Stiffs and Swine Read Online Free PDF

paint. Says that he’s got plans and these paintings are the key to those plans. He wants them to sell out real bad, James.”
    “I haven’t seen any of the latest ones.”
    Milla jumped up. “The veal’s gotta simmer a bit anyhow, so come out and look at the piece he finished yesterday. It’s so incredible, you won’t believe your eyes.”
    James hesitated. “He’s not fond of me entering his domain while he’s working.”
    “Pffah!” Milla grabbed his arm. “He’s just an old dog with a sharp bark. He’s not gonna bite anyone, though he sure likes to pretend he could.”
    Trailing after Milla’s small form, James approached his father’s shed. Jackson had told his son time after time not to bother him while he was working, and for the most part, James had been respectful of his wishes. Jackson tended to be impatient and cross whenever Milla wasn’t present, so James avoided antagonizing him whenever possible.
    As Milla called out a hello and rapped on the shed door, James gazed at her in admiration. Milla’s companionship had softened Jackson’s sharp edges so much that he had truly begun to emerge from the reclusive behavior that had gripped him for years. James had heard his father laugh more this summer than he had since the time he moved back into his boyhood room following his mother’s death. James was glad to hear Jackson’s laughter, for it was a rich sound, deep and rumbling like a peal of thunder or a train’s echo inside a long tunnel. The three of them filled the house with pleasant noise the way a family should, and James wished for their present state of harmony to last indefinitely.
    Jackson growled upon seeing two people in his shed, but Milla playfully swatted at his shoulder with the potholder she had absentmindedly carried outside with her. “Don’t curl your lip, Jackson. I forced James to come out here against his will. Show him that wonderful diner painting and then we’ll eat.”
    When Jackson hesitated, Milla put her hands on her narrow hips. “I made veal with shallots and garlic, and it’ll be tough as your work boots if you don’t show the boy that picture right this second.”
    Wordlessly, Jackson gestured to a large canvas hidden beneath a tarp. Grumbling, he ordered, “Cover it up ’fore you leave, ya hear?” Jackson then prodded Milla back out of the shed, but with a lightheartedness that made James grin.
    “Lemme sink my teeth into some of that delicious veal,” Jackson pleaded once he and Milla were outside. “I’m starvin’.”
    “’Course you are!” Milla chided in return. “You’re turnin’ into a bag of bones. Lord knows what would happen to you if I didn’t show up at your door every now and then.”
    “Nothin’ good, Milla.” James could hear the smile in his father’s voice. He tried to ignore the rumblings of his own belly as he reached forward to remove the tarp. When the painting was revealed, it took James several moments to soak in all the details set forth on the canvas.
    Jackson had painted a diner scene, but it was different from what James had expected. Instead of a painting depicting the faces of the patrons seated at the counter, Jackson had only portrayed their hands and the breakfasts they had ordered. The row of hands gripped forks, knives, and coffee cups or sprinkled salt or Tabasco sauce on scrambled eggs and hash browns. The hands belonged to workmen. James could guess that much without taking note of the flannel shirt cuffs bordering their wrists or the enormous breakfasts each man had ordered so that he might be fueled for a long morning of physical labor.
    The hands drew James’s eye and demanded attention. Each one varied in size and shape. Some had dirt-encrusted nails, others had nicked knuckles, while another had grease stains revealed in a glimpse of palm. The waitress’s hands were more slender than the men’s, but they bore their own scars, lines, burns, and brown age spots acquired from a life of service.