“Okay, okay,” Jimmy held up his hands. “I just wondered because I tried that address down on Orchard and the lady acted like she didn’t know who I was talking about. He hasn’t been around there, either.”
Mary brought her fingertips to her temples and rubbed. “You know how he is. You tried at Nation’s?”
“Yeah, I tried Nation’s. They haven’t seen him, neither. Tommy says he came in like a king a little before Christmas but they haven’t seen him since.”
Mary put her hand on the door. Inch by inch she moved it, and inch by inch Jimmy Tiernan retreated back into the hall.
“Well, if you see him, Mary, tell him thanks for nothing because I went out on a limb here, you know?”
Mary shut the door and Jimmy shouted from the other side. “But tell him check in with me anyway, will ya, Mary? When you see him? Tell him I’m not mad! Just wondering is all.”
Mary curled up on her cot and closed her eyes.
• • •
One Sunday in February 1911, an Irishwoman named Mrs. O’Malley, whom Mary knew a little and who lived in the building across the street, came looking for her to help with a hog her husband had won in a round of cards up on 102nd Street. Drunk and cocky, the husband had shown up at home with the two-hundred-pound beast on a tether, and could not explain to his wife’s satisfaction how he’d gotten the animal so far downtown. She told Mary that he presented the hog to her like he was giving her a basket full of money, or a room full of red roses, something beautiful or practical that she should appreciate, but instead it had been up to her to guard the animal where it now lived in the alley behind their tenement, tied to a piece of fence beside the common privy. He’d been there almost a week.
“And now I guess it’s time to do something with him,” Mary said.
“It is,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “And I’m useless.”
There was no sense asking if she’d consulted with a butcher, because Mary knew, if the tables were turned, she wouldn’t have sought out a butcher, either. He would charge more than the pig was worth, and keep the best parts for himself.
“I’ve a good mind to turn him out and pretend it never happened, because where in God’s name will I store the meat, but every time I go to do it, it nags me that someone else will get him. I’d rather keep some of the meat and give the rest away. My neighbors will pay me something for it.” The woman clasped her hands together. “I’d be very grateful to you.”
It was not cooking, it was butchering. All the cooking would be done by those lucky ones who got a part. Still, Mary hesitated. She rubbed her eyes. She tried to think about it clearly while also wondering if she was still strong enough to butcher a full-grown hog.
“Show him to me,” she said finally, and Mrs. O’Malley clapped once before grabbing Mary’s hand and thanking her.
Full of purpose now, Mrs. O’Malley led Mary down the stairs, across the avenue, in through her building’s front door, out through the back door, and down four rickety wooden steps. There in the frost-bitten and muddy yard was the hog, rooting at the base of the fence. Mary crouched beside him, put her hand on his back. At least it’s winter, she thought. They wouldn’t have to worry about flies. She took off a glove and tested the dexterity of her fingers in the cold. The animal grunted and stamped. The fog of his breath rose up to meet Mary’s throat and she felt the same suspicion she always did when she was around animals, that they knew their fate, that they were born knowing it, that they were wiser than any human gave them credit for. She felt tenderness for him.
“What floor are you on?”
“Fifth.” Mrs. O’Malley turned and pointed up to a distant window.
“We’ll do it here,” Mary said, without taking her eyes from the hog. “I have good knives at my place, but you find me a long, thin one for sticking him. Get me a saw if you can find one. A hammer. As many clean buckets as you can manage. Twine. I’m going to search out a few bits of wood to raise him up. When we have everything I’ll need boiling water. A lot of it, and quickly. When you’ve gathered everything and put on the water, go around and ask the neighbors who wants some of the meat. Tell a few of them to come down to help us turn him. Then come straight back to me.”
By the time Mrs. O’Malley returned, Mary had led the hog to a shaded patch of clean-looking grass in the farthest corner of the yard. Mrs. O’Malley handed over the hammer and the knives Mary had instructed her to bring, and the four buckets she’d scrubbed — three borrowed, one her own — and when she was ready, when both women had removed their coats and gloves and hung them carefully on the fence, Mary told Mrs. O’Malley to get up on the pig’s back and brace him for the blow. It had been eight or ten years, at least, but her aim was still perfect, and the animal fell heavily.
“Now,” Mary said, grabbing him by his massive head and using every drop of strength in her body to stick him. As she pressed the knife deeper, Mrs. O’Malley held the first bucket against him to catch what she could. Mary’s heart pounded and she felt the heat from her body form a barrier against the cold of the day. Both women looked troubled as they watched so much of the sweet blood run into the grass, under the fence, down the gentle dirt slope toward the privy.
“Did you put on water?” Mary asked, and Mrs. O’Malley jumped up, ran into the building and up five flights of stairs. When she came back a few minutes later she was holding a pot full of boiling water, and poured it over the animal from head to hoof. “I’ve another,” she said, breathless, when the pot was empty, and came down a moment later with a second pot. Mary went to work with the blade of her knife, removing the hair.
An hour later, Mary ran her hand gently over the pink skin to feel for an errant hair, and felt something move inside her as she looked at the animal, its blank eyes staring at an old metal bucket. He was a pathetic creature, had probably had a miserable life, and here he was. Mary pushed the knife into the pig’s belly, feeling with her fingers that the intestines were still intact. She pulled out the guts and tossed them toward the second bucket. Moving back up toward the head, she felt the hem of her skirt heavy with blood. She twisted and pulled the hog’s head free, and dropped it in the third bucket.
“I’ll take that for my trouble,” Mary said. Smelling the inside of that body was like smelling Ireland again, and she remembered being a girl, bringing the cow’s stomach and intestines to the river, and the chill that ran through her to see the eels shoot out from under rocks the very same instant, it seemed, as the first drop of filth hit the water.
By the time Mary arrived at the heart, the neighbors had begun to line up with their pots and bowls. Mila was there, and both boys, each with a vessel to carry a part home.
Late that night, much later than her usual bedtime hour, after deciding that her clothes could not be saved, she scrubbed her body in the tub, pressed her knuckles into her aching arms, cleaned underneath her fingernails, and noted that she felt wide-awake. Mrs. O’Malley had pressed money into her hand, and Mary had taken it, but it wouldn’t have mattered to her if she’d gotten nothing. All day long, and even now so many hours after helping Mrs. O’Malley wrap up those bits and pieces she wanted to keep for herself, Mary felt like someone had finally turned on a proper light after living for so long in a dim room. She smiled at the snout peeking up over the rim of Mila’s largest pot.
• • •
“You haven’t seen him yet?” Jimmy Tiernan called from across the street one early morning in March. Mary pretended she didn’t hear. He caught her again coming into the building a few days later. “I think it’s the strangest thing,” he commented, as if he and Mary were a pair of abandoned children, together in their hurt. She tried to let it in one ear and out the other, but once again, she began looking for Alfred when she stepped out of the building in the mornings. Michael Driscoll had not survived and several of them from the building had gone to the funeral Mass, but Alfred did not show. The first anniversary of her release from North Brother came and went without anyone noticing, and by herself she took the IRT uptown, walked over to the river, and stared across. She had never looked up John Cane. They’d never taken their walk together in Central Park.