Pigs in Heaven
Page 2
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She raised a daughter in this house and planted all the flowers in the yard, but that’s nothing to hold her here.
Flowers you can get tired of. In the record heat of this particular Kentucky spring the peonies have blown open their globes a month ahead of Memorial Day. Their face-powder scent reminds her of old women she knew in childhood, and the graveyard. She stops swinging a minute to listen: a huffling sound is coming from the garden. Hester Biddle’s pigs.
Hester lives a short walk down the road and has taken up raising Vietnamese miniature potbellied pigs for a new lease on life after her stroke. She claims they’re worth two thousand per pig, but Alice can’t imagine on what market. They’re ugly as sin and run away for a hobby, to root in Alice’s peony beds. “Go on home,” Alice says in a persuasive voice. The pigs look up.
“I mean it,” she says, rising from the porch swing, her hands on her hips. “I’m not above turning you all into ba-con.”
In the dim light from the kitchen their eyes glow red. Pigs are turning out to be the family curse: Alice’s mother, a tall, fierce woman named Minerva Stamper, ran a hog farm alone for fifty years. Alice picks up an empty flower-pot from the porch step and throws it at the pigs. The darkness absorbs it. She throws a dirt clod and a pair of pruning shears, which also vanish. Then a medium-sized aluminum bowl. Harland ordered the Cornucopia Of Bowls from the shopping channel for their wedding anniversary, so now their home has a bowl for every purpose.
She picks up another one and gives it a fling. She’ll have to pick them up in the morning, in front of God and the Biddles, but she wants those pigs out of her life. She finds a galvan-ized watering can and lifts herself on the balls of her feet, testing her calves. Alice is in good shape, despite her age; when she concentrates she can still find all her muscles from the inside. When her first husband left her the house fell apart but she and her daughter held up well, she thinks, everything considered.
She heaves the watering can but can’t tell where it’s gone.
It lands with a ding—possibly it struck a member of the Cornucopia. The red pig eyes don’t even blink. Alice feels defeated. She returns to the porch to collect her losses.
She’s not walking away from here. Who would take her in? She knows most of the well-to-do women in town, from cleaning their houses all the years she was raising Taylor, but their respect for Alice is based on what she could tell the world about their basements. On Fridays, Alice plays poker with Fay Richey and Lee Shanks—cheerful, husky-voiced women who smoke a lot and are so thankful to still be married, if she left Harland they’d treat her like she had a virus.
Minerva and the hog farm are both gone, of course, the one simply dead and buried, the other sold to pay its own debts.
It depresses Alice deeply to think how people’s lives and all other enterprises, like life insurance, can last long enough to cancel themselves out.
A mockingbird lands on the tip of a volunteer mulberry that has grown up through the hedge. Flapping to stay balanced, he makes the long branch bob and sway like a carnival ride. His little profile flails against a horizon the color of rising dough. In the few minutes it took Alice to make an accounting of her life, dawn was delivered to this address and the automatic spotlight on Biddles’ barn winked off. No matter what kind of night you’re having, morning always wins.
The mockingbird springs off his mulberry branch into darkness and then materializes up on the roof, crowing to this section of the county that her TV antenna is his and his alone. Something about the male outlook, Alice thinks, you have got to appreciate. She stands with her arms crossed against her chest and observes the dark universe of the garden, which is twinkling now with aluminum meteorites.
She hears the pigs again. It’s no wonder they like to come here; they get terrified down at Biddles’ when Henry uses more machinery than he needs. Yesterday he was using the hay mower to cut his front yard, which is typical. The poor things are just looking for a home, like the Boat People. She has a soft spot for refugees and decides to let them stay. It will aggravate Hester, who claims that every time they eat Alice’s peonies they come home with diarrhea.
The neighborhood tomcat, all muscle and slide, is creeping along the top of the trellis where Alice’s sweet peas have spent themselves all spring. She’s seen him up there before, getting high on the night perfume, or imagining the taste of mockingbird. The garden Alice wishes she could abandon is crowded with bird music and border disputes and other people’s hungry animals. She feels like the queen of some pitiful, festive land.
Flowers you can get tired of. In the record heat of this particular Kentucky spring the peonies have blown open their globes a month ahead of Memorial Day. Their face-powder scent reminds her of old women she knew in childhood, and the graveyard. She stops swinging a minute to listen: a huffling sound is coming from the garden. Hester Biddle’s pigs.
Hester lives a short walk down the road and has taken up raising Vietnamese miniature potbellied pigs for a new lease on life after her stroke. She claims they’re worth two thousand per pig, but Alice can’t imagine on what market. They’re ugly as sin and run away for a hobby, to root in Alice’s peony beds. “Go on home,” Alice says in a persuasive voice. The pigs look up.
“I mean it,” she says, rising from the porch swing, her hands on her hips. “I’m not above turning you all into ba-con.”
In the dim light from the kitchen their eyes glow red. Pigs are turning out to be the family curse: Alice’s mother, a tall, fierce woman named Minerva Stamper, ran a hog farm alone for fifty years. Alice picks up an empty flower-pot from the porch step and throws it at the pigs. The darkness absorbs it. She throws a dirt clod and a pair of pruning shears, which also vanish. Then a medium-sized aluminum bowl. Harland ordered the Cornucopia Of Bowls from the shopping channel for their wedding anniversary, so now their home has a bowl for every purpose.
She picks up another one and gives it a fling. She’ll have to pick them up in the morning, in front of God and the Biddles, but she wants those pigs out of her life. She finds a galvan-ized watering can and lifts herself on the balls of her feet, testing her calves. Alice is in good shape, despite her age; when she concentrates she can still find all her muscles from the inside. When her first husband left her the house fell apart but she and her daughter held up well, she thinks, everything considered.
She heaves the watering can but can’t tell where it’s gone.
It lands with a ding—possibly it struck a member of the Cornucopia. The red pig eyes don’t even blink. Alice feels defeated. She returns to the porch to collect her losses.
She’s not walking away from here. Who would take her in? She knows most of the well-to-do women in town, from cleaning their houses all the years she was raising Taylor, but their respect for Alice is based on what she could tell the world about their basements. On Fridays, Alice plays poker with Fay Richey and Lee Shanks—cheerful, husky-voiced women who smoke a lot and are so thankful to still be married, if she left Harland they’d treat her like she had a virus.
Minerva and the hog farm are both gone, of course, the one simply dead and buried, the other sold to pay its own debts.
It depresses Alice deeply to think how people’s lives and all other enterprises, like life insurance, can last long enough to cancel themselves out.
A mockingbird lands on the tip of a volunteer mulberry that has grown up through the hedge. Flapping to stay balanced, he makes the long branch bob and sway like a carnival ride. His little profile flails against a horizon the color of rising dough. In the few minutes it took Alice to make an accounting of her life, dawn was delivered to this address and the automatic spotlight on Biddles’ barn winked off. No matter what kind of night you’re having, morning always wins.
The mockingbird springs off his mulberry branch into darkness and then materializes up on the roof, crowing to this section of the county that her TV antenna is his and his alone. Something about the male outlook, Alice thinks, you have got to appreciate. She stands with her arms crossed against her chest and observes the dark universe of the garden, which is twinkling now with aluminum meteorites.
She hears the pigs again. It’s no wonder they like to come here; they get terrified down at Biddles’ when Henry uses more machinery than he needs. Yesterday he was using the hay mower to cut his front yard, which is typical. The poor things are just looking for a home, like the Boat People. She has a soft spot for refugees and decides to let them stay. It will aggravate Hester, who claims that every time they eat Alice’s peonies they come home with diarrhea.
The neighborhood tomcat, all muscle and slide, is creeping along the top of the trellis where Alice’s sweet peas have spent themselves all spring. She’s seen him up there before, getting high on the night perfume, or imagining the taste of mockingbird. The garden Alice wishes she could abandon is crowded with bird music and border disputes and other people’s hungry animals. She feels like the queen of some pitiful, festive land.
