Helen Peppe - Pigs Cant Swim: A Memoir

Pigs Cant Swim

Copyright 2014 by Helen Peppe

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For information, address Da Capo Press, 44 Farnsworth Street, 3rd Floor, Boston, MA 02210.

Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and Da Capo Press was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed in initial capital letters.

Editorial production by Lori Hobkirk at the Book Factory.

Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the

Library of Congress.

First Da Capo Press edition 2014

First Da Capo Press paperback edition 2015

ISBN: 978-0-306-82273-5 (e-book)

Published as a Merloyd Lawrence Book by Da Capo Press

A Member of the Perseus Books Group

www.dacapopress.com

Da Capo Press books are available at special discounts for bulk purchases in the U.S. by corporations, institutions, and other organizations. For more information, please contact the Special Markets Department at the Perseus Books Group, 2300 Chestnut Street, Suite 200, Philadelphia, PA 19103, or call (800) 810-4145, ext. 5000, or e-mail .

10987654321

I dedicate this book to my parents, who continue to be the best parents they can by supporting and understanding my decision to write Pigs Cant Swim, despite their own emotional discomfort at what my child-self observed and thought. I have raised only two children, and there are many times I wish I could go back and do things differently. I dont want to imagine raising nine. I am grateful for how hard my parents worked and for how much they gave us when they had so little. There is nothing they wouldnt do to help any of their children just as there is nothing their children wouldnt do to help them. I couldnt have written Pigs Cant Swim without them.

And to Eric Peppe, who continues to be my rocket man.

Its better to be good than evil, but one achieves goodness at a terrific cost.

STEPHEN KING

And yet to every bad there is a worse.

THOMAS HARDY

The least I can do is speak out for those who cannot speak for themselves.

JANE GOODALL

I wish people would realize that animals are totally dependent on us, helpless, like children, a trust that is put upon us.

JAMES HERRIOT

Contents

I come from an unreal place, where the believable and the unbelievable wove into a reality that became my personal truth. This truth is a product of where I stood at the bottom of a large family, of what I saw and of what I thought as my siblings and parents wrought their own truths. They could not have seen exactly what I did, because I occupied the spot they would need to see it. Instead, they saw things I couldnt. They cant have thought what I thought because, despite DNA, my brain is my own. We all had different windows with different views and remember that which was important to us at the moment. I am convinced, probably a result of reading so many books about chimpanzees, that we remember mainly those things which we need to for survival. A childs brain is like flypaper that hangs from a barn ceiling: it doesnt get to choose which memories fly away free and which memories stick to death.

The characters in this book are real and not composites, but I altered features and names to protect identities. Some scenes are composites as childhood is overly long and overly repetitive, mostly the same, day after day. I did my best to recreate dialogue out of the mush of thousands of conversations, my own and others, that were, again, mostly the same. I cannot guarantee that any scene or any conversation is a replica. In truth, I can say to do so would be a lie, but I can guarantee with complete confidence that these scenes and conversations are what I see and, most significantly, what I feel, when I look at the view out my childhood window.

M Y BROTHER, THE BLUSTERY-AND-FAVORED ONE WHO WAS OLDER by nine years, once said that skin and vinyl stick together like dollar bills to a stripper. I didnt know at the time what a stripper did or where the bills would stick, but I did know firsthand that vinyl car seats stuck to any skin that was bare. My blustery-and-favored brothers knowledge of girlie shows was limited to the Maine State Fair, thirty minutes from our house. This fair drew furtive- and guilty-looking males from behind their Rototillers, hoes, and rakes to the only type of event that featured the only type of dancers who had the power to make my mother behave like herself in public.

Ill have no son of mine gawking at strippers. Theres no need of women dancing around like that, and I have half a mind to tell them so myself, she snapped one late September evening between gritted teeth at the teenager she dragged across the parking lot by the ear. Shed already pinched both his cheeks, and he wore her disappointment on his face like misplaced blush. Theyre nothing but tramps and hussies. Now get in the car before I wring your neck. She slapped at his chest and shoulders in stops and starts.

My mother was able to make a face of venomous contempt with only slight adjustments to her mouth and eyes. She could go from speaking to my father with a pleasant, approachable expression to speaking to her kids as if pleasure never existed. When she saw one of her children hadnt done the last thing shed requested or, worse, said he did when he didnt, she changed more swiftly than Superman right before my eyes. In years to come I would study all womens faces to see if they had this superpower, and I would learn that not only did they have iteven the kindest-faced jolly femalesbut I had it too.

The youngest of nine, I often watched my siblings as they received their lessons. Never sorry for anything but getting caught, they tensed their muscles, tucked their chins to their chests, and hunched their shoulders as they endured, much like apes in a tropical downpour. From my spot on the perimeter of the family in the days when I was still cute and innocent, I wondered about need and knowing better each time my parents shouted things like theres no need of that and you know better.

Id feel darts of shame for wanting to see what went on behind the plywood walls that were painted with pictures of jutting-breasted women who dressed as Wonder Woman might if she were going swimming. What did these tramps and hussies do that caused men to line up and wait, that gave these women so much power? Id learned shortly after birth that men didnt expect to wait for anything, especially their meals, their cigarettes, the bathroom, or the screwdriver they yelled for while holding pieces of metal or wood together. I wanted to know the difference between a hussy and a superhero, and I wanted to know why we sometimes found my father outside those walls, claiming when wed found him that hed gotten lost.