Free The Pig Comes to Dinner by Joseph Caldwell Page A

if to demonstrate a solidarity with his wife—as Taddy had moved closer to Brid—Kieran stepped quietly toward Kitty and let his upper arm press against hers. Together they faced the ghosts.
    Kitty didn’t know what to say, but said it anyway, the words catching in her throat, resisting, but finally forced out in a half-swallowed sound. “Why are you here?” she asked them.
    The question seemed only to deepen their perplexity. Brid made a slight turn toward Taddy, and Taddy drew higher his head. “We are your friends,” Kitty said—but before she could find some ending to her sentence, both Brid and Taddy pulled themselves closer to each other and the fear in Brid’s eyes made them widen to a look bordering on terror. She leaned even closer to Taddy.
    â€œAre you Brid and Taddy?”
    At the mention of their names, in panic they vanished. Gone. Nowhere to be seen. Kitty and Kieran continued to stare for more than a moment. Then Kitty looked around the landing, at the darkened stones, at the floor and up toward the beams of the ceiling. She touched the loom. “They’re gone?” she asked in a near whisper.
    â€œYes. Gone.”
    â€œI scared them off. They didn’t seem to understand a word I—” She stopped, took in a slow breath, and slapped her right hand onto the frame of the loom. “Of course they didn’t understand. I spoke in English. How would they know English? I was supposed to talk Irish. But because they’re strangers—How stupid can I—”
    â€œIn Irish,” Kieran said. “Say the words again. See if they can hear. If they’ll come back.”
    Tentatively, in Irish Kitty called, “Are you here?” No answer came, no stirring of the air, no manifestation suggesting their return.
    In Irish Kieran said, “Tell them we didn’t mean to frighten them. Tell them we’re from Kerry, the same as themselves. Only say it in Irish.”
    â€œI don’t have to,” Kitty said. “You just did.”
    But still there was no reply, no movement in the shadows. They waited. Kieran reached down to pick up the harp again, but stopped himself before he’d touched it.
    Quickly he straightened. “Our problem is solved,” he said in English.
    â€œTalk Irish.”
    â€œNo,” he continued, still in English. “We don’t have that—that ‘thing’ to worry about.”
    â€œWhat ‘thing’?”
    â€œWhen we’re together—I mean when we’re alone at night—if we do it in English we’ll know they won’t be anywhere near. They’ll be frightened off.”
    â€œMake love in English?”
    â€œTo preserve our privacy.”
    â€œHow can we make love in English?”
    â€œWhy can’t we?”
    â€œYou can’t make love in English. English doesn’t have the right sounds. It doesn’t have the right words. You can’t and I can’t—and we shouldn’t even try.”
    â€œBut if it guarantees we’re alone?”
    â€œIt won’t work. I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be love.”
    â€œThen you want them spying on us?”
    â€œNo. But if I have to make a choice—”
    Kieran lowered himself onto the bench at the loom. “You’re right. We can’t do it any other way that I can think of.”
    Kitty shrugged. “Maybe they’ll learn a thing or two.”
    Kieran reached over and took his wife’s hand. “Instruction is not what I usually have in mind.” A smile that can only be described as a leer spread across his face, bringing his beard close to his eyes. “Shall we show them now?” he whispered in Irish. “Here? See if they show up?”
    â€œHere?” Kitty pulled her hand away, then after a pause during which she held it modestly near her right breast, she quickly grabbed her husband’s hand and brushed it against her