The Pig Did It (12 page)

In other words Aaron felt uncommonly preferred, more than ready to be seen by anyone who, like himself, might chance into Dockery's bar on this clear and lovely night.

At least a third of Aaron's pint had yet to be drunk. He took one gulp, then another. Lolly hadn't moved, nor had the man. Aaron tried to study the froth lines tracing the patterns on the side of his glass, but he soon found himself looking again into the mirror, waiting for the next move to be made, Lolly's or the man's, backward or forward, to the left or to the right, with the hands on or off the table, Lolly speaking or Lolly listening.

It annoyed Aaron that he was giving his attention to Lolly McKeever and to the man who was with her. His experience of her earlier that day had certainly been sufficient. Beyond being a potential killer, she was, he told himself, of no interest whatsoever. He should stop looking in the mirror.

After he'd found himself looking two more times, he got up and, with the self-conscious ease of a cowboy who assumes he's being intently watched, his shoulders shifting from side to side, the set gaze focused straight ahead, Aaron did his best to saunter over to the dartboard. He plucked the three red-feathered darts—not feathers, actually, but a Darwinian mutation of plastic called “hard poly”—he pulled them from the cork and went back past the gray painted line measuring the required distance from the board. Set into the space between the bar and the back wall and sufficiently distant from the booths, the game was isolated in its own niche but still visible from almost anywhere in the room, with the player's back to the assembled—except when he would return from retrieving the thrown darts for yet another try. With a not unpracticed ease he threw the first dart. A single 20. He tossed a second. It kissed off the wire and bounced out. The third, a treble 7. Careful not to move too eagerly, he collected the darts. The first toss landed in the narrow rim surrounding the bull's-eye. A single bull. Before he could make his second throw, a man holding his pint came and stood behind him, just to the right. Aaron tried to affect an even greater ease, an indifference he wanted desperately to feel. After a few forward jabs of the held dart he made the toss. A double 9. The man moved closer. Aaron's third toss landed dead center. A double bull.

While retrieving the darts another man came to stand a few feet behind the drawn line. Aaron considered going back to the bar, but the second man was handing him a full pint. “You're the first McCloud to make a single and a double bull in one round,” he said. “In all the years, the first.”

“Thank you,” said Aaron. He accepted the pint, sipped, then set it on the end of the bar next to his other glass, still unemptied.

“Do you mind?” asked the man. He was holding three darts, the yellow hard polys.

“Well,” said Aaron, “I haven't played in a long time. A fluke, the single and the double bull.”

“All you McClouds are known liars and the better for it. Are you for a quick game?”

“Why not?”

The man was short and squat with a huge head, his neck no more than a crease between his chin and his chest. Only a taut string could have penetrated through to the actual neck bone. He was wheezing slightly, a faint sound of flapping mucus marking each inhalation, each exhalation. He was pink. His face was pink, his hands were pink, his bald head was pink. Aaron had the suspicion they'd met before, then realized that he was thinking of the pig. He knew immediately who would win at whatever game they might decide to play.

The man took the first game, reducing his numbers from the designated 301 to zero by doubling out on the double 17. Aaron still had 132 points left, the object of the game being to erase the given 301 to zero with as few throws as possible. In the second game, Aaron fared better: the man zero, Aaron 93.

Each time Aaron went to retrieve his darts he would, as he returned to his station behind the line, observe the various positions being taken by Lolly and her companion. The variants were few, but he sensed a growing intensity in the conversation. Lolly had begun to keep her hand on her glass, the man to put his arms, not just his hands, on the table, his elbows now six inches from the edge. Neither of them seemed aware of the game.

During the third round a woman—young, blond, wearing a pink T-shirt, tight jeans, and overpriced sneakers—came to watch. Between one of Aaron's throws and the throws of the pig man, she put her initials on the scoreboard—CC—meaning she would like to play the winner. She was holding her own set of darts, the blue polys. The pig man, as pitiless as only one eager for involvement with a beautiful woman can be, played out the game with seven tosses, going out on a double one. Aaron, who would not have minded Lolly seeing him in competition with a young blond, was still stuck with 197.

Justice, however, soon asserted itself. In direct combat with the woman, the pig man was undone. Sweating, twitching, he forgot the needed mathematics, to say nothing of the loss of his well-aimed eye and purposeful toss. The woman went out on a double 3, leaving his opponent, if not in the dust, at least with 199 unerased points.

The pig man, a brave smile in his lips, insisted on buying a round, including a drink for a spectator a little off to the right. The young woman declined the drink and the offer of a match with the spectator. She had to get back to her boyfriend, who was talking to a woman even younger and with hair at least as blond. The spectator accepted the drink, a glass of red wine, which, to Aaron's chagrin, scandalized no one. After the appropriate salutations, the spectator took up the cause of the blue polys, and a new game was begun—one only—between himself and Aaron.

While waiting his turn, Aaron from the side of his eye thought he could see Lolly looking in his direction. He was tempted to turn and make sure, but his opponent had stirred up some excitement in the pig man by scoring 140—two treble 20 and a single 20. Another round of drinks was ordered. The game was mercifully ended with the man's double 9.

Just as Aaron was about to offer the red polyed darts to a man at the end of the bar, a fellow distinguished by his yellow suspenders, he saw Lolly's escort advance in his direction. Aaron hesitated, then made the offer to the suspendered man. The fellow looked down at the darts, puzzled as to what they might be, then accepted, suspicious that he was committing himself to something not quite acceptable in polite society. Aaron stood up to the bar, drained his pint, and nodded to Francis, the equivalent of a spoken request. Francis obliged, whispering, “Nesh time take the yellow. Better balance.”

Before Aaron could acknowledge the advice, Francis, to demonstrate his neutrality and disinterest, moved to the far end of the bar and listened to a teenager lecture him on the impropriety of electing a woman to public office. Master bartender that he was, he listened with no response beyond the occasional blink of an eye, the nod of his head, the lift of his chin.

To his left Aaron could see the darts fly by, some in a straight line, others in a high and graceful arc, some in a slight wobble. The pig man had teamed with the spectator against Lolly's friend and the fellow in the yellow suspenders. Aaron could make out the colors—red, blue, yellow, green. From behind him came grunts, chuckles, groans, phrases like “Unlucky” and “Good darts,” and silence. Again the darts went past like hummingbirds. He would concentrate on his drink. He would find within himself the waiting grief. He would give Phila her due, a full complement of jealousy and anguish, forcing them to their limits and, if possible, beyond. Now was the time to see how much he could bear, how much he could sustain without losing consciousness; he might at least test to see how far he could go without obliterating his sense of decorum, when the bitter tears would drop, diluting his stout, disturbing the surface pattern that now suggested a fleur-de-lys.

He took a hefty gulp. The pattern changed to roiled waters receding from the rocks. After another gulp he saw the palm lines of a woman's hand, the lifeline long, the love line almost nonexistent. He made a quiet snort through his nose, then gulped again. He put the glass on the bar without checking the pattern and looked instead into the mirror.

Lolly, from her table, was watching the dart game with complete absorption. To see where her escort might be, Aaron shifted first his head, then his feet, to give himself a different angle from which to look into the mirror. There he was, his hair now falling over his forehead, the knot of his tie pulled down, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned. He was aiming a yellow-polyed dart. With a quick flick of the hand he released the dart. His face registered no reaction, no indication of success or failure. Aaron emptied his glass and raised his hand, signaling Francis. When Francis failed to notice, he used the back of the hand to wipe his lips so the gesture wouldn't be wasted.

He looked down into the emptied glass, stuck his finger into it, wiped it along the sides and put the finger into his mouth. He considered repeating the procedure but, in the mirror, he saw Lolly looking at him—or so it seemed at the distance and in the dim light. She had watched him put his finger in his mouth. To assure her it was an acceptable gesture, he did it again, this time making it seem that he was performing a taste test requiring thought and judgment. He let the finger stay longer in his mouth, lowering his eyes as if ruminating. When he checked the mirror again, Lolly had returned her attention to the game.

Francis, upon whom the raised hand had finally registered, put a fresh pint in front of Aaron. To avoid having to interpret any patterns, he took a quick sip, put the glass down on the bar, and, to the sound of a few hands clapping, sauntered even more casually than before toward the dart game. The applause had not been for him. A game had been completed after, it appeared, some rather heated playing. No indication of the victor was given, no handshakes, no forced smiles, no humble shrugs. Lolly was smiling—but at what or at whom he had no idea. But it was clearly a smile of satisfaction, the eyes steady and amused. Some expectation had been fulfilled. Perhaps her friend had won. Or quite possibly she was responding to the sight of Aaron with his finger stuck in his mouth.

Aaron circled the small crowd, avoiding any acknowledgment of Lolly. The game had ended. The original spectator was retiring from the field. “Need anyone for another game?” Aaron asked the pig man.

“You're on,” was the immediate reply. “A team, can it be? The two of us? Against the two of them?” The “two of them” consisted of Lolly's friend and the fellow with the suspenders. Aaron nodded. The starting score was set at five hundred one, team match, a double to get in—no point applicable until the player hit a double—and a double to get out—the final throw having to bring the score exactly to the winning zero. Best of three.

The first game began. Aaron was the last to qualify, but finally by aiming at the double 20 he hit a double 3, and his scoring could now begin. It seemed a requirement that one keep drinking. After a turn, each player would resort to his glass for reward or consolation. Lolly's escort was drinking what looked like a suspiciously light beer and seemed content with sips, while the others refreshed themselves heartily with protracted chugs and generous gulps. The team with the advantage bought for those less lucky. Aaron felt slightly ashamed not only to be the cause of his team's poor standing but to accept one round after another from the hands of his more skilled opponents. The pig man, however, told him not to mind. He was a guest of the nation, of county Kerry. It would be a harsh blow to Irish hospitality if Aaron were to refuse.

The opponents won the first game easily. Aaron allowed himself to look over toward Lolly. She was observing her fingernails. The second game began. This time the score was kept a bit more even, with Aaron and the pig man getting the advantage from time to time. On a treble 20 and a double 3 by the pig man, they took the game. The third and final round began.

Lolly's escort and the suspendered fellow got the advantage quickly. Aaron felt disgrace lumbering toward him, a disgrace that would also sully the pig man, who deserved better. Lolly's friend hit a double 17, which, for reasons not completely clear to Aaron, was considered something of a triumph. Since applause was impossible for people holding a glass, the approval was expressed by expletive: “Aaah,” “ooh,” “good man,” “fair play,” and, inevitably, “The fucker did it.” Aaron thought he heard an aah that sounded very much like the few aahs he'd heard from Lolly earlier in the day. He took yet another swig. He wanted Lolly to transfer her regard from her friend to himself. To make the decision official, he took a long and goodly gulp.

His next dart kissed the wire and bounced out. Then he scored a passable double 9. His third dart, for reasons not completely clear, hit a triple 19. He was given a few noises, more in surprise than in approval. He pulled his darts from the board and headed back behind the line. Lolly, he felt, was looking at him. He nodded. She made no move. She hadn't been looking at him but at the man she'd come in with. Aaron became possessed. With the pig man at his side, suggesting which numbers would best serve them, he let fly the darts,
unfailingly
scoring the needed points in the best possible order. The competition heated up. Murmurs were heard, but no aahs from Lolly. He would not look at her until the advantage was his and the pig man's. Then he would glance at her, not while retrieving his darts but immediately after the crucial points were made. With the accelerating pace expected of a truly good game, the score drew even, and then, as seemed destined, with Aaron's treble 19, he and the pig man gained the advantage.

Aaron glanced over his shoulder. Lolly was watching her friend, who was staring down in disbelief at the darts in his hand. He brushed the polys against his cheek, used them to scratch the tip of his well-shaped nose, then lowered his hand. He did not look back at Lolly. Lolly, however, continued to look at him. Warmth and sympathy were emanating not just from her gaze but from her whole body. Her posture, unthinking of itself, relaxed but clearly directed toward her friend, spoke a sad encouragement, a reassurance that defeat would not go unrewarded.