We heard him sharpening the axe. There was a high wind and the south window always whistled when a storm approached but we could still clearly hear the stone on the blade at the work table in the shack. Mom was baking; it was Sunday, and she normally baked cookies that lasted until Friday after school in the Pig-shaped ceramic jar on the counter. The pig was wearing a little blue suit. We had three pigs; they roamed in a pen in the backyard behind the house. I’d named all three of them after my Dad: George, Georgie, and Georgo. Mom shook a bag of baking chocolate and opened the cupboard where she kept measuring cups. My uncle was snoring in the living room and I could see him slumped in the recliner.
Mom, I said, what’s Dad doing.
Well I can hear him out there sharpening that axe.
My sister was sitting next to me coloring; she looked up quickly and then at me.
Why does he need to sharpen it.
For fire wood, I said.
Maybe to break open a door.
Why would he need to break open a door? He lives here.
Dumb, I said.
She called me dumb, my sister called to my mom.
The house groaned; mom turned the radio on with her back to us. The pine trees hissed in the wind.
My sister looked at my paper; I was drawing the pigs.
Maybe, she said, he’s sharpening the axe to kill the pigs.
Mom, I shouted, she said Dad’s killing the pigs.
Mom cracked the window above the sink and lit a cigarette.
Don’t listen to her honey, she said.
I turned to my sister and reached to pull on her left pigtail but thought better of it. I looked back at my drawing; each pig had his own little house labeled with his name.
Axes don’t kill pigs. The pigs can run away, I said, reassuring myself.
I thought of the pigs, how they ran when they were small. I loved them.
Go ask him yourself, said my sister. The radio was playing the hourly news.
Mom, can I go ask Daddy a question.
No, said mom.
I need to, it’ll only take a minute, I said.
My mom now turned to face us. This was never a good sign.
You know how I feel about having to tell you more than once, she said, generating an unnecessary fluster.
Brett, she yelled. My uncle stirred and smacked his lips from the other room. Keep an eye on the girls for a sec.
Yup, he said, his eyes still closed. His elbow jammed the remote and the TV was suddenly blaring Saturday’s hockey highlights.
Mom stepped into the bathroom with a sigh and I heard the snap of her cigarette on the toilet water.
Be right back, I said.
Nuh uh, my sister said.
I put a finger to my lips for silence and glanced at Uncle Brett. He was motionless. I ran for the patio door and slid it open and I could see my Dad in the shack and hear the axe blade. To my left was the pen with the pigs. I couldn’t look.
Dad was drunk. I could tell. His eyes were heavy when he got like that and he pursed his lips together to force them open.
What are you doing, I asked.
What am I doing, what are you doing? He didn’t look up from the work table. It was cold and I felt the wind grip in my clothes, the full force of the seasonal weather shift suddenly apparent.
Go back inside.
Are you going to kill the pigs, I said.
With this? He turned to look at me.
I thought you were your sister, he said.
It’s me.
This ain’t for killing pigs, honey.
He put the sharpening stone on the shelf and racked the axe on the wall. Then he looked me in the eyes.
You kill a pig with a knife in the throat, he said.
Patrick Leonard is a writer and art historian based in Brooklyn, New York. Recent publications include Qwerty and the Literary Review of Canada. Instagram @ptrk.info.
Penelle Magazine 
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