Read Online Everything but the Squeal by Timothy Hallinan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Timothy Hallinan
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Arthur, all of four feet tall, had asked Aimee to go to the party.”
She lifted the bottle to her lips.
“You know what my father does for a living?” she asked when she'd finished swallowing.
“No,” I said, realizing that I hadn't asked.
“He's a pork packer. ‘Everything but the squeal,’ that's his company's motto. When he's finished, that pig is gone . He was the first pork packer to advertise on the sides of barns. Farmer Al, he calls himself. To listen to his ads, you'd think Farmer Al owned every pig in America.” She licked a drop of whiskey from her lower lip. “For all I know, he does.”
I waited. “So?” I finally asked.
“So when Aimee goes upstairs to get into her costume, it's a pig costume. He can advertise on barns, so why not on his daughter? It was in a big cardboard box, and when she opened it, it was a bright pink pig's costume made out of rubber. It said ‘Farmer Al, the Pig's Best Friend’ on the side. Aimee took it out of the box and then sat on the floor, which people in our house just don't do , and started crying. She'd wanted a princess costume. Then, I'll give her credit, she got mad. She was still fighting with my parents when her date's father rang the doorbell.”
“Holy Jesus,” I said.
“So she didn't have any choice. She put on the costume, the fat little pink body with the sign on it and the little curlicue tail sticking out of its rear, and the pink rubber mask, and she walked down the stairs. I still don't know how she forced herself to walk down those stairs. I could hear her sobbing from the landing, where I was, but she had this pig mask on, you know? Nobody could see the tears. And down at the bottom of the stairs her date was waiting. He was dressed as a prince. Of course he was dressed as a prince. He had this dumb little sword at his side and this stupid little cape, and as he saw Aimee come down the stairs, his face dropped, and then, because he was a gentleman even at his age, he dredged up a smile. I'm still amazed that Aimee didn't die on the spot when she saw that smile.
“And they went off together, him smiling bravely, the prince who had chosen a pig, and her crying until she must have been soaked inside that rubber costume, and she won first prize at the party. All the other little girls were princesses, except the few who were ballerinas. And she came home with this big fat vulgar brass trophy, and my dad said, ‘See? What was all the fuss about?’ And to this day he doesn't understand why she threw the trophy through the picture window in the living room. He still doesn't know what he did to her.” She remembered her cigarette and stared at it as though she'd never seen it before.
“He thinks he's her best friend,” I said.
“There you are,” she said. “Childhood is so much fun.”
“Did that kind of thing happen often?”
“How often does it have to happen? It's not like they were belting us or hanging us up by our thumbs all the time. They've both just forgotten completely what it's like to be a kid. They take family votes to settle things, but their votes count for more than ours do. We're supposed to be little adults about it when they outvote us, two to four. Well, fuck that, we're not little adults. Aimee's still a baby. And two against four isn't a majority. Kids have a sense of justice, and you can't screw with it.”
I retrieved the bottle and knocked back a swig. “Did you ever run away?”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Aimee had all the guts,” she said.
“Has,” I said. Aurora looked at me, stricken by what she'd said.
The knob on the front door turned, and I snatched the cigarette away from her so that I was holding both the Marlboro and the bottle when Mrs. Sorrell came into the room.
“Rory,” she said in a voice that was already furred by drink, “what in the world are you doing?”
Rory settled back onto the couch and crossed her arms. “I'm watching Mr. What's-his-name here drink and
She lifted the bottle to her lips.
“You know what my father does for a living?” she asked when she'd finished swallowing.
“No,” I said, realizing that I hadn't asked.
“He's a pork packer. ‘Everything but the squeal,’ that's his company's motto. When he's finished, that pig is gone . He was the first pork packer to advertise on the sides of barns. Farmer Al, he calls himself. To listen to his ads, you'd think Farmer Al owned every pig in America.” She licked a drop of whiskey from her lower lip. “For all I know, he does.”
I waited. “So?” I finally asked.
“So when Aimee goes upstairs to get into her costume, it's a pig costume. He can advertise on barns, so why not on his daughter? It was in a big cardboard box, and when she opened it, it was a bright pink pig's costume made out of rubber. It said ‘Farmer Al, the Pig's Best Friend’ on the side. Aimee took it out of the box and then sat on the floor, which people in our house just don't do , and started crying. She'd wanted a princess costume. Then, I'll give her credit, she got mad. She was still fighting with my parents when her date's father rang the doorbell.”
“Holy Jesus,” I said.
“So she didn't have any choice. She put on the costume, the fat little pink body with the sign on it and the little curlicue tail sticking out of its rear, and the pink rubber mask, and she walked down the stairs. I still don't know how she forced herself to walk down those stairs. I could hear her sobbing from the landing, where I was, but she had this pig mask on, you know? Nobody could see the tears. And down at the bottom of the stairs her date was waiting. He was dressed as a prince. Of course he was dressed as a prince. He had this dumb little sword at his side and this stupid little cape, and as he saw Aimee come down the stairs, his face dropped, and then, because he was a gentleman even at his age, he dredged up a smile. I'm still amazed that Aimee didn't die on the spot when she saw that smile.
“And they went off together, him smiling bravely, the prince who had chosen a pig, and her crying until she must have been soaked inside that rubber costume, and she won first prize at the party. All the other little girls were princesses, except the few who were ballerinas. And she came home with this big fat vulgar brass trophy, and my dad said, ‘See? What was all the fuss about?’ And to this day he doesn't understand why she threw the trophy through the picture window in the living room. He still doesn't know what he did to her.” She remembered her cigarette and stared at it as though she'd never seen it before.
“He thinks he's her best friend,” I said.
“There you are,” she said. “Childhood is so much fun.”
“Did that kind of thing happen often?”
“How often does it have to happen? It's not like they were belting us or hanging us up by our thumbs all the time. They've both just forgotten completely what it's like to be a kid. They take family votes to settle things, but their votes count for more than ours do. We're supposed to be little adults about it when they outvote us, two to four. Well, fuck that, we're not little adults. Aimee's still a baby. And two against four isn't a majority. Kids have a sense of justice, and you can't screw with it.”
I retrieved the bottle and knocked back a swig. “Did you ever run away?”
“No,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Aimee had all the guts,” she said.
“Has,” I said. Aurora looked at me, stricken by what she'd said.
The knob on the front door turned, and I snatched the cigarette away from her so that I was holding both the Marlboro and the bottle when Mrs. Sorrell came into the room.
“Rory,” she said in a voice that was already furred by drink, “what in the world are you doing?”
Rory settled back onto the couch and crossed her arms. “I'm watching Mr. What's-his-name here drink and
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