Oink

by J. L. Newton

  “I was looking at the barn, kind of moving in and then moving away and it occurred to me that I could get the Hog Barn and the Institute together, you know, lining up two symbols—one of the future, one of the past. I was feeling excited like I do sometimes when I’m breaking through in math, so I walked to the north corner of the barn, stood in front of a corridor that ran between the pens, and put the camera to my eye to compose the shot …”

  “And?”

  “I aimed too low and got the pigs. One was snuffling at something in the mud, so I lowered the camera and focused on a spot just beyond its head.” Wilmer paused for emphasis. “It was the body of a man lying in the mud.”

  “Oh.” What would I have done if I’d stumbled on a body just where I’d least have thought to find one?

  “What’d you do next?”

  “I kind of froze for a minute. It’s not something you’d expect to see. Then I climbed the rails, jumped into the corridor, and ran to what I now know to be Peter Elliott.”

  “What’d he look like?” I’d heard that line on a television crime show.

  “He was lying on his stomach, half his face in the muck, one hand next to his body, the other one stretched above his head. I remember thinking that he looked like he was reaching for something.”

  Reaching for something? That certainly fit with what I’ve heard about Peter Elliott’s ambitious nature.

  “I turned him over.” Wilmer shuddered faintly. “Half his face was covered with yellow vomit and dark brown sludge, and the front of his clothes was smeared with slime. He smelled terrible.”

  “What was he wearing?” I don’t know why I asked that one, but I did.

  “Khaki shorts, a navy polo shirt, expensive sneakers.”

  Of course, the Arborville warm weather uniform. “So I called 911, wiped his face with my handkerchief, and started CPR. Thirty compressions, two breaths, and so on.”

  I surmised from this that Wilmer had been a Boy Scout in his youth. The idea was reassuring. Didn’t Boy Scouts know how to take care of things in all sorts of risky situations?

  “Did he wake up?”

  “He coughed but didn’t come to consciousness. And then I heard a high voice calling ‘Peter.’ It was the young woman intern.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Chinese American, long black hair, very pretty. She had on a red shirt, jeans, and a pair of rubber boots.”

  I hadn’t needed to ask. Wilmer had anticipated my interest in the young woman’s clothing.

  “When she saw Peter, she started crying like all get out. I asked her who he was and she told me Professor Elliott and I asked how she knew him.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “That he was doing research on hog nutrition, that he was around a lot, and that she fed his hogs along with all the rest.”

  We’d left the freeway now and were entering the scruffy outskirts of Valley Town.

  “That’s it?” It seemed to me there was more to know about her circumstances, maybe a lot more than she’d let on. “What was she doing at the barn so early?”

  “I asked her that. She said she lived upstairs in the barn and took care of the hogs and checked on them at night and that she was just coming out to feed the sows. And then she kneeled right next to him and looked hard at his face and cried even more. I couldn’t offer her my handkerchief because it was covered in mud, but I did assure her that he was breathing, just not conscious.”

  That country gentleman thing again. I was liking it.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I wanted to ask more questions, but the ambulance arrived and I had to talk to the police. That’s when I looked down at Peter and noticed something I hadn’t seen before. The hand at his side was holding something yellow. It turned out to be a bit of corn bread.”

  The corn bread again. I wondered if the young woman at the hog yard was fond of baking. Maybe I could make a trip to the barn and find out. Wilmer and I continued on about the Peter Elliott case until we arrived at the restaurant and the warm smell of garlic and ginger wrapped us in a savory cloud.

  The Golden Lotus was a surprisingly elegant place with brass poles, booths in red and bronze leather, round mirrors over the tables, and round portholes between the booths, etched with Chinese renderings of what looked like rabbits. White plates held napkins folded in a swan-like way. I loved booths, their softness, the way they sheltered, and I was impressed that Wilmer knew enough to take me to a place like this. It was beautiful and comforting. We ordered our meal, Kung Pao Chicken for Wilmer and Garlic Eggplant for me—I was excessively fond of eggplant—along with a side dish of Pine Nuts and Corn. If there was something with corn on the menu, I was bound by my research to taste it, and this was a dish I’d never had. After ordering, we both settled back with our wine and began to talk about our campus lives. The waiter soon appeared with our dishes.

  “I won a prize in mathematics,” Wilmer said, “so I should be getting a promotion this year.”

  “Wait, you get promoted for winning a prize?”

  “Usually.”

  I put my chopsticks down on the plate. The corn and pine nuts had been sweet and crunchy.

  “That would never happen in women’s studies. You’d be lucky to get a congratulatory e-mail from the dean.”

  “Really?” Wilmer looked at me in surprise.

  * * *

  The movie proved to be a thriller in which a child psychologist does therapy with a boy who sees dead people walking around like regular people. I got edgy watching thrillers and movies about the supernatural, and this film was full of sudden, ghastly appearances of ghosts, some hanged, all hollow eyed, one reaching out—suddenly—from under a bed. Movies like these stayed with me long after I’d seen them. I knew that when I returned home I would turn on all the lights. I wished Wilmer would hold my hand. Given the scary film, it would have been soothing, but he made no move to do so. Was there some code of behavior among mathematicians I didn’t understand? No touching on first dates, just talk about promotions? Was there some absence of affect on Wilmer’s part? Or did he just lack interest? After the movie we drove straight home.

  “That was intense,” I said, as we stood on my front porch to say goodnight. “I don’t like it when there are surprises at the end. Why did the psychologist have to be a ghost as well? But I enjoyed it. I’m glad we went.”

  “I enjoyed it too. Thanks for coming. Well, good night.”

  He stood there for a moment, the front porch light glinting on his glasses, but he made no move to hug me or even shake my hand.

  “Good night,” I said at last. Wilmer turned and then ambled to his car. Odd, I thought as I turned my key in the door. Maybe he’s not attracted to me. Yet our conversation had been lively.

  I entered the living room, hung up my jacket, and parked my purse on the kitchen counter. Had I asked too many questions about his discovery of Peter Elliott? Had that been boring? Or, wait. Did Wilmer interpret my interest as some kind of sign that I myself had been involved in the crime? Could he possibly think that I was the one who’d poisoned Peter? I opened the refrigerator to look for wine and found an opened bottle. But Wilmer had been the one at the Hog Barn that morning, not me. And why had I been so trusting of him? He said he hadn’t known who Peter was, but was he lying? I poured myself a full glass. No, he’d been too much of a gentleman, too open. He’d probably been a Boy Scout for God’s sake. And he’d gotten Peter breathing again. Why poison someone if you’re going to save him afterward? There was no real reason to doubt his word, though still …

  I leaned against the white tile counter, took a long sip of the wine, and began to think once more about our talk at the restaurant. I’d been taken aback by the fact that mathematicians were promoted for winning prizes. Winning prizes did not bring you promotion in women’s or ethnic studies or even in the humanities—that I knew for sure. And promotions in math were tied to short papers while my nonmathematical colleagues had to writ
e long papers and publish books. One world, it would seem, was designed for quick advance. Another, for extended labor at lower pay.

  Feeling a sudden need for comfort food, I opened a cupboard, found a package of Carr’s Water Biscuits at the back, grabbed a few from the box, and began to eat. It irked me about the prizes being linked to promotions, just as it irked me that women, and especially women in ethnic studies, were always less advanced in their careers than their male peers. It wasn’t a question of the men being better. It was that many women tended to things other than their publications and paid a price for it. I munched on a cracker, which proved, not surprisingly, to be stale and took another swig of wine to wash it down. Women in ethnic studies, in particular, spent large amounts of time with their students, organized conferences and lecture series, were frequently asked to sit on committees and direct their programs, and devoted a good deal of energy to building relationships.

  Many of them tended to children and sometimes husbands at home as well. And even when they didn’t do those things, they were promoted more slowly than men. I remembered the first cover of Ms. Magazine—a women with eight arms like those of the goddess Shiva, one holding a duster, another a frying pan, another a typewriter, another a phone, another a mirror. There was a baby inside the woman’s womb and the woman was weeping. From overwork, I guessed. Still I’d rather be a woman—the wine by now was having a softening effect. I liked being trained to sensitivity and care—and I’d like to know more about Wilmer Crane.

  Corn with Pine Nuts

  Serves:1–2

  ½ green pepper

  1 or 2 green onions

  ⅓ cup pine nuts

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1½ cups frozen corn

  ½ teaspoon sea salt

  Chop the green pepper and green onions, set aside. Lightly toast the pine nuts in the pan, stirring so as not to burn them. Set aside.

  Heat the stainless steel frying pan for 1–2 minutes, lower the heat to medium, add 1 tablespoon olive oil, and then turn the pan and let the oil coat the pan.

  Add green pepper and green onion. Fry for 2 minutes.

  Add corn and continue to fry for 2 minutes. Add pine nuts and fry for 1 minute.

  Turn off the heat and add the salt, mix well, and serve.

  Note: raw corn kernels don’t work well in this dish. If you want to use fresh corn, you will have to cook it for a bit first. Lightly steaming the corn or boiling it for a few minutes will work.

  Adapted by permission of Annie Taylor Chen at VeganAnn http://veganann.com/corn-with-pine-nuts/.

  Chapter 7

  The air was still cool, a perfect morning for strolling through the stalls of the farmer’s market. Laid out in Arborville’s Central Park, under a green metal shelter, the market’s long rows of stands were piled with organic broccoli, lettuces, and apples; with golden honeys, spreads, and oils; with whole wheat croissants and long brown loaves of fresh French bread; with hunks of fragrant cheese; and with bouquets of yellow sunflowers and pink dahlias. There were organic Merlots and gluten-free brownies, not that I bought either one, but the bounty was pleasing. Flanking the market on the sidewalk to the north, card tables offered information about 4-H clubs, animal rights, ecological beekeeping, and the Arborville Peace Coalition. At the other end of the market, stalls devoted to arts and crafts displayed wind chimes, rustic birdhouses, and glass jewelry.

  To enter the market was to feel life’s richness, provided you were fairly middle-class, of course. I, being thoroughly middle-class by now, bought a latte for myself and a hot chocolate for Polly, and then we entered the market to browse. The stands were crowded with shoppers, and passage was slow. Outside, on the park’s grassy open field, a trio of banjo players were setting up their chairs. Polly pulled me gently toward one of the bakeries offering chocolate croissants.

  “Please, Mom.”

  “Okay.” I usually tried to steer her away from sugary things, but she had the morning off from school because of a teacher training event, and the occasion seemed to call for a special treat. Getting out my wallet, I noticed a sign pointing out fresh corn bread.

  “I’ll have a chocolate croissant, please. What’s in your corn bread?”

  “There’s one plain and one with peppers.” The young woman at the stand had long flaxen hair like a figure in a fairy tale, the perfect woman to be selling healthy foods and not at all likely to have injected poison into corn bread.

  “Do you ever make it with caramelized onions and goat cheese?”

  “Gee, I don’t think so. It sounds good though.”

  I was disappointed. The farmer’s market was the one place in Arborville I’d seen corn bread being offered for sale. Where else could I look?

  Polly, both hands full, gestured toward the pumpkins with her croissant. I laughed and followed her to the stand. I’d been uneasy the evening before, sleeping alone in the house, with hair-raising scenes from The Sixth Sense still fresh in my memory. Odd how heartening it was to have Polly and the dog with me at night, even though I was the adult and the human being—the one who’d have to take charge should anyone try to break in. Sadie might bark if she heard something in the middle of the night, but she welcomed all strangers, jumping on them, slapping her golden paws on their shoulders, happy to see them no matter who they might be. After my restless night, it felt especially good to have Polly at my side and to enter this community-based market, which ran, after all, on a sense of trust and goodwill.

  The wholesomeness of Arborville was in its DNA. The place felt more like a fantasy of Small Town, USA, than a city with heated politics and a long history of debates about whether houses should or should not be built on the surrounding fields. In March, the farmer’s market celebrated National Pig Day, which featured pig costumes, swine-related crafts, hog-shaped rolls from a local bakery, a piglet petting zoo, and, strangely perhaps, bacon. Children, being children, even in Arborville, had to be strictly forbidden from pulling the piglets’ tails or shaking them awake. On the Fourth of July, Arborville held festivities during the day and set off fireworks in the city park at night. People spread out picnics on their blankets, and children ran free. On Halloween, children in costumes, along with their parents, visited Arborville’s downtown businesses, where the children were handed candy by owners who themselves were often dressed as pirates or ballerinas. In December a lighted holiday parade featured antique tractors and motorcycles, floats, horses, and Santa and Mrs. Claus. Arborville seemed a benign place to raise a child—though here, as everywhere, some were eager to make profits at the community’s expense.

  Halloween was getting close, so I followed Polly to the pumpkin stall. We needed some tiny pumpkins to decorate the inside of the house.

  “Can we get a big pumpkin too?” Polly asked.

  “Let’s wait and buy one at the supermarket. It’ll be too heavy to carry right now.”

  We were in the middle of the market when I glanced down to the end. Someone in a faded red sweatshirt with bushy hair was hurrying away. Him, again. Who was he? And why did he keep showing up? I wondered if he was linked to the poisoning, as the police had suggested when they announced their search. I couldn’t drag Polly along after him to find out, and I didn’t want to stare and have to explain why I was interested. He’d appeared out of nowhere like the ghosts in last night’s movie. I remembered that the color red had run throughout the movie as a sign of threat. A red tent, a red sweater, a red balloon had kept me on edge. The sight of the reddish shirt today had given me a start. I laid my hand on Polly’s arm just to steady myself.

  “Let’s look at some sunflowers for the house, okay?”

  * * *

  I sat at my study desk, blank pages of paper before me and my turquoise container of sharpened pencils to one side. Having dropped Polly off for her afternoon at school and having arranged the saucer-sized sunflowers in a vase, I was ready to work. The movie I’d seen with Wilmer the evening before, and now the disturbing reappearance of the fig
ure in red, were haunting me, much like the poisoned corn bread. And that had given me an idea. I would write about haunting—how cuisines, like places, might be haunted by cultures of the past that were otherwise barely visible.

  I’d eaten shrimp and grits three months earlier at a conference in Atlanta, and the spiciness of the dish had come as a surprise. As a Californian, I’d expected shrimp and grits to taste bland and had assumed this spicy, garlicky, andouille sausage and tomato-laden version was some new fusion cooking. Atlanta itself had struck me as less “Southern” than trendy and cosmopolitan, and the grits had seemed a part of that Atlanta vibe. But when a small group from the conference had decided to go on a three-day side visit to Savannah, the city had struck me as very “Southern” indeed. “Southern,” I realized, meant “Old South” to me.

  I’d been amazed to see the many ghost tours being advertised in Savannah, and I’d asked our guide why there seemed to be an obsession with ghosts in the city’s culture.

  “Because Savannah’s haunted,” the guide said with a straight face. She was a young woman with a water bottle, a visor, and a wry sense of humor. I’d lifted my eyebrows.

  “Because we like to drink a lot and tell stories.”

  Later, having seen shrimp and grits on several menus, I asked how grits had entered Southern cuisine.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. You just eat the danged things.”

  Savannah did feel haunted, not by ghosts precisely, but by the presence in my imagination of what I didn’t see. I’d read John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and felt phantom traces of its eccentric characters—one rambled through town with flies circling around his head (they were attached by threads). Most of all, however, Savannah had seemed haunted by slavery, a history that was strangely invisible in a city which had been a major port for the slave trade.

  The next day, our group visited the only slave quarters open to the public. The ceiling of a downstairs room retained some of its original blue paint. “Haint blue,” the docent told us, a color meant to ward off spirits. It struck me, then, that one root of Savannah’s compulsive interest in ghosts must have been the culture of its West African slaves. In the gift shop I’d found a copy of a book on slave cooking, which mentioned that slave rations included corn and that some dishes made from Indian corn were similar to those that had been made in West Africa. Grits were often made from Indian corn.