Sometime in the last part of October, the LaMadrids were give a pig. The Cuban family wasn't very wealthy, so when this relative gave them the pig they accepted it graciously. They lived on a small piece of land in Pennsylvania. They had a few chickens and one dog, a Golden Retriever named Buddy, and a blue Chevy pick-up truck and a well-used Buick Riviera. The Buick Riviera did more hauling than the pick-up truck. They had two TV sets, one color Sony in the living room and the other black and white in Mom and Dad's room. There were three children, by now teenagers, two girls and one boy. The oldest girl was named Maria and the youngest Candida. The son was named Miguel. As most well-born Cubans, they were a handsome bunch, dark hair, chiseled features, the sweetest eyes and finest lips. Lips like these were often kissed bu non-hispanic neighbors who were all around. Maria and Candida and Miguel didn't know what other Cubans looked like. There weren't any others around. All the teenagers that came to court the LaMadrid kids were very blonde.
The relative that gave them the pig lived in New York City. When he came visiting he borrowed the Buick one day and went to a Farmers' Market and came home with the pig in the back seat. This relative was the first Cuban, aside from the immediate family, that the kids had ever seen. They reveled in the fact that someone other than themselves could speak Spanish.
Of course they kept the pig, it was supposed to be for the Christmas dinner when the New York Cuban relative, his wife, and brothers-in-law and their families were invited to the LaMadrids' that Christmas.
"Fatten that pig up," the relative told them when they put him on the bus back to New York City.
Unfortunately, Miguel, who was the one who took over the care of the pig, began to like the pig more tham he should. Miguel was thirteen, but already almost a man and this would be his last childhood pet. The pig and the dog got on very well too. They romped together in the backyard. The pig, whose pink flesh shone through the sparse black and white pinto pony hair, learned a lot about behavior from the dog. In fact, this pig was extremely intelligent, more than the dog. When Miguel went to sleep at night he slept with the dog, and then began to bring the pig indoors when it got very cold in November. He used to read aloud to the dog and the pig, late at night when he was supposed to be doing his homework and acting like an adult. This was the last vestige of being a child... reading aloud to his dog and pig didn't seem so childish to him, it was like a parent's nighttime duty. He took full responsibility of his charges.
Days before Christmas he pleaded with his father to spare the pig and his father, being a kind-hearted soul, relented and told him they'd go to a butcher store and buy an already butchered pig to cook. The Cuban relatives would never know the difference. When the day came for the relatives to arrive, Miguel took the pig into the woods and tied him to a Blue Spruce tree. He went to bed and the next day found that the relative in the morning hour had found the pig, because it had gotten loose and was scratching at the door as he always did. The relative stabbed the pig in the heart and cleaned it well, pulled all the entrails out and dressed and stuffed it and put it in the oven to cook.
Miguel, when he found out, began to cry and big tears rolled from his sad brown eyes.
On Christmas night when the pig was served at the table, the LaMadrids turned their heads and cast their eyes to the floor. There on the table was the pig that they had all come to know and love. The pig still had thosre wonderful lashed eyes, so sad and big like all the LaMadrid family members.
At the table with the apple in its mouth he looked like he was still alive and so he was. The apple he spit out and he began to talk.
"Why didn't you save me, Miguel?" Miguel could not answer.
"Oh the cooking wasn't so bad," the pig continued. "It didn't fry my brain. I can still think; I still have a brain. But there's nothing to do now. I can't move. Miguel, would you go down to the book store and buy me that book called Charlotte's Web? I always liked that one. Buy it for me. I can still read. My mind is still active, even if my body isn't. Perhaps I can;t eat because I no longer have any intestines, but I can still think and I can still read. My eye sight is still good. The cooking hasn't taken that away from me."
The LaMadrids had to leave the room in shame. They couldn't look the pig in the eyes. Even the Cuban relatives couldn't eat the pig now. They too couldn't face the pig.
Alone on the table, amid the splendor of the other foods, the mashed turnips, the Cuban black bean soup, the corn tortillas, the pig glanced around and waited for his book. The candlelight made him look not so cooked.
Miguel went to the book store and bought the pig the Charlotte's Web book and also one about a boy who entered the 1984 Olympics in a wheelchair.
All the way home, on his bike, Miguel cried such big tears that the sky began to rain in sympathy.
Poor Miguel. He was the only LaMadrid to get pimples. He followed my cure and got rid of them of course. The Cuban relative from New York asked me for the remedy also but after I heard the story about the pig, I told him that I forgot the cure. I didn't think he deserved to have clear skin. His pimples weren't that bad anyway.
