The Pig Did It Read Online Free PDF Page A

excellent thing in woman. But he’d said nothing. He was a stranger, a foreigner, and a show of superior knowledge would hardly be welcomed his first night in the town. He would, no doubt, meet Sweeney again and could put the record straight after a week or so had passed and his authority as a sage established. Until then he’d withhold his corrections. And besides, it was the man’s pickup and Aaron was tired. Still, if he gave his aunt the pig, Sweeney could talk. The town would know him for a thief. The woman would make her claim, and his aunt would be annoyed.
    â€œIt’s not my pig,” Aaron said. “It belongs to Lolly”—he turned to Sweeney. “What’s her name?”
    â€œMcKeever. Lolly McKeever.”
    The shadow of his aunt seemed to stiffen, if a shadow can be said to stiffen, raising itself to an even greater height, the women being taller than he’d expected. (Now that he, Aaron, was grown and had passed six feet, it was presumed that his aunt would have diminished. But she hadn’t. She, too, had grown. But no matter. There was the pig to take care of.) “Lolly McKeever’s pig, then,” his aunt said. “Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it? Lolly McKeever. And you’ve brought into the household her very own pig.”
    Aaron told her the story: the bus, the pigs, the passengers, the run up the hill and down, the walk to town, the kindness of Mr. Sweeney. At the sound of the name, his aunt’s shadow lengthened another half a foot. She leaned forward and seemed to be looking over Aaron’s shoulder. “So it’s you, is it?” she said.
    â€œIt is I,” Sweeney said. “And it wasn’t here I knew I’d be coming until I’d already taken on the pig. And here I am to deliver it. And be gone.”
    â€œPut it in the shed, and mind it doesn’t eat any of the implements.”
    And so the pig was locked into the shed. Aaron offered Sweeney a drink for his trouble, but before the man could make his own protest—a half-raised hand, the shake of his head—his aunt, speaking rather abruptly, claimed that there was nothing to drink in the house. Sweeney, saying no more, got quickly into his truck and drove off, backfiring twice. The pig was protesting in the shed. The smell of exhaust fumes filled Aaron’s nostrils. “Oh, Sweeney, shut up,” his aunt had muttered.
    â€œSweeney’s the man’s name, not the pig’s,” Aaron said.
    â€œAll pigs are named Sweeney, a name come down from the Romans. Sus, suis. Then the Italians. Sumo. Then the Irish, the final refinement, into Sweeney Shame on you for not knowing it. Next time you see the man you might tell him. And tell him who told you. Now, do you want to come into the house?”
    Because he could think of no alternative, Aaron had said yes.
    They went in the side door, directly into the kitchen, where scrolls of wallpaper, paste pots, and a ladder took up most of the space, including the five chairs and the heavy wooden table. Now he could see his aunt, and she could see him. She was the first to speak. “You’ve grown no more than that?”
    â€œI’m over six feet.”
    â€œWell, you don’t look it. Now give me a squeeze, and we’ll be the way we used to be and no years between.”
    He gave her the hug but didn’t quite feel the renewal she’d predicted. Still, it was a start, and he was, if not satisfied, at least encouraged by this renewal of family bonds. Standing away after the embrace, Aaron had his first impression confirmed: his aunt was taller than he’d expected. But her lips were still a little too full, her mouth a little too large, and the all-seeing eyes seemed still to find both amusement and disdain in what they saw. The freckles had not faded from her cheekbones or her nose, although her forehead seemed to have cleared. “We’ll have fine times