Free The Pig Goes to Hog Heaven by Joseph Caldwell

within or beyond the clouds overhead the source of its apparent newly bestowed serenity. As if still surprised by this change in its temperament, the pig’s crossed eyes searched the pen, hoping to find some hint of what had rought about the transformation. But seeming to find nothing that might explain its wonderment, obviously unable to see the ghost of the pig it had so contentedly known in the days before the fated feasting, it simply stood there, allowing a benediction to descend, no longer requiring that it know from whence it came. All Aaron could do, deprived as he also was of noting the slain pig’s presence, was to snort his perplexity, then make one last attempt at inclusion in the continuing conversation. So he said, in English, “See? I knew here at the castle is where the pig wanted to be. It likes being by itself. We should never have taken it back. It should have stayed here. Look at how happy it is, being here all by itself. Right?”
    The man looked at Aaron as if offended that an imbecile was trying to insinuate himself into a conversation for which he was so obviously unqualified. To lessen the befuddlement brought on by Aaron’s words, he said, “Alone?”
    Kitty, aghast as if the word alone required an immediate change of subject, turned to her nephew and said, “I’ve been rude. Forgive me. Rude. And thoughtless. We’re happy to have the pig here with us. Anything to oblige. Good. Good for it. I mean, good for us, too. That it likes it here.”
    With this, it occurred to Aaron that his own presence was as disconcerting as that of the Tovey look-alike. Had it been Declan Tovey himself, such a response from his aunt might be understandable. Aaron was, after all, married to an object of the departed Mr. Tovey’s affections. But this was not Declan Tovey—which made his aunt’s behavior that much more inexplicable.
    As if sent by the merciful gods to release his wife from whatever had taken hold of her, Kieran was seen coming toward them, lugging the wheeled apparatus for spraying the apple orchard. After a less-than-welcoming intake of breath at the sight of the visitant, he took a quick look at the pig and gave it a resigned shake of his head. Then he, too, saw fit to speak in Irish, as if the pig were a subject unfit for Aaron’s consideration. He said something about the pigs certainly getting along together. Then Aaron had a thought that should have come sooner, even taking into consideration his limited and scrambled sense of the language: Kieran, like Kitty, had so deeply missed the sacrificed animal that had once occupied (to its disadvantage) the latched enclosure with the pig now in undeniable residence that they kept making references to it as if it were still a corporeal presence. Pleased with himself for the insight, he became less dissatisfied with his linguistic disability and more accepting of his exclusion from the conversation, which, no doubt, would continue to assault his questionable sense of adequacy. Kieran, having reduced his show of displeasure with the man to a neutral, almost indifferent stare, put his arm around his wife’s waist and drew her close, as if she were in need of protection. Kitty, in turn, glanced up at him with a sad but grateful smile, expressed more with her eyes than with her lips.
    The man made no move at all, impervious to the discomfort he was causing. Kieran removed a glove and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth either to signal a readiness for combat or, more likely, to give himself more time to think of what he might say.
    He shouldn’t have bothered. The man was speaking again. In Irish. Kieran listened. Aaron heard mention of a Maude McCloskey, a woman who lived a ways up the road and was said to be somewhat peculiar. When the man stopped speaking, Kieran responded, still in Irish—which Aaron may or may not have deciphered. Thatching may have been the subject. The man nodded