16. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
N ovember rushed in on a gust of snow that dusted the farm in an inch of white. Jon was glad to leave the hubbub of Halloween behind, but it was only the start of holiday season. There'd be a fundraising dinner in the upper level of the barn for Thanksgiving and again for Christmas, more guests staying in the farmhouse, and more days of open house. As Eddie said, they had to take advantage of the season of brotherly love and remind their donors, and the townsfolk, about the good work the farm was doing.
Hell, it paid Jon's salary, so he couldn't complain.
But on this snowy day of November 2nd, it was quiet and would be quiet all week, and for that he was grateful. Also, he hadn't dreamed of Trish's death in several weeks. Knock on wood on that score.
He walked the aisles in the pig barn slowly, looking in each stall. Elijah had done a thorough job that morning of cleaning up the soiled, wet straw and putting down fluffy fresh straw. The pigs nosed at the gates for his pets, their oinks demanding they be let out into the pasture. Eddie and Samuel left those decisions up to him, and Jon decided to let them out for a few hours. It was cold, but they'd delight in romping in the bare inch of new snow and be happy to return to the warmth of the barn by lunchtime.
He opened the wide gate to the pasture and let the pigs out of their stalls. Off they went, squealing with exuberance. He leaned against the gate for a moment and watched pig meet snow. Clumps went flying as snouts and hooves flung the powdery white stuff into the air. He chuckled to himself. In that moment, he almost— almost —felt happy.
Then he noticed one of the pigs, a pink pig named Priscilla, instantly recognizable due to the lime green bandage on her leg, trot into the bay at the end of the barn. That was the cow bay, and the cows were out in the pasture too. Jon couldn't think of what would draw Priscilla there. He straightened up and, hands in his pockets, sauntered over to check it out.
Elijah was in the cow bay. He'd been mucking, a scoop still in his hand, and he squatted down and pet Priscilla. She nosed his knee insistently, and he gently stroked her head.
Jon blinked a few times. He'd seen Elijah giving the cows and horses a pat here and there, but this was different. There was a palpable sadness and loneliness to the scene. It struck Jon that Elijah was getting comfort from Priscilla as much as he was giving it.
Where else is he gonna find it? The kid was kicked out by his own family.
For the first time, Jon stopped thinking about how Elijah's presence annoyed him—though, honestly, it hadn't been truly annoying for a while now. For the first time, he considered what it must be like for Elijah. He was like a dandelion seed, blown by the wind, landing on a spot of earth and clinging for a moment, without knowing where the wind would blow him next, or where or when he'd take root.
Jon turned away before Elijah could notice him and went to shovel the walkways around the farmhouse.
It was after lunch, when he let the pigs back into their stalls, that he noticed Priscilla romping with Ophelia, a gray-and-black matriarch. Their pen was a small one used for quarantine and only Ophelia, who was crippled with arthritis, Priscilla, whose leg was wounded, and Lulubelle, a pig who was extra submissive and shy, were housed there. Jon moved closer.
Priscilla tossed her head and did a play charge, rushing at Ophelia before turning at the last second and oinking with piggy laughter.
Jon let himself into the pen. The pigs clustered around him, hoping for a delectable nibble from his pants' pocket. He threw Ophelia and Lulabelle a dog treat and picked up Priscilla. She was a good sixty pounds and an armful. He was mindful of her hurt leg as he cradled her against his chest and fed her a treat. "Hey, you! You're full of beans today. Feelin' better? We should take a look."
She chomped away, content in his arms.
A few weeks ago, Priscilla had gashed her leg while in the pasture. Jon noticed the blood as he'd let the pigs back inside the barn at sunset. Both he and Elijah had walked the pasture trying to find the source—perhaps a bit of broken glass—but they'd found nothing, so it was a mystery. They'd had the vet out, and the vet gave Priscilla some antibiotics to head off infection, cleaned and sutured the wound, and wrapped it in lime green bandaging. Priscilla had limped on it since then. Until today.
Jon took her into a small room in the barn he used as a utility and feeding room. A stainless-steel table served a variety of functions—prepping special meals and medications was one. Now he set Priscilla on it, slipped a collar on her, and clipped it to the overhanging hook. He gave her a pile of baby carrots to keep her busy while he undid the bandage around her leg.
He drew in a breath when he saw it. When he'd changed the bandage two days ago, the wound was still unsightly. The big black stitches had been surrounded by inflamed skin that was warm to the touch. It hadn't look infected, but it had looked irritated. There was no way to keep a sixty-pound pig like Priscilla from walking on her leg, banging it into things, and doing what pigs do, which had slowed the healing.
Now the flesh was smooth and pale. The flesh around the stitches had visibly knitted. There was only white, new skin where the raw edges of the wound had been. He touched the back of his hand to it gently. It was cool to the touch.
Jon gave a pleased hmph. "Nice immune system there, Pris," he told the pig. "You're all better."
She kept chomping.
He peered closer at the sutures. It definitely looked like it was time to remove them. He'd do it himself since it was a simple procedure, but maybe he'd leave it another day just to be sure. That's when he noticed some sticky green stuff around the stitches.
Puzzled, he dug a magnifying glass out of a drawer and studied the wound more closely. There was definitely a dull green salve around the stitches. He didn't recognize it. The antiseptic ointment he used was clear. He got a pair of tweezers, dug out a bit of the salve, and wiped it on a white paper towel. What was that?
He didn't like the idea of anyone messing with his pigs. If there was doctoring to be done, that was his job. It could even be dangerous if someone was dosing the pigs without his knowledge. He kept track of all meds and check-ups on a clipboard.
He rewrapped the leg, gave Priscilla loads of scritches, and carried her back to her pen. Her cold, clammy nose on his chin as she nuzzled him made him smile, as always. But his annoyance grew again when he went to talk to his bosses.
"I haven't touched Priscilla," Samuel said when Jon found him in the garden. He was covering raised beds with compost and tarps, prepping them for spring.
"What about Eddie?"
"Doesn't sound like him," Samuel said with a verbal shrug. "He's not great when it comes to blood and stuff, so I can't see him messin' with a wound. Must have been the vet."
"She hasn't been out since October second. I double-checked my logs."
"Okay. Well. Sounds like Priscilla's doin' better, though. That's good, right?"
"Yeah," Jon said reluctantly. "Where is Eddie?"
"In the office. Go ask him."
The office was in the front room of the big old fieldstone farmhouse. It had probably been a parlor at one time, but Eddie converted it with a big desk made out of an old door painted white and set on sawtooth legs. There was a fireplace in the room, a bank of filing cabinets, and lights and a camera on a short stand mounted around Eddie's computer. Eddie did social media posts from here, and good for him, because that would never be Jon's thing.
Eddie had a spreadsheet open when Jon walked in. Ringo lay in a dog bed at Eddie's feet.
"What's up?" he asked, rolling his chair back to face Jon.
"Have you done any doctorin' with the pigs lately? With Priscilla's leg?"
"No. Honestly, I haven't been out to the pig barn in a few days. I need to go shoot some video out there and spend some time with them. What happened? Is she okay?" Eddie might be their business guy, but his heart was the most tender of them all, and his worry made Jon feel guilty for bringing it up.
"She's fine. Her leg is better. It looks good. I was just wonderin'." He gave a curt nod and left.
If neither Eddie nor Samuel had done it, that left one person. Jon went right to the poultry yard to confront Elijah. Only a cooler voice sounded in his head as he saw Elijah repairing a hole in the six-foot-high chain link that surrounded the yard.
Be chill, man. This ain't the Spanish Inquisition.
"Hey," Jon said.
Another kid might have in earphones and not hear him, but not Elijah. He probably didn't even know what earphones were. He looked up at once and his fingers froze on the wire. That sappy smile made an appearance and then vanished again. It was as if it was involuntary, and he always caught himself.
What asshole taught this kid not to smile? God, I hope it wasn't me.
Jon cleared his throat. "Have you noticed Priscilla's leg is better?"
"Priscilla?" Elijah blinked innocently.
"Yeah, Priscilla. She's the pink pig that's in stall number three with Ophelia and Lulabelle. I noticed her with you in the cow bay this mornin'."
Elijah's smile was back now—fake as a three-dollar bill. "Oh. Okay."
Jon shook his head. "What I asked was: have you noticed her leg is better?"
"Leg?" A troubled little frown appeared between those big brown eyes—and it was also fake. It annoyed Jon, but he also had a flash of rubbing it away with his thumb. What the hell? Nope. No.
He glowered hard. "Yes, leg . You know, the thing you walk on. We've got two. Pigs have four. Priscilla's hind leg is wrapped in dayglo. Can't miss it. She's got stitches."
"Didn't notice. Sorry."
Elijah went back to twisting wire with those small, deft hands. Jon stood there for a moment, wanting to argue. But he couldn't force Elijah to confess, and what if it hadn't been him? Also: Priscilla was better. So there wasn't a whole lot of motivation for him to tear down the house.
But. But.
Memories of the story Elijah had told around the campfire just a couple of nights ago surfaced in Jon's mind. It had been a spooky tale, unexpected. Unexpected in a couple of ways. Magic and curses and snakes and Amish hauntings….
Who was this kid? Elijah. How old was he anyway? There was a maturity about him that didn't match that blameless face. And there was just… something. Jon felt certain he wasn't the simple teen runaway he made himself out to be. Or maybe they'd just assumed he was.
You know what they say about assumptions.
True. But they also said, You can't force a horse to drink , as Grandma's lilting Cajun voice in his head reminded him.
He was on it though. Jon was not fooled. He resolved to watch Elijah very closely from now on.