fragment of useful information from this news. But I was undeterred, and my excitement had wiped out the concern I had felt the night before. I tugged at his hand, urging him along like an ant pulling a grasshopper to its nest.
Dad's expression had changed to that of amusement now, and he walked along with me willingly as though the inertia I had gained from my tugging was carrying him forward. But the route to the latrine branched off from the sty path and there Dad's inertia ran out.
"Look, sweetheart, giving the sow bread isn't going to make her any babies. You'll have to wait till spring. Now get back in out of this cool air or get your coat. You don't want to catch a chill." He started down the latrine path again, but I caught his arm and pulled back with my heels dug in.
"But Daddy, it was sourdough. I mixed it up and she ate the whole bucket full. Ben said it would work."
A long thin 'squeeee' and a labored grunt from the pigsty punctuated my news like an explanation mark, and Dad's smile narrowed and furrowed into a frown again. "Ben, huh? That sounds about right," he said, turning back toward the barn. "You mean you gave her starter?" I smiled broadly, and nodded my head. "A whole bucket of starter?" Now he understood. Even he had to take notice if Ben was involved.
"Yes and there should be lots of air no like a balloon!"
"Lord help me," Dad said. "A bucket of starter?"
"Uu huh. She liked it, too."
Another piggy expletive confirmed my words, and his long legs began eating the distance to the pens. I had to trot to keep up and we reached the sty together, each viewing the expanding universe before us from completely different perspectives. Though I was disappointed that Matilda wasn't peacefully reclining on her side with a long row of flat little snouts jostling for their first breakfast, I was at least rewarded with the confirmation of our theory that given sufficient sourdough, Matilda would be a changed pig overnight.
"Holy waltzing Matilda," Dad whispered softly. "Bendigo, Ben-di-go."
Matilda's normally gaunt flanks were sleek and plumped, but I noticed that her head and tail hung down dejectedly as she stamped slowly around the pen in a jerky manner. To Dad's experienced eye, that spelled trouble, and even I could tell that Matilda ws not a happy pig.
But she was a round pig, and surely that could mean only one thing. "Is she going to have babies?" I asked.
"Babies? No. No babies."
"Is she going to make bread?"
Dad was lost in thought as he gazed at the calamity before him, and my question took a moment to register. He turned to me and the edges of his concerned expression melted into a strained smile as the thought gelled into a mental picture. He gripped the upper fence rail and bowed his bead. Standing there quietly, hair a haystack from his night's sleep, his long, lean frame seemed to relax, or perhaps sag noticeably.
"Now that's a thought, Abbie," he said quietly. "That's quite a thought. I'll bet two bits Ben didn't put that notion in your head." He shook his head and studied Matilda again. "Bread. Wish she could. At least we'd get something out of her, besides bacon and ham."
Bacon and ham? What? Matilda? A horrible vision of our beloved sow hanging as glazed pieces in the smokehouse flushed every last happy remnant from my mind, and I found myself on the verge of tears. Another labored squeal from Matilda drew us back to the problem before us. Dad turned and placed his hands on my shoulders and said, "Looks like Ben's bamboozled you again, honey. The only thing Matilda has is a very sore tummy. We've got to try to do something about that. You go back in the house and help Mom get some breakfast. I'll be along in a minute and see what we can figure out. And tell that brother of yours I want to have a talk with him."
Dad never once in his life raised his hand against any of his children that I am aware of. It was just not his way. Corporal punishment wasn't needed, either, for he had a presence that commanded attention and respect, and none of us would have dreamed of crossing the line of authority he drew. I hurried into the house, my heart pounding and head spinning from this unexpected turn of events, and found Ben stoking the wood stove in the kitchen.
"Boy, are you in trouble," I blurted out. "Daddy wants you and there aren't any babies, either." I had begun to focus on the realization that I'd been duped, and I was enjoying serving as Dad's proxy in establishing his punishment. "You're really going to get it, Ben-di-go Joules!"
"Is Matilda okay?" Ben asked, getting up.
"She's not, and we'll have to get Doc Tuffer, too."
"Oh, man! Why'd you have to give her the whole bucketful, you little ninny?" Mother walked in just as I was puffing myself up and standing on my tiptoes.
"A whole bucket of what?" She asked. "What's the problem now?"
"It's nothing, Momma," Ben said as he headed for the door. "The little ninny just got carried away, that's all."
"And you're a stinker and not very smart," I said.
"What's this all about?" Momma asked as the door slammed behind Ben.
"Ben played a trick on me and now Matilda's sick and there aren't any babies and the sourdough's gone." And with that I grabbed my coat and was out the door, closing on Ben as he ambled dejectedly toward the sty.
"You knew it wouldn't work, didn't you?" I snapped at him from behind. You were just teasing me cause you knew I'd get in trouble and you knew there wouldn't be any babies, either. Didn't you?" We reached the fence of the sty together and joined Dad as he came out of the pen. His features were flat, without emotion, his most dangerous expression.
He leaned against the fence and the three of us stared at Matilda as she stumbled around the pen, her discomfort growing steadily worse. "Harmless pranks are one thing, Ben Joules," he said, "but this time you've gone too far. Just what did you think was going to happen?"
"I don't know," Ben said quietly. "Nothin' I guess. I didn't think she'd use all the starter. Didn't you save any?"
"You told me to put it in a bucket!"
"I didn't say to fill it, you ninny."
"I think I've got the picture," Dad said, cutting off my response. "I'll go call Doc Tuffer and see what he suggests, but if that sow dies, Ben Joules, you'll be indentured to this farm for the next ten years. Keep an eye on her till I get back."
"What's indentured?" I asked when Dad had gone. I wanted it to be something really bad.
"It means pulling your teeth," Ben said, which pleased me immensely.
When Dad returned ten minutes later he was carrying the calf-feeding bucket filled with warm, soapy water. Ignoring Ben, he handed it to me and said, "As soon as your brother gets that pig cornered, bring him this bucket and tell him to make sure he gets every drop down her throat. After he's done with that I expect it'll be about time to muck out the stalls, so tell him to get that done too. Tell him to report back to you when he's done with that, and tell him what your chores are. They're his for a couple of days, and you can make sure he's doing them right. As for you, young lady, after he's done getting this water down that pig, you stay here and make sure it's doing its job. You're both going to miss breakfast. Hear?"
"Yes, Daddy," I said, with a cross between a grin, disappointment and somber determination. "I'll watch her. What's it supposed to do?"
"Doc says it'll kill the yeast ad help her pass the dough. All right, you two have your orders, so get on with it," and he headed back to the house. Not another word to Ben. He was mine!
Matilda was no yearling wiener and getting her to drink half a bucket full of sudsy water when she was already suffering from the world's biggest case of gas was not a small undertaking. He cornered her easy enough, for she was quite tame and ill to boot, but she wanted nothing to do with the long rubber teat of the calf-feeding bucket.
"Try squirting some out," I suggested. "Be gentle, you ninny," I added, but just then Matilda made a run for it and plowed straight over the top of him, stomping him into the mud as he desperately covered his face. "I think you're scaring her," I said, and then started t
o giggle as Ben rolled over and tried to shake off some of the filth.
"If you don't stop that," he said, shaking his dirty finger at me, "you're coming in here with me."
"Like fun," I said. "You'll have to do m y chores for a week if I tell Daddy." Those words lowered his finger several notches, and he went back to work. With me offering stern encouragement from the fence, Ben worked himself into a muddy lather cornering her again and forcing the teat into her mouth. This scene was repeated several times, and when finished, every inch of Ben was covered in mud, slime and filth. I had never seen anything so hilarious in my life.
"Did you get it all down her?" I asked with the most serious expression I could muster.
"What do you think?" he said, and turned the bucket upside down. A few drops spilled out, and I shook my head gravely.
"Daddy said every drop, but I guess it will do. Better head..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, and strode away, leaving me with my assignment of watching Matilda's reaction to the broth in her stomach.
I didn't have long to wait. Her tail twisted around and around on her behind like a small propeller as she resumed her circuit around the pen. Soft squeals and grunts were interspersed with sharp, very non pig-like belches. After several more minutes of this activity she stopped, turned towards me, and blew a soapy bubble that burst over her face, scaring her into another series of 'squees' and 'whoinks'. I
Sow-er Entertainment Page 2
