Pork Page 3

  “Yeah? Who drank the mango juice then?” She glared down at him, hands on her hips.

  “I only had a little yesterday.”

  “So you did lie to me.”

  Another slap.

  “I’m sorry, momma. I'm sorry,” he said as she pulled him by the ear. He grimaced and tears flowed freely down his face.

  “Get out of here, you thieving bastard!” She dragged him out of the kitchen, tossed him out the front door, and clicked the door shut. “Sonofabitch!” he heard her yell from behind the door.

  Steven sat on the doorstep for a minute to wipe the tears and snot off his face. His momma’s stinging smacks rang in his ears and his face felt hot and numb. He knew there was no going back in to get his backpack or to make some sandwiches. Not until she’d had a round of vodka, at least. With no other option left, he walked slowly toward his tree house, his stomach rumbling.

  ***

  Steven was staring at the creek from his balcony when she appeared. She looked the same in her white sleeveless t-shirt and panties, scrawny and pale. She stepped from between the elm trees, eyes on the ground, and crossed the shallow creek. He felt a pang of guilt for not having anything to offer her. She must have been drooling all day, waiting for the sandwiches. He went glumly down the ladder.

  “Hi,” he said. The girl paused and scratched the back of one leg with the other, staring at his red cheeks. His eyes drooped a little and lacked their usual sparkle. “You want to come up?” The girl pulled the corner of her t-shirt with one hand and swayed from foot to foot. Finally, she followed Steven up the ladder and scanned the floor for his backpack, the pencils, erasers, and most importantly, the food containers she’d seen before. Steven’s heart sank.

  “I’m sorry, little girl. I have nothing today. I didn’t even bring my homework,” he said, sitting on a ledge by the door. The girl crouched at his feet, legs folded underneath her. Steven felt uncomfortable and raised his feet up onto the ledge. She stared up at him with her bright blue eyes as his misted. “You must be hungry. I’m sorry,” he said again and dropped his head. The little girl climbed up the ledge, crouched next to him, and watched his face with innocent eyes.

  “My momma got real upset with me today. She called me a thief and threw me out. I didn’t have a chance to grab my backpack or prepare any sandwiches.” When he didn’t say anything else, the girl planted her palms on the ledge and rocked forward to him, shifting her weight to her palms. She looked into his eyes and offered a big, toothy grin. Two of her front teeth were broken and the rest were crooked to some degree. She looked pretty nevertheless.

  Steven smiled at her, and she raised a finger to touch the tip of his nose. He wiggled his nose and they both chuckled. When they had stopped laughing, she traced her finger to the spot where his momma had hit him earlier and stroked it gently. Her touch was light, like a butterfly’s feet, and warm. He placed his palm on her finger, smiling, but she pulled back and settled on her knees again. Steven leaned his back against the wall and stretched his legs out on the ledge.

  “Pork,” the little girl said.

  “What?” Steven asked, his eyes wide, not believing what his ears had just heard.

  “Pork,” she repeated.

  “You like pork?”

  She shook her head and placed a palm on his chest.

  “Steee-ven,” she said, and then removed the hand and placed it on her own chest. “Pork.”

  “Your name is Pork?”

  She nodded, revealing the crooked teeth again. Steven laughed and shook his head.

  “Your parents call you Pork?”

  She nodded again.

  “Why would they call you Pork?”

  She shrugged.

  “How old are you?” The girl rested her small butt on her heels, splayed all her fingers in the air, and folded two.

  “You’re eight?”

  She nodded with a grin.

  “Gosh! You look like you’re about six. Can you read?”

  She shook her head. She’d only said two words thus far, but he was thrilled that she could speak.

  “Can you count?” She shrugged again. “Well, I am fifteen years old. And I go to school at Halstead. Do you go to school?” he asked, and she shook her head. Whether or not she actually understood the question, he wasn’t sure. “Where do you live?” Another shrug. “Do you live in the woods beyond the creek?” He was surprised when she nodded at this. She must have understood him. “There? You live in the woods there?” he asked, pointing a finger to the window. She glanced in the direction of his finger and nodded again. “Wow,” he said, pondering how horrifying it must be to live in such an abysmal place. No wonder she was famished and unkempt.

  He had a thousand more questions ready when she took his hands and spread them away from his body. His heart accelerated and sweat poured through his pores when she laid her back on his chest. Her stomach growled, but she rolled to her side, dragged her knees to her chin, and closed her eyes. Within minutes he heard her snore. Joined by the grumbling of his own stomach, they created an incongruous symphony.

  Chapter 4

  When Steven left for school the next morning, he had made up his mind not to be bothered by the bullies. They could say whatever they wanted and he’d keep walking, his face expressionless. It was unfortunate that the kids were relentless about his momma, but he was not going to carry the load of what she did with him anymore. He was not going to give them the satisfaction.

  Sandy asked to join him for lunch again and he nodded, happy for the company. It was a bit chillier than yesterday so they wore their jackets out. The bench by the science lab got the most sunshine, so they sat on it and opened their lunch boxes.

  “I brought chicken pie today, Stevie. What did you bring?” Sandy asked with a big smile.

  “Oh, I always bring sandwiches.” Bread was the only thing his momma made sure they always had at home.

  “Did your mom make those?”

  “No, I made them myself.”

  “Is it good?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” His mind drifted to Pork and how she had devoured the sandwiches within minutes. “Do you want to try it?” Steven said, pushing the container toward Sandy.

  She shook her head and smiled again. “What do you do after school?”

  Steven took a bite of his sandwich and thought about the exciting new addition to his life. Pork. He smiled as he thought of the unusual name. “Well, I prepare dinner and then finish my homework. Sometimes I play guitar.” He shrugged, having decided against telling Sandy about Pork or the tree house.

  “You have a guitar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “It’s… it’s something I got some time ago,” he said.

  “Can you play songs?”

  “I play some stuff, yeah.” He shrugged again.

  “Can I hear you play sometime?”

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe one day you could come over and I’ll play for you,” he said and she smiled, her cheeks turning red.

  “Here, why don’t you have this milk,” she said, handing him her carton of strawberry milk. “I noticed you didn’t bring milk or fruit. So you can have my milk and I’ll have the apple. I don’t really like milk.” She smiled again.

  ***

  At the tree house that afternoon, Steven pulled a long wooden chest by its iron handle from under one of the ledges and opened the heavy lid. His guitar was in a black case on top of a pile of other stuff in the chest. He hadn’t played it for a while since he’d been busy with homework. Maybe now, with Pork around, he could spend some time playing it after his homework was done. She might enjoy it.

  He took it to a corner of the house, leaned against the red cedar planks, and strummed. The guitar was a little too big for his petite frame, but once he had it balanced on his lap, the sounds of “Smoke on the Water” filled the woods. He had just learned to play this tune he’d heard so often while washing cars at Bob’s. It wasn’t pe
rfect and he was still missing a chord here and there, but he was convinced it’d be perfect with a little more practice. Steven was trying to get the third line of the verse right when Pork’s face appeared in the doorway. She was in the familiar white t-shirt, biting a fingernail and smiling shyly.

  “Did you like the music, Pork?”

  She nodded and smiled again.

  “Thanks. Sorry I didn’t come down. I didn’t realize how much time had passed,” he said, glancing at the old Citizen clock on the wall. It was one of the few pieces of junk from the tree house he had decided to keep. A fresh set of batteries kept it ticking. It had been almost an hour since he’d arrived and the big wooden chest was still where he had left it, its lid pushed into a corner, the guitar case on top of it. He rose and placed the empty case in the chest, pulled the lid closed, and pushed the chest back under the ledge. Pork stood watching him from the doorway, tugging at a corner of her t-shirt, her belly sticking out in a curve.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  Pork nodded.

  “Come on and sit down then,” he said, retrieving two containers from his backpack.

  Pork brushed away a lock of curly hair stringing on her forehead and crouched in front of him, tucking her legs underneath her. She brushed off the errant hair again before taking the container from Steven’s hands. He had made egg sandwiches today to avoid his momma going berserk over an empty peanut butter jar. Pork clicked open the container and picked up a sandwich. She peeled the two slices of bread and peered at what was inside before pressing them together again and taking a bite. If she didn’t like egg salad, she didn’t show it.

  Pork had finished the first piece when she leaned against the wall and pointed at his guitar case.

  “Guitar? You want me to play the guitar?” he asked, watching her face.

  She nodded and reached for another sandwich from the container perched on her bare thighs.

  “Play,” she said.

  “So you like Deep Purple,” Steven said, not really expecting an answer, but she nodded while biting into the second sandwich. He smiled before adding, “Me too. I’ll play some more after we eat, okay?”

  When Pork and Steven had finished half the water in the bottles and their bellies were full, they belched in unison and laughed out loud. Pork exposed all her teeth and her eyes almost closed when she grinned. Steven picked up the guitar while Pork climbed up the ledge and dangled her legs below, her eyes fixed on his face.

  Steven trained his eyes on the guitar and began to strum the tune he had been practicing when Pork arrived. He missed the same chord a few times before he got it right. Pork was smiling and swaying, thoroughly enjoying the music, when Steven looked up. When she got tired, she lay on the ledge and fiddled with her fingers, her foot tapping the ledge. For the first time, Steven felt like someone was not only enjoying his company, but also his music. After he struck the last note, he looked at her and smiled. She stopped waving at the ceiling and sat upright in the silence.

  “Pork like,” she said, one foot tucked under her. The first real sentence she’d spoken.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Do you want to try and play it?”

  She shook her head no.

  “How Steee-ven get gee-taar?” she asked, pointing at his guitar.

  Steven smiled. “I bought it. I saved for two years washing cars at Bob’s Garage, and when I finally had enough money, I bought this from Uncle Bob’s nephew Charlie.” Steven stroked his guitar lovingly and continued, “My momma doesn’t believe I bought it with my own money. She thinks I stole the groceries from her kitchen and sold them to buy it. But I didn’t.”

  “Why Steee-ven buy gee-taar?”

  Steven set the guitar aside and crossed his ankles on the floor.

  “When I was a kid, Aunt Therese lived at the edge of town, about fifteen minutes from here. I used to go to her house after school to watch TV if momma was sick, which was almost always. I liked it there. Momma had no TV, and Aunt Therese would cook. ‘It’s a miracle your momma’s got a fridge, Stevie,’ she would say when I asked her why momma never got a TV.”

  “Ant Threes?” Pork asked, her face contorted.

  “Aunt Therese. She was my momma’s younger sister. She never married and was a very big woman in her forties when she died of heart attack. Momma said she never married because she was too heavy and men don’t like heavy women. They preferred slim, feminine women like herself, she said. I don’t know, but Aunt Therese had a layer of moustache above her lip and I thought it was the funniest thing.” Steven chuckled briefly and Pork giggled too, her fingers cupped over her mouth. “But she was kinder than momma. And the TV she had, it was awesome, showing cartoons and games all day. My favorite TV show was Roadies Live. It was about a band of five rock stars living in a trailer, traveling across the country, performing for money. The guitarist was a guy called Chuck Abraham and he made the most insane music with his guitar. I thought it was just amazing, so I wanted one.” He shrugged. “So I started washing cars at Bob’s Garage and finally, last year, I had enough money to buy this.” Steven beamed at the guitar next to him.

  Pork was listening with her elbows on her knees, hands under her chin. Her eyes were wide and clear. Clad in her panties and threadbare t-shirt, Steven thought she looked awfully cute.

  “Do you have a momma, Pork?”

  She shook her head.

  “How about a pa?”

  Pork scratched her nose and hopped off the ledge. She walked to the window and stared into the woods.

  “Do you have a pa?” he tried again.

  She cocked her head, watching the woods beyond the creek. After one long minute, she nodded.

  “What does he do?” She shrugged. “Do you have any brothers? Sisters? Relatives?”

  Pork shook her head.

  “My momma works two jobs. At night she works as a waitress at Bildey’s. It’s a bar. Do you know it?”

  She shrugged again.

  Steven got up and stood next to Pork, looking out the window. Elm branches swayed in the wind and cherry blossoms swirled to the ground, creating an unreal pink carpet. “Do you know something? I’ve never crossed that creek or been in the woods,” Steven said as Pork stared at his face. “I don’t like the woods. It’s too dark and cold.”

  Pork nodded. She stared at the clearing below, squinting her eyes, and suddenly bolted for the ladder. Steven followed her down, calling out her name.

  “Hey, Pork! Where are you going?”

  Pork didn’t stop until she was almost halfway across the clearing. She crouched on the ground while Steven scanned the woods cautiously. He had always feared something evil was lurking in there. Sometimes he felt like his momma’s spy might be there, watching his every move. Where better for a spy to hide than in the woods? Pushing the thought away for the moment, he looked down at Pork, who was clasping a sparrow in her hand.

  “Is it dead?” he asked.

  Pork turned around and shook her head. “Tweet, tweet,” Pork said and Steven stepped closer to inspect the bird.

  “Oh, no. Someone’s clipped the wing. Can you see that?” Steven knelt beside her, pointing at its wing. “If it isn’t able to fly, it might be starving.”

  Pork thought about this for a second and nodded.

  “Pork dig worm,” she said. She left the bird under a shady tree and went digging by the stream while Steven looked for twigs and dried leaves. Fifteen minutes later, Pork returned, cupping a wide maple leaf. Squirming inside was a tangle of caterpillars and earthworms. The hair on the back of Steven’s neck stood up when she casually stroked a caterpillar with her muddy finger.

  When she looked up, Steven was twisting around a messy mix of twigs and dried leaves “What that?” she asked.

  “It’s a nest. For the bird. Until she can fly again,” he said.

  Pork smiled and the crease on her forehead disappeared. Steven pressed the middle of the nest with dried leaves to make a groove for the bird to rest. He retrieved the bird f
rom its place in the shade and laid it gently in the groove. It chirped. Pork crouched beside him, picked up a caterpillar, and dangled it for the bird to catch with its beak. But instead, it cocked its head and looked up at Pork.

  “Eat,” she said, swinging the wriggling caterpillar.

  The bird pecked it a few times before pulling it from Pork’s fingers. She let it go and watched the bird eat. A few earthworms later, the bird no longer seemed interested. Pork swung another worm in front of the bird a few times, and when it turned its face away, Pork placed the worm back on the maple leaf with the rest of the uneaten critters. She lifted the leaf with both hands, rose, and headed for the creek. When she was ankle deep in water, she crouched and dipped the leaf in. The slow current rolled the worms away while Pork watched. She scraped the mud off her fingers in the water before leaping across the creek toward the clearing.

  “We have to give it a name,” Steven said when she got back.

  “Mildred,” she said.

  “Mildred?” Steven repeated with a laugh.

  Pork smiled shyly, tugging the corner of her t-shirt, chewing on a fingernail.

  “Okay, Pork. Mildred it is.” He looked at the bird and said, “Hello, Mildred.” The bird chirped before nestling in comfortably. Pork grinned. “Do you want to take Mildred home?” Steven asked.

  Pork shook her head and looked out into the woods.

  “Mildred stay here,” she said.

  “Okay, but we have to feed her every day. I don’t like worms, so you’ll have to come every day to feed her, alright?”

  Pork nodded.

  ***

  When Steven went home that evening, he was excited by the growing number of occupants in his tree house. Of course Pork didn’t really live there, but then again, neither did he. But it was a place where he, Pork, and now Mildred had found sanctuary. Steven’s heart sang as he remembered that Pork had promised to come by every day to feed Mildred. As long as the bird was unable to fly, Pork would keep coming back, and Steven would have a friend to talk to.

  He was thinking of making an egg sandwich for supper when from the street, he saw his momma’s front door ajar. Steven’s palms turned moist and his breathing quickened. Had someone broken in? Maybe his momma had forgotten to close the door before going to work and a thief was lurking in there.