by Celia Kinsey
Georgia placed a copy of the Amatista Advance in my hand.
If anyone passing through Amatista on Highway 14 blinks, they’ll miss the whole thing, and one wouldn’t think the village would rate its own weekly publication, but it does. The Amatista Advance isn’t a proper paper. It’s a three-page Friday newsletter compiled and photocopied by a rotating roster of volunteers. It’s more a combination of light gossip and public service announcements than anything resembling actual journalism.
This particular issue contained a notice for an upcoming 80th birthday celebration for Mrs. Roberta Haskell (to be held in the Bird Cage Café, all are welcome, no gifts please) and two breathless warnings: one that there had been a recent uptick in car thefts throughout Santa Fe County which included a reminder that “even we in Amatista are not immune,” and a report that a mountain lion had been spotted by several ranchers in the area. Nancy Flynn reported that she’d had a horse attacked and injured by the big cat.
The final item was also courtesy of Nancy in her capacity of the Mayor of the village. It was an admonishment from Nancy not to waste water. Apparently, the output from the shared community well had recently experienced a reduction in output of three gallons per minute.
“What am I looking at here?” I asked as I stared at the rumpled newsletter.
Georgia jabbed her finger at the last page, leaving a soapy water spot behind. At first, I thought she was referring to the poem by Katie-the-mail-carrier. The poem was entitled “An Ode to Junk Mail” and probably wasn’t destined to be short-listed for any literary prizes.
“I wouldn’t personally have chosen to rhyme circular and perpendicular,” I told Georgia, “but this is the Amatista Advance, not some—”
“I’m not referring to the poem. Look at the crossword.”
The crossword puzzle was a relatively new addition to the Amatista Advance, and no one seemed to know who came up with it. It was always submitted anonymously, slipped into the dropbox of the “City Hall,” which is just a room pasted onto the back of the post office.
“What about the crossword?”
Georgia jabbed at the page again, this time dripping so much water the letters blurred together on the half-finished crossword.
“Is that Maxwell’s writing?” I asked.
Chapter Eleven
“That is Maxwell’s writing,” my cousin Georgia said as I looked down at the apparently-offensive crossword.
Maxwell may be only six, but despite possessing a naivete appropriate to his age—his unwavering belief in the existence of Chupacabras being a case in point—he is a precocious and voracious reader. Maxwell is so precocious that Georgia quit her engineering job to freelance so she can home-school him.
“What does this have to do with Hank?” I asked.
“Read the clues.”
“One down: Your favorite sandwich—answer BLT. Two down: Your first dog—Is this some kind of personalized crossword?"
Georgia said it wasn’t that she knew of and admonished me to keep reading. I scanned the clues for some sort of theme and found one.
“Eight across: Another name for Sasquatch—answer: Big Foot.”
“Keep going.”
“Nine down: Giant Fish from Norse Mythology—”
“Continue.”
“Twelve across: A mythological bird of prey—”
“Roc.” Georgia couldn’t restrain herself from answering.
A survey of the rest of the puzzle referenced Nessie, the Abominable Snowman, and Chupacabras.
“Needless to say,” said Georgia, “Hank’s recently become a big fan of whoever puts out the Amatista Advance crossword puzzle.”
I toyed with the possibility that Hank was the creator of the crosswords, but when I floated the theory, Georgia shot it down.
“You should see him when he talks about the crossword, Emma. He’s coming to view it as the highlight of his week; the man’s obsessed.”
Crossword puzzles are hardly the most questionable thing Hank has become obsessed with over the years. Name any crackpot fringe theory infesting the bowels of the internet and surfing the airwaves of wild-eyed talk radio shows, and Hank’s embraced it.
Still, I couldn’t quite grasp the intensity of Georgia’s distress over little Maxwell’s budding friendship with the old eccentric—she herself confirmed that she believed the man to be fundamentally harmless—but then it wasn’t my six-year-old son who was at risk of becoming the world’s youngest conspiracy theorist.
“I can’t keep Maxwell inside all day,” said Georgia, “and as soon as he goes out, the first thing he wants to do is take Earp over to visit Hank.”
“Can’t you tell Hank to exercise discretion in what he says to Maxwell?”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how foolish a suggestion that was.
Hank means well. He really does.
Hank was undoubtedly already exercising discretion, in his own way. I had not, for example, yet heard Maxwell parroting theories concerning any collusion between the Illuminati and the Medical Industrial Complex. Maxwell had expressed no affinity for the Flat Earth Theory, nor was he convinced that Planet Earth was perpetually teetering on the brink of an alien invasion.
Probably, educating Maxwell about the feeding and breeding habits of Chupacabras was Hank’s sincere attempt at giving the boy a wholesome lesson on local flora and fauna.
“It’s entirely coincidental,” I told Georgia, “but I may have inadvertently hit upon a solution to your problem of keeping Maxwell occupied in his free time.”
“What’s your solution?”
“How would you like to have Maxwell foster a piglet?”
I might as well have substituted Chupacabra for piglet. Georgia did not start out enthusiastic, and she grew even less so when I explained that the piglet in question would need to domesticated as an indoor pet.
“Maxwell will enjoy bottle-feeding the piglet,” I persisted, “and Earp will keep it company. You know when Earp ran away yesterday, he made a mad dash for Nancy’s pig shed. ”
“That pig won’t stay little,” Georgia said under her breath.
“There’ll be practically nothing for you to do.”
“Won’t there? I already clean up after a boy and a dog and—”
There was a pause after that. I think Georgia was debating whether to point out that she also cleans up after me.
She didn’t have to say it out loud. It’s true. Georgia does clean up after me. I’m not as messy as Maxwell or Earp, but Georgia is naturally more orderly than I am. I tend to drop and spill things. I’m not a complete and utter slob, but I do let things get to a point far beyond what Georgia can stand.
She’s such a clean person that if I leave a glass on the coffee table, she’ll swoop down and whisk it away the second I’ve drained it. I could understand why Georgia was leery of adding a potbellied pig to our already chaotic domestic setup.
“I’ll help,” I promised. “If somebody doesn’t take the piglet, the vet said he might as well—”
“Oh, all right,” said Georgia, “but in return, I’d appreciate if you’d apply that devious brain of yours to some way of getting Hank to stop filling Maxwell’s head with nonsense about Chupacabras.”
I didn’t give Georgia a chance to have second thoughts. I went straight back up to Nancy’s and collected the piglet.
By the time noon rolled around, an over-the-moon Maxwell had announced that a porcine baptism was imminent. When Maxwell revealed that orange juice would be involved—I refrained from pointing out that to be considered efficacious, baptisms must be performed with water—I suggested that an outdoor baptism was called for. I also suggest that if he wanted a congregation to witness the solemn ceremony, he’d best wait for the lunch rush to be over.
Two in the afternoon was, to say the least, an unfortunate moment for Father Orejo to make an appearance at Little Tombstone.
The tiny adobe chapel on the outskirts of Amatista had gone for years without a priest, but sh
ortly before Christmas, the Diocese of Santa Fe had made a decision to resurrect the flock. Not that there were many faithful amongst the villagers to resurrect, not unless Father Orejo planned on raising the literally dead and buried from their ancient unmarked graves on the hillside above Little Tombstone.
Most of the Christianity-inclined of Amatista attended the nondenominational Protestant service led by Freddy Fernandez, the devout barber, who held regular Sunday meetings in his barbershop next door to the Bird Cage Café.
We had assembled outside the back of the Bird Cage—Juanita, Chamomile, Janey, Oliver, Georgia, and me. Maxwell tethered Earp to the steps of Ledbetter’s trailer. He then insisted that we wait for Ledbetter to take his place amongst the congregation before anointing the piglet’s head with a cross of roll-on antiperspirant.
“I didn’t know that pigs sweat,” said Janey.
“They don’t,” said Georgia. “Pigs have very few functional sweat glands.”
“What about that expression, ‘sweating like a pig?” Oliver asked.
Georgia set us all straight. The expression “sweating like a pig” referred to the beads of moisture that form on cooling pig iron during the smelting process.
Georgia is doubtless loads of fun at parties consisting solely of English and Comparative Lit majors. Normal people parties? I’m guessing not so much.
Maxwell had just uncapped the deodorant and grasped the decidedly unenthusiastic piglet in a bear hug when Father Orejo rounded the corner.
I looked over at Georgia, who looked like she wanted to be instantly translated and wouldn’t have quibbled whether she was destined to go up to Heaven or go down to Hades, just as long as she went there quickly.
Georgia is not what I would call a serious Catholic, but she is Catholic enough for her son to insist that new babies in the family ought to be baptized, and she’s also Catholic enough to know that mock baptisms involving piglets, antiperspirant, orange juice, and who knew what other absurdities might come off as more than a smidgen sacrilegious, no matter the innocence and sincerity of the pintsized officiant.
Nobody said anything, including Father Orejo, who paused on the outskirts of our little congregation and observed the proceedings.
It was fortunate that Maxwell did not notice we had been joined by a more qualified dignitary. I don’t think Georgia could have survived Maxwell requesting that the Reverend Father complete the ceremonial rites in his stead.
Maxwell’s memory of the components of the ceremony appeared a trifle murky. He did not attempt to include any of the traditional language, although he occasionally threw in a mumbled, “Hear our prayer,” which, to be honest, is about all I remember of the last baptism I attended.
The argyle-sweatered and bow-tied godfather of the piglet—I assumed Earp was playing that role—was not required to make any vows or declarations. It was a good thing, too, because Earp had evidently gotten a sticker in one of his front paws, and all his attention was devoted to getting it out.
I was temporarily distracted by Ledbetter, who came over to stand beside me as Maxwell solemnly drew a cross on the piglet’s head with deodorant.
“I hope antiperspirant isn’t poisonous to pigs,” I whispered.
“Whose idea was this?” Ledbetter asked me.
“Please tell me this isn’t happening,” Georgia said in an anguished undertone as she nudged me in the ribs with her sharp elbow.
Chapter Twelve
Georgia had been agitated ever since the arrival of Father Orejo, but it took me several seconds to register why Georgia was now even more aghast.
Georgia pointed discretely at her son, who, in lieu of a piglet-sized white gown of purity, was attempting to insert the squirming pig’s hindquarters into a pair of ladies’ extra-large snowy white briefs. I could only assume he’d found such utilitarian and voluminous undergarments somewhere amongst the remaining belongings of my Great Aunt Geraldine. They couldn’t possibly belong to Georgia, and they certainly didn’t belong to me.
“I really regret taking our good white hand towel away from him now,” said Georgia in a strangled voice.
Georgia might be ready to die of embarrassment, but the general mood was downright jolly. Oliver had pulled up the neck of his hoody so that only his eyes were showing. Janey had her face buried in Oliver’s back. Chamomile had managed to maintain a solemn expression, but tears were running down her cheeks. Even Juanita had her face hidden in her apron and seemed to have been taken with a fit of tremors.
I craned my neck around to see how Father Orejo was taking in this corruption of the Holy Rite of Baptism. Judging by the redness of his face, he was either incensed or amused. Judging by the twinkle in his eye, it was the latter.
Only the actual baptism remained, which was quickly dispensed with by a liberal sprinkling of orange juice to the squirming piglet’s head.
“What’s the pig’s name?” I yelled out when Maxwell took a bow—something I’m pretty sure no priest has ever done at the end of a baptism. Ever.
“Hercules!” said Maxwell. “I dub thee Hercules.” He then whipped a ruler out of his back pocket and gently thwacked the poor piglet on the left haunch, then the right, and finally on the top of the head.
It was quite a mishmash of traditions, to say the least.
“Long live Sir Hercules!” said Oliver, as he pumped his fist in the air.
After that, the crowd broke up quickly, probably so everyone could lock themselves in somewhere and howl without hurting little Maxwell’s feelings.
I stayed behind to make sure the newly-christened Hercules and the piglet’s canine godparent made it back inside safely. I didn’t think Georgia still had the capacity to do anything but apologize to Father Orejo.
“Why Hercules?” I asked as I carried the piglet, still wearing Aunt Geraldine’s granny panties and not liking it one bit, up the stairs.
“I want him to grow big and strong,” said Maxwell. “Then he can protect me.”
“Protect you from who?” I asked.
“You know.”
“I don’t, actually.”
I could not get Maxwell to be more specific. This worried me. I intended to take up the subject with Georgia at the next opportunity.
I set Hercules down inside the little newspaper-lined pen I’d brought down from Nancy’s pig shed and relieved the poor piglet of its snow-white sacramental panties.
“I, for one, would be happy if Hercules didn’t gain another ounce,” I told Maxwell.
Maxwell tried and failed to lift Earp over the edge of the pen. I took the pug and placed him beside the piglet, then went to the window.
Georgia was still outside in the trailer court talking earnestly to Father Orejo, who, if I was any judge of character, was trying to accept her profuse apologies with priestly solemnity and probably not entirely succeeding.
When I turned back from the window, Earp had curled up next to the piglet. When I approached the pen, he opened one eye and looked at me, then sighed and snuggled closer to the piglet, who was already whiffling away in her sleep.
“I probably should have mentioned it earlier,” I told Maxwell. “But Hercules is a girl pig.”
That evening was the meeting of the Little Tombstone Preservation Board, and I was dreading it. In order to face the momentous decision of whether to paint the buildings yellowish-brown or brownish-grey (unresolved at the conclusion of the last meeting), I needed more in my stomach than a baloney sandwich, which is what Georgia declared she was preparing for dinner. I think she was too traumatized by Hercules’ baptism to take much interest in food.
I went down to the Bird Cage Café and ordered a plate of chicken tamales with salsa verde. I’d just taken my first bite when Jason Wendell came in.
When I’d first met Mr. Wendell—I continued to think of him formally, just as well, as he persisted in addressing me as Mrs. Iverson —I’d not expected him to be such a fan of the Bird Cage Café .
Juanita’s food is delicious, no que
stion about that, but the ambiance is more down-on-its-luck than up-and-coming.
Mr. Wendell is the personification of upmarket. He drives a spotless white Range Rover that never seems to pick up dust. His shirts are also white, and lightly starched with a sharp crease that runs from shoulder to cuff. I’m pretty sure he has them professionally cleaned and pressed. I’ve never seen him in casual clothes, although that evening, he wasn’t wearing a tie, so maybe for him, that was casual.
“May I join you, Mrs. Iverson?” he said. I nodded. It was one of those questions one really couldn’t say no to, not that I wanted to say no. Jason Wendell wasn’t Amatista’s most eligible bachelor for nothing.
Mr. Wendell draped his coat over the back of his chair. He’d been seated less than three seconds when Chamomile appeared at his elbow, smoothing her shiny blond hair and batting her mile-long eyelashes.
I was convinced that both the eyelashes and the blondness were fake, but Georgia disagreed with me. Georgia even went so far as to suggest that I was jealous of Chamomile, which was preposterous.
“Why would I be jealous?” I’d demanded. “I’m almost never jealous of other women’s youth and beauty.”
I said almost because I couldn’t discount Shirley, my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s office manager/mistress. I was jealous of Shirley—well, contemptuous, anyway—and I maintained that I had a right to be.
“Apples and oranges,” Georgia had shot back. “And I’ll concede you’re not jealous of Chamomile’s youth and beauty. It’s how she looks at Jason Wendell that has you turning into a green-eyed monster.”
It wasn’t just how Chamomile looked at Mr. Wendell; it was also how she touched him every chance she got.
It was as Chamomile was touching Mr. Wendell’s arm and cooing that he’d made an excellent choice in selecting the beef enchiladas that I heard a voice calling Chamomile’s name.
It was Chamomile’s mother, Katie, and she didn’t look happy. Chamomile removed her hand from Mr. Wendell’s arm as if she’d inadvertently touched a hot stovetop.
Interesting.