The Pigman's Legacy (The Sequel to The Pigman) (4 page)

“Doing what right?” the old guy shouted, jumping to attention.

I dropped his hand as though it had just turned into a rattlesnake.

“We were only checking your pulse,” Lorraine explained quickly.

“Checking my pulse?” the old man asked. “What—are you
nuts?
”

“We're sorry, sir,” I offered as politely as I could.

“Well you should be,” the old man said. “Barging in here when I'm resting. Trying to pick my pockets when I'm snoozing. I'll teach you!”

The old guy grabbed on to the arms of the chair and pushed himself up into a standing position. He reached over toward the bed and grabbed a wooden stick and started waving it at us. That's when Lorraine and I decided that retreat was the better part of valor. I mean, we didn't know what that old guy was really like then. And besides, he might have had a big sword tucked into the cane; or maybe he had a gun under a pillow. You never know what some of these old people will do. But what was even more likely was that if we let him chase after us, maybe he would really have gotten a stroke. And there was nothing in the world Lorraine and I would have wanted less than to have another old guy croak on us.

Lorraine and I ran out of the room, practically leaped over the banister onto the stairs, and did double time all the way to the bottom floor. As we headed out the front door we heard the old guy's voice behind us, louder than he had managed to speak before.

“Don't you take anything down
there
either, you crooks!”

“Farewell, old house,” I sadly mumbled as we ran out to the dilapidated porch and didn't stop before we hit the street. For some reason Lorraine was crying by that time. And we made a sharp right to leave the joint behind us.

“He'll never forgive us, John. Never.”

“Who cares?” I said. “He's a bum!”

“I don't mean
him
.” Lorraine glared. “I mean the Pigman.”

When she said that, I had an awful feeling come over me. I stopped and turned and looked back toward the house. Up at the window at the old guy standing there. His beady little eyes beaming down at us as if they were emitting death rays.

“It's the Pigman,” Lorraine said. “That man is the Pigman
reincarnated
.”

“He doesn't look like the Pigman. He looks like a
grouch
,” I said.

“We're lucky he didn't come back as a hatchet murderer.”

I took Lorraine's hand and we started off again fast down the street. Soon a cluster of tall evergreens hid the house so I didn't have to worry about those little antique eyes zeroing in on my back. We kept up a fast pace and only slowed when we passed Woodland Cemetery. Farther on down we simply walked at a normal pace, but without saying a word to each other. I knew Lorraine didn't really mean that the Pigman had been reincarnated, but who's to say? Nobody knows what happens after you die. Even that old evangelist I read about once who got buried with a telephone never made any calls. I often wonder who paid the phone bill, and how long they left it connected. Can you imagine having a phone put in your coffin? Do they give you a night light or what? And after they decide that you're really dead and aren't going to phone much, I wonder if any telephone man comes to pick up the equipment.

“I'm going home,” I finally told Lorraine, breaking our strange, depressing silence. I usually don't ever admit that I have real emotion when I talk about myself, or write about things I do, but I must admit that there was some change going on inside of me. There was something bothering me. New feelings were beginning to take over, and I found it harder to tell a joke or be funny. I think maybe for the first time I was beginning to realize the story of John Conlan was the story of a boy who couldn't admit what he really felt inside, and told jokes instead.

“I'm going home,” I repeated. I took one look at Lorraine and knew she understood that I had to be alone. We walked up the last part of the hill together, and Lorraine was biting her lip the whole way. I knew that it was a signal that she too had something on her mind, but I didn't feel as though I could bear hearing it. For some reason I just gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and said, “So long.”

“See you,” Lorraine said, heading for her house, looking as sad as I felt.

I went home and somehow made it through dinner without the Old Lady or Bore asking much more than if the downer expression on my face was because I'd failed a chemistry test or something. I told them I was depressed because I had seen a hit-and-run driver knock off a squirrel, but I don't think they believed me. Right after the eleven-o'clock news the phone rang, and I knew who it had to be.

“John, this is Lorraine.” The voice came out of the receiver.

“What's up?”

“Well, I've been thinking about that old man,” she started off. “I've come to the conclusion that his whole cranky attitude is just a defense mechanism.”

“Who cares?” I said bluntly. Though somewhere deep inside me I knew that I really
did
care. I cared about the look of genuine fear on the old bum's face when he thought we were from the Internal Revenue Service. There was something very terrible that anyone that old would have to look that frightened in our society, although I didn't know why a bum would fear the IRS.

“In this magazine,” Lorraine went on, “it says that elderly people sometimes only
look
cantankerous on the surface just so people won't like them. But they really
do
want people to like them. They're just afraid they're not going to be accepted, and being mean is a sign they're pleading for love.”

“Maybe the geezer just doesn't like kids.”

“You're just projecting,” Lorraine corrected me. “You think nobody likes kids.”

Somehow the truth of what was gnawing at me came slowly through. “Lorraine, you know as well as I do, that old man was planted there by Fate, just to punish us. He's a reminder of all the things we've done wrong. That's what he is.”

“We didn't do anything wrong,” Lorraine protested.

“I don't think that you or I believe that,” I told her. “We never talk about it, but we should. Seeing that old bum in that house has made me feel sick to my stomach all night.”

“That's just your guilt.”

“Ha,” I laughed. “Either that or the Old Lady's pork chops. And if you're not freaked out, then what are you calling me at this hour for?”

“John,” Lorraine said solemnly. “
We have to go back there
.”

“Oh
no
we don't.”

“Please,” Lorraine purred. “Please! I feel something is wrong. There must be some reason that old man picked out that house to hole up in. I don't know how to say it, but I think we're being given another chance. I think dead people work it that way. People die on you and then they send out vibes that give you another chance to make things better. I feel we're being given that chance.”

Well, just let me say here and now that when Lorraine Jensen purrs at you and says “please” more than once, you know you've been purred at. I know from experience it's just easier to say, “Okay, Lorraine, whatever you say,” even though I know at the end of whatever terrible thing happens, she'll end up blaming me for the whole thing.

The next day was Saturday. We had no school and were able to meet good and early at the corner of Eddy Street and Victory Boulevard. This time I wasn't so careful about what I was smoking, and Lorraine could tell right off it wasn't a spinach special.

“John, you promised to smoke the vegetable brand.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “It's just too early to smoke spinach. If this was a good filter-tipped broccoli, maybe I could take it.” Lorraine just gave me an infuriated look, and we started walking. The one thing I was not about to admit to her was that deep in my heart of hearts, I wanted to go back to that house as much as she did. I had thought about it all night. There was something strange about that old guy, the way he thought we'd been sent to check up on him. Maybe I had been upset because I'd gotten too sentimental. He was probably nothing more than an old convict who had broken out of some jail someplace and mentioned the IRS to fake us out. He looked like one of the old aunts out of
Arsenic and Old Lace
. And I remembered those sweet old ladies used to run around giving arsenic to save people from the loneliness of life and then bury them in their cellar. But no matter what, I couldn't very well let Lorraine go over there by herself. It could be dangerous. He could be the most wanted senior citizen in the country. And who knew, maybe there was a reward. And if there was a reward, I knew Lorraine would want to split it with me.

“I think we should bring something with us,” Lorraine instructed.

“How about a war-surplus can of knockout gas?” I suggested.

“John, I'm not kidding. I mean a present. Something to eat maybe.” We ended up going to the nearest place, which was a dumpy drugstore that carried a line of Fanny Farmer candy at the intersection of Clove and Victory. The place was filled with the aroma of fudge near the candy counter. And a sour-looking saleslady came hot on our trail as though we were about to pick up a few things with five-finger discount.

“Can I help you?” she demanded more than asked.

“We'd like a pound of marble pecan fudge,” Lorraine said. “And I hope it's fresh.”

“Of course it is,” the woman snapped, causing her hair to wiggle like an inverted mold of lemon Jell-O.

“Can we have a free sample of anything?” I inquired. “If it's good, maybe we'll buy that too.”

“What are you, crazy?” the saleslady asked.

“Yes, I am,” I told her. “Actually I'm the famous Grymes Hill Strangler just escaped from Bellevue.”

The saleslady just snorted and didn't say another word. Not even “good-bye.” I made a few grunts as I went out the door, and spun around a couple of times. That lady looked so mean she must have been raised on marble cake, brick ice cream, and rock candy.

By ten thirty we made it up to the house on Howard Avenue and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, but that didn't come as a surprise, knowing that the old guy might be in a stupor. Lorraine thought maybe he was sleeping, and I suggested we'd better look around first. We ended up going around the side of the house stepping over a herd of wild snails and checked out a few of the windows. Near the back of the house we found the kitchen window, and could see the old guy sitting at a table with a glass of acidophilus milk in front of him. He seemed completely absorbed in misery, and so thin I couldn't help patting Lorraine on the back and telling her that the fudge was just the thing to bring him. It was obvious that he had no real food.

Right then something furry ran over my feet, and I screamed, and when I screamed Lorraine screamed, and then we saw it was only a black cat. The old guy's head jerked around, and he started to get up. There was no time to think about an alternate plan of action, so we charged straight for the front porch. This time we scared the cat so much it shrieked as though it had just been sold to a Hong Kong Chinese restaurant. When we finally got our breathing under control, we advanced toward the front door and knocked. There was still no response.

“Perhaps he went for a cat nap,” Lorraine whispered.

“Or to load a rifle,” I suggested. I began to change my mind about the whole thing. “I think we should get out of here completely,” I said, and I could see by the expression on Lorraine's face she was in no position to argue. I could hear her heart tap-dancing on the buttons on her sweater. As we turned to gracefully exit, a
creak
shot through the air. We whirled around and saw that the old guy had opened the front door. He had his beady little eyes fixed on us.

“I was waiting for you to come back,” he growled.

six

I looked at John, waiting for him to offer an explanation to the old man, but the expression on his face simply told me he was feeling sick again. He was probably having another rush of guilt about denying the fact that this old man was in trouble. He kept trying to say that the old guy was some kind of Jack the Ripper or something, but that was just avoiding the fact that he was an old man who needed us. “
Look beyond the words
,” I kept telling him. “
Look beyond his words
.”

“I could have you both arrested for trespassing,” the old man grumbled.

“We didn't mean to scare you,” I said.

“No.” John finally spoke up. “We were just checking out things because we thought something might be wrong when you didn't answer the door.”

The old guy stood there staring. I noticed a brief twinkle in his eye. It was almost as if he was laughing at us, but that look faded.

“We brought you some fudge,” I said, coming forward and offering the gift.

“What kind?” he snapped.

“Marble pecan, sir,” John announced.

“Marble pecan?” the old man repeated slowly, almost taking each syllable apart. The twinkle in his eyes returned again. It was unmistakable this time. He started to smile and then stopped as if he were guarding himself with every word. “Well, I don't want your food. You young kids like to drug all us old people and then look through our shoe boxes for money.”

“No, we don't,” I said sincerely.

“Well, you can just get lost, because I'am a busted old man and I don't accept favors from strangers, especially kids. Wait till you're thirty before you come around to see me again,” the old guy snarled. He started to close the door. Neither John nor I did anything to stop him because we were so shocked by what the man had said. I felt terrible, because I knew that he must have been hurt a lot during his life. Once my mother and I lived near an old lady who smiled all the time and was nice to everyone, like I'm sure this old man must have been one day. Then this old lady's cat was poisoned one Christmas and she hardly ever came outside after that. Whenever I would play on my pogo stick outside her house, she'd open the window and shout that I was making too much noise. She used to make me cry because I'd never done anything wrong to her. The woman just never got over the murder of her cat, and I wanted to be able to say something to her but never could. And that's how I felt now. I think that's how John felt too, because he came closer to me and put his arm around my shoulder. Somehow when John touched me I felt again the kiss he had given me the night before—the kiss that reminded me of one of the most important things I've ever read in psychology, and that is that a person is what he does, not what he says.