“They’re going to kill the pig,” Julie said with gleeful excitement. She grabbed Jack’s arm and worked their way through the crowd. Just a few feet in front of them, two men struggled to keep the large beast still, one man at the head, one at the tail. It was the main event of a ceremony that no one could fully explain to Jack in English.
They were on a small island in a bay near the seaside town of Nha Trang. Julie, an Amerasian, had come back to her hometown for a visit after being in America for about ten years. She had met Jack, an American tourist, two days earlier and invited him to the ceremony.
The scene was illuminated by a large flood light, and the star of the show squealed and defecated in fear. Its owner patted the animal’s big head and calmed it down. Jack noticed how the pig’s mouth curled at the ends, looking like a defiant smile.
The butcher, long killing knife in hand, approached. The man at the front, the pig’s owner, lifted the beast’s chin, stretching out his pink, vulnerable neck. Without expression or pause, the butcher pierced the pig’s throat, sliding its silver blade across in one quick, seamless action. Blood gushed. A red, thin curtain splashed down onto the dusty brown earth, spreading out in a thick, red puddle. When the pig could no longer stand, its two handlers gently laid him on his side. The show over, the crowd returned to their conversations. Behind them, on the ground, pints of blood continued to pump out from the pig’s wound with the slowing rhythm of his weakening heartbeat.
“Now, there’s a pig with a problem,” Julie said.
“Doesn’t this bother you?” Jack asked.
“It sure does. Why did they waste all that blood?”
Jack laughed.
“Here, try one,” she said, holding up a small paper plate of egg rolls.
Jack bit into one. “Pork!” he exclaimed.“How appropriate.” And then he asked why they sacrificed the pig.
“Just so things get better, I guess.”
“Well it didn’t get better for Porky over there.”
“Who knows, maybe he’ll be reincarnated as rock star.”
Jack looked over at the pig. “Maybe.”
“Don’t worry, Jack. Vietnam will always have plenty of pigs. Come on, let’s go set up the lanterns.”
Julie led him to the water where an old boat filled with small paper lanterns was beached. They pushed it into the water and, along with a Vietnamese soldier who would operate the small engine, boarded it. “Why’s he here?” Jack asked quietly. “To prevent people from leaving the country,” Julie replied. “Two years ago, someone threw out their lanterns and just kept on going.”
The boat stopped and Julie handed Jack a plastic lighter. Getting the lanterns lit and on the bay wasn’t easy. A slight breeze coming up off the water was just strong enough to blow out the lighter’s flame. The lanterns were small, waxed paper boxes so it was hard for Jack to get his large fingers inside to light the candles. Once he managed to keep them lit, he had to gingerly place them on the bay without them capsizing. His efforts proved endlessly amusing to Julie, who applauded and praised him each time he got one successfully on the water. “You did it!” she would shout playfully. Thankfully, others were also placing lanterns on the water. And soon the bay was aglow with candlelight.
Silently, the two of them took it all in. The hundreds of glowing lanterns competed with the sparks of silver, white moonlight caught by the bay’s small ripples. Jack remembered the pig, which reminded him of a hunting trip with his friend, Bill one summer when he was in high school. The two suburbans had driven to the country for a rare hunting trip. Walking through fields and orchards, they carried well-oiled shotguns, barely used, loaded and ready. They were after quail. Smart quail, when surprised, ran into the thicket, dumb ones took to the air and, if the boys were close enough, the birds were usually doomed. The boys, excited at the chance, hurriedly jostled their weapons into place and fired, blasting a lethal mist of bird shot into the air. The unlucky game dropped like stones, usually too obliterated to be eaten.
At dusk, Jack and Bill drove home, recounting the day’s killing success, the small, greasy bag with their game in the back seat. Later, when night fell, when Jack was alone and waiting for sleep, guilt over the day’s killing slowly drifted into his heart like a coastal fog.
“Earth to Jack.”
Jack snapped out of his memory and saw Julie smiling at him. “Are you still fretting over that pig?” she asked. Jack shook his head. “No, just thinking.”
There was a pause.
“Do you like me, Jack?”
Jack looked at her. She seemed anxious and vulnerable. The answer seemed important to her.
“More than like,” he replied with a smile.
Julie giggled. She pointed at him with her chin, smiled and said. “Good. I more than like you, too.”
She switched benches and sat next to him, so close their hips touched. She placed her head on his shoulder, her long, black satin-soft hair fanned out across his back.
“Jack?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you think the pig is now?”
“Pig heaven. Where do you think it is?”
“I think it’s still over there in the dirt.”
Jack laughed, feeling foolish and overly sentimental.
Fiction 