Pork Read online

  He approached the front door cautiously and swallowed hard before peering inside. Steven froze when he saw his momma lying on the couch, swigging from a bottle of vodka, the neon purple polish on her nails chipped and flaking. She was wearing only a pair of green panties and beige bra. One strap had slid off her shoulder.

  “Momma?” he said cautiously as he stepped in. It could not be good for his momma to be home at this time and in this condition.

  “It’s about time you came home, boy,” she said with glazed eyes and her lips moist with vodka. Steven dropped his gaze to the frayed carpet and walked quietly to his bedroom. “Don’t you wanna say hi to your momma?” She grinned with fake graciousness as she sat up.

  Steven stopped in his tracks and lifted his eyes to his momma’s. “Hi. Aren’t you working tonight?”

  She looked at the vodka bottle still in her hands and let out a chuckle. “It’d suit you if I wasn’t home, wouldn’t it, Stevie?” There was a sad look in her eyes and he wondered if she was in pain.

  “No. I like it when you’re home,” he said to the carpet.

  She placed the bottle by her bare feet and lowered her head into her hands. The other bra strap slid down while Steven waited, watching for signs of sobbing. There were none. It wasn’t easy, guessing his momma’s state of mind. He bit his lip and glanced at his bedroom.

  When she finally looked up after a few minutes, her eyes were droopy but dry.

  “Would you like something to eat? I can make us some sandwiches and we can eat together,” he said cautiously.

  Steven’s momma had never asked him to cook for her and he had never wanted to. He had never impressed her in any way before, and there was no way he’d impress her with his cooking. Especially if it was just a sandwich. Besides, ever since Pa left, his momma preferred to drown herself with a vodka diet, sparing him the trouble. So he had stayed away from her dinner arrangements. When he asked his momma if he could make her a sandwich, it had been on impulse—to fill the uncomfortable void between them. He expected her to scoff and issue a trite command to go to his bedroom. And that would be the end of it. But to his surprise, she smiled. Like she used to smile a long time ago. A moment later, she nodded.

  A little surprised, Steven dropped his bag in his room and ran into the kitchen. There was still some chicken breast left in the freezer. He pulled it out and placed it on the counter where a perennial loaf of bread sat waiting. He tried to remember when she had last smiled at him like that and nothing came to mind. For the first time, she seemed to be in a good enough mood to humor him. And that made Steven all the more determined to make the best sandwich he had ever made.

  He went back to the fridge and removed a jar of mayonnaise, some butter, and the remaining mango juice. His momma must have gone shopping, since there was some lettuce and oranges. He thought of frying eggs but decided it might be overkill. Cradling everything in his arms, he walked awkwardly to the counter, trying to keep the butter from falling.

  The piece of chicken breast from the freezer was far from thawed, so he sliced it as thinly as possible and tossed it into a boiling pot of water. When the strips were cooked, he removed them from the water, sprinkled salt, and mashed it with some mayonnaise. He smeared butter on two slices of bread, placed a piece of lettuce on one, dropped a dollop of chicken filling on top of the lettuce, and closed it with the other slice of bread. He continued this process until he had made a liberal pile of sandwiches, then placed them all on a dented aluminum baking pan. Next, he poured the mango juice in a glass. There wasn’t enough for both of them, so he decided to give the one glass to his momma. He cut the oranges, placed them on a cracked plate, and arranged everything on the dented pan. Steven’s tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on keeping the glass of mango juice steady on the laden tray.

  The vodka bottle was back in his momma’s hand when he returned. She was resting with eyes closed and her back against the back of the couch when he set the tray on the coffee table. He kneeled in front of his momma and handed her a plate of sandwiches.

  “Here, have some sandwiches,” he said.

  She took a piece and stared at him. Steven set the plate back on the table. His momma was raising the vodka bottle to take a swig when Steven touched the bottle. She paused.

  “Please don’t drink that. Drink this,” he said, handing her the glass of mango juice.

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I’m just going have water later. I’m not thirsty,” he said. She stared at him for a long time, her eyes turning misty, before lowering the bottle and taking the glass from his shaky hands. Steven watched her as she took a bite of the sandwich, his eyes eager for his momma’s approval. She chewed it tentatively and swallowed without a word.

  “Is it okay? Do you like it?”

  She took a sip of the mango juice. “Is this what you eat every day? Is this the sandwich you make?”

  Steven instinctively knew he had failed to meet his momma’s approval. Her voice said it all. He lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yes. Without the lettuce.”

  His momma placed the unfinished sandwich and mango juice back on the tray and leaned into her hands, her fingers covering her face. Steven stared at her and his eyes welled.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’ll try to make it better next time, okay?” He had wanted so much to make his momma the best sandwich ever, to stop her from drinking vodka for dinner. And to like him just a little. The one time she had actually given him the chance to impress her, and he had screwed it up. His momma’s face was still hidden behind her hands. Her body shook, huge sobs escaping from her soft lips. Steven’s own eyes dribbled tears. He cried quietly, biting his lip.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. His momma suddenly looked up with wild eyes, cheeks wet with tears. Her hair was disheveled and she was hunched. “If you don’t like it, you can have the juice and oranges instead. I’ll have the sandwiches and it won’t go to waste.”

  Steven wasn’t sure if it was grief or disappointment that made her close her eyes. But when she opened them again, they held a streak of violence. She reached for the bottle of vodka and flung it with all her might. The bottle hit the wall and shattered into a thousand pieces. They both watched as shards of glass and alcohol went flying, and his momma began to wail.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said through her tears. Steven was clutching his heart in fear and crying too, unsure of what to say or do. “I am so sorry.” She sobbed.

  “It’s okay. I’ll clean it.”

  “No!” she screamed. She sniffled and then softly added, “Go to your room, Stevie.”

  “Momma—”

  “Go to your room now!” she shrieked, cutting him off.

  Steven rose and went to his room, where he lay down and cried himself to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  When Steven woke up the next morning, his eyes were swollen. He tiptoed to the living room and found his momma snoring on the couch, still in her panties and bra. The table had been cleared, as had the broken bottle. The only proof of last night’s madness was the stain the vodka had left on the wall. Steven left her alone, prepared his sandwich, and left for school.

  “Hey Stevie, I have a question,” Butch said as he walked through the hallway. It was obvious he was up to no good, and Steven was in no mood for Butch’s antics. His eyelids felt heavy from lack of sleep and his head was throbbing. Butch was leaning on one of the lockers, surrounded by girls. A few other kids stopped and smirked with interest when they heard Butch’s voice. When Steven paused, they folded their arms and waited.

  “What?” Steven asked cautiously.

  “Isn’t there just one bedroom in your house?” Steven knew where Butch was going with the question and he tightened his fist. “Do you sleep with your momma, Stevie?” Butch asked with feigned curiosity, and all the other kids erupted in riotous laugher that reverberated through the hallway.

  Steven felt blood rise to his face, hot and
fast. He was not sure why he lost it, but for the first time, his balled-up fist landed squarely on Butch’s jaw. Taken unawares, Butch lost his balance and staggered. Steven bent his leg and rammed his knee into Butch’s stomach, doubling him over. The rest of the kids gasped and stared. The girls cried out, but dispersed quickly when Mrs. Thatcher turned the corner to make her rounds. Sandy appeared out of nowhere, pulled Steven’s arm, and dragged him into the classroom while Butch struggled to straighten up. Ms. Clapthorne hadn’t arrived yet, so Steven peered from the classroom doorway and saw Butch smiling innocently at the disciplinarian.

  Mrs. Thatcher was the principal of Halstead High and she despised loud chatter, mindless giggling, tardiness, violence, vulgarity, and a whole range of other bad behaviors. In all her thirty years with the school, she had not once worn anything other than a knee-length black skirt with a long sleeve cotton top and a black cardigan. Her grey hair was always pulled back in a severe bun and her glasses rarely stayed atop the bridge of her nose. The sound of her thick one-inch heels was unmistakable as she sauntered through the hallway. Butch stood, albeit still a little bent, when she approached him.

  “What happened here?” she asked, unsmiling.

  “Nothing, Mrs. Thatcher. I slipped and fell.”

  “Are you hurt? Do you need medical assistance?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. I just need a minute to pull myself together.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes, Mrs. Thatcher.”

  “Very well, then. Don’t be late for class,” she said and ambled down the hallway.

  Butch took a few deep breaths and glanced in Steven’s direction. The sweet smile he’d offered to Mrs. Thatcher just seconds ago was gone, replaced with malice that swept darkly across Butch’s eyes. Steven pulled back hastily from the doorway and took his seat.

  ***

  When Steven went to his tree house that afternoon, the air was so hot and humid, it was almost stuffy: a clear sign summer was well on its way. He was excited when he spotted the first of the cherry fruits.

  “Soon Pork and I will be able to eat them,” he said to himself as he skipped across the bridge, ran through the clearing, and went up to check on Mildred. She was fine, but chirping murderously. Probably hungry and lonely, he thought. He brought the bird down, poured some water in a dry maple leaf, tore some bread from his sandwich, and placed it close to Mildred on the ground by the oak tree as he waited for Pork to arrive. Only she could dig for those worms, he decided, feeling too squeamish at the thought.

  “What’s taking you so long? Come on, Pork. Mildred needs you,” he was muttering when he saw a white t-shirt by the creek. He panicked and ran toward it, his backpack heavy, the contents clanging inside. When he finally crossed the fifty or so yards, he saw her lying unconscious, just like the first time he had found her. “Oh God, Pork! Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling by her side.

  She wasn’t wet or dirty this time, just unconscious. Steven pulled his backpack around to the front, unzipped it, and removed his water bottle. He poured a little on her face and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Are you okay, Pork?” She opened her eyes, focused on his face, and grinned, revealing her crooked teeth. “Come on, drink this. It’s a hot day,” he said and tipped the bottle to her dry lips. Pork took huge gulps of water before sitting up. “Let’s go up to the house, okay?” he said as he dragged the backpack with one hand and held Pork’s hand in the other. Mildred lay forgotten by the tree.

  When they got upstairs, Steven unpacked his backpack and pulled out all the containers as usual. “Are you hungry?”

  Pork nodded.

  “Yeah, me too. You know what? I have loads to tell you.”

  Pork folded her legs and twined her hair with her fingers, her eyes on the containers.

  “First of all, I don’t have any homework today. So we can do whatever you want to do.” He handed her a container with a smile, and she smiled too. “Second of all, I punched and kicked Butch, the bully,” he said triumphantly. Although he realized what he’d done was wrong, something about what happened gave him a strange sense of satisfaction. Pork stopped opening the container and stared at him. He thought he saw a look of fear in her eyes and it made him smile. “What is it? Are you scared?” Pork nodded. “Don’t worry, Pork. I’m not a bad person and I won’t hurt you. Ever.” Steven looked into her striking blue eyes and she relaxed.

  “Why? Why Steee-ven punch?” she asked.

  “He always makes fun of my momma,” he said with a serious face.

  “Why?”

  “Well, momma’s had a tough life ever since pa walked out on us five years ago. She’s been working two jobs trying to make ends meet. At night she works as a waitress at Bildey’s and then, in the wee hours of morning, she goes to work at Winnie’s, a twenty-four-hour diner just outside of town.” Pork listened closely, her eyes never leaving his face. “But sometimes, strange men come to the house and they get naughty. When they do, the men leave her some money and that kind of gets us through the month. But momma doesn’t get naughty with every man, especially not married men. If a married man tries to get naughty with her, she’ll send him away.” Steven pulled out a sandwich from his container and took a bite. Pork did the same. “Butch, the kid I kicked today? His father was one of them. I’ve seen him come on to my momma a few times and she always sends him away. ‘Go home, Judge, go home to your wife,’ I heard her say to him once. When he refused and grabbed her hand, she slapped his face. He let her go but he kept an eye on her.”

  Steven finished the sandwich and took a swig from the water bottle. Pork had finished two of the sandwiches already, and she drank from her own bottle.

  “One day, a young guy came to our house. Mr. Wallace. He wanted to get naughty with my momma. She had known him for a long time so she invited him in and they started kissing on the couch. I was in my bedroom. When they were about to get naughty, the front door came crashing down and about two dozen policemen charged in with guns pointed at them. I screamed and my momma did too. The policemen lowered their guns and apologized. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but we received a call that there’s a large quantity of drugs changing hands here tonight,’ they said. Mr. Wallace and momma hurried to cover themselves but it was too late. The newspaper people came in and they took pictures of momma and Mr. Wallace, and it was on the front page the next morning. Momma said the judge had set her up. He paid Mr. Wallace to get naughty with her and made an anonymous call to the police with false info. She said he had done that to embarrass her for slapping him. After that, momma became bitter and she kept saying ‘The judge did this to me,’ over and over, always with a bottle of vodka in her hand.”

  Pork pushed a curly lock from her face and smiled. Steven doubted she understood what he’d said, but he went on.

  “Anyway, since then, Butch had been tormenting me, saying bad things about my momma at school. I always keep quiet, never reacting, never saying a word. Even when everyone’s laughing. But today he went too far, asking if I had slept with my momma. I got mad and landed a punch square on his jaw. When he was down, I gave him another blow to his gut with my knee.” In the time Steven had taken to tell the whole story, Pork had finished all five sandwiches he had brought her.

  “Steee-ven hurt?” Pork finally asked, and Steven chuckled.

  “No. I’m not hurt. I’m fine, Pork. He didn’t hit me. Mrs. Thatcher came to make her rounds just in time and he didn’t have the chance to get to me.”

  “Butch bad person?” Pork asked innocently.

  Steven considered this. Was he a bad person? Was his momma a bad person? Was the judge? Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Pork. Maybe.”

  “Butch going beat Steee-ven?”

  Steven smiled. “No, he’s not going to beat me, Pork. But I’m sure he won’t stop bothering me. I know he’ll want revenge. Just the way his pa took revenge on my momma.”

  “Eevenge?” Pork cocked her head, her forehead creased.

 
; “It’s like payback. An eye for an eye, you know?” he said. And then, placing a hand on his head, he gasped. “Oh no, Mildred!” He ran down the ladder. Pork followed him and they found Mildred where Steven had left her, still chirping.

  “You need to dig for worms, Pork. Mildred’s been chirping her butt off since I arrived.”

  Pork walked briskly toward the creek, her belly protruding, while Steven followed with Mildred. She moved closer to a thicket where the soil was black, crouched, and started digging. Steven sat by her and watched her dig with bare hands. The first two holes revealed nothing, but the third resulted in a big fat earthworm, brown and wriggling. Steven grimaced as she pulled it out and placed it on a dried maple leaf. She dug up two more, dangling the last one in front of his face. He screamed and ran as Pork laughed, revealing her teeth, broken and all.

  “Pork, why were you unconscious by the creek?” he asked as they sat feeding the hungry bird. Mildred chirped and tugged greedily at the worm Pork offered. When Steven continued staring at her face, she looked up and shrugged. “Is someone hurting you?” Pork raised a shoulder to scratch along her jaw. Mildred was nibbling on her second worm for the day. “Are you afraid of the woods?”

  “No.” She dangled the writhing creature in front of Mildred and glanced at Steven. “Steee-ven like school?” she asked.

  “No. I hate it.”

  “Why Steee-ven go?”

  “Because I don’t want to be like pa. Aunt Therese said I have to go to school to become smart and useful. I want to be smart, Pork,” Steven said, tracing a circle in the sand with a stick.

  “Steee-ven smart,” Pork said matter-of-factly, and Steven snickered. “Steee-ven read, Steee-ven play geee-taar, Steee-ven make Mildred nest,” she said with a crooked smile.

  Steven smiled sheepishly, drawing a peace sign in the sand. “Actually, I’m not that smart. I always study and finish my homework, but when the teachers give me tests, I get confused. The words become like a jumble of symbols I can’t understand.” Steven threw the stick far away and stood up. Pork’s gaze followed him. “My grades are not that good, Pork.” The two stared at each other for a moment before Steven added, “Would you like to learn? I can teach you.” Pork thought about this for a moment before shaking her head no. Steven didn’t press further. Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t. Too much stress.