by Leah Pileggi
My mouth started to hurt, too, but weren’t nothing I could do to help him. He took me on to my job, holding the side of his face all the way there. Mr. Criswell seen him coming and took him on over to his house to get him some medicine. Smelled like whiskey on his way back past.
My job was still mine, and I was right happy ‘bout that. I could see where Charles thought he done cleaned up better’n me. You wait, I thought. I’ll show you.
NINE
‘Cause I had to, I kept at that reading stuff. Tough work for me, but I started through the alphabet with a lotta encouraging by Mr. Nance. ‘Bout that time, he received in the mail a little book called The New England Primer. Found out that my first read word, “bad,” was a word with one syllable. Some other words like that was “good” and “job” and “beef” and “cat.” And then Mr. Nance wrote a real good word in one syllable: Jake. Practiced that one on my own using my finger and the air.
One day Mr. Nance read a lesson to me. Went like this:
Thou shalt not see thy brother’s ox or his sheep go astray, and hide thyself from them; thou shalt in any case bring them again unto thy brother.
And if thy brother be not nigh unto thee, or thou know him not, then thou shalt bring it unto thine own house, and it shall be with thee until thy brother seek after it, and thou shalt restore it to him again.
“That’s a whole lotta ‘thee’ and ‘thy’ and ‘thou,’” I said.
Mr. Nance smiled. “What do you think it means, Jake?”
“Well, seems to me like if I had a brother and he had a ox or sheep that wandered on over to my house, I should keep that sheep in my house ‘til my brother comes back from nigh. Wherever nigh is.”
A great big laugh erupted out of Mr. Nance. Got me to laughing, too. Mr. Nance’s cellmate, Mr. Hawkes, jumped down off his bunk and said, “That’s enough of that. This boy needs to learn some manners.”
Even before that I didn’t much like Mr. Hawkes. He didn’t never smile, and out in the yard when we all got to talk some, he said Mr. Nance weren’t teaching me right ‘bout reading. Said I should hear more ‘bout religion first, then do the reading part. I was glad he weren’t my teacher.
On the Fourth of July, though, we didn’t read that day. It was time to celebrate America’s birthday.
We was a bunch of men from a whole bunch of different countries. Us born in America felt like just ‘cause we was locked up didn’t mean we wasn’t happy ‘bout the whole country’s independence. But some of the men was born in places like Scotland or Spain or France or China, and they didn’t much care what the celebration was ‘bout, as long as there was celebrating.
We was let into the yard for some extra hours that day. We sung songs while one of the men played a fiddle and Slim played his mouth harp. A couple of the men did some dancing. One looked like his pants was on fire. And we all got fresh-baked pies in the late afternoon. Apple and rhubarb with cinnamon.
Some other places had fireworks for their Fourth of July celebration. We didn’t need fireworks just one day of the year. We had the stone-quarry men.
Some new men had come in since me. One of them was a Chinaman, Mr. Wu, who took turns playing music with Mr. Shin on a Chinese banjo he brung with him. It was a little round-like instrument with a long skinny neck and three strings. The belly on it was made outta gray snakeskin. Mr. Shin plucked at the strings and started sorta singing. But it weren’t like no singing I ever heard. At first I thought that Chinese music sounded like a cat playing that banjo and singing. But then after a while I kinda didn’t mind so much. And the banjo was a pretty thing, too, so I put one of them in the good side of my secret room. But without no strings on it.
My days was mostly ‘bout the same once I become a old-timer. Tending to the hogs, reading with Mr. Nance, sneaking a pat on the head of that old yellow gold cat when Mr. Criswell weren’t around, eating a heaped-up tray of food every darned day, and learning to sleep with all that coughing and snoring and farting going on. I was settled in just fine.
And then that first batch of piggies come along.
TEN
August 13, 1885
I stood shoveling every last bit of pig waste from a spot in the pen. “That sow is acting funny,” I told Mr. Criswell. The sow was making noises like I never heard before. Snorting and screeching and almost barking like a dog.
Mr. Criswell’s head nodded, so I was being laughed at, or something was funny. He said, “It’s time for you to see where piggies come from, Jake.”
I had me a idea of where they come from, and I didn’t want nothing to do with all that.
“Henry’s going to bring you on back here late tonight.”
I asked, “Does he know that?”
“He knew it was going to happen eventually. Tonight is the night.”
“What are we gonna do in the dark?”
“Well, you know we have lanterns, so we won’t be in the total dark.”
Maybe I’d drain the oil from the lantern so I wouldn’t have to see what he wanted me to see.
“Piggies come in the night or the wee morning hours, Jake,” said Mr. Criswell. “This is your job. You be here in case I need help.”
Walking home, I thought maybe the sow would finish before I got back that night.
I was wrong.
“Wake up, Jake.” Henry held a lantern over my face. Snoring sounds filled the dark. I slipped on my clothes and fumbled into my boots, and we headed out on our midnight walk to the hogs. Before we even got to the pen, I heard that sow making noise. Then she made one sharp pig holler. It echoed off the hills.
I seen Mr. Criswell’s lantern in the distance, in the clean side of the pen. In the other side, the rest of the pigs sounded restless—half sleeping, half awake, half stirred up.
“She’s about ready, Jake,” said Mr. Criswell. “Henry, you come on back tomorrow at the usual time.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, and him and his lantern headed back. And I realized I weren’t going home that whole night.
It got real quiet. The sow weren’t making noise no more. She was moving straw, piling it up. She’d go to piss and then come back to push that straw some more. Kept on going and coming back for a long time, ‘til I thought there weren’t no way she could go one more time. And then she slow went over on her side and laid that wide body down.
“Come on to this end, Jake.” Mr. Criswell stood with the lantern at the back end of that sow. So that’s where I stood, too. We stood and watched a lot of nothing going on. The sow’s thick skin shimmied. She shifted herself a little, then settled back in.
I don’t know how long we stood there. Seemed like hours. Wasn’t nothing to this having piggies. And then everything started real quick.
Some watery-looking blood shot out at her back end, and then slip, out come a little thing, black and wet, with a tiny little tail straight as a stick. That little piggy stayed hooked up to the sow with a string-like piece.
“That’s the cord, Jake. They’ll all have their own cord.”
I asked, “How come its tail don’t curl up? All the hogs I seen have curly tails.”
“That’s the way they come out,” said Mr. Criswell. “It’ll curl up later.”
That little thing moved just slight, like it was waiting patient for the others. We waited, too. Maybe ten or twenty minutes or so, and then slip, out come another one, just exact like the first one.
My mouth was so dry, my tongue was gonna crack. Guess my mouth flapped open with that first piggy and stayed flapped. I went and got a dipper of water. Drank down three in a row and then went back to the lantern light.
Them little things took their time. By the time the last one, number seven, come out, I was setting down.
“How come they’s just layin’ there, Mr. Criswell?”
“They won’t start to eat until the afterbirth comes out. Sometimes that takes a while.”
He was way right ‘bout that. I dozed off some. He kept on poking at me with his boot toes. And t
hen finally here come the nastiest sack of bloody ooze, like some animal without no bones. Mr. Criswell stepped on up and used his knife to cut the cords and tie them up, and then them piggies started squirming. Worked their way right on up to the line of teats across that big sow body and started suckling. They all wanted that first teat. But they moved on back ‘til they was all attached, ‘cept one. It still wanted that first teat, but that was already taken.
“Why don’t that one move on back?”
“Instinct,” said Mr. Criswell.
“Or it ain’t too smart,” I said.
The lantern shadow shifted when Mr. Criswell’s head nodded. “They are smart, Jake.”
“So that one will figure out there’s more to drink from back there,” I said.
“More than likely, but you can’t tell until a day or two. Now help me with the cleaning up.”
I mostly kept my eyes closed when he hauled away that bloodied-up straw and then put down more fresh.
“Gotta keep them real warm in that straw,” he said.
It was a nice warm night, so I reckoned we was safe that way. I reached down for one more handful of clean straw, and the next thing I knew, the sun was trying to bake me.
Mr. Criswell was hovering near the sow. I stood up quick.
“I didn’t mean to sleep, Mr. Criswell.”
He didn’t say nothing. I moved closer to the sow and counted the piggies. And then, since my counting weren’t too good, I tried it again.
“They’s only six piggies.”
Mr. Criswell still didn’t say nothing. And then, “One got underneath,” he said. “I couldn’t watch the whole time.”
“Underneath?” Oh, lord. Crushed underneath that big sow mama. ‘Cause I couldn’t stay awake. I grabbed at my head.
Mr. Criswell said, “It’s nature, Jake. We got six nice piggies.”
All the baby pigs was on the move. They knew right when that milk started to run. But then I saw that the not-smart one was still trying to get to that first teat. “Why ain’t he going back to drink?”
“Just the way it is, Jake. Can’t change nature.”
I didn’t care ‘bout nature. I was gonna get that piggy to drink from a different teat. That one weren’t gonna die on me, too.
I got on my knees and picked that little pig up in my hands. It was powerful strong for such a little runt. I crawled on my knees and set that piggy on a teat back from the others. The runt squirmed its way back to the front. I picked it up again, and again it moved toward the front. The milk time ended, and the sow and piggies slept.
Every time the milk come again, I was right there with that runt. I don’t know how long that went on. The sun moved across the sky. I thought maybe I would drop over, but I never did. Slapped my own face to keep on going. One piggy already died ‘cause I fell asleep.
I was wearing that runt down. I set it one more time in that back place to drink. That time, it didn’t try to jump forward. It set sorta dazed, and I pulled that teat out toward its little pig mouth. A drop of milk leaked out onto its tiny snout. That musta done it. It took a light hold onto its mama, and then it took a strong hold. And it quick sucked up its breakfast and dinner for that whole day.
ELEVEN
The next few days, I watched them piggies grow so fast into hogs, it was almost like after they ate, they puffed up and stayed that much bigger right in front of my face.
A few days after them piggies was born, Charles was at the hogs in the morning. We three just worked quiet, keeping our distance. Me and Charles was raking up every last piece of straw, trying to outdo the other in clean.
Breaking up that quiet, Mr. Criswell said, “Butchering time is coming up, Jake. I’ll get some help from a couple of the men.” Me and Charles kinda glanced each other’s way. We didn’t need no other men to help us with nothing. But then, even though that pork meat was just fine, I weren’t sure ‘bout that butchering stuff. I didn’t want to think ‘bout that, so my brain changed its direction and my mouth blurted out something that I had been thinking ‘bout. “How come you’s kinda bent over, Mr. Criswell?”
Charles shot me a look.
“Just an accident, Jake,” said Mr. Criswell. “I fell off a horse about three years ago. Broke my back. That’s all.”
Charles was raking faster.
“Just a pure accident, Jake. Things like that happen.”
Then Charles threw down his rake and walked off.
I kept on working, being real exact cleaning out my spot, ‘cause then I knew that Charles had something to do with Mr. Criswell’s bent back.
I didn’t see Charles again ‘til I got me a drink. And then there he was at the pump.
“My pa is none of your darn business.”
I took another drink of water.
He said, “None of your darn business what happened to make him bent like that.”
I stood looking.
And then Charles said, “At least I didn’t kill nobody.”
In one second we was chest to chest. I blew in his face, “You don’t know nothing ‘bout what I done.”
“You killed a man, I know that.” Charles pushed me away.
“What did you do to your pa?” I asked, using my own evil eye. “You shove him off that horse?”
He come at me. I stepped aside real quick and he fell facedown to the ground. He got up and come at me again.
“That’s enough,” said Mr. Criswell, stepping between us.
Me and Charles stood breathing like horses been running too long.
“You boys keep this up, and neither one of you will ever work the hogs again.”
Hung my head. “Sorry, sir.” Couldn’t hardly believe how much it would hurt not having that job no more. I would not let my mouth take over me in front of Mr. Criswell ever again.
Charles said, “I’m sorry, Pa.” And him and me just went on working and wondering.
Just ‘bout then, Henry showed up. Him and Mr. Criswell had a few words, and then me and Henry headed on back.
I was kicking up a extra cloud of dust walking along, humming just a bunch of notes.
Henry asked, “You doing okay, Jake?”
“Well, sure,” I said. “Mr. Criswell and the hogs are just fine to work with. That dinner whistle is somethin’ real special, too. And I ain’t got punched in the stomach of late.”
Then he asked, “How’s that reading coming along?”
I’d like to have told him the truth, that it was just a big old waste of Mr. Nance’s time. But that wouldn’ta sounded nice. So I told him, “Reckon I ‘bout got my letters down.”
As I was saying that, I realized that maybe I did have my letters down, and I could even read a word or two more than “bad.”
And that’s when the old yellow gold cat pounced out from a tree. Neither me or Henry seen that cat coming, so we both jumped.
“You crazy old thing.” I reached down to pick him up, but he scooted on ahead. “You’s going the wrong way, cat,” I told him.
Henry said, “Maybe he likes you better than hogs.”
I was thinking I just been made fun of, but I couldn’t help myself and laughed a big laugh.
The dang thing kept on following us, chasing a bird here and there, ‘til we all three ended up at the big gate.
“You ain’t allowed in here, cat,” I said. “Go on home and see your hog friends.” I give a push at him with my boot. He leaped at my laces. Man, animals like them laces.
Me and Henry was both laughing then. I crouched down and yelled, “Boo!” The cat took off. And just as I was standing up, the gate swung open fast, almost taking my head off.
The Mountain had a big guy tight around the neck, and the guy was struggling and snarling like a mad dog. Miles and another guard, blood smeared across them, was right behind, trying to grab ahold of flying arms and legs. The man was bleeding from his hand and his nose. They was all headed for the Hole, that’s for sure.
Back when I first got to the penitentiary, I tho
ught I’d like to see what was in the Hole. I sure wouldn’t want to after that guy been down there a few days.
Me and Henry went on into the yard. First thing me and him seen inside the gate was a trail of bright red blood drops on the dried-up ground. And then there came two more guards out of the cellblock, and they was carrying a wood door laid out flat with somebody on it. White Beard was right there with ‘em, step for step, looking real worried. The man carried on the door was Mr. Nance. I knew it was Mr. Nance just ‘cause I knew him, but some others wouldn’ta recognized his bloodied, mashed-up face. He didn’t see me. In fact, he maybe didn’t see nothing.
“Mr. Nance!” I yelled for him, but them guards kept on moving fast past us.
Henry grabbed my crooked arm and pulled me hard toward the block. I watched over my shoulder at Mr. Nance, flat out on that door, heading into the Warden’s Building.
TWELVE
I couldn’t eat my food after I seen that. I thought I didn’t much care for reading, but it seems I did after all. And Mr. Nance was always real patient with me.
All us men had to stay inside for most of the afternoon, ‘til everybody was questioned ‘bout the incident. But later we was allowed out for our required ninety minutes. Mr. Shin and Mr. Wu walked with me. Mr. Wu carried the Chinese banjo. The blood spots was gone, with dried-up puddles in their place from where somebody had threw water around.
“Jake,” said Mr. Shin, “you probably want know about Mr. Nance.”
“What happened, Mr. Shin? He didn’t look good, not at all.” We was walking across the yard, the day still hot as all get-out.
“Bad man and Mr. Nance come back from work same time. Walk in cellblock. Bad man say mean things to Mr. Nance. Mr. Nance not say anything. I see bad man jump on him and start hitting. Mr. Nance no hit back. His face hurt floor. Got many hits before guards get to him. Happen very fast.”