long conversation about joint pain.
The cuts came easy and the hog had been delivered good and blood-drained, so there wasnât much mess. Mr. Talbot used to run a barbecue pit over in the colored part of Hilltop and knew hogs better than Daddy, but his place caught fire in the middle of the night last December, just a few months after May started going to our elementary school along with six other colored boys and girls.
The closest high school, over in Woodard, had been integrated for a few years now, but none of the colored parents had sent their younger kids to Hilltop Primary until this school year. May was in my class, and before her first day, sheâd seemed nervous but pleased. She told me that sheâd heard everything was better at our school, from the desks and books to the toilet paper. Neither of us thought the things weâd heard about the high school would happen.
But soon she was near silent at school, even after most of the boys and girls whoâd yelled things and spit in her food were gone, transferred over to the newly built white-only private school, Hilltop Christian Academy.
I divided the hog into spare ribs, loin, shoulder, butt, bacon, chops, and ham cuts. Mama would pickle the ears and feet, so those came off, too. The organs had already beentaken out by Mr. Talbot, who made sausage, and I saved the head for a church lady who boiled it for head cheese.
Butchering was always hard for me, even after I got handy with the cuts. I hated taking something whole and cutting it to pieces and throwing some of those pieces away. Good, good, good, bad . It wasnât the pigâs fault that some of it wasnât worth keeping for barbecue.
After the meat was packed into the shed cooler and freezer, I picked up the lemon sacks and peeled until my hands smelled like a citrus orchard and white pith was pushed up under every one of my fingernails. I put them all in our large plastic bin and stuck the whole thing in the big fridge, knowing Iâd saved Mama from the hardest part of lemonade labor. It was ten oâclock by the time I finished and sat at the kitchen table to write a note.
Dear Mama,
I know you worry about me, but donât this time. I got something that needs doing. Iâll try to be back by the time you run out of pig. Please donât be mad. I love you.
Ben
People always said how much I looked like my daddy, right down to those unfortunate Putter ears. Maybe a fewdays apart would do both me and Mama good. Iâd get rid of my neck lump and get Daddy to rest and then everything would be fine.
Daddy coughed. âBen, you there?â
The pen in my hand scrawled across the tableâs wood. Hearing a dead manâs voice, even if itâs related to you, takes some getting used to. âYes, sir, Iâm here.â I licked my finger and tried to spit-scrub out the stain Iâd made, but the rubbing just made it worse. Iâd throw a tablecloth on before I left.
âListen, we need to get going. Itâs Augusta or nothing, Ben. You understand? Itâs where I belong. Otherwise, Iâm never gonna get any peace. Now, I know you arenât the kind of boyââ He stopped himself. âI know that journeys like this arenât your strong suit, son. Iâm asking you to be . . . what I need. Can you do that?â
âYes, sir, I can,â I said, wondering what kind of boy I was and what kind of boy I should be and how to color in the empty space between.
He sighed, relieved. âGood boy.â
âIâve never ditched school before.â I didnât add that Iâd dreamed about ditching nearly every day that year. Having a reputation for being the only boy who tried hard in art class and smelled like pig smoke hadnât made it the friendliest of places. And things with May, the one person who didnât care about all that and who was right there in school with me, werenât the same.
âWhat,