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“The farmer told us never to go in the pigpen,” one of the graduate-student painters began.
Da
“He peed all over me when you went into the pigpen,” Katie said.
“He has a diaper on,” Da
“I could still feel how wet he was,” she said.
“You weren’t even watching him,” Da
Amy had the painter who’d spoken up in a headlock. “I’ll get your fucking parachute,” Katie suddenly told her.
“You can’t go in there,” Da
“Don’t tell me what I can’t do, hero,” she said.
Katie had always been competitive that way. First the nude sky-diver had taken the art students’ attention away from her; then her husband’s act of bravado had upstaged her. But of course what Katie really wanted to do was undress. “I’ll just keep the pig shit off my clothes, if you don’t object,” she said to Da
“It wouldn’t be good if something happened to you in front of Joe,” Da
“Why?” she asked him. “A two-year-old won’t remember it. Only you will-you fuckhead writer.”
Seeing her naked and defiant made Da
HE’D CARRIED JOE BACK to the downstairs bathroom so that they could clean up, or try to. (Da
“Is Mommy giving Lady Sky her clothes?” Joe asked.
“Mommy’s clothes wouldn’t fit Lady Sky, sweetie,” Da
Amy didn’t want any clothes; she told the asshole artists that all she wanted was a bath. The pilot and copilot were bringing her clothes-“or they better be,” the skydiver said.
“I hope your bathroom is cleaner than ours,” Da
“I’m not counting on it,” Amy told him. “Was that your wife-that little thing who was going to fetch my parachute?” the skydiver called down the stairs to Da
“Yes,” he answered her.
“She’s got balls, hasn’t she?” Amy asked him.
“Yes-that’s Katie,” Da
He’d forgotten that there wasn’t a towel in the downstairs bathroom, but getting the pig shit off himself and little Joe was what mattered. Who cared if they were wet? Besides, the boy’s clothes had somehow managed to stay clean; Joe’s pants were a little damp, because he’d really peed like crazy in his diaper.
“I guess you liked that ginger ale, huh?” Da
“You call this a clean towel?” the skydiver was shouting.
Da
“If you don’t try to run in that muck, you don’t fall down, fuckhead.”
“So you just walked out to the parachute, and walked back?” Da
“The pigs were spooked by the chute,” Katie said. “Move over-both of you.” She got into the shower with them, and Da
“Mommy got pig poo on her, too?” Joe asked.
“Everyone’s got pig poo on them somewhere,” Katie said.
They took turns with the towel, and Da
“I’m donating the rest of my clothes to the farm,” Da
“Is that all you’re wearing?” Da
Katie shrugged. “I guess I can donate my underwear to the farm, if I want to,” she said.
“Is everything a contest, Katie?”
But she didn’t answer him. She opened the bathroom door and left them with the pile of clothes and Da
Outside, the skydiver was wearing just a towel around her waist and was drinking a beer. “Where’d you find the beer?” Da
Amy showed him the tub of ice. Rolf was sitting on the ground beside the tub, repeatedly dunking his face in the icy water. There was blood from his nose everywhere. He had a pretty good gash on one eyebrow, too-all from the head-butt. Da
“Shit,” Rolf said, standing up. He looked a little unsteady on his feet. “No one’s watching the pig in the pit-we got distracted by all the heroics.”
“Is there an opener?” Da
“There’s one in the kitchen somewhere,” Rolf answered. The bearded painter who’d been hit with Amy’s jab and hook was holding a wet T-shirt to his face. He kept dipping the T-shirt in the icy water and then putting it back on his face.
“How’s the roast pig coming along?” Da
“Oh, Christ,” the painter said; he hurried after Rolf in the direction of the smoking hole.
There was potato salad and a green salad and some kind of cold pasta on the dining-room table, together with the wine and the rest of the booze.
“Does any of this food look interesting to you?” Da
“Where’s any meat?” Joe asked.
“I guess it’s still cooking,” his dad said. “Let’s go look at it.”
Someone had turned on a car radio, so they could have music outdoors. Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow” was playing. Rolf and the painter with the beard had managed to lift the bedsprings out of the fire pit; the painter with the beard had burned his hands, but Rolf had taken off his jeans and used them as pot holders. Rolf’s nose and the cut on his eyebrow were still bleeding as he put his jeans back on. Some of the roast pig had fallen off the bedsprings into the fire, but there was plenty to eat and it was certainly cooked enough-it looked very well done, in fact.
“What is it?” Joe asked his dad.
“Roast pork-you like pork,” Da
“Once upon a time it was a pig,” Rolf explained to the two-year-old.
“A pretty small one, Joe,” Da