In the Barn

My father has a knife in his hand. His back is against the barn door, and he's howling at the night. My grandfather's hands are upon my shoulders. He holds me close against him, my head bent forward by the protuberance of his stomach. My father lunges at us and snarls, but we stand safely at a distance.

"Run inside, boy," my grandfather instructs me. "Tell your mother something's come loose again."

I turn around him and make for the back porch. Inside, my mother is peeling carrots over the wastebasket, listening to old music on the radio. "Mom, something's wrong with Dad. Gramps says something has come loose again."

She puts the peeler and half-peeled carrot aside and walks to the phone. "Does he have the knife?" she asks, picking up the receiver and dialing. "Uh-huh." She brings her hand to her forehead, staring hard at the floor. "Hello, Charlie? This is Mary Anne. It's Tom again. Yes. You'd better bring the truck."

I go back out through the screen door. My father and grandfather are out of sight, but the barn door is open. I start to jog towards it. I hear the screen door open and smack shut, and turn to see my mother standing under the bug-caked porch light. From the barn comes the squeal of a piglet. My father's hoots and yowls blend with the terrible cries of the piglet, and the beagles are barking and baying in their kennel. I reach the open barn door. My grandfather stands just inside. In the corner, beneath the lantern, my father is crouched over a piglet, pinning it with one hand and digging the knife into it with the other. It falls silent, stretched out bloody in the dust.

My father drops the knife. He scoops up the piglet, still crouched, then turns to see me, his face a horror of blood and long shadows. He reaches out a hand, balancing the weight of the piglet on his knees, and gestures for me to come to him. I stand motionless. He lowers his head and grins. "It's okay." His voice oddly gentle.

I take a step toward him, then feel the hand of my grandfather on my shoulder. I look up and see shame and warning in his lined solemn face.

My father sinks his teeth into the pig's back. He shakes his head, ripping at the tough skin, then releases his bite and goes for the side of its neck.

Outside is the sound of a large engine. I look out to see Charlie Hamstead's old fire truck pulling in. The lights are not on, and there are no sirens. The truck rumbles to a stop near the back porch, and my mother goes to it. She exchanges words with Charlie through his window. A hand comes out. She takes hold of it, with both her hands, then releases it. The truck rumbles down toward the barn, then stops, the engine idling. My father looks up, his wet face glistening. There is fear in his eyes. He looks around him for the knife. Outside, Charlie is unreeling the fire hose from the back of the truck. I am led away from the door by my grandfather, back into the middle of the barn. Charlie enters, dragging the heavy hose with him. He looks to see where my father squats. The piglet drops heavily to the ground, my father comes up with the knife. He is blasted back against the wall by the sudden gush of water. Mr. Charlie Hamstead stands with his legs spread wide, blasting my father into the corner with the fire hose. I see my father rise against the flow, only to be blasted against the wall and into the corner next to the feed bin.

Eventually the flow slows. It stops. Charlie has closed the valve. My father lies motionless. My grandfather's grip is tight.

"You're a good man, Charlie," says my grandfather. Charlie looks over to where we stand. I am released, and the two of them come together and shake hands. Charlie then sets the hose down and goes out to the truck. Soon the hose starts to slide away, spurting water, as it is wound back in place.

My mother enters the barn. My grandfather goes to her and holds her, saying, "It's over, it's over." Charlie comes back in.

"Mary Anne, if you need a hand again, just gimme a call."

My mother goes to him. "Thank you, Charlie. I don't know what to say." She takes hold of his hand again, then pats it and turns to where my father lies crumpled and soaked in the corner. Charlie leaves, and my grandfather goes out after him. "You'd better come, too," he calls to me.

I hesitate. My mother walks toward the feed bin, and kneels down softly next to my father. She places the back of her hand on his cheek for a moment, then clears his hair away from his forehead.

I see my grandfather in the doorway, and walk across the dusty floor to him, watching as my mother looks over to me. I am guided out. My grandfather closes the barn doors and takes me up to the house as Charlie drives away.

"Your mother's a good woman."

I wait up late, watching the barn from my window, but never see the barn doors open.