The Pig Comes to Dinner (15 page)

“Ellen's going to win!” Peter laughed at the inevitability. Margaret, too, rejoiced. “She's going to beat.”

Mrs. McCloskey smoothed Ellen's hair, then, sitting back in her chair—overstuffed, a darker green than the carpet— whispered to Kitty, “Peter's the one to watch. And to think I was furious the day I found out he was on his way inside my belly. I could have killed Stanislaus. But I decided to send the dear man off to work in Cork instead, where he can send the better part of his wages and we can get ourselves organized around here. But look at Peter now. He's the one to watch.” Mrs. McCloskey looked toward the television, where the inevitable soccer game was being played, this one on some foreign field where there seemed to be more dust than grass underfoot. The commentators were discussing one of the athletes—someone with an unpronounceable name— which suggested that he was a foreign import on the Irish team. Satisfied with what she saw and heard, Maude tipped a few more drops of whiskey into her teacup, possibly in celebration, then gave her attention to the cards in Peter's hand.

Not always a beauty, Mrs. McCloskey was now having a time of revenge. She had, over the years of her marriage and childbearing, become “handsome” in the extreme. Her figure had become more ample, but in perfect proportion one feature to the other. Without resorting to measurements, Kitty could tell that the ratio of her bosom to her waist, to her hips, and to her buttocks was more than presentable. Her hair had calmed itself after several torturings she'd executed during her youth and was now a thick, straight black, pulled strongly together and gathered in a becoming bun. Her lips had filled rather than thinned, her teeth—her own, Kitty was fairly sure—were even, white, and could come close to a dazzle when she smiled, which was often, the woman having a neardemented ability to be joyful at the least provocation. And, in contrast to the animated mouth, the eyes, dark brown, managed to remain serene at all times, reflecting perhaps an inner being quietly pleased with herself and all her works. A woman could do worse, Kitty thought, than advance in the direction so successfully traveled by Maude McCloskey, Hag or no Hag.

Raising her teacup with one hand, handsome Maude tapped the seven of diamonds Peter was holding and directed Ellen to take it. “This one,” she said. When Ellen drew the card from her brother's hand, Peter let out a half laugh, half holler. “No, not that one!” he cried, giving full expression to his delight at so masterful a coup on his sister's part.

Kitty's one hope was that the game would end and the children sent out to play or do chores or get kidnapped. She must question Mrs. McCloskey about disposing of Brid.

As if to let Kitty know that she rather enjoyed having her children about, Maude next began extolling the virtues of Ellen, which consisted mainly of her no longer eating from the dog's dish. She held out the Tullamore Dew and pantomimed tipping some into Kitty's cup. Kitty shook her head no and, so as not to waste the gesture, Mrs. McCloskey let a few more drops fall into her own cup.

“Of course, Joey—that's the dog—Joey helped. Can you see the little scab on Ellen's nose? That's from the last bite she got. Mostly Joey went for her chin, and once her ear, but apparently the nose was what was needed to make its point. But don't give Joey all the credit; Ellen promised she wouldn't do it again—and she's kept her promise, the way she always does.”

A roar was raised on the television and three players— Irish as far as Kitty could tell from their uniforms—were threatening an official. “That's it, boys!” Mrs. McCloskey called out to the set. “We're out to win and let no man take it from us!” On her way to bringing her attention back to Kitty, she gave a cursory glance at Margaret's cards, took a three of spades and put it in on the rug. Peter quickly grabbed it up and added it to his hand, discarding a four of hearts. Pleased with her accomplishment, Mrs. McCloskey whispered again, “I told you. Peter's the one to watch.”

Desperate, Kitty considered bringing up the subject in front of the children, since it was obvious they were going to be in attendance throughout her visit. But she was afraid to open herself to ridicule, or to questions—to which she would have answers she would just as soon not give. She could, of course, tell them to mind their own business and get on with their game, but then Mrs. McCloskey, offended by this affront to her cherished children, might clam up and refuse Kitty the knowledge she'd come to seek.

An alternative could be an invitation to Mrs. McCloskey to come some day soon to the castle, but there could be no doubt that she'd turn up with her precious children in tow, and Joey as well. A guided tour would be required. The children would run rampant through the halls, screaming in search of echoes, grabbing at each other and saying, “Boo,” and wanting to use the bathroom. There would have to be biscuits and cake. There would have to be Coca-Cola. Joey would harass the cows. The pig would harass Joey. Sly would slink off and hide for the next two days. The loom would be broken, the harp destroyed. Worst of all, the children might see Brid and Taddy and laugh at the way they were clothed, then scream with delight when they vanished right before their very eyes and insist that the poor apparitions do it again. Kitty could, of course, inadvertently lock them in the dungeon.

For one of the few times in her life, Kitty was at a loss. Perplexed by an experience so rare, she smiled at Mrs. McCloskey and said, “Maybe I will have a drop after all.”

“That's my girl.” Kitty had to steady the woman's hand after far more than a few drops had been poured into her cup. “Too kind,” Kitty said, trying unsuccessfully to part her upper teeth from her lower.

Now Mrs. McCloskey was giving her full attention to the television, kneading her knee, closing and opening her fist. “Thieves! Thieves!” For not more than a second, the three children turned toward the television. Their expectations were quickly disappointed—no outright thievery was apparent, merely a group of grown men rushing in more than several directions at once—so they returned their concentration to their cards, with Peter putting down a jack of hearts and neither Margaret nor Ellen the least bit impressed.

After a fortifying gulp of tea, Kitty said, “Do you think we might talk in private?”

Surprised and bewildered, Mrs. McCloskey, for the first time since Kitty had entered the cottage, focused her gaze on her guest. “But this is private,” she said. “No one here but family.”

“I mean, perhaps just the two of us.”

Mrs. McCloskey's laugh was perhaps a bit more derisive than she had intended, since there was genuine joy in it as well, but Kitty nevertheless had to check an impulse to give her a smack. “There's no need,” the good woman said. “The children have no interest I'm sure in anything you might want to say. May I assume it's about you-know-whom you saw at the wedding?”

“It is, I'm afraid.”

Mrs. McCloskey patted Kitty's knee. “Then let's hear it.” The Hag then tugged a card from Margaret's hand and placed it in front of Peter, who picked it up. “Just so you know I don't play favorites,” she whispered. She took a few more sips of tea, then, with a small bit of ostentation, leaned back in her chair, letting Kitty know she was open for business.

Kitty drained her cup, set it on its saucer, and wiped her lips with the back of her little finger. She stood up. “Perhaps another time.”

“But we're having tea. I made it special.”

“And I thank you. But I must be going.” Kitty could hardly believe how polite she was being.

“Well, if you have nothing you want to talk about, then I won't keep you.”

“Most kind.”

“I do my best.” Mrs. McCloskey, too, was on her feet. “Peter, I'll take over your hand. You walk Mrs. Sweeney—”

“Ms. McCloud,” Kitty corrected.

“Yes. Of course. I'd heard that but preferred not to believe it when Sweeney's such a fine Kerry name.”

“No more than McCloud.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

Mrs. McCloskey heaved a sigh underscoring the one word she had to meet the occasion. “Well—” she said.

Peter gave his mother his cards, tugged up his pants by the belt loops, let them fall immediately back into place, and started for the door.

“It's not necessary,” Kitty said. “It's not that far, even though I decided the walk would do me good. And I surely know the way.”

“But Peter would be so disappointed. And he's been such a good boy.” Kitty took this to mean that a castle tour would be the only acceptable reward for the boy's gallantry. Peter, holding open the door, had on his face—a face so open and cheerful—a look of proud anticipation.

“But I mustn't take you away from your game,” Kitty said to him.

“Ellen can win without me. Can't you, Ellen?”

Ellen's answer was limited to a muted, “Ssshh.”

“See?” Peter, so pleased with his commission, wore a look of such pathetic expectation that Kitty had no choice but to say, “Okay, then. Let's go.”

A backward glance told her that farewells were not needed or even wanted, so intent were the players on their game. She was already forgotten and felt obliged to be gone without further ceremony.

Outside they walked the path to the road, passed through an opening of the hedge and made the turn that would take them up the hills to the castle. (Kieran, measuring the distance, said it was one kilometer down and two kilometers up. Kitty agreed, as did anyone who had ever made the journey on foot.) Peter chose to half skip, half bounce as he took his place next to Kitty, an escort obviously energized by the honor.

Late afternoon was about to become early evening. Soon the sun would be past the crest of the hill and long shadows sent out across the fields. The hill, some of it already dissolved in the mists, rose up to their right. Its downslope to their left, almost clifflike, was abundantly strewn with huge white boulders. At times the rocks seemed to Kitty like fossilized sheep.

As the road turned to the right, then to the left, the scattered cottages down below were silent in the cooling air. To the west, not far off, was the sea, calm, with three curraghs and what could be a kayak making their way slowly, confidently, toward the island to the north. The clouds had not yet come, and it was the sea now and not the hills that would take the setting sun.

Without consultation, as if responding to some ancient prompting born in the blood, both Kitty and Peter moved to the rock wall that hedged the road and looked out over the darkening water and the glistening narrow path, a silver lad- der that could, if legend spoke true, take one from the sea to the sun.

It was Peter who spoke first, but quietly. He had picked from his nose a tiny bit of dried mucus and was examining it as if it were a computer chip holding within itself, like the contemporary equivalent of a crystal ball, a knowledge available nowhere else. He turned the chip held between his thumb and forefinger, curious as to what secrets it might impart when viewed from different perspectives. “My mother says you see Taddy and Brid. Is it so?”

Kitty's impulse was to turn to the boy and express her annoyance that his mother had opened her big fat trap. What right or reason had she to tell a child about something as intimate as her seeing ghosts? It was no one's business. Now the word would spread, and she'd be regarded as some kind of nutty woman given to visions and other forms of superstition. But as soon as the thought came she dismissed it. What did she care who thought what? Never had she concerned herself with the opinions and judgments of others, and she saw no reason to begin now. Almost defiantly she said, “Yes. Of course I see them. They come with the castle.”

“My mother thinks not.”

“Not what?”

“They don't come with the castle. I mean—other people come to the castle, they don't see them, do they?”

“How would I know?”

“They'd tell you, the other people would. Or they'd tell someone, who'd tell someone else. Who'd tell you.”

Kitty did not like being contradicted, especially by a boy small for his age, with freckles across his nose and—from the evidence she'd observed—who didn't wash his neck when he washed his face. Still, she didn't want to be rude. Or even interfere with his interest—an interest obviously informed by what Kitty herself had wanted to find out from his mother.

And then it struck Kitty that Mrs. McCloskey had purposely sent this surrogate, unbeknownst even to himself, to deliver the message Kitty had come to their cottage to collect. The boy would tell her all she wanted to know. Or at least all that Maude McCloskey knew from her divinations, or, more likely, what she had collected from stories, from lore, from the legends that had been passed from generation to generation. The boy, quite likely, had, for whatever reason, been elected the new repository of hidden knowledge, and it flattered Kitty to believe that she herself was, in turn, elected the first beneficiary of this initiate's recently consecrated calling. Much had been entrusted to him and great must be his mother's faith in his gifts. “Peter's the one to watch.” How Maude might have discerned these gifts Kitty would never know, nor did she require that she should. All that was demanded of her now was a show of respect, and perhaps a bit of sympathy for the burdens of truth placed on the boy's scrawny shoulders. His would be the prophet's knowledge, refused or avoided or denied by other mortals; upon him would be heaped the scorn and ridicule, the awe and fear his seerlike propensities would earn for him. He was set apart, and difficult would be his way: to speak the truth and be disbelieved. But Kitty would try to believe him now. Whatever he might prescribe she would, if possible, obey.

As if fully aware of her resolve, the boy, scratching his left calf with the toe of his right shoe, still staring with considerable intent at the mucus he had retrieved from his nose, said, “Your husband sees them. But he's the only other one.”