SPF

~
When my daughter asked if she could keep the pig, I said no. But like
her mother, theres something of a wood sprite about McKennaeyes like
an emerald pool, hair as curly as bean vinesa bit of magic. And when
magic entreated her mortal father for the one and only wish of her heart,
how could I refuse?
So, if theres a lesson to be learned here, its this: when a neighbor
and his family depart for the country, cut off all communication. Avoid
phone calls, emailsanything that could lead to a visit for the weekend on a
farm where a sow may give birth to piglets.
Because when you have a four-year-old who loves anything that is
pinkno, make that anything that is pink and also breathes, that pig will
end up being be your pet. Guaranteed.
Im told piglets cost around the vicinity of eight hundred dollars. So,
this is a steal of a deal were getting here.
Tell my wallet that when at two in the morning were rushing
Buttercup to the veterinary hospital because shes swallowed dish detergent
and were somewhat suspicious this doesnt provide the utmost nutritional
value for her.
Tell my backyard that when the ground is riddled with holes that look
as though we are intent on burrowing a tunnel to China, but in reality its
the pig that has an affinity for all things Asian.

I coax my Ford into park, reprimanding the gas meter for grumbling
that its empty instead of full when I already have enough mouths to feed
without worrying over the ever increasing metabolism of the exhaust pipe.
Our houseor perhaps I should say closetis a happy sad kind of
place: the edges of the rooftop smile upwards, but its shingles are flaking
off on the corners like cracked lips suffering from exposure to the sun. Then
there is the paint on the window frames, peeling and fluttering to the
ground, in dire need of an application of aloe vera.
I should spruce it up. I should construct flower boxes and nestle
geraniums in their contents, repair the drain pipe, fix the concrete steps
crumbling on the porch...
But then there is the wad of envelopes lurking in the mailbox. And no
matter how many times I hope theyre all just letters from my mother in
Michigan or checks celebrating that Ive won the lottery, its only ever the
phone, electricity, and mortgage bills that trouble themselves with stamps
these days.
So I forget about the geraniums, and look instead towards the doggy
door, where my daughter grins mischievously at me as she maneuvers her
slender hips through the passageway.
She barks at me.
Whos a good girl? I say. My glasses slide down the mountain top of
my nose, released from the oil thats been collecting there from rubbing it
between customer service calls during the day. I stroke my daughters lily

colored chin, my fingers recalling what it was like to possess a face so

perfectly clean and smooth.
She shifts expectantly and pants like a puppy. I call McKenna by
name, but she rolls her eyes, her theatrics one short stop from Broadway.
Daddy! My names Spot, remember?
I slap my palm to my forehead. Oh, right, right! Sit, Spot!
She slams her tailbone to the ground while I resurrect a tootsie roll
from my pocket and ball up the waxy wrapper between my third finger and
thumb. I place the chewy chocolate taffy inside her anxious mouth. It jabs
awkwardly against McKennas face when she bites into it, having
relinquished a tooth last Tuesday when she fell off the monkey bars in the
backyard.
Ushering my daughter inside, I deposit my briefcase beside a bench
while the aroma of hotdogs and frozen peas meanders to my nose. Tiptoeing
across the living room to sneak up on my wife, I skirt around the braided
rug planted in the middle of the dirt colored carpet, avoiding the butterfly
puzzle pieces and plastic yellow duck civilizations covering its surface.
Barbie dolls perched on top of a suede couch applaud me for my efforts to
persevere to the kitchen.
I slide my arms around the waist of my wife, my chin bumping into her
shirt collar. She isnt accustomed to working as a receptionist yet. I can tell
by the way she holds her arms out while cutting apple slices, elbows at
ninety degree angles, torso twisting like a robot.

Almost ready, she murmurs. I kiss the freckle on her neck and a soft
breath hiccups from her chest while she leans into me and sighs.
Daddy!
We both jerk, and Lila goes back to her apple slicing. What is it,
honey?
Daddy, Buttercups eating my toilet paper!
I speed through the living room. Tripping over carpet that has come
undone due to the pigs previous escapades, I find a banner of white
squares paraded from the bathroom to the front door where Buttercup
snorts over her meal.
Buttercup! I grip the pigs jaw inside my hand, but she refuses to
meet my eyes. Bad girl. Do you hear me? Baaaad giiiirrrl!
She responds by cocking her head, the paper swaying from her tusk.
Tackling her and finding I excel at football far more at home than I did in
the field, I deposit Buttercup in the backyard.
Daddy!
I cross the hallway and reach McKenna who is standing by the toilet,
pear-patterned leggings pooling around her feet, her nose red from crying.
Squatting to her level, I tug up the tights with one hand and flush the toilet
with the other.
Did she scare you, honey?
She shakes her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Then what is it? I ask.

Mrs. Woland says she pauses on a sob and buries her face against
the pocket of my shirt. I weave my fingers between the strands of her fairy
hair and she begins again. Mrs. Woland says if Budowcup eats one more
thing that she shouldnt, shes going to quit and Ill have to go to day care,
and and Ill never see my pig again!
She clings to my neck. Scooping her up, I cradle her in my arms on
the edge of the mildew-encrusted tub. When did she say that, honey?
She sniffs, the goop from her nose trailing across her forefinger as she
coils my tie up to my chin. After mommy left for work today.
Her bottom lip droops out, and I want to push it up again, push it up
into the smile that was the girl who met me through the doggy door. Of
course McKenna doesnt know, I remind myself. Of course she doesnt
realize that mommy is working because I was laid off again and my new job
doesnt pay enough. She has no idea that Mrs. Roland is taking care of her
because we cant afford day care and we dont know anyone else we can
trust in the run down suburbs of Chicago.
But she knows that something is wrong because her body is quivering
while I hold it against mine, the way it did when we lost her at the state fair
a couple of months ago when she was admiring the pigs, of all things. We
had found her, straw sticking out of her jelly sandals and t-shirt discolored
because no matter how many times we wash it, the stains wont come out,
anymore. And I was shaking, and my wife was trembling, mascara smearing

and haunting her fear-opened eyes, and I prayed to God that I could just
hold my baby again.
You are holding her now.
Tugging off a scrap of toilet paper, I wipe her eyes, her cheeks, her
nose, and kiss her forehead, wishing it really could make it all better. You
know what I think?
What? she mumbles.
I think you are the prettiest girl in the world.
Her eyelashes reach her eyebrows in surprise, and she smiles at me.
Really?
I nod.
But what about mommy?
I bend my head closer to hers. I wont tell if you dont.
She holds out her pinky to mine for a promise, but then changes her
mind. I dont think mommy would like that, daddy, she says, slipping off
my knee. Isnt she the prettiest girl in the world, too?
I smile at her. You both are, I whisper, and she skips away, all
thoughts of Buttercup forgotten for the moment.
~
Start by gently taking the pigs foot in your hand, massaging the pads
with your forefinger and thumb as though administering a light foot rub.
Have I ever even had a foot rub? Its only the second time weve
trimmed Buttercups hooves and I dont care if the instructions do tell me

to talk to my pig and give her a belly rub to calm her down I do not seek,
nor do I care to gain her confidence.
I approach her as though it were the beginning of a wrestling match
arms wide, feet planted, my body bent low to the ground.
Robert, I hardly think thats helping, Lila says.
Little does she know. Youve got to intimidate it.
She has a name, you know.
I snort. So does the devil.
I hardly think
But I hold up my hand. Wait for it wait for it
Pinning the pig to the ground, Buttercups back legs flail, her body
rivaling the skill of a true contortionist.
Lila dives down with the shears and Buttercup screams like a banshee
in response, eliminating all chance of our avoiding hearing aids in our old
age. Youd think we were torturing the animal, rather than simply trimming
the nails on her hooves.

After five minutes of struggle, my wife and I mutually give up and lie
down on the ground, our backs against the pig-devoured grass, chests
heaving after the struggle.
My wife props her head on her hand and I roll closer towards her, my
fingers trailing the ribs on her back.
Robert she protests, but McKenna is swinging and talking to
Buttercup, barely aware of our existence.
I lean up to kiss her and she smells like grass and earth, a temptress
greater than Eve in the Garden of Eden. Releasing her hair from her
trademark ponytail, I stare at the revelation before me.
She used to wear her hair down, more. Always with a pencil behind
her ear, shed pause her physics homework long enough to snack on a green
olive sandwich she insisted on packing in a brown paper bag, even though
she was in college and lunch sacks went out of style in the fourth grade. Id
pelt the bitter green fruit at her stomach when they slipped from the
confines of her Wonder bread or catch them with my mouth as she tossed
them in the air, my twitter-pated brain desperate to impress.
Her laugh was like a cold shower, leaving goose bumps running up
and down the length of my body, my skin turning cold and shivery, my
muscles stretching and as warm as the sidewalk that steamed beneath our
feet.
She wraps her hand around mine and sits up, breaking the allusion.

She gave me her notice today, Lila says. She gathers her hair back
into a ponytail before continuing. Mrs. Roland. She said she cant handle
Buttercup and McKenna, that shes too old. Then there was something
about Buttercup opening the fridge and eating her sandwich
She can open the fridge?
Lila shrugs. Apparently. So, she said if Buttercup isnt gone by next
week, she wont be coming back.
What did you tell her? I ask.
What was I supposed to tell her? We cant send McKenna to day care,
and I have to work.
I release her hand.
Robert, I didnt mean it like that-
I know. She didnt, but its true. Its my fault. We sit silent for a long
minute until McKenna twirls over to us, a red Crayola crayon dangling from
each of her nostrils. Guess what I am, Daddy!
I glance at her. Superman? I ask half-heartedly.
Supermans for boys, Daddy!
A princess?
She giggles hysterically and so I crawl forward, grab her by the
ankles, and swing her upside down and back inside towards the table where
dinner awaits. My wife follows us, though Buttercup remains outside.

I plop McKenna on a chair, and she bangs her fork against a plate.
Im Budowcup, Daddy! She laughs and gulps down her milk, exhaling like
she has just crossed the finish line after a race.
We eat in a matter of minutes, stacking the dishes in the sink before
chugging up the stairs.
Bouncing from foot to foot on her hand-me-down bed while licking the
remnants of bubblegum toothpaste from her lips, McKenna shimmies into
her cotton candy nightgown and flops against the mattress.
Buttercup suddenly makes an appearance, likely smuggled inside the
bedroom by my wife before going to bed.
I select a couple of library books from the shelf and crack them open.
McKenna drifts between my reading of Dr. Seuss and the dreams of the
guiltless, arms sprawled as though she were buoyed up and floating in a
pool of summer water. She asks in a daze if Buttercup can sleep on her bed,
so I settle the animal by her feet to rest for the night. Shutting the door
behind me, I crack it open as a second thought, because although McKenna
is no longer afraid of the dark with Buttercup resting beside her on a pillow,
I am afraid of leaving her there.
She tells the pig she loves her when she thinks I am gone.
Downstairs, I switch off most of the lights to save on electricity, and
the dishes in the sink crowd around me, so I surrender to them like an
aristocrat being led to the guillotine. Our dishwasher rattled its last breath

about a month ago, and finding I am without the powers to raise it from the
dead again, I roll up my sleeves.
Clear liquid cascades out of the faucet, a sudden torrent that churns
the soapsuds in the basin into a tangle of foamy bubbles. I attack the plates
first, mesmerized by the ketchup stains oozing off the glass like blood
before scraping away the remains with my fingernails. Undertaking an odd
conglomeration of mugs and teacups next, my fingers slide against the slick
ceramic birthday presents from friends and grandmothers. We didnt buy a
single one.
How can I divulge to my only daughter that it is true, that she will
have to part with her best friend? How can she understand that someone
has to take care of her while mommy and daddy are working, that I am not
the hero she thought me to be, that all I can offer her are tootsie rolls when
I come home, not an actual friend who can remove her fear of the dark?
I scour a spoon but it dives head first towards the counter where it
rattles, its lifeless form still shuddering after the impact.
Maybe I could replace Buttercup with a fish, instead.
But a fish cant sleep with you on your bed at night.
The water scalds my hands as I rinse the steak knives, my fingertips
blistering as I shove away the pots, the pans, the angry silverware. A glass
slips from my fist to the ground where it sprays the floor with countless
shards of faux crystal.

I kneel on the linoleum to gather them up, my knees cracking with the
effort while I drag a waste basket to my side. An empty bottle of sunscreen
lies forlornly at the bottom of the can and I lean on the rim, elbows jutting
out like a cross as drops of sweat drip down the creases of my forehead.
Now, I cant help but remember the energy coursing through my
daughters wiry limbs as she slides a leash around Buttercups torso,
lathering sunscreen on the creatures back while my wife smears the lotion
onto her daughter, and I caress it onto my wifes cheeks so that it suddenly
transfers to me when she kisses me and we are all a white mess of love and
happiness.
And it is because of me, a man unable to keep his job and provide for
his own family, that such happiness will suddenly be taken away from them.
And the kitchen is dark. So I pray for my daughter, for my wife, for the
pig, pleading that there is someone watching as I strain my eyes towards
the light hanging over the table with a pain pricking my side in the middle
of the empty kitchen.
That someone can hear me, hear the breath catching between my
ribs, hear the words of hope drying on my tongue, my throat parched and
longing for a miracle.
Any miracle.