people’s possessions. Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken was our chicken, whether he had escaped bein’ her Sunday dinner or not, and Amazing Andy’s money was our money.

We was barely speakin’ by tour’s end. Thousands of dollars disappeared. Only a couple hundred dollars left when we got home to Boonesville.

One night, late, back home, I was sleepin’ when I heard a commotion. Shades of September 10th, I thought that Stan was killin’ another rooster. I heard the sound of the axe on the stump. I could see the blood flyin’, in my mind’s eye.

There was screamin’, though. Chickens don’t scream when you’re killin’ them. They just flap their wings and run around with blood flyin’ off their severed necks.

A chicken can live without its head. But a 210-pound woman?

Not a chance.

After the trace, the police realized that this family was famous.

The Reynolds family: Gina and Thomas Reynolds, their ten-year-old daughter, Adrienne, and her eight-year-old brother Phillip; Adrienne kidnapped by a bizarre cult, but rescued. Soon, TV news shows were doing specials on her return.

“What was it like in the hills, Adrienne? Were you frightened? Were you tortured?” Diane Bennett, blonde hair perfectly coiffed, shot Adrienne an intense gaze. Diane was about as smart as the ubiquitous birds.

After her return, Adrienne’s flute lessons resumed. Weekly visits to a psychiatrist began. The family thought that a week in their remote family log cabin would protect them from the media frenzy.

Now, Adrienne’s entire family had faded to black.

Courtroom proceedings: a strange tale emerged. The leader of the Manson-like “family”, Bernard Burkin, High Priest of the cult testified.

“I am the Chosen One. All who believeth in me shall be saved.” Bernard was as coherent and attractive as a dung beetle. Deranged. Grungy. Unshaven. Semi-hysterical.

“Sit down, Bernie,” said bailiff Hank Adams. “If you don’t sit down and shut up, the judge’ll make you watch the proceedings on closed-circuit TV.”

Bernard sat down, rocked to and fro in his chair, while drawing pictures of birds.

Burkin’s “other” wife, Lila, smiling dully, shed no light on the bizarre world where the three foraged for food in garbage cans, wandering like nomads, dressed in Burkha-like garments. “Bernard is The One. We must do Bernard’s bidding.”

“Right, Lila,” Hank said.

Many times Adrienne had almost been rescued. Now, Adrienne wasn’t talking. She hummed the hymn “On Eagle’s Wings” over and over.

“I shall lift you up where eagles soar,” shrieked the ragged Burkin. “I know the ways of the eagles. I command the skies. They will lift us up. We must follow the birds!”

Bernie was ushered off, stage left, for his dose of thorazine.

“Come on, Thoreau.” Hank, the bemused bailiff, led Bernie out the door. “Next stop: Walden Pond.”

The shackled prisoner shuffled from the packed courtroom, head down, eyes glazed.
It got even weirder after a visit to the cult’s site. Birds in nests. Birds flying. Birds on tree limbs. Everywhere, birds. Beady eyes. Sharp beaks. Angry talons. Some eagles stuffed, wings outstretched, flying into infinity.

Psychiatric Report #2: November 5, 2005: Following is the text of the conversation with Adrienne Reynolds three days after her discovery:

Dr. Higgins: “Adrienne, can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened?

“The birds got mad.”

“About what, Adrienne?”

“I fixed it. I made it better. Mr. Burkin said I had to, so I did it.”

Rocking, humming. Eyes glazed.

“I told them to come build the nest.”

“What nest?”

“The nest on the chimney. When we die, the birds will take us to Jesus. I wanted us all to be with Jesus in Heaven. Mr. Burkin said, ‘Only your parents and Phillip go now. You later.’ I wanted to go with Mommy and Daddy and Phillip to see Grandma and Grandpa Reynolds in Heaven. Mr. Burkin said I have to wait to go to Heaven. He said it wouldn’t hurt, so I did it. I said the words Mr. Burkin taught me. I’ll see Mommy and Daddy and Phillip in Heaven soon.”

Adrienne smiled a strange secret smile. “I told the birds where to find us. The eagles will take me. They will lift me up on eagle’s wings.”

Police Autopsy Report, November 7, 2005: The Reynolds family died of accidental carbon monoxide poisoning. An eagle’s nest blocked the stone fireplace. The sole survivor, Adrienne Reynolds, has been incoherent since the event. She is receiving psychiatric counseling for her delusional condition.