dreaming.
We are all standing in front of the barn at home. Angus and Duncan, Squint, who lived alone over the Crandall Road, Pa and Grandpa, and me. It is a cold morning. Snow not far off. There to kill a pig.
Effie isn’t supposed to be here at all. Butchering the pig is men’s work. Women boiled the water for cleaning up. But there she is, down by the corner of the barn, hanging over the pole fence. There is a little pen down there where we’d keep the cow sometimes, when she was freshening. Effie has her elbows over the top rail and she’s watching intently. Duncan has his back to her and can’t see her. Otherwise he’d have chased her away. Duncan is controlling one of the two big sliding doors. Angus has the other one. There is the hilt of a hunting knife sticking out of the top of his boot. You can hear the pig inside, thumping around on the threshing floor. I feel this great bubble of resentment toward the pig: He is stupid; he will be surprisedby what will happen. Stupidity invites betrayal. Invites pity. I should have remembered.
Pa stands, legs spread, in front of the big doors hefting a sledgehammer. Duncan pulls his door open a crack. Suddenly you see the pig’s snout, hear him snuffling. Duncan pulls the door a little more and the pig shoves his head and shoulders through. Grunting. Then Duncan and Angus jam him squealing there in that position. Pa swings the sledge hammer. Nails him in the forehead, almost between the ears. Whump. The pig roars and his legs go from under him. Then Angus moves quick with the knife, catches the snout, and in an effortless motion, slices his throat open.
Now the pig is struggling to get up. Wheezing. Blood gushing. Grandpa is there with a wash pan, trying to catch the blood, holding the pig by the ear. Squint helping. The pig is flopping on the ground, kicking. Squint grabs his hind legs so Grandpa can get the blood. For maragan. Grandpa loved maragan. The rest are standing watching. Angus holding the knife grimly, face red. Effie’s face powder white, fascinated. Then I notice, below where she’s leaning against the top rail, the tightness of her shirt under her open jacket. The start of breasts. Flesh replacing everything I knew of her.
The pig’s struggle has subsided to quivering and twitching, the movements growing lazier. The eyes, however, full of accusation.
“What do you figure he’s thinking?” I say to Duncan.
“Pigs can’t think,” he says.
Then he sees Effie and shouts: “Hey!”
And she says: “What.” Defiantly.
Then they haul the pig into the barn and put a stake through the tendons on his hind legs and hoist him up off the floor. Hung upside down from a beam.
“Just like Mussolini,” Angus says, laughing. Smear of blood on his pant leg where he wiped the knife. Everybody chuckles with him, knowing he’d been there. Squint had been in the CBH too. He was a sniper. A sharpshooter, they called it. That’s how he got his name.
Beside her, leaning on the rail, “I saw them doing it last year.”
“Once is enough for me,” she says, sort of turning toward me. It is getting colder. Her jacket is zipped up now. She shoves her hands into the side pockets.
“What are you doing tonight?” I say.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes scanning, looking for someone.
Then, motioning toward the barn door, she says, “I think they’re going to town. Papa said. Did your father say anything?”
“No,” I say. Then: “Who cares?”
“Well,” she says, “it isn’t very nice when they come home. Is it?”
I look away. Not knowing.
“Maybe it’s all right for you,” she says.
“No, it isn’t,” I say quickly. Seizing on something but not knowing what.
She looks like the least thing would make her cry.
And he says they call you Faye. How could you?
And later when everyone is gone, with the truck doors slamming and the engine starting, I am looking out the kitchen window and the two of them are in the cab as the truck lurches
We are all standing in front of the barn at home. Angus and Duncan, Squint, who lived alone over the Crandall Road, Pa and Grandpa, and me. It is a cold morning. Snow not far off. There to kill a pig.
Effie isn’t supposed to be here at all. Butchering the pig is men’s work. Women boiled the water for cleaning up. But there she is, down by the corner of the barn, hanging over the pole fence. There is a little pen down there where we’d keep the cow sometimes, when she was freshening. Effie has her elbows over the top rail and she’s watching intently. Duncan has his back to her and can’t see her. Otherwise he’d have chased her away. Duncan is controlling one of the two big sliding doors. Angus has the other one. There is the hilt of a hunting knife sticking out of the top of his boot. You can hear the pig inside, thumping around on the threshing floor. I feel this great bubble of resentment toward the pig: He is stupid; he will be surprisedby what will happen. Stupidity invites betrayal. Invites pity. I should have remembered.
Pa stands, legs spread, in front of the big doors hefting a sledgehammer. Duncan pulls his door open a crack. Suddenly you see the pig’s snout, hear him snuffling. Duncan pulls the door a little more and the pig shoves his head and shoulders through. Grunting. Then Duncan and Angus jam him squealing there in that position. Pa swings the sledge hammer. Nails him in the forehead, almost between the ears. Whump. The pig roars and his legs go from under him. Then Angus moves quick with the knife, catches the snout, and in an effortless motion, slices his throat open.
Now the pig is struggling to get up. Wheezing. Blood gushing. Grandpa is there with a wash pan, trying to catch the blood, holding the pig by the ear. Squint helping. The pig is flopping on the ground, kicking. Squint grabs his hind legs so Grandpa can get the blood. For maragan. Grandpa loved maragan. The rest are standing watching. Angus holding the knife grimly, face red. Effie’s face powder white, fascinated. Then I notice, below where she’s leaning against the top rail, the tightness of her shirt under her open jacket. The start of breasts. Flesh replacing everything I knew of her.
The pig’s struggle has subsided to quivering and twitching, the movements growing lazier. The eyes, however, full of accusation.
“What do you figure he’s thinking?” I say to Duncan.
“Pigs can’t think,” he says.
Then he sees Effie and shouts: “Hey!”
And she says: “What.” Defiantly.
Then they haul the pig into the barn and put a stake through the tendons on his hind legs and hoist him up off the floor. Hung upside down from a beam.
“Just like Mussolini,” Angus says, laughing. Smear of blood on his pant leg where he wiped the knife. Everybody chuckles with him, knowing he’d been there. Squint had been in the CBH too. He was a sniper. A sharpshooter, they called it. That’s how he got his name.
Beside her, leaning on the rail, “I saw them doing it last year.”
“Once is enough for me,” she says, sort of turning toward me. It is getting colder. Her jacket is zipped up now. She shoves her hands into the side pockets.
“What are you doing tonight?” I say.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes scanning, looking for someone.
Then, motioning toward the barn door, she says, “I think they’re going to town. Papa said. Did your father say anything?”
“No,” I say. Then: “Who cares?”
“Well,” she says, “it isn’t very nice when they come home. Is it?”
I look away. Not knowing.
“Maybe it’s all right for you,” she says.
“No, it isn’t,” I say quickly. Seizing on something but not knowing what.
She looks like the least thing would make her cry.
And he says they call you Faye. How could you?
And later when everyone is gone, with the truck doors slamming and the engine starting, I am looking out the kitchen window and the two of them are in the cab as the truck lurches
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