“Don’t say that,” he said. “You’re really strong. Stronger than me. Besides. It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
He imagined how much Claudette and her mother must miss the old butcher. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his hunting knife. “I can help you put it down. I’ve done this before.”
Claudette poked her head out, but perhaps was too embarrassed to say anything. The wounded pig was getting closer to the wooden doors, squealing in wild frustration. Samuel stepped back to guard the exit, spreading his legs out in order to make his body wider.
“What can I do?” Claudette asked as she rose to her feet. “To help.”
Samuel unsheathed the blade. He waved the knife at the pig.
“You can put down the cleaver. Probably not the best knife for this.”
She left the cleaver on the table, her red eyes watching the pig with disdain.
Samuel cleared his throat. He felt nervous because he knew he wasn’t as strong as most other boys his age. He was nearly a man, yet puberty had hardly left a mark on his face or body. Shouldn’t he have developed more muscles by now? Not only that, many times he didn’t feel he’d make a decent man at all. He was a sensitive boy, and when it came to hunting, he never enjoyed the kill. But he’d killed animals before. He probably would have to kill again. Hunger often made him do things he didn’t like doing.
“We need to corner it. Trap it. That way I can latch on and get a clean cut.”
Claudette pointed to the lower left end of the room. “Over there. By the drain.”
With Samuel and Claudette on their feet, the pig retreated to the back part of the room. Samuel kept the knife level to the floor as he inched over. He waved Claudette to do the same on the opposite side. They got closer and closer. The pig jammed its body against the wall, huffing as its hooves smashed the ground below. Its black eyes squinted as it tried to run in between them. But Samuel expected it. He jumped onto the creature and hooked his left arm around its neck. The pig writhed, and Samuel fought to keep his grip. He had to move fast. Claudette ran up behind the pig and wrapped her skinny arms around its belly, securing it. Samuel had no idea how Laura was able to do this all on her own. He remembered the pig’s superficial cut and realized it was probably much easier when the pig wasn’t expecting it.
Samuel tightened his hold on the neck as hard as he could, slowly anchoring the head up and squishing the pig’s face into his chest. He’d never killed a pig before, but he’d killed enough animals to know to get the artery behind the jowl. He pressed the knife below the pig’s cheek and slit hard.
“Thank you,” Samuel whispered.
The pig went limp within a matter of seconds, and in a minute’s time, Samuel was able to push the creature down into a puddle of its own blood. Samuel took a deep breath as he moved back, blood dripping from his forearm and knife. He started mumbling a prayer of thanks, but stopped himself. He didn’t need to pray anymore, and he didn’t really want to. It was a bad habit.
Claudette went to the table and picked up several rags. She untied her apron and wiped her hands before giving a fresh towel to Samuel. He cleaned his knife and arms and tried to wipe off the blood that had spilled on his clothes.
“Need help cleaning? I’m guessing you’re going to put it in warm water.”
“My mother says it loosens the skin. But no, I can’t let you do any more.” She reached out a hand to Samuel. “Come with me.”
Samuel pushed up his glasses with his wrists before quickly putting his knife away. He took her hand. It was warm, soft, and uncalloused. His heart raced as though electrical currents were burrowing inside of him. She led him behind the counter to the precut meats.
“Which one do you want? It’s free, of course. You’ve earned it.”
Samuel pushed up his glasses with his free hand, because Claudette was still holding his other one. He was touching someone, a girl, feeling her skin against his. He pretended to be looking at the wide selection of meats and cuts, but he really didn’t care. A heat rose to his cheeks.
“I guess I’ll take some chuck.”
“No. That’s cheap.” She let his hand go. “Get something better. Something the mayor would get.” She let go of his hand and pointed to the fancier cuts. “Here. How about a slice of rib? Or sirloin. That’s the mayor’s favorite, I think.”
“Sirloin sounds good.”
Claudette packaged up the meat for him, and he tried to watch her in a way she wouldn’t find strange. She was as filthy as he was, but it didn’t matter. She pursed her lips as she handed the package over to him, rubbing her thumb over the counter.
“Thank you,” she said.
Samuel held up the meat.
“Thank you,” he said back.
She tilted her shoulder down a bit, and Samuel fought hard not to stare at her budding breasts. “See you at the festival?”
Samuel had never paid attention to festivals in the past. He knew it was supposed to be a big celebration marking the end of winter. The whitelands had only two seasons: summer and winter. Summers were short in the whitelands, a few months, and after all the snow had melted away, the winter would inevitably return. The mayor would pay for fancy decorations and food and games for the citizens to partake in, and everyone would welcome the warmer weather. It was the mayor’s way of thanking the citizens of Haid for their hard work. At least that’s what he’d overheard one year from a logger’s wife, but once she’d noticed he was listening to the conversation, she moved away. It was his own fault. He was hovering too closely. He learned how to eavesdrop from a safe distance and be as still as possible. When he didn’t move, he could become invisible. He liked that. But now, all he could think about was how a girl was talking to him and had held his hand.
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ll have to ask the sheriff. I worked every day, so—”
“Everyone goes,” Claudette said with a smirk. “Even the sheriff’s patrolmen. You could meet me here if you’d like.”
Samuel toddled to the jailhouse, the package of sirloin cupped between his arm and his chest. His boots sank into the melting snow and spots of ice, and he’d nearly fallen twice in his two-mile hike to the jailhouse. Fresh snow was easy to walk through, but when the snow would melt and refreeze, it became really tricky to keep balance. He decided to walk on the edge of the eastern woods, steadying himself on the trunks of the pine trees every time he felt his balance slipping. The sky was fairly cloudless, and the sun was shining brightly. If Haid was lucky, most of the snow would be gone by the end of the week.
The stone jailhouse was in view, and as he got closer, he noticed a figure standing outside the front door. He didn’t see a jeep anywhere, so whoever was outside had walked there. A sudden panic struck him. Atia. Was it her? Had she somehow managed to escape? His eyesight was poor even with his mother’s frames. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he could. No, the figure was too tall and massive to be her. That eased him a bit. He knew how much trouble he’d be in if she got free. But worry came trickling back because no one but the sheriff and the mayor were permitted to enter the jailhouse. It was his job to keep anyone else out. He hustled as hard as he could without slipping, and when he finally came out of the woods, he recognized the figure.