Hamilton Stark (8 page)

In a rush to feed and water the birds, Ham neglected to close the door to Jack’s cage with the snap that locked it. He hurried back through the foot-deep snow to the house, and while his father shoveled out the long driveway to the road, he gulped down his breakfast and got dressed for church. Before he and his mother left, his father paid him.

Later, when they returned from church and walked into the kitchen, his father said somberly to Ham, “Leave your coat on, boy. I want you to come out to the henhouse and see something.” He got up from his chair, put on his own coat and hat, and led his son outside and along the narrow path he had shoveled to the henhouse.

At the door to the henhouse, his father stopped and lit a cigarette. Then he said, “Go on in,” and Ham swung open the door and stepped inside.

The cold-eyed fighting cocks, locked inside their cages, were striding rapidly back and forth. Across from them, in the farthest dark corner of the henhouse, the hens were huddled silently together in a rippling mass, all of them facing the wall. And in the center of the packed dirt floor lay the body
of old Henry, shredded at the breast and head, with a flurry of blood-tipped feathers scattered about it on the floor.

Ham turned around and stepped back outside to where his father stood smoking and waiting for him. The sky had begun to clear, and the snow glared brightly in the sunlight, so that for several seconds Ham could not see.

He heard his father say, “You know what happened, don’t you?”

Ham tried not to cry and finally succeeded and answered, “The fighting cocks killed Henry.”

“You forgot to close Jack’s cage this morning, and after you and your mother left, all hell broke loose. By the time I got out here, Jack had killed the rooster and scared the hens so bad they probably won’t lay till spring.”

Ham said that he was sorry. He said it several times because it felt strange to him when he said it, almost as if he didn’t mean it, as if somehow he were glad that Henry was dead and the hens wouldn’t lay.

His father told him that being sorry never changed anything in this world. Never. “So the first thing you’re going to do is buy a new rooster for those hens. If we’re lucky we’ll get them laying again. It’ll probably help if we put the fighting cocks out in the barn right away, so this afternoon I’ll build a couple of coops for them out there. Up to now I kept them in here because it was easier for you to feed them all at once. Now it’ll be harder for you,” he said grimly.

“How much will a new rooster cost?” Ham asked, knowing the answer even before he heard it.

“Two or three dollars,” his father said, flicking his cigarette butt into the snowbank and heading for the house.

Ham stood there alone for a few seconds and then started running to catch up to his father, who had almost reached the house.

THE DRUNKEN PIGS

In certain years the family raised a pig. Always Poland China pigs. But there was a period of about five years when they were raising two pigs, every spring butchering the older of the two and replacing it immediately with a young one. In two years that pig would weigh one hundred and fifty pounds or more, and its turn, as the older of the pair, would have arrived.

By that time Ham, whose responsibility it was to feed them, would’ve grown attached to the bristly, pinkish white beast, so he was grateful that every time his father and Archie Carr, the butcher, packed one of the pigs into the back of Archie’s truck and drove off with it, they left behind a football-shaped and -sized piglet, so small it had to be fenced separately for a while to protect it from the clumsy, thrashing bulk of the remaining adult pig.

“Pigs don’t get along until they’re about the same size,” Ham’s father had explained. “Like people.” Then he had laughed down lightly at his son, and touching the boy’s coal black hair with his enormous fingertips he said, “Naw, not like people.”

Ham knew that they raised the pigs to kill and eat and that it saved them a lot of money. It was wartime, and even though his father worked hard every day as a plumber, Ham knew that they were poor, so he tried to think about the pigs the way he thought about the vegetable garden.

It wasn’t easy. The pigs themselves made it difficult for him. They had too much character for it. Certainly they rooted like potatoes in the dark ground of the pigpen, but sometimes Ham would stand on the rough board fencing of the pen and watch them snuffle through the dirt, and when the pigs realized that he was there, they’d stare up at him and wrinkle the loamy surface of the dirt with their buried noses,
as if signaling to him. Besides, the pigs
ate
potatoes—or at least they ate the peelings, whole buckets of them, left over from Ham’s mother’s cooking at the end of each week.

And yes, it was true that the pigs were in fact shaped more like a summer squash than anything else—they surely weren’t shaped like animals, or people. Rounded at the ends, long and smooth-sided, so fat their tiny legs in soft ground were almost invisible, with a tendril-like tail at one end and leafy ears at the other, it should have been easy to think of them as nothing more than gigantic pinkish summer squashes. Except of course that they ate squashes, ate greedily the seedy cores that Ham’s mother scraped away when she was canning for the winter.

Another thing that made it hard for Ham to think of the pigs in the same way he thought of the vegetables from the garden was that the pigs made noises, grunts and loud, high squeals, which Ham thought he understood. One time the pigs broke loose from the pen and were very hard to find and catch because, once loose, they remained silent and out of sight. But when Ham’s mother discovered one of them rummaging noiselessly through her geranium bed over on the shady side of the house, the pig had started squealing loudly and had headed straight for the pigpen. The other pig, the older one, had wandered out behind the barn and had fallen through the wooden platform that covered an old unused well back there. Twelve foot down, standing in a foot of water in total darkness, the pig remained silent until Ham and his father, seeing that the cover had been broken, walked over to the well and peered down, and only then did the pig begin to squeal for help.

Also, the pigs liked Ham. Or at least it seemed to him that they did. They let him scratch their dry, scaly backs and smooth foreheads and often came to the fence when they saw
him there. In calm silence the beasts would poke their snouts between the slats, and he would scratch them. One pig would even let Ham place two fingertips of one hand a short ways into its nostrils, dime-sized openings, as long as with his other hand the boy kept scratching the bony ridge of the snout.

They tried not to name the pigs. His father had pointed out that if they didn’t give them names, it would help Ham avoid becoming too fond of them. “They’re not pets. Remember that. No more reason to name a pig you’re going to eat in a year or two than name a damn apple tree,” he had explained.

Ham’s mother had agreed, but later, when Ham accidentally revealed to her that on his own he had secretly continued naming the pigs year after year, she had merely smiled. Because he had referred to only one of the pigs by name, Anne, she asked him the name of the other.

“Tricksie. I named her that because she looks like the one we had two years ago, and her name was Tricksie too,” he told her, pointing out the pig’s unusually long snout and small ears.

“Tricksie and Anne. Why Anne?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed to fit her,” he said. Then he asked her not to tell his father that he had named the pigs, and she assured him that she wouldn’t.

The September that Tricksie began her final season as a pig and Anne was more than half-grown, Ham and his mother harvested an unusually large crop of grapes. They were Concord grapes, large and purple and darkly sweet, that grew from several clusters of vines in front of the garden and along the south-facing side of the road.

For a week, every afternoon when school was out Ham would step down from the school bus and walk to the
grapevines and work alongside his mother until suppertime. These were warm, pleasant afternoons for him, picking the dusky grapes in the golden September sunlight, talking quietly with his mother as they worked, chatting of school, his friends, his new teacher. He also liked asking her about what he was like when he was a baby, and she apparently enjoyed telling him. He asked her why she didn’t have another baby, and she said, “Maybe I will,” in such a way that he figured it was a decision. And that turned out to be the year before his sister Jody was born.

When he and his mother had finally picked all the grapes, having stored them each night in close-woven baskets in the cellar, his mother started making jelly with them. She’d never made grape jelly before, had never gathered a large enough crop, and she was excited at the prospect. She washed the grapes, and squashed them, and separated the skins and seeds from the pulp, the pulp from the juice. She saved the juice in Mason jars and used the cleaned pulp for the jelly. The skins and seeds, sloshing thickly in a five-gallon tub like a purple stew, she decided to feed to the pigs.

That afternoon when Ham got home from school, she asked him to carry the tub out to the pigpen and leave it for them. He dipped his fingers into the gooey mass and tasted it: sweet, and a little bit sour at the edges. But he was sure that the pigs, after a daily diet of grain mash and water, would consider it a treat.

Eagerly, he dragged the heavy tub across the back yard to the end of the barn where the pigpen was located, swung back the gate, and slid the tub inside. Closing the gate, he climbed up on the fence and watched Tricksie and Anne hungrily shove their snouts into the mushy substance.

After a few moments, the animals’ rapid eating began to slow, and Ham, bored, left them alone and returned to the
house. He wondered if, after such a huge afternoon meal, they’d be hungry again in the morning, and he decided yes, because, after all, they were pigs, weren’t they?

The next morning, as he always did, Ham got up, dressed, came downstairs, and while his mother made breakfast, he went out to feed and water the hens, his father’s fighting cocks, and the pigs. These were his daily chores. It was a sparkling clear morning, cloudless and dry, with a light frost that silvered the grass and made it crackle under his feet as he walked. He went to the henhouse first, completed his tasks there, and went on to the pigpen, lugging the bucket of watery grain mash he had made up in the barn.

As he rounded the corner of the barn and neared the pen, he started to call, “Soo-ee! Soo-ee! Here, pig-pig-pig!” Then he saw them. Tricksie, the larger of the two, was lying on her side near the fence, facing away from it. Anne was also lying down, a few feet beyond Tricksie. Ham thought they were sleeping, so he called again, expecting them to scramble awkwardly to their feet and rush to the trough. When they failed to respond to his second call, he thought, They must be full from yesterday’s extra meal.

But then, coming closer to the fence, he realized that both pigs, though still the same size in relation to each other, in fact had nearly doubled in size. They both seemed as large and as round as hills, and as inert.

He put the bucket on the ground, reached around for a stick, and after a few seconds found the long, pointed maple branch he sometimes used to prod the pigs away from the trough while he filled it. Reaching through the slats of the fence with the stick, he poked Tricksie on the back, but got no result. She lay there as if she were a huge pile of sand.

Again he poked her. Nothing.

He then saw a purple trickle, like a string, from the pig’s
fig-shaped anus, and he knew that she was dead. He looked over at Anne and saw the same purple string dribbling down the inside of one of her hams, and he knew that both pigs were dead.

Grabbing the stick firmly, he started whacking it against Tricksie’s hindquarters, her back, her swollen belly, swinging the stick in as long an arc as he could, whacking the pig’s body all the way up to the head, which he couldn’t quite reach, so he pitched the stick into the pen, climbed over the fence and jumped down into the muck, where he picked up the stick and resumed beating the carcass, swinging the stick from over his head, bringing it down hard against the pig’s ears, eyes, and snout.

He moved to the other pig and began to thrash its belly and head, too, again and again, when at last the stick broke off in his hand. He threw the piece of wood away and stood there in the deep, dark mud, weeping, and through his clenched teeth brokenly cursing his mother, calling her stupid, stupid, stupid.

THE EROTIC MOUSE

The winter that Ham’s sister Jody was born, his mother asked him from then on when he was playing in the house to please play in the front room. He was nine that year, and because he liked building things, he took up a lot of room when he was playing and usually left a great clutter behind him. This was why his mother, still tired from having the baby and too busy with feeding and caring for her to cope with Ham’s expansive play and the resulting mess, had insisted. “You never pick up after yourself, so from now on all your puzzles and model planes,
all
of it, gets done in the front room!”

The front room was an unfinished first-floor room to the
right of the stairway as one entered the house, opposite the living room. In an earlier time it would have been a front parlor, a room set aside for special social events only. In size and window arrangements it matched the living room. It was almost exactly twenty-feet square, with two windows on the front wall and two on the side, a door that led from the front hallway and another that led directly into the back downstairs bedroom.