An Abundance of Katherines (17 page)

“Christ, it’s like you never snuck out of a house before,” Lindsey whispered. She pressed at the corners of the screen and then lifted it up. She squirmed out headfirst, her skinny legs kicking slightly as she did a somersault onto the front lawn. Colin followed, feet first, trying a kind of limbo strategy that looked ridiculous.

Having successfully sneaked out of the house, Lindsey and Colin brushed themselves off, ambled to the front door, and opened it.

“Hollis,” Lindsey called, “we’re home!” Hollis was seated on the couch, a pile of papers in her lap. She turned to them and smiled.

“Hey,” Hollis said, all trace of anger gone from her voice. “D’y’all have fun?”

Lindsey looked at Colin, and not at Hollis. “I’ve rarely had so much fun in my life,” she said.

“I bet,” said Hollis, who didn’t seem to be listening.

 
“It was the warehouse.” Colin spoke softly, conspiratorially, as they climbed the stairs. “She goes to the warehouse on Thursdays.”

Lindsey smirked. “Yeah, I know. You’ve lived here three weeks; I’ve lived here seventeen years. I don’t know what’s going on, but between that and selling land and always being in a furious phone conversation whenever we show up at the house, I’m starting to think a road trip might be in order,” said Lindsey.

“They can solve a surprising number of problems, road trips,” Colin acknowledged.

“Road trip? Did somebody say road trip?” Hassan stood at the top of the staircase. “Because I’m in. So is Katrina. She’s a college student, you know. I’m dating a
college girl
.”

“She’s getting her clinical nursing assistant license at Danville Community,” Lindsey said dismissively.

“That’s college; that’s all I’m saying! And to think, Singleton, you thought I’d never get a college girl unless I
went
to college.”

“How was the date?” Colin asked.

“Sorry, dude. Can’t talk about it. My lips are too numb from all the kissing. That girl kisses like she wants to suck out your soul.”

 
Colin sneaked into Hassan’s room immediately after Lindsey went downstairs to bed, and they discussed Hassan’s situation (second base over the shirt), and then Colin told him about Lindsey, minus the secret hideout, because it seemed private.

“I mean,” Colin said, “it was dark and our whole faces were touching except our lips. She just brought her head against mine all of a sudden.”

“Well, do you like her?”

“Um, I don’t know. At that moment I kinda did.”

“Dude, think about it. If you could make your Theorem work, you could predict how it would go.” Colin smiled at the thought. “Now more than ever, you have to finish.”

fifteen

The next few days were slightly awkward with Lindsey. She and Colin remained friendly, but it was all so superficial, and Colin felt like they ought to be talking about the big issues of mattering and love and capital-t Truth and Alpo, but they only talked about the mundane business of taking oral histories. The sly jokes were gone; Hassan complained repeatedly that “all of a sudden, I’ve got to pull all the funny-weight in this family.” But slowly, things returned to status quo: Lindsey had a boyfriend, and Colin had a broken heart and a Theorem to finish. Also, Hassan had a girlfriend and they were all preparing for a pig hunt—so, then again, things weren’t
entirely
normal.

 
The day before his inaugural Feral Hog Hunt, Colin Singleton prepared the only way Colin Singleton would: by reading. He scanned through ten volumes of
Foxfire
books for information about the habits and habitat of the feral hog. Then he Googled “feral pig,” from which he learned that wild pigs were so widely disliked that the state of Tennessee pretty much allowed you to shoot one whenever you came across it. The feral pig is considered a “pest animal,” and as such is not subject to protections afforded, say, a deer, or a person.

But it was in Hollis’s copy of a book called
Our Southern Highlands
that Colin found the most descriptive passage regarding the wild hog: “Anybody can see that when he
⁶⁷
is not rooting or sleeping, he is studying devilment. He shows remarkable understanding of human speech, especially profane speech, and even an uncanny gift of reading men’s thoughts, whenever those thoughts are directed against the peace and dignity of pigship.” This, clearly, was not an enemy to take lightly.

Not that Colin intended to take any action against the peace and dignity of pigship. In the extremely unlikely event that he even came across a hog, he figured, he’d allow it to study devilment in peace. Which was how he justified not mentioning the hog hunt to his parents during their nightly phone conversation. He wasn’t really going on a
hunt
anyway. He was going for a stroll through the woods. With a gun.

He awoke to his alarm the morning of the hunt at four-thirty. It was the first time since arriving in Gutshot that he’d beaten the rooster to waking. Immediately, he opened his bedroom window, pressed his face up against the screen, and shouted, “COCK-A-DOODLE DOO! HOW DO YOU LIKE IT FROM THE OTHER END, YOU LITTLE FUGGER?”

He brushed his teeth and then got in the shower. He kept the water coldish so as to wake up. Hassan came in to brush his teeth and shouted over the running water, “
Kafir
, I can say it with confidence: Today is a day that no pigs will die. I’m not even allowed to
eat
the motherfuggers;
⁶⁸
I’m sure not going to
kill
one.”

“Amen,” Colin answered.

 
They were in the Hearse, with Lindsey and Princess in the backseat, by five.

“Why the dog?” asked Hassan.

“Chase and Fulton like to use her when they’re hunting. She doesn’t do a lick of good—poor Princess cares more about her curls than tracking pigs—but they enjoy it.”

They drove a couple of miles past the store and then turned off onto a gravel road that wound up a small hill through thick foliage. “Hollis hasn’t sold
this
land,” she complained, “because
everybody
likes it.”

The road dead-ended into a long, narrow, one-story wooden house. Two pickup trucks and JATT’s Blazer were already parked by the lodge. TOC and JATT, whose jeans were again too tight, sat on the tailgate of one pickup, their legs dangling. Across from them, a middle-aged man was seated in what appeared to be a plastic chair stolen from a third-grade classroom, examining the muzzle of his shotgun. They all wore camouflage pants, longsleeved camouflage shirts, and bright orange vests.

As the man turned to speak to them, Colin recognized him as Town-send Lyford, one of the people they’d interviewed at the factory. “How are y’all?” he asked as they got out. He shook hands with Colin and Hassan, then hugged Lindsey. “Pretty day for hunting hogs,” said Mr. Lyford.

“It’s a little early,” Colin said, but by then light was just reaching the hillside. The sky was clear, and it did promise to be pretty—if hot.

Katrina peeked her head out from the lodge’s front door and said, “Breakfast is on! Oh, hey cutie.” Hassan winked at her.

“You’re a smooth cat.” Colin grinned.

 
Once Colin and Hassan were inside the lodge, SOCT handed them each camouflage outfits complete with ridiculous bright orange vests. “Y’all change in the bathroom,” he said.

And by “bathroom,” SOCT meant “outhouse.” On the upside, the stench of the lodge’s outhouse masked the smell of the camouflage clothes, which reminded Colin of all the worst parts of the Kalman School’s gym. Still, he kicked off his shorts and slipped into the pants, the shirt, and the crossing-guard-orange vest. Before leaving the outhouse, Colin emptied out his pockets. Fortunately, the camo pants had huge cargo pockets—plenty of room for his wallet, his car keys, and the minirecorder, which he’d taken to carrying everywhere.

Once Hassan had changed, too, everyone settled down on one of the homemade benches and Mr. Lyford stood up. He spoke with a thick accent, and with authority. Mr. Lyford really seemed to
enjoy
placing
emphasis
on his
words
.

“The feral pig is an extremely
dangerous
creature. It is called the poor man’s
grizzly bear
, and
not
for nothing. Now I hunt
without
dogs, choosing instead to
stalk
my prey as the
Indians
did. But Chase and Fulton—they’re dog hunters, and that’s a’ight, too. Either way, though, we must remember this is a dangerous sport.”
Right
, Colin thought.
We have guns and the pigs have snouts. Dangerous, indeed.
“These pigs are
pests
—even the government says so—and they need to be
eradicated
. Now usually I would say you’re gonna have trouble rootin’ out a feral pig in the
daytime
, but it’s been a while since we hunted around here, so I think we have an
excellent
chance. Now I’m going to go out with
Colin
and
Hassan
,” which he pronounced HASS-in, “and we’re going to go down into the flat land and see if we can’t catch a trail. Y’all can split up as you wish. But
be safe
out there, and do not take the
dangers
of the
feral
pig lightly.”

“Can we shoot ’em in the nuts?” asked JATT.

“
No
, you can
not
. A feral boar will charge if shot in the
testes
,” answered Mr. Lyford.

“Jesus, Dad, he’s kidding. We know how to hunt,” said TOC. Before that, Colin didn’t realize TOC and Mr. Lyford were related.

“Well, boy, I reckon I’m nervous sending you out
alone
with a bunch of
yahoos
.”

Then he went over some boring stuff about guns, like which slugs to use in your shotgun and to always keep both barrels loaded. It turned out that Lindsey and TOC were going out together to a tree stand near a baited patch, whatever the hell that meant, and JATT and SOCT were going out in another direction with the adorably non-threatening labradoodle. Katrina would stay in camp, as she refused to hunt on moral grounds. She was, she told Colin as they sat at the cafeteria, a vegetarian. “I think it’s right criminal,” Katrina said of hog hunting. “Although those pigs
are
sort of horrible. But there wouldn’t even
be
any wild hogs except we pen up so many pigs to eat.”

“I’ve been thinking about going vegetarian,” Hassan told her, his arm draped around her waist.

“Well just don’t get
skinny
,” Katrina answered, and then they kissed right in front of Colin, who still couldn’t get his head around any of this.

 
“All right, boys,” Mr. Lyford said, smacking Colin on the back rather too hard. “Ready for yer first
hunt
?”

Colin nodded with some reluctance, waved good-bye to Lindsey and the others, and headed out with Hassan, whose orange vest was not quite big enough to fit comfortably around his chest. They set off down the hill, not following a trail, just bushwacking. “We
begin
by looking for
rootings
,” Mr. Lyford explained. “Places where a
hog
has been turning up the soil with his long
snout
.” He talked to them like they were nine years old, and Colin was wondering if Mr. Lyford thought they were younger than they actually were when Mr. Lyford turned back to them with a can of chewing tobacco and offered them each a pinch. Colin and Hassan both politely declined.

Over the next hour, they hardly spoke, because “the
feral hog
may shy away from the
human
voice,” Mr. Lyford said, as if the feral hog did not shy away from other voices, such as those of Martians. Instead they walked slowly through the woods, their eyes scanning the ground in search of rootings, their guns pointed down into the dirt, with one hand on the stock and the other sweating against the barrel. And then, finally, Hassan saw something.

“Uh, Mr. Lyford,” Hassan whispered. He pointed to a patch of dirt that had been dug out haphazardly. Mr. Lyford knelt down and inspected it closely. He sniffed at the air. He dug his fingers into the dirt.
“This,”
Mr. Lyford whispered, “is a rooting. And you, HASS-in, have found a
fresh
one. Yes, a hog has been here recently. Now, we
track
it.”

Mr. Lyford doubled the pace then, and Hassan struggled to keep up. Mr. Lyford found another rooting, and then another, and he felt sure he had the trail, so he took off in a kind of race-walk, his arms pumping so that the gun wiggled in the air like he was in color guard. After about five minutes of that, Hassan hussled up to Colin and said, “Please God, no more run-walking,” and Colin said, “Seriously,” and then they both together said, “Mr. Lyford?”

He turned around and walked several paces back to the boys. “What
is
it, boys? We’re on the
trail
here. We’ve got a hog almost
in sight
, I can feel it.”

“Can we slow down?” Hassan asked. “Or take a break? Or take a break and then slow down?”

Mr. Lyford sighed. “Boys, if you are not
serious
about hunting the
feral pig
, then I can just
leave
you here. We’re on the trail of a hog,” he whispered urgently. “This is no time for lollygaggin’ or dillydallyin’.”

“Well,” suggested Colin, “maybe you should just leave us behind then. We can sort of protect your flank, in case the
feral pig
doubles back around.”

Mr. Lyford looked extremely disappointed. He pursed his lips and shook his head sadly, as if he pitied the poor souls who were unwilling to push their bodies to the limit in search of the feral pig. “Very well, boys. I’ll come back and get ya. And when I do, it’ll be to get your help carryin’ out a
gorgeous
hog.” He started to walk off and then stopped and pulled out his can of chewing tobacco. “Here,” he whispered, handing it to Colin. “I fear the
hog
will smell the
winter
green.”

“Uh, thanks,” said Colin, and Mr. Lyford ran off into the distance, weaving through the forest in search of more, fresher rootings.

“Well,” Hassan said, squatting down to sit on a rotting fallen tree. “That was fun. Jesus, I didn’t think hunting involved so much
walking
. We should have gotten the sweet gig Lindsey has, sitting in a tree and making out and waiting for a pig to walk by.”

“Yeah,” said Colin, absentmindedly.

“Hey, d’you bring the minirecorder?” asked Hassan.

“Yeah, why?”

“Gimme,” he said. Colin pulled it out of his pocket and handed it over.

Hassan pressed record, and then started up with his best
Star Trek
voice. “Captain’s log. Stardate 9326.5. Hog hunting is incredibly boring. I think I’ll take a nap and trust in my brilliant Vulcan companion to let me know if any
extremely
dangerous
feral hogs
walk by.” Hassan handed back the minirecorder and scooted over to lie down beside the fallen tree. Colin watched Hassan close his eyes. “Now
this
,” Hassan said, “is
huntin
’.”

Colin sat there for a while listening to the wind tease the trees as clouds moved in above them, and he let his mind wander. It went to a predictable place, and he missed her. She was at camp still, and they didn’t let her use a cell phone, at least not last year, but just to be sure he pulled his phone out of his camouflage pants pocket. He got reception, amazingly, but had no missed calls. He thought of calling but decided against it.

He would call when he completed the Theorem, which led him back to it and the seemingly intractable III Anomaly. Eighteen out of nineteen Katherines worked, but this utterly insignificant blip on the Katherinadar came out looking like a jacked-up smiley face every time. He remembered her again, thought back to whether he’d failed to account for some facet of her personality in his calculations. Admittedly, he’d only known her for twelve days, but the whole idea of the Theorem was that you didn’t have to know someone intimately in order for it to work. Katherine III. Katherine III. Who would have thought that she, among the least important to him, would prove the Theorem’s downfall?

Colin spent the next ninety minutes thinking, without ceasing, about a girl he’d known for less than two weeks. But eventually, even he grew tired. To pass the time, he anagrammed her sprawling name: Katherine Mutsensberger. He’d never anagrammed her before, and he was fascinated to find the word “eighteen” within her. “Me returns eighteen barks; eighteen errs makes burnt.” His favorite: “Remark eighteen, snub rest.” But that didn’t really make sense, because Colin had certainly remarked all nineteen.