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Show It is Bill's fault, as it always is. They secure another water pistol from the shrinking stack of glass tubes and begin again, now shooting one syringe while shoving a second deep into the pocket of their overalls for back up. Several more syringes break from the rough landings and the moments when they misjudge the depth of the hay. Within thirty minutes, my father and his brother are soaking wet, their hair clumped in chunks and framing their sunburned faces, the collars on their white t-shirts slack around their necks. The syringes meant for shooting into thick-skinned pigs lie broken, every one, at their feet. Before their father returns that evening from town, Bill and my father bury the shards of glass and useless plungers in the bushes that run alongside the farmhouse. The hole they dig is not deep but the branches are low and conceal the disruption in the soil. They wash for supper. How did the pigs go, their father asks, sinking his teeth into a cob of corn grown in his own fields. Because his mouth is full, the question arrives muddled, but the boys know what he has asked. When Bill says nothing, my father responds that they weren't able to finish the job. Why not, he asks, the corn held less than casually in mid air, the way one might hold a stick or the nape of a dog who has been into the trash. We lost the syringes, my father says, and looks quickly at Bill with the unspoken threat not to contradict. Lost? How? The once bustling, clinking table no longer moves. 12 |
