The Pig Comes to Dinner (23 page)

By employing negotiating skills uncommon among those experiencing a two-as-one existence, a decision was reached, as regards the pig. During the exchange, each had had the instinctive wisdom to become cool when the other became heated, heated when the other became cool. Also, two competing methods of logic were brought into play, but each with enough flaws and inconsistencies to allow for eventual compromise.

Kitty's first argument had been delivered with some intensity, since its basis was an accusation of ingratitude on Kieran's part: if it weren't for the pig and its unearthing of the skeleton of Declan Tovey in the garden of Kitty's seaclaimed house, she and her husband would never have been lured into the shenanigans that had led to a mutual dismissal of the ancient enmity between the McClouds and the Sweeneys—which, in turn, had allowed the eruption of a long-gathering passion, her for him, him for her, culminating in their marriage.

To occupy themselves during this exchange in the scullery, Kieran had been dicing homegrown green peppers while Kitty sliced onions for the meatloaf she had asked Kieran to make in place of the tarragon chicken with chili and tomato fondue. It would be from the recipe she had brought back from the Bronx. As they went about their arguments, it was lost on neither of them that each was wielding a well-honed knife.

Along with the meatloaf, Kitty had also requested mashed potatoes and peas, also homegrown. The apples for apple brown betty—for which she'd also pleaded—were from their orchard, which, to their surprise, had flourished and presented them with a bountiful yield. Each was chosen by Kitty's own eye and picked by Kitty's own hand.

That his wife wanted an all-American dinner was easily understood by Kieran. It happened from time to time, an exercise in nostalgia on Kitty's part in tribute to her days at Fordham, when her somewhat intense nationalism was nurtured, if not born, out of simple homesickness for the cliffs and stones of Kerry. Previous to her American sojourn, she had paid little or no attention to her homeland's history beyond an easy subscription to a sense of victimhood whenever she felt herself in need of some pretext for an unfocused wrath that lurked just beneath the surface of her psyche—a wrath that required an airing from time to time, projected during her childhood toward her brothers or her father, her ungainly body, a recalcitrant fire in the fireplace, her hair, her teachers, and boys. The pride of place, of course, had been awarded to Kieran Sweeney, the devil's spawn, the earth's first scourge—and the complete embodiment of all she had ever wanted in a man.

But like so many Irish exiled to American shores, even temporarily, she quickly assumed an Irish nationalism informed by the past perfidies of the English, always available but, until then, in the Bronx, not really nourished to the point of the justifiable wrath she would take with her, along with her B.A. degree (having majored in moral theology), back to Kerry, where there awaited her all the previous instigations to outrage. One exception was the ungainly body, which had now shaped itself into a perfection even Kitty herself had to admit was quite stunning. There still remained, however, her sense of injustices long since inflicted. That most had been remedied during the intervening years did nothing to suggest that she might exorcise these persisting demons from her well-satisfied psyche. Her scalp still tightened with a determined righteousness. Was she or was she not Caitlin Kitty McCloud?

Owning a castle in County Kerry did little to assuage her wrath or lessen her sense of superiority. Losing a castle in County Kerry did much to pitch both wrath and exaltation to an even higher intensity, especially since the past, in the guise of ghosts, had come to dwell not only in her home but, in the case of Taddy, in her heart. And the intrusion of his lordship must be credited with this current instigation to mayhem and to murder.

Her American adventure, with its attendant enticement to patriotism, was inspired as much by the absence of home as by the provable facts that spilled out of any book devoted to the history of the ravaged land to which she had been born. Long had she yearned for a pretext—here called conversion—for mayhem. Long had she awaited a justification for murder. Now both were there for the taking, a consummation perfidiously to be wished.

The onion had brought tears to Kitty's eyes. She ignored them so as not to disrupt her brief on the resident pig's behalf. Since Kieran had offered no rebuttal to his wife's first argument, she continued on to the next. “And didn't it find the gunpowder for us? When the cow put its hoofs right on it, didn't it screech so you could bring the chest to the light of day, and didn't it dig that hole in the first place?”

“I'm not so sure,” Kieran said, almost dicing the tip of his thumb into the mound of cut peppers. “I'm not so sure it did us any favors, thank you very much. Except now we can warn Mr. Shaftoe before he puts fireplaces in the great hall and sends with a single spark the whole household over into County Cavan.”

“We'll tell Mr. Shaftoe nothing. He can take his chances the same as we did. Except there'll be no castle for him to take his chances in.”

“We are not going to blow up the castle.”

“
I
am going to blow up the castle.”

“
You
are not going to blow up anything. Nor is anyone else.”

“Then I'm supposed to hand it over to his Lordship without a fight.”

“There's been a fight, and it's over. It was fought in the courts, and you lost.”

“I only lost a battle, not the—”

“Not only is the castle not going to be blown up, but the gunpowder is going to be removed and destroyed.”

“And let Taddy and Brid hang there and nothing be done about it.”

“Taddy and Brid are not hanging. Their ghosts are hanging.”

“Their ghosts are part of them. They're hanging.”

“Ghosts have no body. You can't feel without a body.”

“They feel.”

“They don't.”

“How do you know?”

“It's common sense.”

“We're talking about ghosts—and you mention ‘common sense'? God have mercy!” Kitty cried.

“And what makes you so sure blowing up the joint will do whatever it is they want? Whatever it is they need?”

“Peter McCloskey told me.”

“A boy of what—nine?”

“Seven. But he knows. And he told me.”

“And you believe what a seven-year-old tells you?”

“Peter's different. You know that.”

“Everybody's different.”

“Lord Shaftoe will never live in this castle.”

“Then blow up Lord Shaftoe, why don't you?”

“All right, then, I will. Along with the castle. Both at the same time.”

“I give up.”

“Good.”

“The castle is not—Oh, never mind. And you're chopping the onions too fine.”

“I was distracted.”

Kieran scraped the knife blade along the chopping block, drawing into the bowl the onion and green peppers. Kitty, with the knuckle of her forefinger, wiped the tears from her eyes. Kieran began adding the other ingredients to the mix, following the Bronx recipe; the ground beef, the eggs, a bit of milk, the Dijon mustard. Kitty started chopping the parsley. The tears returned. Again she wiped them away with her knuckle, careful not to slit her eye with the knife still held in her hand. And again the tears came. And her nose began to run. She sniffed. Then she sniffed again.

“I can't blow up the castle,” she said.

Kieran stopped grinding the peppercorns but said nothing.

“How can I do that? Look around. The stones. The walls. The turret. The gallery. The stair, winding. The battlements where you look out toward the sea—”

Kieran handed her a paper towel. She blew her nose, then handed the towel back. Kieran let it drop to the floor. “Those who built it,” Kitty said, “How can I—”

Kieran handed her another paper towel. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

She let the towel drop to the floor. “Stone on stone. Each lifted, one on the other. On someone's back, held up by someone's hands. Down to the foundations deep in the—Look at the ceiling. The beams. A giant must have put them there. The labor. The sweat. The weariness, the exhaustion. The pain, the aches, the broken bones. The maimings. And still the stones, one on the other.” She reached over and touched the wall next to the stove. “A man put this here. Who was he? What was his name? Cold in the night. The heat of the day. Rain. Mist. Wet. The hard earth. Stone upon stone—stone upon—”

Kitty herself ripped a towel away from the roll on the other side of the table. She blew her nose and started toward her eyes, hesitated, then wiped away her tears with the crumpled paper. Again she let it fall to the floor. She sniffed. “The castle was here long before any Shaftoe. And it will stand long after all the Shaftoes in all the history of all the world will have come and gone. Have no fear. Never will any harm come to this place. And Taddy and Brid, they must stay if that's what's been decreed. We can pray. And there's nothing more we can do.”

She set down the knife and, with both her fists, dug deep into her eyes and rubbed the remaining tears into her flesh, through to the brain if she could. When she'd finished she turned away so her husband wouldn't see her bloated face. She considered gathering up the crumpled towels but thought the hell with it. She turned back toward Kieran. He was her husband and he had a right to see her red and puffy. “What can I do next? Any more chopping? I'm still in the mood.”

Kieran pushed the bowl across the table. “Everything's there. Are your hands clean?”

Kitty held up her hands. Kieran regarded them for a moment. “Squoosh it all together then. Next you can start on the apples. I have to go for the cows.”

“We'll do without the apple brown betty I was going to make for dessert,” Kitty said quietly. “I'll go with you for the cows.”

Kieran nodded. He waited a moment. “Brid will miss them after we take them to my brother's.”

Kitty considered this, then she, too, nodded. “And Taddy the pig, all eaten up and gone for good.”

Kieran examined the wall to his right, taking particular care to scrutinize the rough surface of the stone slightly above his own height. “The pig will come with us. We'll eat another. If Taddy wants, he can come visit from time to time. If it's allowed.”

Kitty gave this some thought. “And Brid to see the cows.” Now both gave this their consideration, neither sure exactly what his or her preference might be.

Two of the three pigs in the isolated pen searched with their snouts for some small morsel that might mitigate their removal from the general herd. The third simply stood. Aaron, Kitty, and Kieran made their observations from the other side of the fence, the better to regard the animals with an eye for their succulence rather than whatever other endearing qualities a pig might possess. Since each resembled an enormous sausage stuffed inside a skin close to bursting, the choice was not easy.

“I think that one.” Kitty pointed to the one not searching for still more food.

“What about over there?” Kieran's election fell upon one of the snufflers that had now raised its head and pinned back its ears.

Then it was Aaron's turn. For the sake of consistency, he chose the one remaining, possibly so as not to hurt its feelings. “Look at that one's hams” was the best he could do to state his case—a case not supported by any overwhelming bit of evidence: each pig had enviable hams.

All three continued to observe his or her own preference, ignoring the other animals, thinking only of ways to substantiate a claim they were not yet ready to renounce. To complete the impending stalemate it needed only the intrusion of a mischievous god to toss an overripe apple into the pen addressed to “the tastiest.”

Lolly came onto the scene, having abandoned her metaphor to offer an opinion. She pushed the sleeves of the black cotton turtleneck above her elbows. (As a writer she now wore black almost exclusively.)

“Are these the first rejects? Someone has a pretty good eye. Let's go take a look at what the possibilities still are.”

“These,” said Kitty, “are the chosen ones. We're about to make the final selection.”

“Oh.”

“They look pretty good to me.” Aaron made slits of his eyes, demonstrating his method of scrutiny.

“They're all pigs,” Kitty said. She pointed again at her preference. “Why don't we just take that one and forget the rest?”

Lolly, the writer, without reference to the subject at hand, directed the conversation to more crucial matters. “I need your help,” she said to Kitty. “No, not your help. Just your advice. I didn't want to tell you until I'd finished, but my novel is about this couple—he's very handsome, she's a real knockout—and they marry and—can you believe this?—they move into this castle.”

Kitty stiffened. Kieran relaxed every muscle in his face, the better to lower his head and look directly at Lolly. “And to make it interesting, the castle has ghosts—I guess you can tell where I got that idea from—the way everyone always said the castle there had these ghosts.” She smiled nervously, her cheeks twitching slightly. “Write what you know. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? Anyway, what has to be done to—and I really like this part—what has to be done to get rid of the ghosts and lift the curse from the castle is to blow it up. How's that for a surprise bit of plotting?”

Now Kitty, too, relaxed her face and cast a gaze of determined indifference at her friend. “How can you say you lifted a curse from a castle that no longer exists?”

“But it does exist. Until it blows up. And when it does, well, the curse is ended. The ghosts will be gone. And they'll stop terrorizing the neighborhood. And blowing up a castle will make a good ending, don't you think?”

“I don't know,” said Kitty. “Sounds a bit far-fetched to me.”