Some Pig

[The Story Teller]

Some Pig
by Jeanne Hill

I pretended to nap while mama talked to the doctor. Asthma, bronchitis, pneumonia, and now rickets--I had them all, hard diseases to treat back in 1936, when I was six years old. The doctor washed his hands in the kitchen of our small apartment just outside Kansas City, Kansas. "I’m glad to hear you’re moving to the country," he said. "Spring’s coming and this girl needs plenty of sunshine." He shut off the water. "And she must keep that cod liver oil down."

Hard as I tried, I couldn’t keep anything down. Even Mama’s delicious homemade bread.

Mama saw the doctor out, then moved my cot into the kitchen. "Let’s make soup," she said.

Before I’d gotten too weak to attend school, kids called me runt because I was so small and skinny. Mama said

I was "all eyes." But my big sister, Jo, always took up for me. Through our open third-floor window I could hear her now, laughing on the stoop with her friends. Because of me, she would have to leave them for a stinky old farm outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma. We would be close enough to Tulsa for Daddy to ply his carpenter trade there, but we’d no longer be city people.

That evening Daddy held a spoonful of soup to my lips. "We’re starting a big adventure tomorrow, Jenkie Girl, and you’ll need your strength," he said. I took a few sips but they promptly came back up again. "Don’t worry," Daddy said, patting my back. "You’re going to feel better real soon."

We packed our belongings into our truck first thing the next morning. Jo’s friends lined the sidewalk, and Mama tried to blink away her tears as the neighbor ladies blew their noses into their handkerchiefs. I felt like crying too as we pulled away. Not only was my family making a big sacrifice for me, they were acting like it was the natural thing to do. It doesn’t seem fair, God, I prayed. They do so much for me and I can’t do anything for them--not even get better!

There was no shortage of work on the farm. Not that I was any help. Dad cleared some land for a chicken house, and Jo helped Mama start a vegetable garden. On warm afternoons Mama rolled my bed into the tree-lined meadow. One day I watched Jo chase butterflies, making big swoops with her net. As I was about to fall asleep, I heard Daddy pull into the drive. A shrill noise was coming from inside his car. "Here we are," Daddy said, getting out. "We’re home." Who was he talking to? And what was that awful noise? Jo came running with her net and Mama let the screen door slam. "What’s all the commotion?" she called.

I’d been sick for so long I didn’t think I’d ever get well again. Then Daddy brought home Dempsey. Daddy ceremoniously pulled up his sleeves and reached into the backseat. Then he headed toward me, Mama and Jo at his heels. Daddy sat on the edge of my cot, something pink and squirmy in his arms. "It’s the runt pig of a litter," he said. "I saved her from the butcher." Scrawny and bare, the squealing piglet was all snout. I touched her curly tail and she snorted, which made me jump. I scratched behind the pig’s velvety ears. That seemed to calm her. "What should we call her?" Jo asked.

"How ’bout Dempsey, after the great boxer, since she’ll have to be a fighter to make it," Daddy suggested. I nodded and took the little pig in my arms. I was glad to be rooting for somebody else, for once.

Daddy built a wooden pen and trough on one side of the house. Mama would position my bed outside so I could watch Dempsey dig and roll in the mud while I lay in the sun. One day Jo put Dempsey next to me, and the little pig and I dozed together. I felt her fidgeting, so I pulled myself up and cradled her in my lap. Jo looked surprised when she came to fetch us. "Look at you, Sis," she said.

Yeah, I thought, look at me!

I still couldn’t manage to eat much of anything at mealtimes. Dempsey sure made up for it, though. She loved everything--especially Mama’s homemade bread. She’d take a big first bite right out of the center, then finish the rest of the soft white inside before devouring the crust. One evening when Mama handed me my tray, I picked up the slice of bread and bit into the middle just like Dempsey. My family perked up. Good going, Jenkie Girl," Daddy said. I finished the whole piece, crust last. "Try the vegetables," Mama suggested the next evening. "They’re fresh from the garden." Soon I was eating bread and veggies at every meal. Keeping something in my stomach helped me with the cod liver oil too.

Day by day the sun got fatter, and Mama’s garden flourished. One afternoon I was sitting up in bed, counting butterflies, when Dempsey started squealing in her pen. No one was around to put her on my lap. "What can I do, girl?" She looked at me with sad piggy eyes. "Okay," I said, "I’ll try." I slowly got up off the cot and started toward the pen. My steps were shaky, but I made it and patted Dempsey through the wooden slats. She nuzzled her warm snout gratefully into my palm.

Each day I got more confident about stepping over to the pen and started walking around it, holding on to the railing for support. Dempsey walked on the inside, my little pink shadow. Mama would watch while working in her garden, a big smile on her face.

Walking with Dempsey one afternoon, I glimpsed an ugly splotch of mud on her side. I knelt beside her and tried to brush it away. That’s when I noticed the sticky spots around her mouth. Honey . . . she’d eaten our leftover honey biscuits, then rolled in the mud.

"Mama!" I called. "Come quick!"

In an instant she appeared at the kitchen door. "Are you all right, Jeanne?" she asked.

"I’m fine, but Dempsey needs help." I asked for a pan of warm water, and a washcloth. Mama obliged and watched while I scrubbed Dempsey clean, as clean as a pig would want, anyway. I felt good too, and wondered if this was how Mama felt when she gave me a bath.

Then one evening there was a sudden cold snap. Mama bundled me up for bed in a heavy winter gown and socks. In the middle of the night, I sat up poker-straight: Dempsey must be freezing! I grabbed my shoes and coat and quietly went out the kitchen door. Inside the pen, Dempsey grunted and pressed her cold snout against my shin. I picked her up and promptly slumped down on the trough. "All that bread’s got you nice and fat," I congratulated her. No way could I carry her inside. Opening my coat, I held her next to my chest. Then I buttoned the coat around us both. "Don’t worry. I’ll keep you warm."

Dempsey and I slept until the birds started to sing to the waking sun. The screen door swung open and Mama ran to me. "Jeanne, what are you doing out here?"

"Dempsey needed me," I said, and explained how I couldn’t get us both back in the house. Then Daddy carried us in, Dempsey still asleep inside my coat.

"Feels good helping someone you love, doesn’t it?"

Mama said.

The cold snap lasted a couple of days, and then Dempsey and I were back to our long walks. By summertime, we were chasing butterflies in the meadow with Jo.

My family had done all they could for me, and I couldn’t do any less for a little runt pig. We’d all done what had come naturally. And God had done the rest.

Submitted by Richard