The Interior of a Heart

FLESH AND BLOOD

When do they get killed? said the boy.

When do they get killed? the old man repeated. It was not a question he had expected to encounter.

Well, they have to die sometime, the boy said. Someone's going to eat them.

The boy, towheaded and tiny, looked like an apparition next to the old man. He barely came up to the top of the fence. The old man wished he could lift the boy to let him get a better view of the corralled animals, but his muscles had ceased working that way long ago.

The boy put his fingers through the chicken wire. The old man thought about telling him not to, but refrained. They were at a fall festival. The boy had gone to the festival each year of his life so far, following the same routine every time. This year, the routine had been broken. The old man had never come with him before. It had always been the boy's father who had nursed him through the animal viewing and apple eating and cloud watching. The old man knew all of this acutely. Now they were looking into an enclosure at seven piglets and their mother. The animals looked so dazed by all the commotion of the festival that they did not seem likely to bite.

I don't like bacon that much, the boy confided.

You mean you don't like bacon at all? Or you don't like it after seeing the babies?

I don't like it, the boy said definitively. It tastes like fat.

It is fat, the old man told him. Pig fat.

For a while, the boy hung on the fence. He was bending the chicken wire with his fingers. He was particularly interested in one of the piglets, the only black one of the bunch. Instead of sleeping, like his brothers and sisters, this piglet was trying to climb the back wall of the pigpen. Its hind legs were encrusted in mud.

The old man said, Do you want anything to eat? A candy apple, perhaps?

Yeah, said the boy. That's what I want.

Well, let's go get one. The old man pointed. There was a stand a hundred yards away specializing in candy apples.

Grandpa? said the boy.

Yes?

Will you go get it and bring it to me?

Why can't you go get it yourself?

I don't want to leave them, the boy said. His face shone. In the direct sunlight, his ears looked like translucent, pink shells. He was used to his mother bringing him things. She liked to curry favor with him now that his father was gone. She wanted to fill the empty space with replacements for love.

They'll be all right without you, the old man said. No one's going to eat them while you're gone.

Then I don't want an apple, the boy said stubbornly. I want to stay here.

The old man took a breath, then stopped. This boy was his flesh and blood. Small as he was now, he would one day grow up to be limbs and hair and brains that were all inherited, if diluted, from the old man.

Okay, the old man said. All right, I'll get you the apple.

At the stand, the old man was appalled to find that the candy apples were three dollars apiece. Extortion, he thought. Nonetheless, he removed three one-dollar bills from the wad in his pocket and handed them over. The apple was wrapped in a plastic casing, hard and unyielding. The old man flicked it with his fingernail until he found a flaw in the casing and could peel it open.

Here you go, he said.

Thank you, said the boy. He took two bites of the apple. It was caramel-coated with rainbow sprinkles stuck to it. It's warm, the boy said disappointedly. It doesn't taste good.

The old man thought that he should have known. Of course the boy wouldn't like it, wouldn't eat it. Three dollars wasted.

Let me have it, he said.

He took the apple and bit into it. Sprinkles rained down into the bits of straw that had been spread over the earth. The boy was right. It was mushy, the flesh mealy.

You know what? said the old man. I bet those piglets would really like it if you gave them the apple.

Okay! said the boy. His face lit up. He squatted and poked the apple through the fence. There was a trail of sprinkles, like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs.

Immediately, the black piglet ran over and rooted its nose beneath the apple. It made a noise, like a little squeak or a bark. The boy laughed.

Good, the old man thought. Now the boy would be thinking about feeding the animals, not eating them.

They stood in the sun for a few moments. The boy rocked back on his legs so he could be eye to eye with the hungry piglet.

Are you having a good time? said the old man.

Yes. The boy wiped his arm across his forehead. He stood up abruptly. He said, Now we're fattening the pigs up!

The old man hesitated. You know, he said, I don't think anyone will eat these pigs. They're just babies at the fall festival.

Yes, but they'll grow up soon. And then they'll get eaten and they'll leave their families and the mama pigs will be lonely, said the boy. I bet somebody already ate the father of these pigs.

The old man ran through his options. He could explain about breeding and why animals like this never saw their fathers. He could make up a lie about the father pig being on vacation. He could agree.

Finally, he said, I don't know. You never get to know those things.

The boy reached through the fence. Gingerly, he patted the bristly top of the pig's head. The hair, coarse and wiry, molded to his touch.

The old man put his hand on the boy's shoulder. He said, Do you want to go to the pumpkin patch? Or the corn maze? Or we could go on the hayride.

No, said the boy. I want to go home, please.

The old man thought of objecting, but didn't. This was his grandson's day.

They got into the car and drove home. The boy fell asleep with his head against the window. The old man looked over at him and thought of how small he really was, how vulnerable. He had smears of dirt on the knees of his jeans from feeding the piglets.

The old man steered them onto the highway. Despite his age, he still had clear vision. He wanted to get the boy home safely. The old man knew that the day had been a disappointment. The boy's father, who usually took him to the fall festival, was in jail now. The old man felt that he had been a bad substitute. He wished he could tell the boy he was sorry.