The Pig Comes to Dinner (24 page)

“You mean blowing up the castle?”

“I mean the whole thing.”

“Well, it's too late now. I'm on page five hundred and eighty-two.”

“It would seem, then, that you don't need advice from anyone.”

“But how do I blow up a castle?”

“That's hardly within my competence,” said Kitty.

“Oh, but I forgot to tell you. You know that part of the story, the same as everyone does: there's gunpowder already planted in the castle.”

Kieran spoke, a slight drawl having come into his voice. “Then that's the way you blow up the castle. With the gunpowder. Simple. End of novel.”

“But no one is sure there's really gunpowder. It's never been found.”

“Then have someone find it,” said Aaron, his impatience becoming more and more evident. Somehow, since his defection from the art of fiction, his interest in the subject had noticeably diminished. “It's a ghost story. The ghosts find it.”

“I thought of that, but—”

“Well,” said Kitty, “keep thinking. You'll come up with something that will amaze us all, I'm sure.”

“You think so?”

Never had Kitty seen her lifelong friend so undecided. A want of certainty was not one of Lolly's prominent characteristics, any more than it had ever been one of Kitty's.

For her, the art of writing was a simple extension of her inborn trust in herself. Her gifts, her skills, were apparent to her without the need of validation. Those unable to see them and appreciate them were blind—and never once did Kitty feel the least bit of sympathy for their inability to discern selfevident truths. (Her usual impulse was to gouge out the vile jelly of their unseeing eyes.)

The one consolation Kitty could summon was that Lolly's lack of self-confidence must be the proof she'd been waiting for, expecting—nay,
demanding—
that poor Lolly, for all of Kitty's love for her, for all her good wishes and thoughts on her friend's behalf, was not a true artist. For Kitty, in the bright lexicon of art, there was no such word as
fear.
Too many risks had to be taken, too many doubts resolved. And
that
was yet one more of Kitty's certainties.

For now, she must devise ways to console her friend's disappointment without revealing the soul-felt glee with which she greeted this calamity so deservedly befallen her niece-inlaw. A way must be found to say the obvious without saying it: Aaron must reclaim his computer. Lolly must accept again the fate for which she had been destined from the beginning of time: to be a simple swineherd. It was decreed by forces beyond anyone's control, and Kitty must help her friend in this acceptance. She—Kitty—would think of ways. Was she or was she not an artist, a creator of startling imagination? How fortunate was Lolly to have so faithful a friend.

Kitty relaxed. She was prepared to say whatever she felt Lolly needed to hear.

But her insincerities were postponed when Kieran said, “To find a way to blow up the castle, the woman is digging in her garden—”

“Not another skeleton!” cried Aaron in great alarm.

“No, not a skeleton,” said Kitty. “That's been done to death—so to speak.”

Kieran ignored the interruption. “The woman is digging, and her spade hits a metal box. Inside—”

Before Kieran could continue, Lolly said, “Sounds awfully contrived. A bit too ‘convenient,' wouldn't you say?”

“All right then,” Kieran said, “an animal—maybe even a pig—a pig digs it up—”

“Who would ever believe that?” Lolly sneered.

“You must
make
them believe it, by believing it yourself.” Kitty pressed her lips together, parting them only so she could say, “And if you can't believe it, don't write it. Do you believe “The Three Little Pigs”? No? Well, I do. Because the writer believed it.”

“Me? I should
believe
what I'm writing?”

“Lolly, either you're a writer or you're not a writer.”

“But I
am
a writer. I'm on page five hundred and eightytwo.”

Kieran charged ahead. “The gunpowder is compacted into the flagstones of the castle's great hall.”

“Oh, I like that.” Lolly looked off to the side as if to see whether or not she should believe what she'd just said.

Kitty licked her lips. “Darling,” she said to Kieran, bringing into use a word absent until now from their connubial vocabulary, “I think we should let Lolly write her own novel. After all, she
is
a writer. And she
is
on page five hundred and eighty-two. As we all know, any writer worthy of the name can figure things out for herself.”

“Is that true?” asked Lolly.

“As true as any word I've ever spoken.” (Not for nothing had Kitty been schooled by Jesuits.)

“I have to do it all myself?” Lolly almost whined the words and drew her head back a little, believing perhaps she could still escape the blow about to fall.

Kitty felt it was now time to be unctuous. “You've heard of the loneliness of the writer. Well, then—” Kitty said no more. She wanted to give herself fully to the absurdity, the sentimentality of what she'd just quoted, the self-pity, the implied dramatization all too evident. If anything, writing was all too crowded, all those characters flinging themselves at her, screaming like pigs, both stuck and unstuck, demanding their deserved portion of the plot Kitty was preparing.

And then there were all those ideas, all those possibilities, each to be sorted out, some to be given more consideration than others, the competition fierce and unyielding, with Kitty the ultimate arbiter. Sooner or later, an infallibility beyond the aspirations of the most misguided pope was imposed, decisions made, judgments of life and death enforced, and, when all was finished, after all the crowding elements had been treated according to their deserts and the last page completed, then the true loneliness would come again. Her close and faithful companion, her book, would leave her. The one colleague who had gone with her everywhere, available for colloquy at any time of day or night— gone. And until she would invite into her imagination yet another clamoring mob, she would be subjected to the bereavements that justly mourned the loss of a true and most intimate friend who had given her the intensified life available only to a writer. Agonizing the writing might have been, despairing, sickening, and conducive to complaint, but
lonely
? Never. Never. Never.

“Well,” said Lolly, “it does get rather lonesome. It's not like always having the pigs about.”

“Ah,” said Kitty. “The sacrifice!”

“You can say that again.”

Kieran, to put the conversation back on track, said, “The gunpowder is in the flagstones. All you have to do is set it off.”

“But how do I do that? And I mean, who sets it off? And how?”

“Kieran,” Kitty said, smiling the smile of one whose patience is nearing its end, “aren't we here to pick up the pig?”

“Right!” Aaron thrust out his arm and pointed first to one pig, then another, no longer sure of his original choice. Lolly, however—Lolly the writer—was not yet prepared to let the priorities of the day reassert themselves. It was too soon for her to abandon her writer's prerogative of monopolizing an entire event and directing it toward whichever subject might, at the time, suit the writer's needs. “I know,” she said, her voice gaining assurance. “I'll have the ghosts set it off. That should be interesting.”

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.