by Jacquie Gee
“Yeah, right,” Aunt Penny sniggers. Her eyes float over the ticket. “I see Trudy’s husband Dave has made the roster at the last moment.” She flips it over, showing me.
“He did? Let me see?” I glance at the name. “So, he has.” I look up, smiling. I’ve been so busy, I didn’t notice. “Wonder how Trudy pulled that off?”
“Wonder if he practiced for her.” Aunt Penny grinds her hips.
“Aunt Penny!”
“What? So, maybe she took one for the team, who knows? It would be good for them.”
“You know?”
“The whole town knows. We’re just letting them keep their secret.”
“How very nice of all of you.”
“I wouldn’t have minded helping out if Bernie Bates needed some convincing.” She juts her chin.
“Is that so.” I shove her shoulder.
She trips sideways, blushing and grinning.
Something flashes in my peripheral and my attention jerks toward the bridge. I scan it nervously, through the front gates. Over the joyous bobbing heads in the midway, I can only make out one end of it. The obstructed view makes me nervous. “We got someone out there watching that thing, right?”
“You’re not still worried about the bridge, are you?”
“I think we need to be. It’s not over yet. I told you about the emails.” I draw a sharp breath.
“Emails, shemails, he can’t do anything without permission.”
“Oh, yes he can. We lost that fight when we couldn’t produce the deed.”
“I thought we got an extension.”
“Not officially. Yet.” I toss a worried glance toward the gates. “I don’t think we should let our guard down. I think we should have someone out there.”
“You honestly think he’d pull something with all these people here. Only half the freakin’ county is coming through the gates. Not to mention the carriage rides going over it.”
“Yes, but, that’s all the more reason. You know how Jebson loves attention.”
“Relax, will you?” She pats my arm. “It’s a great day, try to enjoy it. Jebson’s right over there.” She points.
“Don’t remind me.” I sneer, and she feels bad all over again. I rub her arm to apologize.
“That in and of itself is weird, don’t you think?” I stare.
“What do you mean?”
“Him insisting on being in attendance at an event to raise money for the very thing he wants to demolish.”
“Maybe he’s had a change of heart.”
“And maybe Pompeii has been resurrected.” I flip her a look. “I tell you, I don’t trust that man as far as I can shove him.”
“He’s just saving face. Playing politics,” Aunt Penny assures me. “In his position, he can’t afford not to be here. Think about it.”
I feel the pull of worry lines tightening in my face as I glance over at him, then back at the bridge. Mortal enemies. I’m struck by a horrifying thought. “It’d be the perfect day for him to make his move, you know. While we’re all too busy to notice.”
“With all this press around, pfft. You’re losing it.” Aunt Penny tuts.
“All the more reason to steal the limelight.” I bite a nail.
“Stop it.” Aunt Penny links arms with me and yanks me forward. “I’m not gonna let you ruin this day. Stop worrying about the bridge and let’s go check out the pig chase. I hear your Mom is a contender.”
“She’s what?”
Aunt Penny face drop. “Oh, I thought you knew.”
“Are you mad? She’s gonna break a hip.”
I’m off and running, dodging festival goers as I make my way to the hog barn. There she is waiting in line to catch a greased pig, mop of cherry-red dyed hair bobbing up and down in the mucky pen. “She can’t do that,” I shout to Aunt Penny, trailing. “She’s seventy-three years old for goodness sake!”
“Seventy-four,” Aunt Penny corrects me, as we run. “There’s no age limit.”
“It’s not her age that I’m that worried about,” I shout back at her. “We’ve got to stop her!”
“Oh no you don’t,” Aunt Penny catches up, yanking me back by the arm. “We’ve got to go watch your Mother do this.” She winks.
“But—”
“Ah-ah.” She raises a hand. “She’ll be fine. Your mom’s a tough old bird.” She pats my arm. “Besides, you’ve got to let her have this. How much longer do you think your mother will be able to, have fun like this, hmm? She hasn’t many moments of fun ahead of her, if you know what I mean."
I sink. “But she’s gonna get hurt.” Alarm rises in my blood.
"Let her enjoy the moment, Becca. Moments all she has.”
I relax the chase, and take my place up along the observation rail instead.
“Besides, have you ever tried to catch a greased pig?” Aunt Penny joins me. “She doesn’t stand a chance of catching one.” She grins. “But it’s a danged lot of fun trying.”
Reluctantly, I move in closer, hanging over the rail. I guess she’s right. Mom needs to live life, now, more than ever. I shouldn’t stand in her way. But still there’s mud, and she’s seventy-three…four, apparently.
Mom reaches down taping her pant legs to her shins, then assumes a sprinter’s position. Her hands are out, her fingers splayed. She licks her lips and smiles back at me.
I should be thrilled for her, but still, I’m worried. I manage a small supportive wave.
Looking back over my shoulder, I check the bridge again—my mother’s only income. My stomach roils. I have this niggling feeling I should be back there. If anything happens to that bridge, my Mom loses everything, never mind the pig. My eyes set on Jebson, straddling a makeshift podium at the top of the pig sty’s branding gate. Why is he here, now, like this? Making a spectacle of himself. I swear he has an ulterior motive, this is not just politics. I really hope I’m wrong.
My gaze floats from him to Mom.
“Would you relax?” Trudy rubs my shoulders. “Look. She’s up.”
I laugh as Mother crouches, ready to begin the competition. My heart jumps to my throat as they release the weaners into their holding cell on the opposite end of the pen. They are slicked up with grease and as fast as lightning. They squeal and snort, then find the feed trough at the opposite end, and settle in. They’ve no idea what’s about to happen.
Mom pulls a square of cloth from her pocket and snaps it out.
“What’s that she’s got?”
“Her secret weapon,” Aunt Penny answers. “Watch.”
Now, I’m super unnerved.
“Boy, she’s not fooling around, is she?” Trudy says, tucking up behind us.
“How come everyone knows what she’s doing but me?”
“Let’s just say,” Aunt Penny quips, “this is not your Mother’s first time at the pig catching rodeo.”
Jebson taps the mic, standing on the wobbly structure above the pen. He starts his speech. He carries on for a full five minutes about how happy he is to see everyone and how thrilled he is to be officiating this landmark fundraiser. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah… It’s all I can do not to puke.
My gaze shrinks as I listen to him. “I still think we should have thrown him out.” I cross my arms.
“Wrestlers ready?” Jebson shouts, concluding his soliloquy of supposed redemption. His microphone crackles as he shouts.
Mom hikes up her jeans. Bends her knees deeper. She tickles the air with her fingers. I don’t think I’ve seen her this into anything since Mrs. Fowler held that one-hundred-meter dash for parents at my grade school when I was eight. Mom dominated. She kicked those other parents’ patooties. She’s always had a competitive spirit. I guess I’ve just never gotten the chance to see her use it.
“Get set!” Jebson gives the second command. His voice frightens the piglets. I don’t blame them. They squeal and dash in every direction. Three pigs. Three competitors. Mom has her eyes on one—a little black-and-white polka dotted wean
er. Though, it doesn’t much matter which pig she grabs, just as long as she can hold it for the full count of thirty seconds.
“Go!” Jebson hollers and yanks a rope. The fence rises, and the piglets eject into the outer pen.
Mom shoots forward like a bolt of lightning, diving headlong into the mud, her arms wrapped tightly around a weaner’s neck. She struggles to grab hold of its thrashing legs.
“If she can wrangle those hind legs, she’s got ’im,” Aunt Penny yells.
“Hold on, Mom!” I holler, pushing up over the rail. But she loses him. The piglet is away. “Again, Mom! Again!” I shout. Mom fixes her sites on a new one. She dives again, face down in the muck, piglet under her. I’m standing on the rail now, Trudy and Penny cheering next to me. “Come on, Laura! You can do it!”
Mom loses her grip on the piglet, and it’s away squealing, kicking muck up in Mom’s face. But Mom doesn’t give up; she’s on her feet again… and after another one. She dives, and she’s got him, the scrap of cloth wrapped around his face. The piglet squirms, unable to see what’s going on, or where to run.
“She’s got ’im!” Aunt Penny shouts.
Mom scoops the piglet up into her arms and fights to hold on, the two of them thrashing around together until Mom loses her footing and falls in the mud. The piglet breaks free and races away.
Aunt Penny’s right, this isn’t easy.
The other competitors aren’t faring well either. Looks like no one’s gonna claim the prize.
Mom’s up on her feet in seconds, her face black with mud. She spots a piglet and ambles after it then, suddenly…a confused look staggers across her eyes. She stands, frozen in the middle of the pen, a bewildered expression on her face.
She’s gone. Checked out. In the middle of the competition. She doesn’t know what’s going on.
She stares up at me, then down at her mucky perplexed self. Her hands start to tremble. “The pig, Mom!” I scream, pointing. “The PIG!” I cup my hands and shout it over and over again. “You’re after the PIG!” Mom looks blankly up at me, but she doesn’t move. The whole moment turns into one of those slow-motion actions frames you see at the movies, only my poor mother’s stuck in the middle.
My mind spins. I don’t know how to help her. All the other competitors fade away.
It’s just me and Mom in a bubble of silence, our eyes locked on each other—her eyes looking lost.
“The pig, Mom! The pig,” I shout. “Catch the pig!” I point.
Her mind grips the words suddenly. Her head cranks around.
She glares up at Jebson, then down at the pigs. All of a sudden something snaps, and she’s off, forcing a squealer into the corner of the pen.
“That’s it, Mom! Go get ’em!” I wave a fist in the air.
Tearing off her plaid over shirt, she dashes left, then right, corralling it, then dives on top of it, covering its eyes with her shirt. The piglet goes instantly quiet. It’s totally confused.
“Wow, go, Mom,” I say.
From there she pins the protesting pig to the ground, and grabs his hind legs, then lifts up, and holds him for the official crowd count of twenty-eight! Twenty-nine! Thirty! Seconds.
The crowd goes up like a hot air balloon.
Mom jumps up, releasing the pig, unharmed, of course. She bounces up and down on her feet.
“It appears we have a winner!” Jebson Jefferies announces from his mount. He climbs down from his post and races over to Mom, who’s busy taking her unofficial victory lap around the corral. People along the rail, high-five and congratulate her as she passes. She arrives in front of us, a panting, muck-spackled mess.
“You did it!” I grab her muddy face in my hands and stare into her eyes. “You’ve won the competition!”
“We’ve won this,” she says, she kisses both my cheeks.
“The winner of today’s pig-wrestling and the big screen TV is… Mrs. Laura Lane!” Jebson shouts, grasping and raising my mother’s arm. The crowd roars and Mom’s confusion returns. Her eyes empty and go blank. She yanks her arm away from Jebson and scowls. A small piece of my heart shreds. She stands there looking worried and overwhelmed, stuck between this world and some other.
“Anything to say to your adoring fans, Mrs. Lane?” Jebson shoves the microphone in her face.
Mom stares lashes batting. The whole crowd falls shamelessly hushed. For a long moment, no one says a word. I want to die for Mom out there in the middle of it, vacant look in her eyes. The joy that danced in them just seconds before has all diminished—replaced by the empty wash of uncertainty.
“Mrs. Lane?” Jebson prompts.
Mom scowls.
Please let her return. I want this for her. I want this so bad, I can taste it.
Suddenly, something triggers and Mom falls back into her skin, I can see it in her smile. “He was a slippery little sucker,” she tells the crowd, then looks at Jebson. “A lot like you, Jebson.”
The crowd lights up in laughter as Jebson frowns.
She leans against his shoulder, whispers low in his ear, “Never forget the unyielding spirit you’re up against.” She pats his arm and exits the pen.
“I think that qualifies as a threat,” I say to Aunt Penny, overhearing Mom. Way to go, Mom.
“Oh, dear Lord.” Aunt Penny sighs and crosses her chest. She collects Mom up in her arms when she exits the pen.
“Congratulations!” I kiss her lightly on her dirty cheek, then quickly wipe my mouth.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up, shall we?” Aunt Penny leads Mom away.
“I won!” she shouts back over her shoulder. “I won a big TV!”
“That you did!” I shout back, push a tear from my eyes. She’s entirely coated in a layer of pig muck from head to toe, minus her eyes and mouth, thank goodness, but still, I’ve never seen her so proud of herself in my life.
“Don’t be too long!” Trudy steps up, shouting after them. “You’ve got to help me run the caber toss in an hour!”
Aunt Penny waves back.
“Yeah,” I add. “We’ve got tickets to the Magic Michael show at eight!” Trudy and I laugh.
“I thought you promised me that wasn’t going to happen?”
I whirl around to find Trent behind me. “Hey, you,” I say. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you’ve betrayed my trust.” He breaks out into a saucy smile. “Your mother kicked that little white and black piglet’s heinie, didn’t she?” He glances back at the pen.
“Sure did.” I laugh.
“That was something, wasn’t it?”
“Sure was.” Why am I suddenly nervous?
I take a step and slide in the muck that Mom’s left behind. Trent catches me by the arm, his other arm wrapped around my waist. My heartbeat speeds as I’m thrown into his chest.
“Slippery little suckers.” Trent winks.
A small pang of lust ignites in my belly, as my hands fill with his muscled arms. He draws me closer as I struggle to straighten up. A shimmering spark floats up my spine.
“How’s about we go get some candy floss?” Trent suggests, breaking the magic. “I have a mean hankering for it.”
“Sure,” I say. I drink in his getting-more-irresistible-everyday persona. Oh, wow, I’ve got it bad for this guy. My heart thumps lonely when he pulls away, leaving just our hands threaded together.
“I’m guessing pink, right?”
“What?”
“Your cotton candy. You’re a pink girl.”
“And why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just a hunch.” He swings our arms as we walk along. “Or maybe blue. You are quite a rebel.”
I ball my fist and punch him lightly in the arm. “Pink,” I confirm.
Chapter 45
I choose pink, my favorite. Trent chooses green, just like his eyes. I didn’t know they made cotton candy in green. I pluck off the protective baggie and immediately start enjoying the sugary melt-on-the-tongue
treat. Holding it by the paper cone, I unfurl the wispy fluff and pop a clump at a time into my mouth.
“So,” I eye Trent out the side of my eye as we stroll along. “How about that calendar, huh? Turned out to be quite the success.” I test the waters to see if he’s over it yet. He’s been so self-conscious about the whole darned thing. Even though he’s become somewhat of a celebrity.
“Yeah, I suppose it did all right.” He adjusts his ball cap.
“All right? Only the single most requested page on the Internet site.”
Trent blushes. “What can I say?” His eyes take on a devilish glint. “Some guys have just got it.”
I laugh.
He turns to me, a bit of cotton candy fluff stuck to his beard. I reach up and pluck it away, and the heat of my fingers melts it immediately. “So, I guess this means you’ve forgiven me then?” I lick the fluff residue off my fingers.
“I suppose.” He drags a heady look over my frame.
I pop a fresh piece of floss in my mouth and let it melt slowly on my tongue, teasing him. “Do you always make a sport out of driving your boy friend’s crazy.”
“Only the ones I really like.” I lick my fingers again.
“That’s it.” Trent threads his arms around my waist and pulls me to him. He bends his neck about to—
“Becca!”
Bernie Bates saunters up.
“Bloomin’ he—” Trent pulls away.
“Imagine meeting you guys here.” Bernie walks up, costume bag slung over his shoulder.
“Where you off to?” Trent asks.
“Rehearsal, buddy. Shouldn’t you be comin’ with me?” Bernie says. “Big night tonight for us, you know.” He slaps his shoulder. “Figure I’d better get all the practice moves in I can. Before, you know, the real music starts. Then again, you don’t need the practice like I do. Have you seen this one dance?” He jerks a thumb toward Trent as he speaks to me. “Regular Michael Jackson, this one.” He reaches out, smashes knuckles with Trent.
“Really?” I coo, bumping shoulders with Trent. I’d almost forgotten all about the Magic Michael show, with the main attraction Trent. “Wow, I’m super glad I broke the rules and got a ticket.” I toss a sweet glance Trent's way.
