The Pig Did It by Joseph Caldwell Read Free Book Online

for his aunt to renew, perhaps, her sweet solicitations of one or the other of Her Majesty’s subjects before the acreage was further diminished in so rude and savage a fashion.
    At the moment, however, a decision not his aunt’s but his own was being forced upon him. He could either squeeze between the rock and the cliff or take off his boots, still wet from the morning grass, wade into the surf, and make his way around the stone from there. He could, of course, climb up and climb down, but he preferred not to break the rhythm of his walk with unexpected excursions. Then, too, he could just turn back. He decided to keep his boots on but take the water route anyway. He wouldn’t even bother to roll up his pants legs. The stately pace must not be interrupted. If he got wet, he’d get dry. Discomfort he would accept as a mere change of condition, denying it the power to distress or disturb. And once past the boulder, he would take up his meditation of the lost Phila Rambeaux.
    The water fussed at his ankles, then at his shins, then at his knees. There was more of an undertow than he’d expected, and he had to put his hand on the stone to steady himself as he went. When, just before he’d made the turn at the far side of the rock, the water rose to his crotch, cold and, for whatever reason, wetter than he’d expected, he considered going back. Maybe that would be best.
    But he had made it to the far side and was safely back on the beach. He’d go on. The water now came right up to the foot of the cliff, lapping against the rock face itself. The tide was in. Soon it would go out. The beach would reappear. He would continue his walk.
    As a concession to the tide he took off his boots and his socks after all, stuffed the socks into the shoes, tied the shoelaces together with a slip knot and hung the shoes over his shoulder. His pants legs he rolled to the knee. Thus prepared, he trudged on, the pebbles a pleasant and varied pressure against the soles of his bare feet, the tide respecting the waterline he’d set at the rolled cuff of his pants leg.
    Now he would think of Phila. But other thoughts blocked his way. His aunt had not called the police. With the pig occupied in the pasture, they had, he and his aunt together, uncovered the rest of the skeleton. Aaron was allowed to use a spade from the shed for only the first few feet; their hands must do the rest so no damage would be done to what remained of the man lying there. Slowly the earth was scooped away, his aunt’s hands moving in an uninterrupted flow, one handful after another, as if she were clearing away water rather than earth. When Aaron was digging too quickly, his aunt’s hand touched his arm, an indication that he should proceed more reverently. They were not rescuing the man. There was no need to hurry. (Even at that, they had, without consultation, cleared first the face, the head, then the rest of the body.)
    It was not a gruesome sight. No flesh remained, only patches of what seemed like parchment stuck onto the cheekbones and jaw as if the man had nicked himself shaving and had applied bits of toilet paper to stop the bleeding. The earth-stained bones were brown, but the teeth, once Kitty had brushed the tips of her fingers along them, were a shining white, still planted firmly into the jawbone, a perfect row, a classic dental demonstration of what flossing and fluoride could do. With less care she wiped the forehead and the sides of the skull, not bothering to clear the eye sockets or dislodge the dirt from the nostrils. But when they came to the hands, she took the bones into her own hand, one by one, and gently scraped sway the earth, picking in among the knuckles, rubbing the tips of the fingers along the palm of her hand, as close to a manicure as she could get, given that the fingernails themselves had disappeared. For a moment it seemed that she was going to press the hand to her lips, but she simply held it,