By Janet Nelson
As I reached the
bottom of the steps, I heard their muffled scheming, leaking out from
around the doors, pooling in a small circle of illumination at the foot
of the stairs. A late night call to the bathroom had sent me down the
narrow and steep staircase of the old farmhouse. My parents were in the
kitchen, lurking behind the swinging wooden doors that separated that
space from the rest of the house, as if it were some sanctified female
domain with no connection to the real world of the living.
“Well, if we don’t do
it tomorrow, when can we?”
“I don’t know. She won’t be any good to eat if we wait much longer.”
“Hmmm. Not only tough, but I don’t want to make a big production out of
it. The less she struggles the better. No sense in letting her get much bigger.”
“Yeah, I guess. I never have gotten used to this part.”
“Do we need to ask the neighbors to help, or can we do this one alone,
do you think? “
“Well, I’m fine with it, if the boys help.”
“Okey Dokey.”
I heard the squeak of the chalk as she wrote on her “to do” list. “Butcher Janet. First thing in the morning,
before it gets too hot.”
The old bathroom, with its claw foot tub and porcelain sink provided my
only refuge. I reached up and pushed the lock over with a satisfying
click. My toes slid along the cold linoleum as I sat down on the closed
lid of the toilet and contemplated my unfortunate revelation. I don't
remember thinking the word. "cannibals", although I distinctly recall
taking stock and trying to come to terms with the idea that I had been
born and bred for no other reason than this untimely end. The grotesque
waste of my young and promising life was not lost on my soon to be
five-year-old mind. I groped for a way out. Cataloguing my possible
sanctuaries, I weighed the pros and cons of each, trying to manufacture
my own destiny and picture a life outside of my small family.
My eyes wandered to
the long, lace-covered window. The fires from the reservation were
burning brightly this night, as they often did in those days. The drums
and chanting were clear. Mesmerizing. I was
under strict orders to stay clear of the reservation, which our small
farm bordered. The unspoken understanding was that our Indian neighbors
were somehow savage and unclean. Under the circumstances, this
stricture was scrutinized and momentarily discarded.
I knew, however, that
they would not be interested in adopting me and keeping me safe from
this gruesome turn of events. Despite my father's rules to the
contrary, I had wandered down the old dirt road to the chief's house a
few weeks before. The lure of happy children's voices at play had been
too strong. The hot dust, smooth and slightly gritty, flew up from
between my toes in small silver geysers. Explosions of Gold finches
lifted off, and then settled beside the road in the long seed heads
that waved and bowed beside the ditches on either side. The sounds of
children and adults conducting the business of their lives had turned
to shocked stillness as I stood in front of their small weathered
house. The screen slammed as a man came to stand on the stoop, armed
with a rifle that he held as if it were a scepter, barring me from
their kingdom. Their dogs had put up such a ferocious barking that I
had left before any words were exchanged.
Next, I considered the
possibilities of the neighbors on our other side. They had thirteen
children and two hundred dairy cows. The hayloft in their spacious barn
was a perfect hide out. I could subsist on milk and escape detection.
Better yet, perhaps I could simply insinuate myself into their crowded
household. What's another kid, more or less, when there's that many?
Surely I could secret myself away in the cracks of their busy life and
no one would notice. No one, that is, but the grandma, who lived in her
own little stone house up the hill. She noticed everything. I pictured
her long boney fingers picking dandelion greens for supper. Her dark, glassy eyes like an old hen, quick and
observant, but strangely inhuman. This was surely not the best
choice if I was to avoid certain death and possible consumption. It
suddenly struck me. Now wonder they had all of those kids! They were
probably looking forward to feasting for years to come!
A sudden pounding on
the door brought me to my feet.
"Hey! I have to pee!"
It was my brother, Gary. Truly my savior, if anyone could be. Nine years my senior, and my affectionate protector from
the beginning. I slid the lock back.
"Help!"
"Help, schmelp.
Get out of the way. I have to go."
"No!" I stood blocking his entry in an attempt to capture his
attention. "I heard them talking. I'm on the list. First
thing in the morning!"
His mouth fell open,
and he collapsed in undignified and what I thought to be disrespectful
laughter. "Not you, honey. The pig!" He
gathered me up and hugged me all the way back to bed. It was then that
the disadvantages of having two teenage brothers first came into focus.
The boys had named all of the animals of the farm. Sir
Loin and Ham Burger for the two steers. Four pigs proudly
sported the name of each child, respectively. I remember the flood of
relief I felt when this epiphany settled in. My family was still my
family, and not some crazed band of marauding cannibals. Love would not
be replaced by some twisted culinary perversion.
In hindsight, I am
appalled that my four-year-old mind would so quickly accept the notion
of familial murder. What could I have been thinking? We were a
reasonably happy and well-adjusted tribe, as far
as families in the early sixties go. I see now that in reality,
this type of whole-hog acceptance gives our children magic, Santa
Claus, and the Easter Bunny. A gift, really, but a
two edged sword as well. It is also this propensity for
unquestioning belief that fosters notions of savages lurking in the
houses of our neighbors, and paranoia that spills out of our small
lives and flows beyond the boundaries of our tidy little yards. Really,
who is to say that on some metaphoric level the fear of losing oneself
to an unquestioned authority isn’t grounded in truth? Family, at one
point or another, has consumed us all. It remains up to the individual
to find one's own truth, and redemption.