John Irving - Last Night In Twisted River

Seeing her naked and defiant made Danny realize that what had once attracted him to Katie now repelled him. He’d mistaken what was brazen about her for a kind of sexual courage; she’d seemed both sexy and progressive, but Katie was merely vulgar and insecure. What Danny had desired in his wife only filled him now with revulsion-and this had taken a mere two years to transpire. (The loving-her part would last a little longer; neither Danny nor any other writer could ever explain that.)

HE’D CARRIED JOE BACK to the downstairs bathroom so that they could clean up, or try to. (Danny didn’t want Joe to see his naked mother devoured by a pig; surely the two-year-old would remember that , if only for a little while.)

“Is Mommy giving Lady Sky her clothes?” Joe asked.

“Mommy’s clothes wouldn’t fit Lady Sky, sweetie,” Danny answered his son.

Amy didn’t want any clothes; she told the asshole artists that all she wanted was a bath. The pilot and copilot were bringing her clothes-“or they better be,” the skydiver said.

“I hope your bathroom is cleaner than ours,” Danny said to Amy, as she was following the unassaulted painter up the farmhouse stairs.

“I’m not counting on it,” Amy told him. “Was that your wife-that little thing who was going to fetch my parachute?” the skydiver called down the stairs to Danny.

“Yes,” he answered her.

“She’s got balls, hasn’t she?” Amy asked him.

“Yes-that’s Katie,” Danny said.

He’d forgotten that there wasn’t a towel in the downstairs bathroom, but getting the pig shit off himself and little Joe was what mattered. Who cared if they were wet? Besides, the boy’s clothes had somehow managed to stay clean; Joe’s pants were a little damp, because he’d really peed like crazy in his diaper.

“I guess you liked that ginger ale, huh?” Danny asked the boy. He’d also forgotten to ask Katie for a dry diaper, but that didn’t really matter as much as getting the pig shit off little Joe’s hands. There was shit all over Danny and his clothes-his running shoes were ruined. If his wife could take off all her clothes, Danny guessed that no one would mind if he wore just his boxers for the remainder of the artists’ party. It was a sunny spring day-April in Iowa -warm enough to be wearing only a pair of boxers.

“You call this a clean towel?” the skydiver was shouting.

Danny undressed himself and little Joe, and they both got into the shower. There was no soap, but they used a lot of shampoo instead. They were still in the shower when Katie came into the downstairs bathroom, carrying her clothes and a towel. She was not as shit-spattered as Danny had expected.

“If you don’t try to run in that muck, you don’t fall down, fuckhead.”

“So you just walked out to the parachute, and walked back?” Danny asked her. “The pigs didn’t bother you?”

“The pigs were spooked by the chute,” Katie said. “Move over-both of you.” She got into the shower with them, and Danny shampooed her hair.

“Mommy got pig poo on her, too?” Joe asked.

“Everyone’s got pig poo on them somewhere,” Katie said.

They took turns with the towel, and Danny put a dry diaper on Joe. He dressed the little boy before putting on his boxers. “That’s all you’re wearing?” Katie asked him.

“I’m donating the rest of my clothes to the farm,” Danny told her. “In fact, I’m not touching them-they’re staying right there,” he said, pointing to the pile of clothes on the wet floor. Katie threw her bra and panties on the pile. She slipped into her jeans; you could see her breasts through the white blouse she was wearing-her nipples, especially.

“Is that all you’re wearing?” Danny asked her.

Katie shrugged. “I guess I can donate my underwear to the farm, if I want to,” she said.

“Is everything a contest, Katie?”

But she didn’t answer him. She opened the bathroom door and left them with the pile of clothes and Danny’s discarded running shoes. “I lost my sandals somewhere,” she told them.

Outside, the skydiver was wearing just a towel around her waist and was drinking a beer. “Where’d you find the beer?” Danny asked her. He’d already had too much wine on an empty stomach.

Amy showed him the tub of ice. Rolf was sitting on the ground beside the tub, repeatedly dunking his face in the icy water. There was blood from his nose everywhere. He had a pretty good gash on one eyebrow, too-all from the head-butt. Danny took out two beers, wiping the necks of the bottles on his boxers. “That was a terrific idea, Rolf,” Danny told the photographer. “Too bad she didn’t land in the fire pit.”

“Shit,” Rolf said, standing up. He looked a little unsteady on his feet. “No one’s watching the pig in the pit-we got distracted by all the heroics.”

“Is there an opener?” Danny asked him.

“There’s one in the kitchen somewhere,” Rolf answered. The bearded painter who’d been hit with Amy’s jab and hook was holding a wet T-shirt to his face. He kept dipping the T-shirt in the icy water and then putting it back on his face.

“How’s the roast pig coming along?” Danny asked him.

“Oh, Christ,” the painter said; he hurried after Rolf in the direction of the smoking hole.

There was potato salad and a green salad and some kind of cold pasta on the dining-room table, together with the wine and the rest of the booze.

“Does any of this food look interesting to you?” Danny asked Joe. The writer hadn’t been able to find an opener in the farmhouse kitchen, but he’d used the handle on one of the kitchen drawers to open both beers. He drank the first beer very fast; he was already halfway through the second.

“Where’s any meat?” Joe asked.

“I guess it’s still cooking,” his dad said. “Let’s go look at it.”

Someone had turned on a car radio, so they could have music outdoors. Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow” was playing. Rolf and the painter with the beard had managed to lift the bedsprings out of the fire pit; the painter with the beard had burned his hands, but Rolf had taken off his jeans and used them as pot holders. Rolf’s nose and the cut on his eyebrow were still bleeding as he put his jeans back on. Some of the roast pig had fallen off the bedsprings into the fire, but there was plenty to eat and it was certainly cooked enough-it looked very well done, in fact.

“What is it?” Joe asked his dad.

“Roast pork-you like pork,” Danny told the boy.

“Once upon a time it was a pig,” Rolf explained to the two-year-old.

“A pretty small one, Joe,” Danny told his son. “Not one of your big friends in the pen.”

“Who killed it?” Joe asked. No one answered him, but Joe didn’t notice-he was distracted. Lady Sky was standing over the blackened pig on the bedsprings; little Joe was clearly in awe of her, as if he expected her to take flight again and fly away.

“Lady Sky!” the boy said. Amy smiled at him. “Are you an angel?” Joe asked her. (She was beginning to look like one, to Danny.)

“Well, sometimes ,” Lady Sky said. She was distracted, too. A car was turning in to the long driveway of the pig farm-probably the little plane’s pilot and copilot, Danny was thinking. Amy took another look at the roast pig on the bedsprings. “But there are other times when I’m just a vegetarian,” she said to Joe. “Like today.”

Merle Haggard was singing “I’m a Lonesome Fugitive” on the car radio; probably someone had changed the station. Out on the lawn, Katie had been dancing by herself-or with her glass of wine-but she stopped now. Everyone was curious about the pilot and the copilot, if only to see what would happen when they arrived. Amy walked over to the car before the two men could get out.