Mark tiptoed down the tan clay road to where it forked into three lanes. Between the first and second lane was a huge oak with limbs as big around as he was, hanging low over the road. People wanting to go down that lane by automobile had to use the oncoming lane, which was the first lane, and people riding horseback had to duck their heads as they went under. Nobody would cut it because the tree was so old. Between the second and third lane was a thick barbed wire fence with big black and white pigs inside. The fence came to a point where the two lanes joined, and then marched along the inside median. It widened with the road and then came to a sudden cut off. There was no shelter for the pigs, and no one lived with the pigs. There were only a thick wood and shaved underbrush for them to live in. Once, there had been goats living in the triangle fence, but they had all gotten worms or something and died.
It was the pigs Mark came for. He looked down all the roads, dusty and tan from the heat of the Georgia summer, and, satisfied no one was going to see him, he pulled from under his shirt a bag of bread and from his back pocket a slingshot. He opened the bag and tossed a few chunks of bread over the fence.
"Piiig-EE!" he cried, shaking the bag so that it would make noise. "Piiig-FE!" That was all it took, for the pigs came thundering through the underbrush. They came so quickly and so loudly that Mark got scared for a moment, thinking they would keep on running at him through the fence. But they stopped miraculously and ate the bread, tearing it from each other's jaws. Mark looked around again, tingling nervously because of the noise they made.
Turning his attention to the twenty or so snoffling animals, he watched as they thrust their crudely formed snouts through the barbed strands. Their tiny eyes regarded him dimly, gluttonously, like perverted, overweight cannibals.
He hated them. He hated their homelessness, their uselessness, their beggardly response to his call, their nasty, graceless bodies.
"Here, fat piggy," he whispered, watching them carefully, his teeth clenched. He walked close to the fence and began to pull out a piece of bread. He felt pressure behind his eyes as all the pigs began to paw and push each other to get to the bread Mark had in his hand. Holding the bread and the slingshot in his left hand, Mark bent over slowly to find a good rock, one the size of a walnut. The pigs kept thrusting and snuffling and squealing all over each other, eyeing the white bread. Mark found a rock bigger than a walnut, and loaded it. He walked closer to the fence and sat the bread one pace from the wire near a post.
The pigs grew furious and started to fight each other for the privilege of being closest to the bread, the squeals growing louder and louder. Mark stepped away from the bread and let himself get good and angry at the bad manners of the lowly animals, then drew back and fired the rock into the mass. He didn't know which pig the rock hit, or if it hit two or three of them. He just heard a roar of squeals and saw a temporary retreat of about five of them before they turned back and started to fight again. Mark picked up another rock and another rock, shooting them as rapidly as he could. Finally, the pain overtook the need for the piece of bread, and the pigs fled to a safe distance as rocks continued to batter their backs.
About twelve feet into the woods, the pigs turned and looked at Mark. Mark stood and looked at them, then went over and picked up the bread and tossed it over the fence. One brave pig, one perhaps more hungry than the rest, came forward and snatched the bread in his grungy snout. Mark let it, then tossed the rest of the bread from his bag over the fence and watched the whole pack descend with cloven hooves and filthy jowls on the helpless bread. He let his anger mount again, then walked away, letting the anger breed until the next time he could get away from his house.
His dad was waiting for him in the carport. He was sitting in a canvas chair in the little sloped drive, waiting there, Mark knew, because there was no other way to get home other than by the road. The woods were too thick, and even Mark would rather face his father's punishment than go through the woods at dusk.
His dad was smoking a cigarette, and knocked the ashes off onto the ground. Mark almost stopped in the soft driveway, but determined to keep going to face his punishment. Knowing, he stood before his father's chair while his father looked him over, one eye closed, the other almost so because of the cigarette. Mark wanted some of that cigarette, for he had started smoking, too.
"You gone out of the yard again, boy?" his father asked needlessly. Mark nodded, hoping his father wouldn't ask him to turn around to where the slingshot hung in his back pocket. Mark looked at his father's tan shoes and at the crushed grass under them.
"Mmm. Wonder why?" Mark looked up to his father's face and saw that the marble green eyes were looking out to the dirt road in front of the house. Mark shrugged and looked down again. "You must know why because you keep doing it, Mark." Silence. "Go call your brothers."
Mark sucked in air, knowing what was going to happen now. Tears like stingers pinched at Mark's eyelids, and his jaw set. He knew again the true hate he had for his father, and knew it to be real.
He stepped slowly, stubbornly past his father to get his four brothers, but his father grabbed his arm and pulled him close, his breath sour from the cigarette. "I'm going to count to fifty."
Mark controlled his walk until he got around the back corner of the house, and then he ran, looking furiously for his brothers, counting to himself, wanting to find them, but not wanting to. He found Richmond, Cecil, and John in the fort behind the storage room, but couldn't find Jack.
Twenty-eight, Twenty-nine...
"Jack!" Mark yelled, scared. He heard a noise at the edge of the woods beyond the garden. "Jack!"
Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four ...
Jack stepped out from behind a pine tree and zipped his pants. "Gah lee, Mark. Can't even pee ..."
"C'mon, Jack! I'm on forty!" Jack froze, knowing, then started to run toward the house behind his brother.
Out of breath, the two stood with Richmond and Cecil and John in the front yard with their father. They stood out of order, but his father didn't seem to mind this time. Mark was the oldest. He was eleven. Then came Richmond, and Cecil, and Jack, and then John, who was six. Their mother had died while having him.
His parents had been married just over six years. The father and the sons had been left in shock without her. He told them repeatedly that their mother was a good woman, but that God decided that it was time to take her to Heaven. He said that it was during John's birth that she died, that he shouldn't feel responsible, but he said it so often they began to think he was. As the years passed, Richmond and Cecil and Mark had begun to daydream aloud about their mother, telling great stories about her to John and Jack, who didn't remember her. With her, things had been okay. She bad been gentle and loving. Now they were all subject to their father, who had hired an old black lady to tend to them while he worked at a government office in town. At work, their father was a number. At home he was a judge.
"Mark has gone out of the yard." His father spoke quietly, but as if Mark had killed someone. No one looked at Mark. All the boys had been in Mark's position before and knew what it was like. Instead, they all squirmed their feet in the grass and looked down to avoid attention. "Did anyone see him go? Anyone who should have reminded him that he should not go out into the street without a grown-up, without permission?" Mark looked down at his brothers and saw all the little brown haired heads shake slowly. "Then I guess Mark will have to be punished alone?" They squirmed again remembering their pact, that no one brother would reveal the others, but that punishment, when their father caught them, would not be taken alone. Anyone who broke the pact would be unprotected from their father. The secrets they hid between themselves were far worse than Mark leaving the yard. Richmond still wet the bed every night, and Cecil still cried when he had to wring the chickens' necks. John was still afraid of the dark and had horrible dreams and dark circles under his eyes, and Mark still snuck into the woods with his girlfriend after school each day. Jack was still infatuated for some reason with starvation, and would feed his dinner and lunch to dogs. They all had secrets. It was the pact or blackmail.
"No, sir," Jack spoke up. He had the most nerve. 'I saw him go, but I forgot to tell him to stop." His father nodded, still smoking the little white stick. "Anyone else?"
After a few moments all of the brothers had quietly confessed to having seen Mark leave the yard, unattended and without permission.
"Do we all remember what happened? Do we all remember why we don't go down the road?" The heads nodded. "Somehow I don't think we do. John, show all of your brothers why no one is to go out onto the road alone and without permission.
John tilted his head and self-consciously and began to walk slowly around his brothers and father, who was still sitting in the chair. The limp was almost gone, but their father used it as a constant reminder of what had happened four years ago when John had wandered out into the road. Ladonna, the second maid they had after Mrs. O'Connor had died, had been trying to watch all of the boys as they played out in the front yard. Somehow, John had gotten away from her and had been hit by an automobile. The results were a new maid and a limp for the youngest of the brothers, the one who had killed their mother.
Mark watched under darkened brow as John walked around in little circles a couple of times. He felt his back tighten as it did when the birch fell, and felt the pressure behind his eyes, now feeling so fresh, well up again in an easy path. But even Mark O'Connor did not dare cross his father.
"You may join the others, John. Thank you, son," Mark's father said. His tone was not sarcastic. "Now everyone go find a birch."
This was the one time the brothers were in competition, because their father made the rules in this part of the game. The rule was that the son who found the thinnest birch branch would get one stroke fewer than the others, since the thinner the branch, the worse the pain of the stroke. Cecil was best at finding the best branch, but would usually give his branch to John or Jack, which infuriated Mark. Rules were rules.
This happened now, so John would get the fewest cuts. "Take down your britches and turn around," their father ordered, still sitting in the chair. They did so rather slowly, their father giving them this luxury, and waited, tensing when they heard the quick creak of the canvas chair announcing that their father had stood. Mark heard him mash his cigarette, his second one, in the short grass with a whisper of his shoe. Seconds later they heard John gasp as the birch cut across his buttocks. He received three quick whips, meaning the others would get four. Their father moved to Cecil who always got teary-eyed when he received a whipping, though this time he cried out once, making the other brothers jump. He received an extra stroke for crying out.
Jack was next, and the seven-year old took his like a little man. Mark was proud of his little brother.
Their father skipped Mark and went on to Richmond, who had a hide of leather. He heard strokes fall hard on Richmond who didn't seem to mind a great lot.
Mr. O'Connor saved Mark for last. All the boys were made to redress and watch as Mark received his, since he was the originator of the sin.
Mark stood before his brothers and they watched him, even at their age, feeling his humiliation. Long ago, punishment had lost its humor with the O'Connor boys, for its frequency was frightening and severe.
Mark winced inside at the loss of his dignity before his brothers, he the oldest, deeply resented being made to pull his pants down before them. Knowing that his brothers were uncomfortable, too, didn't help Mark feel better.
The first lash came as hard as Richmond's, and cut the backs of his thighs. The second lash came moments later, slicing through the previous cut with neat precision. The third one was long in coming, because his father had stopped to light another cigarette. When it came, it was if the break had done his father some good. It was hard and knife-like. White needles pierced Mark's vision, and he winced with his teeth clenched so hard his temples ached.
Cecil started to hiccup.
The fourth cut sliced into the same welt, hitting nerves under his buttocks so exposed that Mark's whole body shuddered in agony. He stood, exposed, jaws tight, eyes fiercely focused on the road before him, wondering where it really led.
Kristina Lynn Al ford
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