Everything but the Squeal

Polaroids. “Aren't you listening?” she demanded. “How many times do I have to ask you? What's the matter, you got potatoes in your ears?”

“Oh,” I said, “right. Did you have any idea Aimee was going to run away?”

“What a stupid question. Do you think I can read minds?”

“Did she ever say anything about it?”

“Oh, come on. Think for a change, would you? No, she didn't.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“That's none of your business.” She raised the bottle and drank, and I watched her delicate throat work as she swallowed. “No,” she said, wiping her lips again, “she didn't. Jesus, stupid, she's only twelve.”

“Thirteen, I think.”

“Christ on a crutch, what's that to me? You think I can remember a single year? Twelve, thirteen, what's the difference? I got things on my mind, you know?”

“The deal,” I said, taking the bottle. “Remember?”

She gave me a narrow smile. “Just getting the flow going,” she said.

“So no boyfriends?”

“Aimee doesn't have time for boys. She's going to be a movie star. Don't you know anything?”

“Were your parents brutal to her?” There was no other way to ask the question.

“Hey,” she said, “we do the best we can. And by the way, did I tell you that I'm getting tired of the sound of your voice?”

“Did they hit her?”

“They didn't have to.” She made a face. “Have you got a cigarette?”

“I don't smoke.”

“Then what good are you?”

“Not much.”

“What kind of kid are you, anyway? Kids talk back.”

“Okay,” I said lamely. “Stick it in your ear.”

“It's no fun if you don't talk back.” She sounded plaintive.

“It isn't much fun even if I do.”

Aurora put a hand beneath the cushion of the couch and pulled out a slightly crushed pack of Marlboro Lights. “I guess it isn't,” she said. Her shoulders sagged. “So why do they do it?”

“They don't know what else to do. They feel like kids themselves and they feel like they've got to hide it. Maybe they're afraid their kids will get frightened if Mommy and Daddy don't act like they know everything. It's probably easier for the fathers. At least their voices change. Mothers have it rougher. They always sound squeaky.”

“Says you,” Aurora said, lighting her cigarette. “My mother could handle my father, his father, and all his brothers without losing her place in the Ladies'HomeJournal.” She blew a cloud of smoke at me. “So, game over. What do you want to know?”

“What did Aimee run away from?”

“Well,” she said, puffing away. “Kansas City, for one thing.”

“Not enough,” I said. “You said they never beat her.”

“They don't have to beat us,” she said. “They can love us to death.” The right side of her mouth, the upwardly tilted, kissable side, turned up even farther. Her brown skin gleamed.

“That's not really fair,” I said. “It's a cheap shot.”

“Okay,” she said. “Just for argument, let's say you're all right. I'll tell you an Aimee story. Just one out of hundreds.”

“Shoot,” I said, putting the bottle out of reach.

“She was eight, right? I mean, we're talking about a time of life when anything can kill you. Bad breath, ugly shoes. Buttercups are tough guys compared to an eight-year-old girl.” She looked for the bottle, and I gave up and handed it to her.

“It was Halloween,” she said. “Aimee wanted to be a princess. Well, I mean, who doesn't? She'd been asking for weeks for a princess costume to wear to this big party, this absolutely gigantic eight-year-olds' party, and the guy she had a crush on had even asked her to go with him. No prince was ever better-looking to Cinderella than this little eight-year-old creep-Jesus, his name was Arthur-was to Aimee. And Arthur, the wonderful 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.