The Pig Comes to Dinner

by Joseph Caldwell

  She paused. Kitty parted her lips, but the words were too slow in coming. “Except,” Lolly continued, “the ghosts, they can’t make things move. I mean, how can a ghost, when he doesn’t have a real body, make something go from here to there?”

  Kitty closed her lips. She would let her husband say what he wanted to say. Was she not his good and amiable wife? And then the day’s business of picking one bloody pig for a bloody roast on a bloody spit for their bloody party for their bloody neighbors could be resumed.

  Now Kieran would have his say. “Then forget the ghosts,” Kieran said. “The man and the woman set it off.”

  “Their own castle?”

  “Don’t they have any feelings about the ghosts wandering around for all eternity?” Kieran asked.

  “Well, maybe sort of. But it is their castle. And I know, Kitty, you’ve lost yours to you-know-who. In that case, you could blow it up if you had ghosts. Except it would be a crime and you’d have to go to jail, I guess. But then, too, if I had someone like you-know-who—expect I don’t have room to bring in anyone new like what’s-his-name.”

  “Shaftoe,” Kitty intoned, her voice flat, as if she were removing from the word the least trace of life, making of it a husk of a word, not a word itself.

  “Right,” said Lolly. “But I don’t have any more room for new characters. Of course, I could cut the part where it turns out the woman, the wife, murders a former lover and buries him in her garden. Or maybe the flashback where the ancestors of the man—the husband—where they save their own skins by helping a priest get captured before he can get away to the Great Blasket. But I rather like those parts. And they help explain that the two newlyweds are really bloodthirsty beasts. No writer would give up material like that. What do you think?”

  Kitty’s answer was “I think I’ve stopped thinking.”

  Lolly shifted her gaze toward Aaron. “And what do you think? You were a writer.”

  “I think we should pick a pig. That one there, okay?”

  “Well, I see I have to decide for myself. No help from anyone. Left alone. I have to get used to it. The loneliness. But that’s the way it is. Don’t trouble yourself about me. I’ll do all right. Alone.”

  She started toward the dooryard but stopped, frozen in her tracks. She turned back. “I’ve got it! The man blows up the castle because his wicked wife has fallen in love with the young man, with the ghost. What do you think?”

  She was greeted with stares from Kitty and Kieran. Only Aaron had an answer: “Yes. Yes. Fine. Do it that way. Now, that pig there—”

  “Or maybe,” said Lolly, “the wife does it because the selfish man has fallen in love with the girl ghost. Which do you think is better? Kitty? What do you think? Kieran? What do you—”

  Aaron interrupted. “Lolly, my sweetheart, if you want to convince the reader that your main characters are idiots and morons instead of intelligent adults, go ahead. Fine. Falling in love with a ghost! Really! You should have a little more respect for your characters than that. But you’re the writer. I’m just a swineherd. So do what you want, but don’t say you weren’t warned. If you want to reduce your characters to imbecility—”

  “Aren’t we here to pick a pig?” It was Kitty who interrupted, retaining the drained tone of voice she had decided would serve her best for the remainder of her visit. Kieran said nothing.

  Grateful for the needed cue, Aaron said, “The pig! The pig! Yes, the pig!”

  “But,” said Lolly, “the castle—”

  “No. The pig. The pig. Bring your truck round, Kieran,” said Aaron. “We’ll load this one. It’s a little cross-eyed, but no one’s going to eat the eyes. Your truck, Kieran, and you’re on your way.” He slapped the pig’s rump to validate his selection. The pig made no sound, and neither did Kitty nor Kieran.

  “All right, then,” said Lolly. “Forget the novel. I’ll figure it out for myself.” She continued across the yard and slammed the door behind her.

  For a long moment Kitty looked at Kieran, and Kieran looked at Kitty. Kitty lowered her head and studied the rough texture of the ground beneath her feet. When she looked up, Kieran’s head was tilted to one side. He was still gazing at his wife. For another moment they looked only at each other, saying nothing. Aaron looked from Kitty to Kieran, from Kieran to Kitty, puzzled but still impatient. “Thank God, I never have to write another word.”

  Kieran drove the truck to the pig area, and, with no difficulty, he and Aaron persuaded the chosen pig to climb up the ramp and onto the bed of the truck. Kieran got behind the wheel. Kitty hoisted herself into the passenger side. The truck drove off. The pig, unaware of its privileged destiny, head and snout raised, sniffed the late afternoon air and found it sweet.

  That evening, dinner was a bouillabaisse, asparagus vinaigrette, and an apricot tart washed down with several glasses of fresh milk. Kieran, after some exchange with Kitty about the chosen pig, finally said, “What about Lolly’s novel?”

  “Please,” said Kitty, “not while I’m eating.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  “Lolly should not be encouraged. Or discouraged. She has every right to disgrace herself, if that’s what she wants. Let her do what she has to do. That’s the first thing she has to learn. Write what you really want to write—and then take the consequences. There’s no other way.” She pressed the side of her fork through the tart, then speared a fair-sized piece and put it into her mouth.

  With uncharacteristic reticence, Kieran took only small mouthfuls. Kitty finally asked, “What did you think?”

  While he was giving undue regard to the morsel on his half-raised fork, Kieran said, “What do I know about writing?” He brought the fork closer to his mouth, then returned it to its previous position. “I—I’m inclined to agree with Aaron, though.” He continued to concentrate on the tart. “Don’t you?” He completed the gesture and began chewing.

  “Agree about what?” Kitty, too, began to give more intimate attention to what she was about to eat. She was also taking smaller and smaller bits, chewing slower and slower.

  “About the man and the woman. Loving the ghosts,” said Kieran.

  “Oh. That.” Kitty’s chewing allowed her not to elaborate.

  “Yes. That.”

  After she’d swallowed, Kitty said, “I guess Aaron was right. The—the woman—and the man—they’d certainly be close to demented if they—if they—” She put another bit of tart into her mouth and again began the measured chewing, during which she was excused from further speech.

  “—fell in love with ghosts.” Kieran completed the sentence.

  Without swallowing, Kitty, in midchew, said, but rather quietly, “Yes. Demented.”

  “Of course,” said Kieran, “demented. They’d have to be to be.” He put his fork down. “And for either of them to blow up the castle out of jealousy—”

  “It makes no sense,” said Kitty. “They … they’d have to be mad. Totally insane.”

  “Right. Crazy. Completely crazy.”

  After one quick glance at each other, they drained their glasses of the last of the milk. Dinner was over.

  Kitty retreated to her computer so that her husband could do the washing up in a solitude similar to the one she sought in her turret room. Too unsettled by their discussion—and the quick glance—she would give the Tullivers, both Maggie and Tom, an evening free of her corrections and, instead, simply check her e-mail and, perhaps, ascend to the landing above and sit silently at the loom and think her thoughts.

  Given the knowledge that she, Kitty McCloud, and her husband, Kieran Sweeney, were descended from the rightful candidates for the hanging, she hadn’t been sure she wanted to show her face to either Brid or Taddy ever again. Still, since the time of that unwelcome revelation from Peter, she’d been anxious to see how she’d fare in their presence—and what form her responses to her newly found complicity in their fates might take. Would she even be able to bear the sight of them? Would she finally know t
he horror, the terror a ghostly presence was supposed to inspire? Would she plead for pardon? Would she debase herself in ways as yet unimagined? When the rending of garments had made a slight peep into her consciousness, she rallied herself and came to the only possible conclusion. She had not betrayed them, nor had her husband. They were guiltless. It was an accident of history that required neither from her nor from Kieran any accounting whatsoever. And if either Brid or Taddy made the slightest gesture or gave an accusing glance suggesting the opposite, she— And here Kitty stopped.

  But now she had this new knowledge to contend with— or, rather, knowledge she already knew and now had been confirmed. She was in love with Taddy. Kieran was in love with Brid. And with a glance, each had let the other know. For the first time, Kitty considered that it was possibly their good fortune that they’d be leaving the castle, as devastating as that would be—a love lost—love for a ghost not least among their sorrows. Or their madness.

  Her e-mail, usually an annoyance, would help her find some composure. These banal and irrelevant retrievals would possibly return to her the equanimity she had once possessed—before her ascendance into the glories and curses of Castle Kissane.

  Kieran was spooning up the last of the bouillabaisse from the bottom of the cooking pot. Kitty came into the scullery with what looked like a computer printout in her hand. Never had she shared with him her work; never had she sought his advice, reaction, or response. But then, the events of the day might have had some adverse effect on her sense of being in control of her deeds and of her works. He would help her if he could.

  Wordlessly, she handed him the page. Unmoving, she waited while he read it. When he’d finished, he looked back at the sink a moment, then handed her the page. Each looked directly at the other, but again the glance was quick. Kitty turned and left the room. Kieran, after she had gone, ran his finger along the bottom of the pot and licked the last of the bouillabaisse. He shoved the pot down into the warm soapy water. The printout from Kitty’s lawyer in Cork had informed them that the Shaftoe papers had been declared forgeries. The taxes had never been paid. His lordship had no claim to Castle Kissane. It belonged by decree of the court to Kieran Sweeney and his wife, Caitlin McCloud. Kieran released the pot. When it bobbed to the surface, he pushed it back down into the sudsy deep and held it there, the warm water wetting the rolled cuffs of his sleeves.

  12

  Fair was the day for the feasting. The field, a kilometer to the west of the castle, out of the shadow of Crohan Mountain, had been handsomely prepared. The chosen pig was spitted above the embered coals. The musicians’ instruments were already in place at the far side of the wooden dance platform, the boards raised so that the slap and stomp of the dancers’ feet would resonate and thrum beyond the percussive sounds that characterized the Kerry dances.

  Guinness in kegs was at the ready and Tullamore Dew in abundance for those whose thirst was as much for rejoicing as for drink. Hot dogs and hamburgers had been suggested by Lolly, but the idea rejected for fear that, given such irresistible temptations, no one would eat the pig. Pizza, too, for the same reason, had been overruled. All the cabbages and all the potatoes in Kitty’s garden were joined in pots of colcannon, the entire mess a product of Kieran’s wizardry. Nettle soup—a specialty of Kitty’s—was kept simmering, since the cold could come unannounced at any minute. Bread and butter were there in plenty, both of Kieran’s devising—the butter, of course, from his very own herd before it had been carted off the day before yesterday to his brother Jack’s near Blarney, as contracted before it was known the castle would not, after all, pass into the hands of Lord Shaftoe.

  Apple brown betty, for which the orchard had been stripped, and tarts made from berries foraged from the roadsides—all were in readiness, eager to celebrate the castle’s retention in Kerry hands. Coca-Cola had been included to placate the immature, after Lolly’s suggestion of milk had been dismissed as too salubrious for the occasion.

  Kieran would see to the pig. Kitty’s job would be to mingle graciously and encourage one and all to further indulgence. Since the prosperous young Irish no longer took service jobs, to tend the food and drink young Americans had been hired—three men, one from Yale, one from Columbia, and one from Marquette—and three women—two from Bard and one from Barnard. As part of their recompense, they were encouraged to eat and drink their fill and consider themselves guests of the nation.

  Kitty, not without effort, moved among her guests. She was determined no act of hers, no glance, no gesture, would betray the apprehension she felt about the climax she had prepared for the celebratory event. A certain unease had come over her earlier when she seemed to detect a certain distraction in Kieran’s behavior. At first she suspected that he had suspicions regarding his wife’s plottings. It then occurred to her that he, too, might have made plans not dissimilar to her own, but she dismissed the very idea. Never would he plot so drastic an act without first consulting and informing his beloved wife. The idea that she herself was capable of anything so unfair and he be exempt from an extravagance to rival her own began to formulate itself in her brain, but she dismissed the notion as an absurdity unworthy of her consideration. Kieran could never—she refused to complete the thought. Twice it reasserted itself. Twice it was forbidden completion—each time with greater vehemence.

  She’d given a particular welcome to Maude McCloskey and thanked her again for the service her son, Peter, had performed the night before, working the spit, adding more fuel to the fire when needed, and making sure no one came early to sample the roasting animal. It hadn’t eased Kitty’s discomfort that the Hag herself had seemed a bit agitated and had kept looking off into the distance, in the direction of the castle. The afternoon sun was achieving its usual alchemy, changing the blackened castle stones to a ruddy gold—a revelation of the castle’s true glory that, even as it thrilled her, had sent a pervading sorrow deep into the recesses of her heart.

  Maude, too, had taken note of the castle’s transformation, her gaze impassive, indifferent to the sun-revealed splendors but somehow interested nevertheless. Kitty refrained from comment and decided as well to ask no questions. It wasn’t that she had no interest in the Hag’s thoughts and possible knowledge. Far from it: she was most interested but was particularly eager that she, Kitty, not be told what she already knew—that the castle would blow up before the feast was over.

  Whether the Hag knew it or not, Kitty couldn’t tell. But the woman knew something, and Kitty preferred for once not to know what it might be. The words must never be spoken. No one, not even Kitty, must hear articulated the devastation and liberation that would soon make the earth shudder and tremble, the air to rain ashes and the sky to brighten as if the sun itself had burst in one last display of power and majesty.

  Only with a great and almost unbearable effort could Kitty keep herself from reviewing in her mind the device she’d employed, its intricacies, its placement, the minute details so cleverly worked out to guarantee that all that she had decreed would come to pass. The Hag, she suspected, would know her thoughts—and, quite possibly, she already did. But so far she’d made no reference to the castle or its fate or to Kitty’s part in the fulfillment of its destiny. And Kitty had managed, as far as she knew, to empty her head of any and all thoughts as to what would soon be accomplished.

  Now, however, seeing the great gilded stones rising beyond the hill, she felt her resolve failing, her adamant proscription of all thoughts concerning the castle being subverted by the glory of what she saw. How could she let this resplendence be no more? Her answer had been rehearsed over and over, her reasonings, her motives, examined from any and every angle she could possibly imagine.

  She had found a motive of her own. She must set Taddy free. She loved him. That he had no flesh, no body that she could touch had long since ceased to matter. Her yearning was enough.

  It was not to free herself from this madness that the castle must be sacrificed. Kitty had other reasons, and she mu
st stop—now—looking at the turret and the transfigured battlement. It was none of the Hag’s business to know so much. And Kitty must not take the risk of communicating, by whatever means, the true and irreversible motive for her action by thinking it in the Hag’s presence.

  To reinforce her resolve she deliberately turned away from the castle and took in a view of the gathering crowd. She would excuse herself from Maude, graciously reminding the Seer that her duties required her to give her attentions to as many of her guests as possible. And besides, Maude, now reviewing the crowd herself, seemed ready to move on to other concerns and considerations. It did nothing, however, for Kitty’s redirected concentration to hear the woman say, “You mustn’t neglect your other guests, enjoyable as I do find your company. Most enjoyable, I assure you.”

  “Too kind,” said Kitty, smiling her sculpted smile. The woman knew every thought that had gone through Kitty’s head. Maude was aware of the entire plot. What she would do about it was anyone’s guess. Kitty considered asking her outright: Do you know what’s going to happen? And then, more disconcerted still, the other question: Do you know why? But she needed to persuade herself that the woman knew nothing, that her most secret thought—made in response to her most secret need—was still a secret and would remain one forever.

  Thoughts, almost as much as words, could be dangerous. They could migrate, unspoken, from one person to the next. The Hag merely represented an intensification of a known phenomenon; by some synaptic idiosyncrasy, some impulse of an as-yet unexplained charge could jump from skull to skull— a thought let loose, eager, even insistent on effecting further connections, a kind of mating—all achieved without the knowledge or consent of either the transmitter or the recipient. With this privileged knowledge wandering around inside the Hag’s head, the entire gathering could be made aware of Kitty’s innermost secrets without a word spoken. The danger might be remote, but it was real. And Kitty could think of no defense against it this side of accusing the woman of thievery and demanding the return of her plans and her most intimate motives.