The Pigman (9 page)

When I was a freshman going through my Bathroom-Bomber complex, Norton was a specialist in the five-finger discount. He used to shoplift everywhere he went. It used to be small-time stuff like costume jewelry for his mother and candy bars and newspapers. Then he got even worse, until now his eyes even drift out of focus when you’re talking to him. He’s the type of guy who could grow up to be a killer.

Now you can understand why I was suspicious when Norton invited me to the cemetery to have a beer just before Thanksgiving. That was more than a month after Lorraine and I first met the Pigman.

“How come you’re going over there all the time?” Norton finally blurted out as he opened up a bottle of a putrid brand of beer and made believe he was deeply interested in looking down into one of the glass domes on top of Masterson’s Tomb.

“Where?”

He looked me straight in the eye for a second, and then one of his eyes moved away. “You know where—that old guy’s house on Howard Avenue.”

“Oh him.”

“Is he queer or something?”

“He’s just a nice guy.”

“What’s his house like?”

“Like?”

“Has he got anything worth stealing?” Norton clarified, his eyes beginning to get mean and sneaky like an alley cat about to jump on a bird.

“Naw,” I muttered, throwing a pebble down off the front of the tomb. “All he’s got are some tools and stuff—”

“Tools?” Norton perked up. “What kind of tools?”

“Just some electrical junk.”

“DD’s been asking for a lot of that electric stuff. There’s a big market for electronics, you know.”

As soon as he mentioned DD I felt like socking him right in the face. I mean, DD is this lunatic man on Richmond Avenue who makes believe he’s the leader of organized crime on Staten Island, but all he handles are the hubcaps and radios that kids steal. King of the kids.

“Any TV’s or radios?”

“No,” I said.

Norton had reached a new peak of ugliness that day with the afternoon sun shining down on him. He paused a minute, then took a sip of his beer.

“Well, what are you and that screech owl going over there for?”

“I told you not to call Lorraine a screech owl!”

“What if I feel like calling her a screech owl?”

I took a sip of my beer, which was as warm as @#$%, and then looked him straight in the face. I wasn’t scared of him because we were sort of evenly matched.

“I mean, what would you
do
about it?” Norton grinned.

“Oh, probably nothing,” I said, smiling back at him. “Maybe I’d go buy some… marshmallows.”

The grin on Norton’s face faded away so quickly you’d think I just stuck a knife into him. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could buy some… marshmallows, would you?” I said, smiling.

“All right, I’m sorry I called her a screech owl,” Norton said, trying to avoid the unavoidable.

“You got anything more to say to me?” I said, standing up.

“Yeah.” Norton nodded slowly and with a return of courage said, “If you don’t give me a little more information about that old goat, maybe Dennis and me will pay a little visit over there ourselves.”

I yawned and stretched my arms into the air. “Well, I can see this conference is over. Thanks for the beer.” Then I threw my empty bottle way in back of the tomb. I mean, I was really furious by this time, and I started walking down the path from the top and out across the white gravel courtyard.

“Maybe we’ll pay a visit real soon!” Norton called out, and I turned to see him standing on top of the tomb. I walked a few steps farther so that I was about a hundred yards or so away, and then I spun around.

“You do that,” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “You do that, you Marshmallow Kid!”

I knew Norton had to make believe he didn’t hear that last remark because he would have had to run after me and try to bash my head in with a rock otherwise. It’s like paranoia in reverse when people are really calling you insulting things and you deliberately pretend they aren’t.

But I guess I’m just as screwed up as he is.

Sometimes I try to figure out why I’m the way I am. Take my drinking for instance.

“Johnny wants a sip of beer,” Bore used to say in the old days. He got a big kick out of it when I was about ten years old, and I’d go around emptying all the beer glasses lying around the house.

“That kid’s going to be a real drinker,” he’d say in front of company, and then I’d go through my beer-drinking performance for everybody, and they’d laugh their heads off. It was about the only thing I ever did that got any attention. My brother was the one everybody really liked—Kenny, the smart college kid. The only thing I did better than him was drink beer.

“A chip off the old block.”

Some chip.

When Bore got sclerosis of the liver like Lorraine told you, he stopped drinking, but I didn’t. I don’t think I know exactly what year I noticed it, but then all of a sudden Bore and the Old Lady got old. They didn’t fight anymore. They didn’t do much of anything anymore, which is why I guess I nicknamed them the way I did. They just seemed tired, and I seemed out of place in the house. I had become a disturbing influence, as they say. If I light up a cigarette, all my mother’s really worried about is that I’m going to burn a hole in the rug. If I want a beer, she’s worried I’m not going to rinse the glass out.

“John, turn your radio down.”

“John, you’re disturbing your father.”

“John, you’re disturbing your mother.”

“John, you’re disturbing the cat.”

“John, don’t slam the door when you go out; don’t make so much noise on the porch; don’t bang your feet when you walk up the stairs; don’t walk on the kitchen floor—don’t, don’t, don’t.”

“John, please do whatever you like. Make yourself comfortable. If you want something out of the refrigerator, help yourself. I want you to feel at home.”

And always with a big smile so you knew he meant it.

That was the Pigman, and I knew I’d kill Norton if he tried to hurt the old man.

I
t got so that every day John and I would go over to the Pigman’s after school and have a glass of wine and conversation. It was routine by the time the Christmas holidays came around, and it was nice to have some place to go besides the cemetery when it was cold out. Masterson’s Tomb is an escapist’s dream in the summer, but it’s a realist’s nightmare in December.

“Where have you been?”

“I told you the Latin Club was meeting today—and then I missed the bus coming home.”

I went right into the bedroom and took off my coat.

“Did I see you in a car today?” my mother asked, coming to the doorway to watch my reaction. “I was waiting for you to go to the store. When you didn’t come home, I walked down myself, and I saw a girl in a car that looked just like you.” She was holding the large coffee cup and stirring nervously.

“It wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t think it was. You know very well what I’d do if I ever caught you in a car.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Be a good girl and iron my uniform, will you? I came home late last night,” she went on, following me into the kitchen, “and the girl down the street was in a car, necking like a slut.”

“Maybe she’s engaged to that boy.”

“I don’t care. Just don’t let me catch you in a car if you know what’s good for you. I got some shrimp chop suey from the Chinese restaurant. I saved yours, but get the uniform done first.”

She always warns me about getting into cars and things like that. When she goes to work on a night shift, she constantly reminds me to lock the doors and windows, and sometimes she calls on the phone if she gets a chance and tells me again. Beware of men is what she’s really saying. They have dirty minds, and they’re only after one thing. Rapists are roaming the earth.

But now I understand her a little. I think the only man she really hates is my father—even though he’s dead. I don’t think she’ll ever be able to forgive what he did to her. She used to put me through the story at least twice a year—how when she was pregnant with me her doctor called and told her my father had some kind of disease, and she shouldn’t let him touch her until he got rid of it. It turned out that he had a girl friend on the side, and that’s when she filed for a legal separation. Everyone was surprised, because they had been childhood sweethearts, as the expression goes. It must have been awful for her when she found out about him. She never talks about him now—just how awful men are in general. She’s what the psychologists call fixated on the subject.

There’s one picture of my mother and father in an album, which is how I like to remember them. He’s wearing a football uniform—a handsome young man—with his arm around her. She’s wearing one of those funny raccoon coats. They’re smiling at each other in a grass field somewhere in Stapleton.

“I got a run in one of the new stockings last night. I didn’t notice it until I washed them this morning.” I could tell from the way she spoke that it was her way of thanking me for giving them to her. “Where did you get the money for them?”

“I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“I walked to school a few days instead of taking the bus.”

“You said you skipped lunch.”

“
And
I skipped lunch a couple of times.”

She mulled that over a few seconds, but she had to get to work on time and couldn’t devote her full energies to interrogating. She always makes me tell the same story over a week or so later to see if I slip up on any details.

“When I give you money for the bus, you ride the bus. It doesn’t look right for a girl to be walking along the streets.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“It looks like you’re trying to get picked up.”

So, all things considered, it was wonderful getting over to Mr. Pignati’s for a little dash of wine every day.

“Please don’t bring anything,” the Pigman always pleaded. “Just let me know what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

I was surprised to see John break down and start buying his own six-packs of beer. I really was. I had been bringing things like potato chips and pretzels all along simply because I felt funny mooching off Mr. Pignati.

“We want to bring our own stuff from now on.”

“Whenever we can,” John added quickly.

So things were really going along fine until one Sunday night in January when there was a snowstorm—and the Pigman had been to the zoo. John and I got over to the house around eight o’clock and were all set to watch a television show when we noticed Mr. Pignati was sad as all get out. I don’t even want to tell you this part, but one of us has to. It’s very depressing; it really is.

The minute we walked into the house I knew there was something wrong with him. He looked sick. Just worn out and sick, even though he was trying to smile, and you could tell he was feeling low. I told him to stay in his chair and I’d get the refreshments, and he looked rather grateful for my offer.

“Bobo wouldn’t eat today,” he said, forcing a weak smile. “I offered him a chocolate bar, and he just let it drop outside the cage.”

I went out to the kitchen and left John and the Pigman watching some kind of TV spectacular, the theme of which was
Hurrah for Hollywood.
Everybody was in it, so I knew it was going to be a strenuous bore.

“Bobo’s getting old….” I heard Mr. Pignati say as I served him a glass of wine. John had a can of beer, and I just didn’t feel like anything at that moment.

“Who?” John asked, not moving his eyes from the TV screen.

“Bobo….”

I sat in a creaky wooden chair near the window, and I could feel a terrible draft. Outside, the snow was falling, and it looked very pretty. There were a lot of pine trees, and the snow was sticking to them. It dawned on me then what a strain it must have been on Mr. Pignati to have trudged all the way down to see the baboon. He had even shoveled the walk outside, which I knew was for us. And just at that moment, for no reason at all, I remembered the old lady at Chambers Street saying “Death is coming.”

“Anybody hungry?” I asked, going out to the kitchen again without waiting for an answer. I came back with some candy on a plate. All I wanted was to cheer everybody up. The TV was certainly doing the best it could, with a blond starlet singing “Hurrah for Hollywood… La-La-La-De-Dum” as two hundred chorus boys lifted her up into the air.

“Have a piece of candy?” I asked, offering the plate to John. He was so hypnotized by that starlet he simply reached over and grabbed a piece and stuck it in his mouth without looking. Then a comedian finally told a joke we laughed at.

“John,” I whispered, “I think right now is a good time.” I got up and turned the TV down and waited for John to start. He looked very nervous over what we had decided to tell the Pigman.

“Mr. Pignati—”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Pignati, there’s something Lorraine and I think we should tell you.”

Mr. Pignati looked very serious and worried.

“Just tell him, John.”

“Well, Mr. Pignati,” he started, taking a big puff on his cigarette, “Lorraine and I have something on our consciences that you ought to know about.”

“Will you just tell him?”

He took another puff on his cigarette.

“You’ve been so nice to us that we want to be honest with you—”

“Yes?” Mr. Pignati said, sitting forward in his chair.

“You see, Mr. Pignati, we’re not charity workers.”

He just stared at us.

“We’re high-school kids,” John added a little nervously. “We’re sorry we lied to you.”

The Pigman looked so sad, and it didn’t seem like it was just because of our confession. It looked like there was so much more going on in his mind.

I couldn’t keep from speaking. “It was a game,” I offered, and I felt myself talking on and on, trying to put things on a lighter level. “We didn’t do it to be mean,” I said at last.

“No,” John spoke up. “Honest.”

“We just had to be honest with you because we like you more than anyone we know.”

Finally we had to stop talking and wait for some response from him. He had turned his head away and seemed to be looking out the window. Perhaps John had been right when he said we should’ve forgotten the whole thing—never mentioned it. Maybe there are some lies you should never admit to. I had told him we had to be truthful, and now I was sorry because I think I knew before the Pigman opened his mouth what he would have to tell us in return.