The Pig Did It Read Online Free PDF Page B

grip of her hand in his, the beaming disbelief with which she would greet the tale of his pursuit, the astonished awe she would feel at his proved ability to discipline a renegade—all this he would deny himself. Even the touch of her free hand on his upper arm during the handshake, and the feel of the tip of her shoe against the toe of his boot, all his due reward he would surrender without complaint. Praise for his—and here Aaron stopped in mid-thought. He tied his shoes. The phrase “animal husbandry” had come into his mind. Uncomfortable with its kinky connotations, he blocked further consideration of Lolly what’s-her-name’s effusions and started downstairs.
    The snores coming from his aunt’s room as he passed down the hall—at first he thought he was still being pursued by the sounds of the pig—told him that she was not yet up and, by a process of logic that took some few seconds to complete, he deduced that she was not the one who had set free the pig. He went down the stairs and into the kitchen. The room was orderly and immaculate. The wallpapering was done, a pattern of small red roses looking somewhat like diseased bees covering not only the four walls but the ceiling as well. He expected to hear the hum and buzz of the bees’ distress. If he were to move he would be attacked, he would be stung, mortally. They would swarm all over him, moving in busy anger over his head, his face, his hands, his entire body.
    That the effect of Kitty’s labors was so disturbing detracted not at all from the immensity of the task performed. Nor did it take Aaron long to realize his aunt’s intent, conscious or subconscious. On the table was a computer, complete with screen and keyboard, with modem and mouse. It was here in the kitchen she did her writing. To protect her solitude she had made the room as inhospitable as she could. No one would pause within these walls. An intruder was dared to intrude. The unease, the discomfort, would discourage anyone this side of insensible. This hive was her domain, the sickly bees her protector and her guard.
    Kitty wrote novels of some popularity. Her method, admitted to Aaron alone, was simple. She would take some work that had already proved its appeal and then, as she put it, make her “corrections” and market the book as her own, which, in truth, it would be. Happy endings would be imposed, the proud debased, the humble given the victory. The couplings would be rearranged; one weapon would be substituted for another, hair colors changed and coiffures traded one for the other. Clothing she redistributed with little alteration, the fashions not always surviving, but a chic provided by way of recompense. Gender change solved more than one problem, with new possibilities often suggested. To place the settings beyond the reach of plagiarism, she would mix up the backdrops, the furniture, and the props, creating not so much confusion as, more often than not, an environment the reader found compelling in its singularity and invention.
    When Aaron, in a letter responding to her confession, asked why—when she had so much imagination at her disposal, so much craft at her service—why she didn’t simply write novels of her own devising, she answered that she was helpless without the anger and frustration aroused by those who’d written the originals. They’d gotten it all wrong, and she would set it right. Their mistakes fueled her imagination; they generated energy. Without the goad of their errors, she had no will, no need to proceed. Her sense of superiority allowed her to see their world and all its people with a clarity made possible by being seen from so great and grand a height, a vision obviously unavailable to her precursors because they had failed to be, quite simply, Kitty McCloud. She was doing them all a favor. She was doing the readers a favor. Taking to herself the burdens of error, she made the necessary