Tuskers. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3

Jenny brushed past me, a look of annoyance on her face that said ‘It’s all your fault.’

She slipped on the bloody footprints I’d left on the tiles.  I caught her just in time, stabilized her against the wall.  Nice and cozy.  I looked into her face, expecting a welcoming look, I guess.  Maybe even a quick kiss.  How long since we’d just hugged just for the hell of it?

She pushed me away.  It was subtle, but no doubt it was a rejection.  I saw the reason for her clumsiness.  She was wearing high heels.  What she used to call her ‘Fuck me shoes.’ Why was she wearing high heels?

“You know we’re retired, right?” I said, jokingly.  “You don’t have to wear high heels anymore?”

A strange look came over her face and she glanced away.  “Just because we’re retired doesn’t mean we have to let ourselves go.” 

She looked back at me, not at my face, but at my belly, which I immediately sucked in.  I’d gotten on the scales that morning and for the first time in my life, I’d topped 200 pounds.

Now that I was noticing, she was wearing her nicest outfit.  Her powder blue pantsuit and pearl necklace, with fresh nails and hair.  I realized I had no idea where she’d spent the morning.  Where had she been, anyway?  She had her own friends, an almost separate life, and that was OK.  It had always been OK up in Bend, where we’d lived for the last thirty years.  She had all her work friends, while I stayed home mostly, doing promotional writing.  I’d been itching to get out of that overly touristy town -- which had been a nice cozy town when we first moved there -- for years now.  We’d had to wait until she retired and got her full pension.

She hadn’t really wanted to move to Arizona.  She’d wanted to go back to Philadelphia, where most of her family lived.  But I’d had enough of the cold climates.  I’d thought she was as OK with it as I was.

“Where were you today?” I asked, as if just casually interested.

She ignored my question. “Why did you yell at me like that!  They were just javelinas.  You had me all freaked out.  You made me over-react, drop the groceries.”

“Jesus, Jenny,” I exclaimed.  “Didn’t you see them?  They were out for blood.”

She looked down at my bleeding foot and frowned.

“How did that happen?”

“I kicked the pig away from the door.  It was trying to get in.”

“Trying to get in,” she repeated, as if I’d just said Martians had landed in the back yard.

“I caught my foot on its tusk.”

“Yeah, that happens when you kick a pig in the face,” she said dryly.  She walked away from me, shaking her head.  She went to the cabinet and poured herself a glass of red wine.  “As soon as I cool down, I’m going out and getting those groceries.  And if those javelinas come near me, I’ll throw a can of beans at them.”

“You can’t do that, Jenny.  They’re dangerous.”

She took a sip of wine, examining me.  I was getting the fish eyes; the skeptical look she gave me when she thought I was being silly.

“I’ll be sure to watch out for the man-eating pigs.”

“I’m serious, Jenny.  These animals aren’t acting normal.  They’ve got rabies or something.”  I thought it was something worse than that, like these were mutant pigs.  Hybrids or something.  But the rabies suggestion would at least sound realistic to Jenny.

“I’m going to call Hamilton,” I said.  I went over to the wall phone and picked up the receiver.  I was already dialing (appreciating as I did that I had Hamilton’s number memorized, and that probably wasn’t a good thing) before I realized there was no dial tone.

I slammed the phone down.  “Let me borrow your cellphone.”

“Where’s yours?”

I flushed.  I’d lost it weeks ago, I wasn’t even sure when.  I never used the damn thing anyway, and the only reason I had it was because Jenny bought it for me.

“I can’t find it.”

She rolled her eyes.  Then a look of puzzlement came over her.  “I…just remembered,” she said.  “I put my purse in one of the bags so I could carry everything in.  It’s outside.  I’ll go get it.”  She started walking to the hallway.

“Don’t, Jenny!” I said. 

She kept going.

“Jenny, just don’t!” I shouted.   “I mean it!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said, as she opened the door.  She was on the top step before I could stop her.

I ran after her, the pain in my foot stabbing me with every step.  I reached her as she was on the bottom step and only a few feet from the burst grocery bags.  The food was spread out all over the concrete walk. Cans had rolled to the edge of the lawn and against the garden. Eggs shells and breadcrumbs and broken boxes of cereal.  The pigs had pretty much consumed everything they could get at.

There in the middle of baking egg yolk was her little black garnet studded purse.  Her dress purse, I realized, wondering again why she was so gussied up.  I ignored the sinking feeling in my stomach.  Or rather, the fear I was feeling overwhelmed it. 

“Hurry,” I hissed.

“Oh, hush.  Pick up the groceries.”

She started to bend over, and then froze.

Coming around the corner of the house, the javelina was running at full speed.  There was no mistaking its intent.

I had a can of food in my hand.  Jenny’s suggestion of throwing a can at the pigs had somehow penetrated, and I’d picked one up almost without realizing it.   

 I threw it at the javelina as hard as I could.

I was always terrible at baseball (all sports for that matter) but some divine providence guided my hand and the can hit the pig right on the snout.  It tumbled to one side, slamming up against the house.

Thank god it wasn’t Razorback, I thought to myself.  He probably would have shrugged off the strike and kept coming.

Jenny was already past me, running for the door.  The pig was still rolling in the garden dirt, trying to get to its feet.  But around the corner came the other four animals, led by the Razorback.  Then, as if that wasn’t alarming enough, another half dozen of the javelinas followed.

I staggered up the steps, feeling as if I was moving in slow motion.  Like one of those dreams where your legs just don’t work.  My wife’s hand reached out of the doorway and grabbed my hand and wrenched me inside.  I stumbled in and fell as I heard the door slam behind me.

I expected a thud as the pigs hit the door.  There was silence for a moment, then a high screeching sound as something sharp scraped against the wooden surface of the door and into the metal beneath.

My wife was standing over me.  Her expression wasn’t of fear, which I expected.  

 Instead, she was glaring at me in profound disgust.

“Whatever did you do to make them so angry?” she said.