Pigboy

“Boy's dumber'n salt fish on a dryin' rack,” Sparrow observed dryly as he watched my brother high wire walk along the top rails of the pig sty, “And twice as hard headed. Ain't nobody goin' in after him when he falls.”

And on his second go round, fall he did, tumbling wildly into the filth and muck and wailing as the startled pigs quickly recovered and began advancing toward him. Sparrow watched stone faced, calmly sucking on his pipe. There were six of us on the rickety old front porch and not one of us moved to help.

“You'd best climb, boy,” the old man finally called, “Them pigs ain't been fed yet.”

Cursing and shrieking, my brother clawed his way out, scrambling desperately over the rails and landing on his rump in a heap of mud, leavings and pigshit. I don't remember who started to laugh first but in an instant we were all bent double and near hysterical. My unfortunate brother, dripping, vile smelling and humiliated, staggered to his feet and shook his fist at us before turning tail and shambling off across the back pasture like some awkward, hulking creature. This caused a second wave of laughter and Sparrow had to holler to make himself heard.

“Enough!” he thundered, “Boy got what was comin' to him. Now's time to let him be.”

There were repercussions, none of them pleasant.

My mother arrived in a fury, demanding to know how dare we throw her precious child into the pig pen and then laugh at him. Sparrow listened patiently while she ranted and raved and then quite calmly and sternly told her the truth - that no one had thrown his sorry ass anywhere, that it had been his own idea, that he'd been warned not to do it - and that her precious child was a bully and a liar who'd paid the price for his own foolish and stupid behavior.

“He was pushed!” she insisted defiantly, “And you laughed at him!”

“I don't take kindly to bein' called a liar, Jan,” Sparrow said sharply, “ So I'll thank you to git off my property and keep your boy away from here from now on. He ain't welcome and right now, you ain't either.”

I paid for my part in the adventure with a week's grounding but my brother lived with the nickname “Pigboy” the entire summer. Kids made squealing noises behind his back and once someone left a rusty bucket of fish guts and potatoe skins at the back door with a note that read Leavings for a Liar.

My grandmother, who had never doubted Sparrow's word or mine for a second, smiled bitterly and left the foul smelling thing for my mother to find. I just smiled.