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Breaking the Pig

My Dad wouldn't buy me a Bart Simpson doll. Mom actually said yes, but Dad said I was spoiled. "Why should we, eh?" he said to Mom. "Why should we buy her one? All it takes is one little squeak from her and you jump to attention." Dad said I had no respect for money, that if I didn't learn it when I was young, when would I? Kids who get Bart Simpson dolls too easily grow up to be punks who steal from candy stores, because they're used to getting whatever they want the easy way. So instead of a Bart Simpson doll he bought me an ugly porcelain pig with a slot in its back, and now I'll grow up to be OK, now I won't be a punk.

Every morning I had to drink a cup of cocoa,even though I hate it. Cocoa with skin is a quarter, without skin it's a dime, and if I throw up right away I don't get anything. I put the coins into the pig's back, and when you shake it, it rattles. When the pig is full and it doesn't rattle when you shake it I'll get a Bart Simpson on a skateboard. That's what dad says; that way it's educational. Actually the pig's cute, his nose is cold when you touch it, and he smiles when you push a quarter into his back and when you push in a dime too, but the nicest thing is that he smiles even when you don't. I gave him a name; I called him Jim, after a man who used to live in our mailbox-and my dad couldn't peel off his label.

Jim isn't like my other toys, he's much calmer, without lights and springs and batteries that leak. Only you have to watch that he doesn't jump off the table. "Jim, be careful! You're made of porcelain," I remind him when I catch him bending down a bit and looking at the floor, and he smiles at me and waits patiently for me to take him down myself. I love it when he smiles; it's only because of him that I drink the cocoa with the skin every morning, so that I can push the coins into his back and watch how his smile doesn't change at all. "I love you, Jim," I tell him afterwards. "Honest, I love you more than Mom or Dad. And I'll always love you, no matter what, even if you break into candy stores. But don't even think of jumping off the table!"

Yesterday Dad came and picked Jim up off the table, began to shake him wildly and to turn him upside down. "Be careful, Dad," I said to him, "you're giving Jimmy a tummy ache."But Dad didn't stop. "It's not making a noise anymore. You know what that means, don't you? Tomorrow you'll get a Bart Simpson on a skateboard." "That's great. Just stop shaking Jim, it's making him dizzy." Dad put Jim back on the table and went to call Mom. He came back a minute later, pulling her with one hand and holding a hammer in the other. "See, I was right," he said to Mom, "now she knows that things have value. Right, Emma?" "Sure I do," I said. "Sure, but what's the hammer for?" "It's for you," said Dad and put the hammer in my hand. "Just be careful." "Sure I'll be careful," I said, and I was, but after a few minutes Dad got fed up and said, "Go on, then break the pig." "What?" I asked. "Break Jim?" "Yes, yes, Jim," said Dad. "Go on, break it. You've earned the Bart Simpson, you've worked hard enough for it." Jim smiled at me with the sad smile of a porcelain pig who knows his end is near. To hell with the Bart Simpson. Me hit a friend on the head with a hammer? " I don't want the Bart Simpson." I gave Dad the hammer back. "Jim is enough for me." "You don't understand," said Dad. "It's all right, it's educational, come on, I'll break it for you." Dad was lifting the hammer. Looking a Mom's crushed eyes and Jim's tired smile, I knew that it was up to me. If I didn't do anything, he was dead.
"Dad." I grabbed him by the leg. "What is it, Emma?" said Dad, his hammer-hand poised in mid-air: "May I have another quarter, please," I begged. "One more quarter to push inside him, tomorrow, after the cocoa. And then we'll break him, tomorrow, I promise." " Another quarter?" Dad smiled and put the hammer down. "You see? The girl has learned self-restraint." "Yes, self-restraint," I said. "Tomorrow." There were tears in my throat already.

When they left the room I hugged Jim very tight and let the tears out. He didn't say anything, only trembled quietly in my hands. "Don't worry'" I whispered in his ear, "I'll save you."

That night I waited for Dad to finish watching TV in the living room and go to bed. Then I got up very quietly and sneaked out through the porch with Jim. We walked in the dark for a long time, until we reached a thorny field. "Pigs are crazy about fields," I told Jim as I put him down on the ground, "especially fields with thorns. You'll like it here." I waited for an answer, but Jim didn't say anything, and when I touched him on the nose to say good-bye he just gave me a sad look. He knew he'd never see me again.