The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven

by Joseph Caldwell

  Lolly looked first at her husband, then toward the sanctuary, now filling with the last members of the two-tiered chorus. “It’s not Lucille,” she muttered.

  The soloists entered. Everybody clapped, including Aaron and Lolly. Before the applause had stopped, Aaron repeated the word: Lucille.

  “It can’t be.”

  “I know it can’t. But it is.”

  “She’s too young for you.”

  “She’s a year older.”

  “It’s still not Lucille.”

  “You’ve never seen her before. How can you know?”

  “She’s too pretty.”

  “Too pretty for me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’ve already said it.”

  “So you’re saying I could only get an ugly woman for a wife?”

  Before an answer could be given, the conductor, mercifully, entered. After bowing to the audience, acknowledging the welcome, and picking up the baton, he lifted his arms and bid the chorus to rise. The music began. What Lolly and Aaron heard or did not hear was anyone’s guess.

  At the intermission, no consultation was needed for the decision to go out for some fresh air. The sky had misted over and the half moon was a pale blue off to the east. Lolly and Aaron went past all the other Handel enthusiasts and stood apart near the iron gate. To occupy themselves, they each made a show of regarding the impressive tombstones marking the burial plots of ecclesiastics long departed. They said nothing. Finally, Aaron spoke. “Should we leave?”

  “Why leave? We’ve come all this way.”

  In a slightly saddened voice, Aaron said, “You think I’m making this up. But I’m not.”

  “I understand.” Lolly raised her hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “I really do.”

  “What do you understand?”

  “That you have some wish to see the woman once your wife named Lucille. And I understand. As I said, I really do.”

  While Aaron was formulating his reply, another voice was heard. “Aaron! Aaron McCloud! Is that you?”

  A woman in a red robe was coming toward them, making her way among the tombstones. A few feet away, she said in tones not far removed from a shriek, “If it isn’t you, I’m hallucinating. Am I?”

  “Lucille?”

  “You got it right that time, buster.”

  Aaron tried a smile but couldn’t quite make it. “I’m surprised.”

  “You’re surprised. I spotted you during ‘Comfort ye.’ ” I wet my panties and had to get rid of them just now. I have to sing without for the rest.”

  Lolly held out her hand. “Let me introduce myself. I’m his wife.”

  “Oh … You, too? Tell her, Aaron. I used to be your wife, didn’t I?”

  “Well, yes, I guess that was you.”

  Lolly held her hand in position, waiting. “I’m Lolly McCloud.”

  “What a funny name. Lolly. McCloud’s okay, and boy was he ever named right. Once we got married he went into the clouds and never came out. But I guess you already know that.”

  Lolly lowered her hand. “No. Not really.”

  “Well, some people are luckier than others. I mean … I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  “Thank you. But we have it already.” Lolly put sufficient heat into her words to sound almost convincing.

  “Well,” said Lucille, her laugh close to giddy, “I got my wish. You’re the luckier one.”

  “Apparently.” Lolly not only smiled but bowed as well.

  “Isn’t it time,” Aaron said to Lucille, “to be getting back?”

  “It’s okay. They give us a long break to rest our voices. And I want you to pay special attention to my husband’s solo after ‘I Know My Redeemer’: ‘The Trumpet Shall Sound.’ He’s the bass you already heard, but that’s his big number. It’ll tell you in the program. Stanislaus Glyzinski.”

  “Glyzinski?” Aaron was genuinely surprised. “I thought your husband’s name was Aldershot. Jack Aldershot.”

  “Oh, no, not Jack. How could I stay married to him? He played me the same trick you did.”

  “Me?”

  “You. If your name’s Aaron McCloud. That’s who. When Jack and I met at St. Joseph and he was a baritone, he did the same thing to me you did.”

  “Oh?” Lolly let her mouth stay open, as if the response would enter there instead of her ear.

  Lucille decided to address the current Mrs. McCloud rather than the man to whom she was now the former Mrs. McCloud. “He did. Just like Aaron here, when he wanted me to fall in love with him, he did all these beautiful things. He was so thoughtful, so kind. Just like Aaron, he took a real interest in my voice, in my singing. At least it seemed real, the same as it did with Aaron. I even sang ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ for Jack more times than Aaron had me sing it for him. And when I just hinted I liked a man who opened doors, he began opening doors. Like Aaron did. And I couldn’t sneeze or he’d worry, or I couldn’t clear my throat or he’d be concerned was I all right. He cared. All the time, he couldn’t care enough. And when he wasn’t kissing and hugging, he was always polite. A real gentleman. But you probably know all this. Right?”

  “Our circumstances,” said Lolly, “were somewhat different.”

  “Well, that was when your luck started. But then I got married, first to Aaron, then to Jack. And know what it all turned out to be?”

  “You’ll tell me, I’m sure.”

  “They weren’t ‘courting’ me, as some people would put it. They were giving me lessons. They were instructing me. What they were really saying all along was ‘This is the way I expect you to treat me after we’re married. Pay close attention. This is how thoughtful you’re supposed to be. This is how seriously you should take my work’—for Aaron, his writing, for Jack, his accounting. Can you believe it? Words from one, numbers from the other. And I’m supposed to care like all get-out. And be kind and generous and cheerful and uncomplaining? All that. That’s what I was supposed to do. That’s who I was supposed to be. Hadn’t I been taught properly? Hadn’t I been given a good example? I’d been taught by the best teachers, shown how by men who knew what marriage was all about! With Aaron it was sort of okay because I was inexperienced. But when it happened all over again with Jack, I said forget it. It’s men. And there’s no hope for us women. Then I met Stan. He told me right out I couldn’t sing worth diddly-screw and please not to do it except when there are enough other voices to drown me out. He never bothered to be polite, not particularly. No presents, not even an engagement ring. For our wedding I had to use the one Aaron gave me. And I knew then that all men are not alike. They’re not all just instructors of how to act once you’re married. I was thrilled. I started out with Aaron, a tenor. Sort of. Then Jack, a baritone. Now I know where I’m supposed to be. Stan. A bass. And you’re going to hear him. And he’s really great. Someone to love at last. A man who knows how to really get himself a good woman. I hope, Lolly—that funny, funny name—I hope Aaron has become a Stan and isn’t the same old Aaron.”

  Before Lolly could say the least little word, a low, hoarse voice—quite the opposite of Lucille’s—said, “Hello, Lolly McKeever.”

  The voice came from somewhere near the tombstones. With the same girlish laugh that had animated her before, Lucille called out, “McCloud, dummy. She’s Lolly McCloud. Can you believe it?”

  A man came close to where they were standing. He was wearing rumpled woolen pants, a well-worn coat, and muddied boots.

  Lolly grabbed Aaron’s upper arm and squeezed it hard enough to stop the flow of blood. “Declan,” she said, attempting to sound pleased and surprised.

  The man joined them. “I saw you at the castle, but you ran away. Am I interrupting?”

  “No. Not a bit. No.” Lolly’s attempt was becoming a bit less successful. “We’re just standing here. Talking.”

  For whatever reason, Lucille seemed to find this amusing. “Not that we’re saying much.” She held out her hand toward Declan. “I’m Lucille
. A friend, I guess, of Aaron’s.”

  Declan looked at the hand and drew back. Like Lolly earlier, he seemed reluctant to encourage intimacy. To Aaron he said, “Then you’re Aaron.”

  “Aaron McCloud. I was at the castle, too.” He indicated, more than achieved, a bow, not wanting to risk an unaccepted hand.

  “Kitty’s cousin?”

  “Nephew.”

  “Well, why not.”

  Lucille, fully aware by now of Declan’s avoidance, began to pull back the outheld hand. Aaron had a momentary fear she was going to make the sign of the cross, but was relieved to see her scratch her scalp. As she was enjoying this displacement of her hair, Lucille said, “I used to be his wife. Lucille McCloud. Now I’m Lucille Glyzinski. And she’s Lolly McCloud. I mean, they’re married to each other.”

  After Declan had stared a long moment, as if trying to determine what sort of creature it was confronting him, he looked again at Aaron. “You’re married to her, then?”

  “That I am.”

  Declan turned to Lolly. “And you’re married to him?”

  “It would seem so.” Then she added, “Yes, yes, we’re married. Over a year now.”

  Declan was looking at the ground. Very thoughtfully, as if his mind were slowly working its way through the words that had been spoken, he quietly said, “I remember now. At the castle. I heard something like that, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. It seemed so … well, … so, never mind. I should have paid better attention.”

  Aaron wasn’t ready to let it drop. “Seemed so what?”

  It was Lolly who answered. “Wonderful?”

  Lucille let out a whoop, then instantly covered her mouth.

  Declan, as if not having heard the sound, said, still thoughtful, “And Kitty McCloud is married to Kieran Sweeney. A Sweeney married to a McCloud. It’s been a bit busy the while I was gone.”

  Aaron wasted no time. “To say the least.”

  Declan hadn’t bothered to hear. He was looking directly at Lolly, into her eyes. “I didn’t expect everything to be so different.”

  Lolly shrugged. Lucille decided it was time to contribute to the conversation once again. To Declan she said, “You think it’s funny she’s married to him? How about what I said before? He used to be married to me. He does all right for himself, doesn’t he?”

  Again Declan could only stare, still trying to account for her presence in this place, at this time. Even the red choir robe seemed to offer no clue. To say something, anything, Lolly, as if expressing approval of the most exciting news heard in a long time, said, “And, Declan, you’re to do thatching at the castle. Is that true?”

  Genuinely perplexed, Lucille intervened. “Castle? What’s this I hear about a castle?”

  Aaron and Lolly shuffled their feet, but no one bothered to answer.

  It took Declan a few moments to take in what Lolly had said. After seeming to consider a series of possible responses he, too, shrugged. “The castle thatching was always done by a man of my family. From the day the first stone was raised.” He continued to look into her eyes. “It’s the one thing that will never change. Everything else can change. Never that. I’ll be faithful to what was meant to be.”

  Lucille had begun to shift from one foot to the other, suggesting she was about to wet herself again. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I have to get back.” To Declan she said, “I’m singing. But I guess you could tell with me all done up like this. Well, it’s been real. We don’t get to talk to the Irish much, so I’m especially honored, I guess. It’s certainly interesting, and I love the way you people say things. I could listen to the way you talk for days, no matter if it makes sense or not. But you have to excuse me …”

  To divest Lucille of any expectation that they’d wait after the performance to see her again, Aaron managed to say, “We probably won’t be seeing you later, so I congratulate you now. It will be wonderful. It already is. And my regards to your … to your husband. The current one.”

  Lucille, not unmoved by such uncharacteristic courtesy from the man to whom she had been married, drew both her clasped hands to her throat and shook her head. “What a terrific surprise this has been. For all of us.” She touched Lolly’s shoulder. “Especially for you, huh? And it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Truly.” She then grabbed Declan’s hand. He gasped. “And you, too, whatever your name turns out to be.” She vigorously shook the hand she held, then released it. She started to turn away, but stopped. “And don’t forget. My husband, the one I have now, he has his big number this next part. ‘The Trumpet Shall Sound’. Be sure you listen. He’ll appreciate it.” Creating a swirl in the skirt of her robe, she started down the pathway, an “Excuse me, excuse me” offered to each person she managed to nudge aside until she left the path itself, moved onto the grass, and made her way along the side of the church, hurrying toward the glory awaiting in the great choruses yet to come. Aaron and Lolly watched, wanting to make certain she was truly gone.

  “Should we go home now?” This time it was Lolly who asked.

  Aaron sighed. “I think we could use more Handel. I can’t just walk away.”

  When they turned to see what Declan had decided, they saw that he was gone. They looked around. They looked among the tombstones. They searched the crowd returning to the church. He was nowhere.

  Aaron took Lolly’s arm. “Come. Handel will help.”

  “What makes you think I need help?”

  Aaron didn’t answer. Lolly let herself be led back inside. Lucille was already in place, sans panties, fifth from the left, second tier.

  For the rest of the oratorio, Aaron and Lolly sat there transfixed. When they dutifully stood for the “Alleluia,” they held themselves as straight as statues and let the music assault their all-too-corporeal selves. After “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth,” Lucille’s current husband, Stanislaus Glyzinski, began his number, “The Trumpet Shall Sound.” Only too meaningful did the words seem: “And the dead shall be raised incorruptible.”

  During the first repeat of the aria, there was a stirring off to their right, a few pews ahead. A man was stumbling his way out into the aisle. He fell more than genuflected on his right knee, then stood unsteadily and started toward the high portals at the back of the church. His pants were rumpled, his coat well worn, his boots muddy and too heavy on the marble floor. His head was bowed, his right hand clamped over his mouth as if struggling to stifle a sound he couldn’t permit.

  As he passed Aaron and Lolly, it could be seen that tears were welling from his squinted eyes, running down over the back of his hand. “And the dead shall be raised incorruptible …” Again the trumpet made its proclamation, the clarion sound echoing throughout the great spaces, soaring to the arches high above the nave. Onward the man lurched. As he passed the pew where Aaron and Lolly were seated, Lolly was heard to whisper in a voice given over to heartbreak, “Declan.”

  The man stumbled on.

  7

  It was decided. Kitty would e-mail the young professor at the college in Cork and tell her she’d changed her mind. She would be most honored to preside, along with the teacher herself—a Ms. Eileen Mulligan—over a special late summer seminar that would compare Kitty’s “corrections” to the canonical novels that had been their inspiration. With students selected by Ms. Mulligan and approved by Kitty after scanning their applications, there would be readings given, discussions held, and papers presented. There would be disagreements; there would be arguments. There would be denunciations and accusations, insults and dismissals, passionate defenses and equally passionate condemnations. For Kitty, all of this was not without appeal: She had a congenital love of contention. The seminar would nourish and perhaps satisfy her need for controversy. She slavered at the thought of it.

  And then to make the offer even more attractive, Ms. Mulligan confessed that no remuneration would be offered. Kitty would be working for nothing. No budgetary allowance could be made, and Ms. Mulligan, turning this to her advantage, had told Kitt
y that her presence and participation were beyond price; any amount, no matter how munificent, would have been insulting, and she, Associate Professor Eileen Mulligan, would never be party to such a travesty. Kitty was priceless—a claim Kitty was not inclined to refute.

  It was also pointed out that colleges and universities all over Ireland could boast the employ of writers of great eminence and celebrated reputation. Surely in Ireland there was no lack. An actual surfeit was only too evident. But name the institution that had persuaded an acknowledged hack willing to brave the ready scorn, to say nothing of the perverse advocacy of admirers she would no doubt excite. This was Kitty McCloud, ceaselessly reviled but prodigiously paid, the Ms. McCloud who had dared to claim that she, and she alone, had been called by the muse that dispenses writerly gifts to fulfill the original inspirations so stupidly compromised by earlier literary icons who should have known better.

  Well, Ms. McCloud did know better and didn’t hesitate to let the world know it. With what could be called unmitigated nerve (but should probably be called unmitigated gall), she went beyond a critic’s competence and had charitably set about identifying truths ignored, to say nothing of redeeming the writers who had lacked the guts to risk ridicule in the cause of providing a more honest ending to novels she had deemed worthy of her attention. And now she had been asked to “compare and contrast”—as the alliteration goes—her desecrations of the sacred texts she had so ruthlessly, so charitably corrected.

  The lure was obvious from the beginning. The opportunity to stand up for hacks was irresistible, especially when it occurred to her that she would not return scorn for scorn, but error with pity. She would be patience itself. Here was a chance to practice one of the spiritual works of mercy she’d been taught by the nuns: ‘To instruct the ignorant.’ She would thereby earn a fair dose of heavenly approval, which might come in handy should her pity threaten to reveal itself as pride or her wrath become aroused when confronted with certitudes equal to her own.