Swine Not? (8 page)
An Unwanted Exotic
RUMPY
I
WAS A PIG
without playmates, a goalie without a net to guard, and an orphan on an island.
I understood that Ellie had made a very difficult decision, and in the larger picture of life on the planet, humans and animals had suffered and endured much worse hardships. Although I would now be in hiding, I was a thick-hided potbellied pig and would do whatever it took to find Lukie.
I had to think positively, so I wore the Falcons jersey and watched Barley play soccer from my “skybox.” Maple even stitched button eyes, small triangular ears, a little snout, and a big smiling face on my Lukieball.
It worked for a while. At first, I rearranged my closet hideout a dozen different ways, but then I got bored. Next, I took up hunting. Well, kind of. I used my “smellevision” to help Syrup survey the corners and crevices of the fish tank for unwanted rodents, but in a glass house, there aren’t many places for even mice to hide. Syrup soon took her game outside to the rooftop, which was off-limits to me.
As the days got shorter and the weather got colder, my perch above the city turned from a skybox into a prison. For hours every day I stared out the window at the people and animals below on the street. Morning rush hour slowly transformed into evening rush hour as thousands of humans buzzed along the sidewalks. They looked like ants — so tiny and busy — holding cell phones, carrying briefcases, pushing carts . . . and even walking dogs. I desperately wanted to be in their midst, collecting information. Surely one of those people knew my brother.
I took to taking longer naps and put on a few extra pounds, which Ellie noticed. That is when she came up with a small, clandestine plan that made things a tiny bit more bearable. On moonless nights, Barley and Maple would be allowed to take me for rooftop walks so I could get some exercise and fresh air. I don’t know who was more excited — the twins or me.
The kids saw this as a James Bond–type mission — to walk their pig in stealth and stay out of the path of the Butcher and the Handyman. It was a job any kid would have envied, and my twins did not disappoint me.
Double-O Pig
BARLEY
W
E TOOK
Mom’s orders as if they had come from the director of the CIA. Though I had never laid eyes on the menacing Boucher, I knew he was the enemy and had to be treated as such. At first, I thought I would be more into the job than my sister, but if I was James Bond protecting our pig, Maple became the Terminator. She obsessed over every detail, including her creation of an all-black spandex spy outfit to completely disguise our pig.
From the get-go, I could see a huge change in Rumpy’s attitude. She pranced around in the dark while Maple and I alternated between lookout and trainer. Even Syrup seemed to sense her call to duty and stationed herself on the ledge, focused on the stairwell. Rumpy walked and sniffed the air intensely, as if she were tracking something or somebody. I was so happy that Rumpy was cheerful again, but it didn’t take long before trouble showed up.
We were playing keep-away with Rumpy’s pet football under the stars on a gorgeous night when Syrup let out a high-pitched screech from her lookout position. Suddenly we heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.
Maple had anticipated such a moment, and she had cleverly arranged some giant planters and empty crates into a kind of hidden bunker. As we scurried into the shelter, the rooftop door was flung open, and a tall, skinny man in a long coat stomped toward the glass house and began banging on the door. A lit cigarette glowed in the corner of his mouth.
“Ellie! Ellie!” he shouted.
As we stared at the man through a narrow crack, we didn’t have to ask who it was. It was Boucher.
A waiter followed him, dressed in a tuxedo.
Again, Boucher banged on the door. “Where is that idiot woman?” he sniped. “I knew I would catch her sneaking away from work to bring dessert to her despicable little brats.” He banged again on the door, yelling Ellie’s name as he tossed the lit cigarette over the ledge and immediately lit another one. Even hidden in our bunker on the other side of the roof, we could smell his trail of Turkish smoke, garlic, and wine.
Just then, the waiter’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “Monsieur Boucher, it is Ellie. She is waiting for you in your office.”
Boucher spun on his heels and stomped back down the stairs. Silently we tiptoed out of our bunker and rushed Rumpy back into the fish tank.
We had met the enemy.
My Four-Star Prison
RUMPY
T
HE ROOFTOP
walks were a godsend, and my security team was better than the Secret Service. My “strolls around the prison yard” gave me access to the open air and to scents — but twenty-five stories up, the signals were faint. Still, I sniffed for Lukie, but there was not much written on the wind. Oh, to be a pig with wings.
During the day, I watched the trendy fashions on the people below. I couldn’t believe how many of them always wore black, as if they were dressed for a funeral. And then there were all the slovenly dogs who pranced about freely. They insulted my shriveled pride — all immodestly scratching themselves and spreading their fleas. Marking their territory like some kind of canine conquerors, they lifted their legs on anything they passed.
Just as I was starting to feel more like a city pet than a Tennessee tango dancer, fall gave us a tease of winter. One morning, the chubby weatherman on TV — who I considered a friend — did a fake shiver as he announced the sudden arrival of an arctic cold front. Blustery winds roared in from Canada, blowing the leaves off the trees and sending Manhattan residents scurrying for cover. It rattled the glass fish tank, and everything from newspapers to flying squirrels blew by the windows.
The kids happily donned their winter coats, scarves, mittens, and earmuffs. I could barely see their eyes when they told me good-bye. Staring out the window that morning, I worried that the approaching winter might seriously limit the little freedom I now possessed.
E
LLIE AND MAPLE
had just walked in when the phone rang.
“Someone is coming up to see us. Hide that pig!” Ellie said to Maple. The call must have come from Freddy, because he announced all visitors to the fish tank except the sneaky ones who worked in the kitchen.
I was bolting for the closet when the apartment buzzer rang. “What in the name of heaven?” I heard Ellie blurt out, but laughter followed.
My curiosity got the best of me, and I looked at the door. There stood a man wearing a complete Red Bulls home uniform. For a moment I thought it might be Oliver, up to one of his elaborately planned unannounced visits, but the person was much too short.
“Barley, what are you doing in that outfit?” Maple asked. “Those pants need to be taken up.”
“It’s a present from Dad, but I have even bigger news,” Barley said, all excited. “I’ve been invited to try out for the Red Bulls Youth Academy.”
I followed Maple to the computer, where she was already Googling. Barley pointed to an article. “Look, it says here that the Red Bulls set the pace in Major League Soccer as the only professional team to boast a regional development school. I was just invited to try out for it, as soon as our season’s over. A scout for the Red Bulls has been coming to our games. Today, after practice, Coach told me about it.”
Barley looked so happy. I tried to act cheerful, but I knew what was happening. The kids were beginning to love the joys of city living more than they loved me. The twins now adored the strange glass house, and Ellie had become an overnight success with her pastries. Filled with pride, Mr. Flutbein dined in the restaurant every night. Midmeal, he’d stand, tap his cane to hush the room, and call Ellie out to take a bow. The room would burst into applause, much to the chagrin of Monsieur Boucher. However, Boucher did acknowledge her talent — by using it to his advantage. For Mr. Flutbein’s birthday party, he assigned Ellie the preparation of two hundred pastries and a seven-tiered D’Auberge cake with an ice-cream core. At the last minute, of course, Boucher would take all the credit.
However, our Ellie got one in on the Butcher. Despite his orders, she made something else. As Boucher was describing his creation to Mr. Flutbein, Ellie unveiled a completely different dessert. It was a collection of erupting volcanoes, sitting on small edible maps. Each volcano spewed out chocolate lava, which filled the seas and then covered the nearby Isles of Meringue. It made the cover of New York Magazine, and sweet-toothed cartographers flew in from all over the world and waited in line for hours to eat at Flutbein’s and watch their volcanoes blow. At first, the Butcher was furious, but when the long lines began to form in front of the restaurant, he simply took credit for the success.
As for Ellie, fame can produce a caravan of the curious, especially if you live in Manhattan. First there were the suitors. Any single woman who cooked and looked like Ellie did was bound to draw the attention of men on the prowl for that perfect girl. A constant parade of them made reservations at the restaurant just to eat Ellie’s desserts and send requests to meet the dessert chef. A few of them actually came to the door of the fish tank when Ellie was home, clutching bunches of flowers and boxes of chocolates. None of them was as bad as Coach Boykin, but none of them gained the approval of the panel of judges seated on the couch.
Ellie always looked fabulous on her dates. She spent so much time in Flutbein’s kitchen, wrapped in a baker’s apron, that when she went out, she dressed to the nines. But as stunning and talented as Ellie was, her suitors always had the same reaction when they were introduced to us. The excitement in their hopeful eyes switched instantly to confusion when they met the twins and watched me snort and wave a leg from my perch on the couch.
A pig and two kids aren’t much baggage, if you ask me. But the guys always blurted out the same question: “Gee, how old is that thing?”
“She,” Ellie would reply.
“How old is she?” they would repeat.
Ellie always laughed, scratched my head, and said in a coy voice, “You never ask a lady her age.”
Like clockwork, that prompted the follow-up: “Well, uhhh, how long do they tend to live . . . ?”
Ellie usually let that one hang in the air as she took the candy and flowers from the man’s hand and set them on the table, to be replaced by her arm. Out she would go, into the night. Then the kids would attack the sweets and toss me the flowers to munch. We ate with confidence, knowing that Ellie would have a fun evening but be returned to us by midnight.
We knew we were big obstacles to any serious romance — but we were selfish in that regard. We wanted Ellie all to ourselves, and the odds were that two kids, a lovely pig, and a job that woke her at five every morning would keep her in our lives for quite a while.
Road Trip
BARLEY
S
OCCER SEASON
seemed to fly by like a speeding subway train. Indian summer returned, and it was a joy playing in the cool, crisp afteroon air. I am proud to say that the Barton Academy Falcons won the division championship and the City of New York championship. We also qualified for the state championship game in Albany. More important, the Red Bulls would be announcing the statewide selections of players for their development league right after the tournament. This was a big deal. However, the state championship game was taking place on the same weekend that Mom and Maple were flying to Florida. Mr. Flutbein was going to a hotel convention in Palm Beach, and he wanted to take Mom with him to show off her volcano cake.
This, of course, did not sit well with the disgruntled Boucher, but Mom was past being intimidated by the “Hunchback from Hackensack,” as the McBride family called him. Mom and Maple were very excited to go to Palm Beach, but they felt bad about missing my big game. Then there was the question of what to do with our pig. That problem was solved by — who else? — my mom.
One night I overheard her talking to my dad on the phone. She was telling him about my game. So when he called the next day and told me he was coming to New York, I acted surprised.
“Wow, your season went fast. How did I miss it?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
His voice was filled with excitement as he told me about his new job in Iceland, this time producing a TV pilot for yet another reality show. The episode was called “A Long Way from Home.” He had written an article for Pilots magazine about a couple of cod fishermen from Iceland who had gotten blown off course and wound up in an unknown bay, where they discovered an airplane wing sticking out of the ice. It turned out that the wing belonged to one of six planes that had been lost in a storm back in World War II. Dad’s story had been read by the son of one of the original pilots, and now the son owned an airline. He financed an expedition to find the planes and paid for Dad to go along and write about it.
When the expedition found the planes, the producers at Fox wanted Dad to alter the real story and make up an idiotic version that claimed the planes were wreckage from an alien invasion.
“If people believe the X-Files are real, I guess they’ll buy anything. Besides, it’s a paycheck,” Dad said.
We finally got to talk about the state championship, and he sprung his “surprise” on me: he was coming to town and taking me to the game. He also mentioned that since the Red Bulls were in first place, he was working on our play-off tickets. I didn’t let myself get too excited about that. I just checked my watch and figured it was way past midnight in Iceland. Mom had always told me to never count on anything my dad said after midnight. Anyway, I didn’t really care about the Red Bulls tickets at that moment. I was just happy my dad was coming to New York.
So Maple and my mom packed their summer clothes like sorority sisters heading for spring break. Mom ran down to the hotel kitchen to tie up a few loose ends, and Rumpy nudged their suitcases to the door and gave us a sad look.
“Rumpy,” Maple told her, “I have a surprise for you, but you have to keep it a secret from Mom.”
For weeks, Maple and I had been trying to think of a way to sneak Rumpy out of the hotel without anybody seeing her. It would be great for her to get some exercise and fresh air.
“Let me show you something I’ve been working on,” Maple continued. Then she took Rumpy behind the black curtain that hid her sewing machine. After a few minutes of wiggling and giggling and snorting, Maple came back out, followed by a . . . sheepdog!
“Ta-da,” she said, beaming.
Well, I almost couldn’t believe it. The pet ban at the hotel applied only to exotic animals. Maple had made a custom sheepdog costume for Rumpy that fit her like a glove. “It’s not quite finished,” Maple said. “It was supposed to be for Halloween, but I think it will work for the trip to Albany.”
To say our pig was happy would be a huge understatement.
“I think this costume might make it a little easier to sneak you out of the hotel,” Maple told Rumpy, “but I’m not sure Mom would approve. So let’s just keep this to ourselves.” Maple hid the costume just as Mom was walking in the door.
I told Rumpy to stay in the closet. I would be right back after I took a taxi with Mom and Maple to the airport and met Dad there when he arrived. The McBrides were stepping out.
Mom and Maple’s plane for Florida left before Dad’s plane arrived, so I saw them off and headed over to his airline. I was excited. The Falcons were going on the road. It was the first time I had ever been to an away game with my dad, and this wasn’t another scorching-hot afternoon in Huntsville. We were going to the New York State championships in Albany. And I would have my favorite goalie along for practice — provided Maple’s disguise worked.
Dad bounded off the plane in Bermuda shorts and a Windbreaker, odd clothing for someone coming from Iceland, but that’s my father. There was no stretch limo this time to take us to town. Instead, we grabbed a cab and headed to the hotel to pick up Rumpy.
On the way to the city, I filled Dad in on life in the fish tank and the situation with Rumpy and Boucher. He, of course, claimed that if he saw this guy, he would punch him in the nose.
“That might not be a very good idea, Dad, unless you’ve won the lottery and can buy Mom her own restaurant.”
Dad dropped the idle threat, and the subject switched to soccer. The traffic moved at a snail’s pace, and I took full advantage to take my dad through the entire season, play by play. As I finished the details of the last game, we were crossing the bridge into Manhattan. Dad opened the window and started making trumpet sounds in the back of the cab. Then he switched into his sports-announcer voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen — senors and senoritas et Red Bulls fans de todo el mundo!” People in the cars around us began staring at him. Heads were turning in our direction. Even our cabdriver glanced in the rearview mirror. I slid down in my seat, partly embarrassed but also laughing at my crazy father. He wasn’t finished.
“That’s right! Right here in this taxi is the star striker for the Barton Academy Falcons. He is heading to do battle in Albany for the state championship.” Now it was just embarrassing, but Dad wasn’t through. “He takes with him on this journey a good-luck charm from his teammates in Madrid — buennnnno sueerrrte, Barley McBride!” Then, out of his bag, he produced a beautiful soccer ball.
I knew instantly that it was a Real Madrid ball. I could smell the newness. Dad held it out, and just as I was about to take it and thank him, he spun the ball in his hands. There, written across it, were the words “Barley, Bueno Suerte! — Darryl Meacham.” I didn’t know how my dad had done it, but he had gotten a ball autographed by my hero. I couldn’t believe it.
By the time we arrived back at the hotel, I had thanked him, hugged him, and kissed him countless times. We rushed in. Up in the fish tank, Rumpy had heard us coming and was standing at the front door, wagging her tail.
Let’s just say that Dad and Rumpy had not developed the same kind of family affection that the rest of us enjoyed. Still, she seemed happy to see him.
“Maple really outdid herself,” Dad said when he saw Rumpy’s costume. He promised to keep it a secret. “You would never guess that she is a pig in sheepdog’s clothing.” He laughed and laughed at the whole thing.
“Rumpy, Dad and I are taking you with us,” I said. She always seemed to understand what I was saying and began doing her twirling thing. “So what exactly do we do with her?”
Dad simply said, “Barley, I am in show business. All we do is dress her in that dog suit and walk out of here like we own the joint. Nobody will dare bother us. You get her ready to roll. I’ll go to Hertz and pick up the van. See you in thirty.”
Getting Rumpy ready meant filling a cooler with enough food to keep her happy, and I was already packed. She hadn’t been out of the building since the beginning of my soccer season, and here it was, the end of my soccer season. I was happy she was going to be able to run around — and more important, she would see my game.
Thirty minutes later, Dad was back, and we led Rumpy to the mirror before we left. She stood there for a few seconds and then started snorting and spinning.
“It seems the girl likes her outfit,” Dad said as he rubbed the top of my head. “It’s showtime!” he added, clapping his hands. “Watch out, Albany! We have a championship to win!”
