When Pigs Fly Read Free Page A

him and took the kids, and he had no other family that I know of. My parents thought the world of George and figured I did, too.”
     
    “Were they wrong?”
     
    “No. And yes. I knew him since fifth grade. By God, you couldn’t have a better friend in a fight, but he couldn’t keep his hands off a bottle or a breast.”
     
    “Ooooooh. Trouble,” she said, pronouncing it truh -bull . She held her glass by her fingertips and French-kissed the rim.
     
    “Once I thought I’d stand by him no matter what, but by the time he drank himself to death I wasn’t so sure anymore.”
     
    “He’s dead and you’re still mad at him.”
     
    “Not mad. Conflicted, I guess.”
     
    “What did he do?”
     
    “I told you. His eyes wandered and his hands followed.”
     
    “Okay, but what did he do wrong?”
     
    “Wrecked marriages.”
     
    “Yours?”
     
    “Nope. Nothing could’ve done that.”
     
    “That’s really sweet. Where’s your wife now?”
     
    “Back in New England.”
     
    She reached across the table and took his hand. “Poor baby. We could go back to your place. Or if you’re in a hurry we can just go to your car.”
     
    “No, my place is good. It’s only three or four miles.” He paid his tab, and they walked out to the parking lot, where music and laughter mixed with sounds of mufflers and souped-up engines. The sun had gone down, and the worst of the heat had dissipated. “Drive me home and we’ll come back here in the morning for my car,” he said, and they climbed into her red Camaro. She slipped the key into the ignition and back out again—and in and out, her mouth parted, as subtly as a boom box at a wake.
     
    “Lead on, McDurgin,” she said as the engine came to life. Lightning stroked the distant blackness and loosened rumbles of warning thunder. Mack rolled the window down and inhaled the tang of wet creosote bushes and Juanita’s orange-blossom cologne. A woman with four breasts, or had he just seen double? Was he two, three, or four sheets to the wind—and how did one calculate such things, anyway? Juanita—Wah nee ta—launched into a discourse on cuticle science and aromatherapy, about which Mack presumed she bore incredible knowledge and sagacity.
     
    Soon they pulled into his carport and went inside the house. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Your pad looks great!”
     
    That wasn’t true, which Mack knew even in his current condition. “I just pick up now and then.”
     
    “Like I picked you up,” she chirped.
     
    Mack tried to fight off his melancholy. Did he really want to go through with this? No, by God, there had to be a thousand reasons why not: He didn’t know this woman, he was too drunk, she was probably married, this was the awful road George Ashe had traveled (wasn’t it?), Mary’s framed photo stood on the nightstand by the bed, he’d promised her there would never be another, and—and—there were probably nine hundred and some-odd other reasons he couldn’t think of right now. On the other hand, here stood a reincarnation of Mae West who seemed to think him nice. “I’m widowed,” he said.
     
    Juanita’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “That’s so sad.” She bracketed his face with her soft palms and kissed his lips. The feeling in Mack was electric, as though the Energizer Bunny were leading a big brass band through his shorts.
     
     
     
    He awoke the next morning, hours later than usual, peering out through the fog in his brain. The house felt empty—no Juanita, no wallet, no cell phone, no watch, just the lingering scent of a woman gone. Hot sun burned its way into the empty carport. An iguana stood on the stucco wall behind the house and flicked its tongue in Mack’s direction. Today would reach a hundred and eight degrees, and the sun was already well into its relentless climb. Mack picked up the receiver on the wall telephone and stuck his tongue back at the lizard. It skittered away. He was relieved to see