Pigs in Heaven - Barbara Kingsolver [40]
“I think it would be hard to do anything else. Your culture is one long advertisement for how to treat yourself to the life you really deserve. Whether you actually deserve it or not.”
“True,” he says. “We all ought to be turned into pigs.”
Annawake’s mouth forms a tight, upside-down smile. “Some of my best friends are white people.”
Jax goes limp, as if he’s been shot.
“We just have different values,” she says. “Some people say religion is finding yourself, and some people say it’s losing yourself in a crowd.”
Jax revives. “You can do that? Lose yourself?”
“Oh, sure. At the dances.”
“Dancing?”
“Not like American Bandstand, not recreational dancing, it’s ceremonial. A group thing. It’s church, for us.”
“I say po-tay-toes, and you say po-tah-toes.” Jax lies flat on his back and balances his empty bottle on his stomach. It tilts a little when he breathes or talks. “And never the Twain shall meet, because he’s dead.” He laughs crazily and the bottle rolls off and clinks down the stone steps, but doesn’t break. He sits up. “You’re being kind of anisnitsa yourself, you know.”
“Anti-what?”
“Anisnitsa. Isn’t that what you said, for pig?”
“Sihgwa.”
“Whatever. You’re being one. In your own fashion.”
“I’m trying to see both sides.”
“You can’t,” Jax says. “And Taylor can’t. It’s impossible. Your definitions of ‘good’ are not in the same dictionary. There is no point of intersection in this dialogue.”
“Surely you don’t think it’s good for the tribe to lose its children? Or for Turtle to lose us? She’s entitled to her legacy.”
“Her legacy at the moment may be green apricots for dinner.”
“What a thought. Did they have someplace to go?”
Jax doesn’t answer.
“It’s not a trick question.”
“Well, then, yes. The answer is yes. Right now they are someplace.”
“Please tell her I’m sorry if I’m the cause of this.”
“If you’re the cause of this?”
“You have to believe this much, the last thing I want is to put Turtle through more dislocation.”
Jax reaches down carefully and sets the beer bottle on its head. “Dislocation,” he says.
“You’re the only connection between Turtle and me at this point, and,” she waits for him to meet her eyes, “and I need that connection.”
“Don’t look at me, Mama Bear,” says Jax. “I’m just picking blueberries.”
10
The Horses
“TURTLE, DRINK YOUR MILK.”
Turtle’s plate is a boneyard of grilled-cheese sandwich crusts. She picks up her full glass and drinks, holding a steady sidelong eye on Taylor. As soon as Taylor looks away, she sets down her glass.
Angie Buster’s diner is deserted. At four o’clock Angie declared that not even the starving Armenians would come out for a meal in this weather, and she went home to take a nap. Taylor and Turtle and Pinky the bulldog sit near the front window watching long knives of rain attack the ground at a hard slant. The first storm of the summer has blown in from Mexico, arousing the dust and dampening the Virgin of Guadalupe outside, causing her yellow bows to drop off one by one. Lucky is missing in action again. Angie isn’t worried; it has only been half a day, and she says she can feel in her bones when it’s going to be a long one. Her bones say this one isn’t.
Angie owns not only the diner, it turns out, but also the adjacent Casa Suerte motor inn, which Taylor understood as “Casa Sweater” over the phone. According to Angie, suerte means “good luck” she bought it ten years ago when the state finally persuaded Lucky’s father to catch up on his child support. The idea of this place as someone’s good fortune depresses Taylor. The low brick units of the motor inn surround a doubtful patch of grass, an empty swimming pool, and one palm tree that escaped the short, trashy stage only to find itself leggy and ridiculous above the telephone wires. Each unit has a single metal chair outside its door, suggesting a concept of neighborliness, but the place seems short on neighbors. Taylor has seen only one other person around, an