Fat & Bones (3 page)

It was almost showtime.

In another few minutes, the sun would descend low enough to transform the field of wheat into a brilliant golden backdrop, low enough to turn the top rail of the peeling fence into a stage, just low enough to lend a little glamour to the pen.

Apple was the star of the show. She hopped up and down in the corner of her pen, loosening up. She needed to be limber, to be focused. She needed to meet the others' expectations, their hunger to see beauty within their bleak surroundings. She would not let them down.

Not today.

Not ever.

This was her dance.

This was their dance.

In the opposite corner of the pen, deep in the shadows, lay Esmeralda.

Esmeralda did not possess Apple's shiny hide or dexterity. She did not even possess four feet. She had four ankles but only one foot among them. Like the others in the pen, Esmeralda hobbled through the mud, pushing herself to the trough and back again. And like the others, she took loving care of her remaining foot, even decorating it with a bracelet of daisies. The flowers grew on the other side of the fence. She had stuck her snout between the railings to gather them, then wove them together using her teeth and spare ankles. This one remaining foot, garnished with white buds, was her pride and joy.

Of all the pigs in the pen, only sweet, young Apple had four feet.

Four lovely feet.

Four pink, supple, enviable feet.

Esmeralda wanted those feet.

She at least didn't want Apple to have those feet. She wanted so badly for Apple not to have those feet that her mouth had filled with bitterness and her head had begun to ache. It had ached for weeks now.

Lucky for Esmeralda, not only was it nearly showtime—it was nearly dinnertime. And the dead farmer's son would be wanting his pig foot stew.

The musicians and singers began prepping for the performance. Neither troupe had very many members, but they had gathered tonight because they wanted to see Apple dance and because pen life provides limited options for social activities. Generally, what one pig does, the others do too.

The chorus consisted only of baritones. They grunted and cleared their throats, warming up by reciting, “A perfect pig is pink and spry,” until their lips tingled.

The musicians tuned up, harnessing their intestinal gases. Some time ago, when more of them had sported full sets of feet, the pen had boasted a robust percussion section, but those days were gone. They maintained the wind section thanks mostly to the discount slop that sloshed in the trough.

The sun began to sink into the horizon.

The wheat glowed.

The musicians and the singers were ready.

Apple took her place, her body silhouetted against the wheat backdrop.

“This is going to be the best show ever,” said Jeremiah, settling himself on the ground. Until the farmer's wife had taken Jeremiah's two front feet, he had been the best drummer in the pen. He used to bang upon the trough with true ferocity. Now, the music had gone out of him. He used his two back feet, wrapped in ropes of long grass, only to maneuver his way through the mud. But he still loved to watch Apple dance.

“Oh yeah,” said Esmeralda. “The best show ever.”

She lunged out of the shadows and sank into the mud along the railing, nuzzling her bracelet so that the daisies perked up. She peered through the wooden slats toward the farmhouse. So far, nothing.

All in good time, she thought. She smiled.

Jeremiah smiled back. “Such a beautiful evening. And Apple, isn't she a jewel?”

“A real jewel,” said Esmeralda.

“The way she dances, it just, I don't know, it makes me feel—” Jeremiah choked up.

Esmeralda felt she might throw up. “I know,” she said. “Me too.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

The baritones began in unison with a low sustained note.

The winds chimed in, short bursts first, followed by soft breezy tones.

And then, Apple began to dance.

Apple knew how to move.

When she arched her back, she looked as slender as a half-moon. When she kicked up her feet, she softened the hearts of her audience, made them think of when they were just piglets, fully limbed and free from the cares of the pen.

She shimmied and she shook.

She pirouetted and she tapped.

She lifted her nose to the sky, and the sun seemed to balance upon it, to kiss her, to bless her.

Jeremiah sighed.

Those around him sighed.

Esmeralda spat and looked again toward the farmhouse.

Something was happening. The dead farmer's son barreled out the door with an axe in his hand. His face was red and ugly. With enormous strides, he stalked off into the field—toward the fairy's tree, not toward the pen.

Esmeralda almost despaired, but shortly thereafter, the grey-haired mother emerged from the house with an apron tied around her waist, brandishing the meat cleaver in her hand.

The cleaver. At last!

Esmeralda looked up at Apple, twirling on the fence, twirling on those four lovely feet, and she knew that justice was about to be served.

The winds tightened their tummies to emit a dramatic crescendo.

The chorus harmonized, some notes clashing at first, then slurring into balance.

Apple danced on, a vision of beauty bending to the will of the music.

The woman came closer. She had treaded the route to the pen so often she could have walked it in her sleep. The meat cleaver caught the light of the setting sun and sent its glare across the audience.

Someone gasped, “The cleaver!”

Someone else shouted, “Dinnertime! Run!”

The wind section scattered in all directions.

The chorus cut off abruptly, leaving a note to linger in the air.

Old Flossie, whose two feet let her walk only in a circle, spun around and around until Jeremiah escorted her away from the gate.

Only Apple did not notice. She continued to dance, unaccompanied, as the woman swung the gate open.

“Someone must tell Apple,” said Jeremiah, panic on his face.

“You'll never make it in time,” said Esmeralda.

Jeremiah looked at the woman approaching. He looked at Apple. If he were to cross the pen, he would put himself at risk. But Apple! Who else would dance for them? Jeremiah twisted around to look at his feet. Could he afford to lose another?

Jeremiah had the chance to be a hero.

He turned around and fled.

Esmeralda laughed softly, a flash of wickedness in her eyes.

The woman wept and was blinded by her tears. She held out her free hand to feel the way, the cleaver raised in the other hand. She grabbed onto the railing and shoved her feet through the mud. Only a turned corner and a half-length of railing lay between her and Apple.

Esmeralda could scarcely contain her joy. Behind her, the other pigs cowered in the shadows, attempting to hide their ornamented feet. They no longer cared about Apple, no longer cared about the dance.

“Here, piggy-piggy,” said the woman between sobs. “I just need one little footsie. One little footsie is all I need.”

Cowering behind Old Flossie, Jeremiah called out, “Apple! Apple! Look out!”

But Apple was in reverie.

She dipped.

She spun.

Her tail twitched, and her nostrils flared.

“Don't worry,” said Esmeralda. “I'll take care of her.”

“Oh, please do,” Jeremiah said.

Esmeralda lumbered forward while the woman approached Apple from the opposite end of the pen.

“Piggy-piggy, come here, piggy,” said the woman. She turned the corner. Another ten steps and her hand would find Apple.

“Apple,” said Esmeralda softly.

Apple did not hear.

Esmeralda shrugged. What could she do? She had tried. She turned to watch the show—the real show, not Apple's ridiculous tipping and dipping.

This was what she wanted: a nice close-up view. She had been waiting a long time. Already the pain in her head receded.

The woman came closer, extending her legs to secure her footing, her dress drenched in tears.

In her hand, the cleaver whispered, “Blood blood blood, all I want is blood, fresh juicy piggy blood, blood blood blood.”

Esmeralda had heard that whisper three times before. It sent chills through her now.

But Apple did not hear the cleaver. She continued to dance.

From the other pigs, her beloved audience, she received no help at all. They, too, heard the call of the cleaver and felt their remaining feet turn cold.

The woman was just three steps away.

The cleaver called out.

The sun descended.

Two steps.

The sky turned red.

The air cooled.

One step.

A member of the wind section could not contain his fear and released a long high note. Old Flossie whimpered.

Apple pivoted, and the woman's hand crept upon her foot, the fingers circling her tender ankle.

Esmeralda grinned, her heart nearly bursting as the cleaver got ready to do its work on one of those four perfect feet.

“Blood!” shrieked the cleaver.

Apple did not feel the woman's hand upon her foot.

Or if she did, she did not care. She had a higher calling to attend to.

Below her, Esmeralda could not believe her eyes. She could not believe that with a human hand upon Apple's foot and the cleaver calling out, Apple continued to dance. Was she insane? What was the meaning of this?

Indeed, Apple spun in the woman's grasp as if there were no hand upon her at all. She twirled and twirled and twirled, ignoring the spiny white fingers.

The wind stirred up a rhythm of its own, and Apple followed it. She lifted her hands to the sky. She lifted her face to the sky.

And then, somehow, Esmeralda understood.

She understood with all of her small heart. Something bigger prevailed. She didn't know what it was, but it was bigger than her, than Apple, bigger than the whole pigpen. It stretched up into the sky and back down to the earth and wrapped everything in between in what she could only compare to a warm coating of good, black mud.