The Pig Did It

by Joseph Caldwell

  Immediately Jim turned to face her as if wondering where the voice had come from. “Doing our job,” he said. Tom, who’d been unable to take his eyes from the happy couple seated on the bed, finally gave a quick look around the room. Instinctively both Aaron and Lolly spread their legs a little, hoping to obscure whatever parts or pieces of Declan might be sticking out and to discourage these guardians of the peace from looking under the bed. The movement, however, drew Tom’s attention, and he, responding to instincts of his own, stooped down and looked under the bed. So as not to obstruct the law, Aaron and Lolly, resigned to whatever might happen, not only drew their legs together but pressed them closer to each other’s, his to hers, hers to his. Tom stood up. Lolly’s leg started to make the slightest movement away, then stayed where it was, pressing just a little bit closer.

  Jim had busied himself opening and closing the cupboard door, taking his own obligatory peek under the bed, then thumping up and down on the floorboards, one boot at a time. Tom poked at the ceiling with a stick that had materialized in his hand. He nodded in brief reverence when he passed the crucifix, then checked the cupboard again. More thorough than his partner, he knocked with his knuckles on the inside walls of the cupboard and tested the efficiency of the hinges on its door. The sight of Tom pounding on the interior of the cupboard inspired Jim to hit his fist on the wall just to the side of the bed. Not really listening for any resonance that might suggest a hollowed space behind, he continued his banging, his fist obviously enthusiastic about its connection with the wall, with the wainscoting.

  Kitty was the first to see the pin, the nail from the crucifix, still sticking out from the wall where Sweeney had placed it. Aaron noticed the quick jerk of his aunt’s head, followed her gaze, and saw the nail. Jim continued his banging, now joined by Tom, the two of them equally eager to demonstrate how thorough they were in the fulfillment of their duty.

  It was Jim who hit his fist in the proper place. The panel door creaked open, forcing Kitty and Sweeney to step away. Ever adaptable, Lolly cried out, “Look! A secret panel!”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” said Tom.

  Jim gagged, then said, “What’s that smell? Old cabbages?”

  Tom put his hand to his chin. Jim covered his mouth and made an inhuman sound. Kitty and Sweeney leaned backward to further demonstrate their amazement even as Lolly pressed her thigh closer to Aaron’s, drew their clasped hands up to her lips, and give a quick gnaw to one of Aaron’s knuckles.

  “Come out! And don’t be making us wait!” Tom yelled.

  Jim shouted even more loudly. “We’ve got you now. So save yourself and come along like a good fellow!” He waved his hand to indicate he meant what he said.

  Tom, without turning away from the opening, said from the side of his mouth, the side closest to Kitty, “Where does it go? Is there another way out?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “There’s the old story that there’s a tunnel leading to the sea,” said Jim. “This is it. And we’ve found it.”

  “Imagine that,” said Kitty.

  “Come out!” Tom called again.

  “There’s no one there,” said Sweeney. “Only an idiot would put foot into a stench like that.”

  Aaron started to raise his head in protest, but decided not to speak up on his own behalf. Lolly had replaced their joined hands on his thigh and had relaxed her spine to indicate that the police were on the wrong track. Kitty picked up on the signal. She took the flashlight from the dresser and said, “Come on. I’ll go first. If anyone’s there, it’ll be a ghost, and I’d like to see who it is.”

  Tom and Jim exchanged glances. Kitty bent down, ready to enter the tunnel. “But,” said Sweeney, trying not to wring his hands—not having seen Lolly’s signal—“are you sure you want to do this? I mean, you can’t tell what might be in there. Please. Think.”

  Without straightening, Kitty said, “Whatever might be there is there. I just want to get it over with and get on with my career.” She flicked the flashlight on and beamed it into the dark.

  Lolly took in a breath, exhaled, then said, “You won’t find anything. I can promise you that.”

  “Oh?” said Tom.

  “You sound so terribly sure,” said Jim. How is that?”

  Lolly shrugged. “I just know, is all.” She looked straight at Sweeney. Sweeney returned her gaze, then turned toward the still-stooped Kitty. “I’ll go in,” he said. “It’s no place for a woman, whatever’s there or not there.” At the sound of his voice, Tom and Jim, like stagehands slightly behind in their cues with the spotlights, turned their eyes on Sweeney. “We’ll be the ones to go,” said Jim, “if anyone goes at all.” Kitty, with a snort, entered the opening.

  After the eyes of Tom consulted with the eyes of Jim, the two men stooped down, prepared to follow. Jim stuck his head inside, withdrew it, spit, then entered. Tom entered next, tripping. Out of the dark came the single sound, “Ouch,” in Jim’s voice.

  Lolly quickly unclasped her hand from Aaron’s and flicked it three times as if to rid it of his touch. Her thigh was separated from his, and with nimble fingers she began to button her blouse. “And I’ve got hogs waiting for me,” she said. She got up and went to the opening. Aaron followed. The two of them looked down, listening for the sounds to recede. Twice came Jim’s “Ogh” and once Tom’s “Don’t shove” and, now in the distance, Kitty’s “Let me know when you gentlemen are satisfied.”

  Sweeney went to the bed and, lowering himself onto the mattress, whispered, “What did you do with Declan?” There was a cracking, then a crunching as he sat a few inches lower onto the mattress. Lolly and Aaron turned to look.

  “Oh,” said Sweeney.

  “Sweeney,” said Lolly. “Get up before you do him more damage than you’ve done already. And you, Aaron, help me get him out before they all come back.”

  Out?” said Aaron.

  “We’ll bundle him up, and I’ll straighten him out at home.”

  “You’re going to take him with you?”

  “We can’t leave him here.”

  Sweeney put his opened palms at his sides, resting on the mattress. “I’m the one came to take him. He’ll go with me.”

  Aaron considered calling down to Tom and Jim, telling them to come quick, he had something to show them. Anything to stop the bickering. And besides, Lolly’s need for him had exhausted itself. And he had very little doubt that Lolly McKeever was the killer. Her frantic need to hide the skeleton was as close to a confession as anyone would want. And then her blatant use of him, of Aaron, while not without its moments, was, in retrospect, shameless, without scruple and, worst of all, insincere. He knew that the clasp of her hand, the pressure of her thigh, and the gnaw of his knuckle had been inspired bits of acting, but so convincing had they been that he had begun to believe that she had, in her distress, come to realize the attractions of his nearness, the irresistible reality of his hand, his thigh, his knuckle. But she had moved too quickly from his side, from the hold of his hand and the touch of his thigh. He knew himself reduced to what she considered him: a necessary but temporary prop. He didn’t ask her gratitude. He wanted only some sizable acknowledgment that she had been aroused by his proximity. A bit of perplexity on her part was all he required, an embarrassed indication that she had been moved beyond the usual controls, a halting plea that she be allowed to pull herself together after what she had experienced in his presence.

  Sweeney sucked in a quick breath and said in a desperate whisper, “The pig is in the grave!” Wildly waving his arms, he left the room, knocking against the doorframe as he passed through.

  Once across the hall, he repeated the same injury on the doorway into the kitchen and yet again on the door leading out to the yard. The screen door slammed, and through the screen Aaron could see Sweeney, like a demented dancer, rushing toward the hole where Declan had been laid. The top of the pig was visible, the pink mound slipping from side to si
de. Even to a city boy like Aaron, it was evident that the pig had created for itself a wallow, rooting down far enough to wet the bottom of the grave, and was now enjoying the fruits of its labor. If Aaron heard right, Sweeney was making hissing sounds more appropriate to a goose than to a pig. He was now circling the grave, the pink mound slipping back and forth even more excitedly, the pig driven to a greater gratification by the shamanistic dancing of the man with the flapping hands and the inspired boots.

  As if to prevent either Aaron or Lolly from interfering, or even observing this primitive rite, a sudden gust from somewhere slammed shut the door to the priest’s room. Aaron was near the door. Lolly was near the bed. They were alone.

  Both remained still, suspended between what had been happening and what would happen now. When Aaron made no move, Lolly, to suggest that motion was allowed, went back to the bed and sat down. There was the crunch, but she paid no attention. She put her hands on her lap and stared at the closed door. Aaron, after a moment, went to the chair next to the cabinet and sat down. He put one hand on each thigh and stared at the panel opening. No movement was made for about a minute. Then Lolly got up and went to the shuttered window. After running the tips of her fingers along the line where the shutters met the sill, she gave a slight pull and the shutter came toward her. She repeated the action and the second shutter was drawn into the room. Next she put a little pressure on the window frame and raised it from the bottom. She stood a moment staring blankly at the scene outside, then went and sat stiffly on the severe Protestant bench and gazed out the window.

  A soft breeze rippled into the room, bringing with it the scent of apples even though this was far from their season. From where he sat Aaron could see a broad field of tall grass bending toward the sea, an impossibility since all winds came from the west. Rather than take up this latest addition to his bewilderment, he simply remarked to himself—actually something closer to a sigh than a remark—how graceful the grass was in its submission to the winds. There was a lone tree he knew to be an oak. Often they had picnicked in its shade before time and the sea had moved it so perilously close to the edge of the cliff. Rising in the distance was a wide band of water separating the land’s end and the sky’s beginning. Only a single boat could be seen, a curragh, and even that could be the crest of a wave that seemed wary of coming closer to the shore. Great masses of snow white cloud, like venerable kingdoms arising in majesty from the sea, sat unmoving in the sky to the north, certain that they had found their rightful place in the cosmos and would remain where they were until kingdoms were no more. The wind stirred the leaves of the oak, but the grass refused to bend more than it already had. Near the horizon the boat had disappeared, either a wave that had crested and crashed or the boat itself sunk and gone.

  “Will you stay long enough to see the foxglove?” Lolly asked quietly. “And the wild dog rose should come before too long. You should see that too.” She was smiling, her eyelids slightly lowered, as if seeing already the flowers whose season had not yet come. When Aaron didn’t answer, she looked toward him, eyes wide, still smiling softly. “Of course now you get the buttercup and the stitchwort, and they’re lovely, I know; but it’s the foxglove you should see.”

  “Yes,” said Aaron. “I’d like to. But I’m not really sure how long I’ll stay.”

  “You’ve come so far. You shouldn’t leave too soon.” Her smile had saddened, sorry for what might be lost to him. And her voice had become almost gentle. Aaron looked out through the window. A tiny brown bird was dipping into the grass, in and out, up and down, as if looking for something it had left behind. “What bird is that?”

  “That? A reed bunting. Silly bird. Prefers telephone wires to just about anything else.”

  “It’s having a fine time now, in the grass.”

  “Probably has a nest and forgot, poor thing.”

  “How sad not to know the names of birds.”

  “But some you know.”

  “Some. Not many.”

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “I never thought of it. Maybe.”

  “Which one?”

  “The ones I’ve never seen. Like a bluebird or a nightingale or an eagle.”

  “You’ve never seen an eagle?”

  “No. Never.”

  “How strange. You really must.”

  “Yes.” Aaron gave a quick smile, then looked again out the window. “My favorite, I think, is the cormorant. Except I saw one, here, yesterday, a cormorant near the cliffs.”

  “Your favorite?” She was more puzzled than surprised. “A greedy thing like that?”

  “The sound. ‘Cormorant.’ I loved the sound even as a boy, the way it works the mouth just to say it. ‘Cormorant.’ ”

  “There’s one now,” Lolly said, nodding toward the window.

  There, as if summoned, winging its way out over the cliffs, riding the air, wings spread wide as if in ecstasy, was the scorned scavenger, indifferent to the world’s contempt. “Yes. A cormorant. I’d forgotten it was my favorite.” The bird plunged down below the cliff, then suddenly rose up again as if it had landed on a tarp and been sent bouncing back into view. Off it soared to the south, satisfied that it had completed the demonstration the mention of its name had required.

  “Cormorant,” Lolly said.

  “Yes. Fine word. No matter what.”

  “Yes. A fine word. I’ll remember that.” Again she was smiling her inward smile, anticipating a future time when the word would come to her mind and she would say it half out loud and remember the moment when this new appreciation had come to her. Aaron watched as the smile slowly relaxed and Lolly returned to contemplating the hands folded on her lap.

  He listened for any sounds that might come from the panel opening. Was the tunnel really a labyrinth and were they lost? Had someone been hidden there? He listened more closely, heard nothing except the twittering of yet another bird he could not name. The calm was welcome, and the ease of Lolly’s quiet company was too natural for him to be surprised. He watched her hands as she recrossed her thumb, lengthened an index finger, then curled it in again, closer to the thumb. He took note of her breasts. Relaxed and ample, they seemed comfortable, neither demanding nor defiant. His gaze must have lingered longer than he’d thought. When he lifted his eyes, he saw that Lolly was smiling at him. Aaron, too, smiled, warmed by the thought that she in turn had noted his attention and was now acknowledging it as an acceptable act, expected even, requiring no further comment or gesture from either of them.

  To reciprocate she seemed now to be considering either his nose or his ears, he couldn’t be sure. In reflex he blinked his eyes, preferring that these be the focus of her regard. Having duly become aware that it was his face that interested her—it seemed, finally, his ears—she leaned forward toward the opened wainscoting, not impatient, merely checking—as Aaron had done. Still nothing could be heard. She leaned back again and seemed about to rest her head against the wall but obviously decided instead to simply gaze not toward Aaron but out the window she had so effortlessly opened.

  In response another breeze wafted into the room, this time smelling more of manure than of apples—even though there were no cattle near, any more than apples were stored out under the eaves. Aaron looked down at his khaki shorts, at his shirt, at his squished feet. Had the breeze, in passing him, brought his own scent into his nostrils? He had forgotten that the deposit from his swim and the seeped stench of the tunnel had become the very fabric of his clothes, permeating at the same time his pores even unto the hair follicles of his head, chest, arms, legs and elsewhere too. That it was merely manure that could be smelled might be to his advantage.

  “My pigs must miss me,” Lolly said, her voice seemed sad for the sorrows of her swine. Aaron, without effort, could guess at what had put the thought into her head. He nodded but didn’t look up. “Mine are the only pigs that smell like bran,” she said. “And I don’t feed them bran. But that’s what they smell like. Bran.” Again Aa
ron nodded. “They must be missing me.” Again her voice was sad, but amused at its own sadness.

  Aaron decided not to nod. She might be bored by the repetition. Instead he said, “I never liked cabbage until I was fourteen. Then I liked it.”

  Now it was Lolly who nodded. She waited a moment, then said, “Come sometime, see the pigs. Then you’ll know. Like bran they smell.”

  Before Aaron could take yet another turn nodding, a definite murmur came through the opened wall. As the sound came closer, it grew to a mutter, a collective mutter, then to the almost distinguishable voices of several people—three to be exact—caught in, of course, a quarrel. No particular word was able to rise above the rest, but not for want of trying. Finally, as the sound came closer, “finger” could be made out, possibly in Jim’s voice, then “believe” in Tom’s, then “breathe” in Kitty’s. The garbling came nearer. “Shine the light,” followed by, “Keep walking,” followed by, “Is it what I think it is?” followed by, “I can’t breathe, and you want to start collecting souvenirs.” Then, at the last, “But it’s a piece of bone. I can feel it’s a bone!”

  “Part of Declan’s finger,” Aaron murmured. “They’ve found it.” The beam of the flashlight hit the ceiling, crossed to the far side, and, as the ascent was made up the tunnel steps, the light began its descent along the far wall. Lolly got up and quickly smoothed the blanket on the bed, running her hand along the edge of the mattress to make sure Declan was safely stowed beneath. She shook out her hair as if not quite sure of what might have happened or what might have been said since she had been left alone with Aaron in the room.

  Kitty’s head poked through the opening, preceded by the beam of the flashlight made pale by the light from the opened window. Before she could make it through the panel, she was shoved aside by Jim, who stumbled into the room and rushed to the window. He held up what seemed like a trinket, turning it over and over to see what refractions might be caught in the light. “It is a bone! Like a knucklebone,” he said. Kitty made it into the room, followed by Tom. Kitty brushed the hair from her forehead and rubbed the flashlight along her cheek. “What’s that awful smell?” she asked.