Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver

8/11/2019 Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver

1/18

Hog's HeartAuthor(s): Gordon WeaverReviewed work(s):Source: The Antioch Review, Vol. 37, No. 1 (Winter, 1979), pp. 48-64Published by: Antioch Review, Inc.Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/4638143.

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2/18

h o g s

he r t

BY GORDON

WEAVER

Nor mouth had,

no

nor mind, expressed

WaWhat heart heard

of,

ghost guessed

t

is

everything

nd it

is

nothing. Hog says,

"Different

imes,

it's

different eeling.Sometimes

feel like

that

it

might

could

just

be a

feeling."

"Goddammit,Hog," saysDr. Odie Anderson.Hog, perched

on

the edge

of

the examination able,

feels ridiculous,

feet sus-

pended above the

floor like a

child's,

wearing

a

paper hospital

gown that, like a dress, barelycovershis

scarredknees. Though

the

air

conditioningsighs incessantly,

he exudes a

light sweat,

pasting he gown o

his

skin, thighs, and buttockscemented o the

table's

chill

metal

surface."Is it

chest

pain?"

the

doctor

says.

"Is

it painsinyourarmorshoulder? s it pain youfeel in yourneckor

your aw?"

SaysHog, "It mightcouldbe I just imagine t sometimes."Dr.

Odie

Anderson,team physician,sits

in his swivel

chair, shabby

coat thrown

open, crumpled

collar unbuttoned,

necktie

askew,

feet up and crossedon his littereddesk.

Hog sees the

holes

in

the

soles

of

the doctor's hoes.

Odie

Anderson's

head lolls

slightly.

His

eyes, bulging

and

glossy, like those of a

man with arrestedgoiter,

roll. His tongue probeshis cheeks and teeth as if he seeks a par-

ticle of his breakfast.He licks

his

lips,

moistens

he

rim of

scrag-

gly

beardaroundhis

open mouth.

"Damn," says

Dr.

Anderson, "is it

choking? Your breath

hard to get? Sick to your stomach a lot?" Hog closes his eyes,

wipessweat rom he lids withthumb and forefinger.

"All like

that. Sometimes."Hog turns

his head to the window

beforeopenitighis eyes. The rectangleof searing morning ight

dizzies him. He

grips

the

edge

of

the table

with both hands, feels

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3/18

hog's heart 49

the trickle

of sweat

droplets

course downward rom the

tonsure

abovehis jug ears, fromthe folds of flesh at his throat,from the

sausagerolls of

fat

at

the

back of his

neck,

from his

armpits.

He

repressesmalarial

shuddersas the

air

conditioning

blows on

his

bareback where he papergowngaps.

"You-allwant

me

to

send

you to

Jackson o

the

hospital?

You

want

all

kind

of

tests, swallowing adioactivity

o's

they

can

take

movies of

your

veins?"

Almost

touching

the

window

pane,

the

leavesof a magnolia ree

shine

in

the brilliant

light

as

if

filmed

with clear grease. One visible blossom appearsmolded of dull

white wax,

which

will

surelymelt

and run

if

the

suns's

rays

reach

it.

A

swathof campus lawn shimmers

n

the heat

like

green

fire.

The

length

of sidewalk

Hog

can

see

is

empty.

The cobbled

street

beyond s empty,stonesbuckled.

"Not

now," Hog says.

"I

might

could

maybego

come

spring

f

I

can get off recruiting

while."

"Wellnow,"Dr. Anderson s saying,"you

are

fat as a damn

house, Hog, and yourblood pressure

s

high.

You

might

could be

a

classic case, except you don't

smoke and last

I

heard

your

old

daddy's till kickingup

there o

Soso."

"Daddy's ine. He's a little bitty man, though.

I

come by my

size

favoring

Mama's

people."

A

pulpcutter's ruck,

stacked

high

as a

hayrickwith pine logs, passes on the street,

headed

north

toward he LaurelMasonite

plant.

"You ustas leaveget dressed,Hog," the doctorsays. "I can't

find

nothing wrong

n

there. Hell, damn it to hell, you strong

as

stump whiskey

and mean

as

a

yarddog " Hog focuses

on

button-

ing his shirt, zipping his fly to evade Dr. Anderson's leering

cackle.

Sometimes t

is

everything.

t is

the sticky,

brittle

feel of

sweat

drying

on

his

skin,

the

drafty

breath of the air

conditioning hat

makeshim shudder n spasms, raises goose-bumpson his fore-

arms.

It is the late

Augustmorning'sheat

and

humidityhovering

like

a cloud outside, waiting to drop on him, clutch him. It is

baked streets and sidewalks, the witheringcampus and lawns,

everyone

n

Hattiesburg

driven

indoors until dusk brings relief

from

the glaring

un

of southMississippi.

"Say hey

for me

to Marice and them big chaps," says Odie

Anderson.It

is his

wife and four sons, the steamingcampus of

MississippiSouthernUniversity, he athletic dormitoryand sta-



4/18

50

the antioch review

dium,

the

office where his

senior assistants

wait to review

game

films, the approachof the season openerat home againstAla-

bama,

this fourth

year

of his

five-year

ontract,

two-a-day

work-

outs and

recruiting rips

across the

Deep

South

and

a

pending

NCAA

investigation.

It

is

all

things

now and

up

to

now-his

people

up at

Soso,

paying

his dues

coaching

high

school and

junior

college,

his

professionalcareer

cut

short

by

injury

in

Canada-all

things

seeming

to have come

together

to

shape

his

conviction f his

imminentdemise

rom

heart

ailure.

"Wegoingto whipup on'Bama, Hog?"

"We die

trying,"says

Hog.

They laugh. It

is

nothing.

Hog

decideshe is

not

dying,

not

about

to,

not

subject

o

be

dying.

It is

something hat

is

probably

nothing,

and because

he

cannotdefine

or

express

t,

it

is a

terror

here

s

no

point

in

fearing.

Fraternity and sorority pep club banners limply drape the

stadium

walls. Beat

Bama.

Roll Back

the Tide.

Go

Southern. We

Back

Hog's

Boys.

The

stadium

throws

heat

into

Hog's face

like

the coils of a kiln.

The

painted

letters swim

before

his

eyes,

air

pressinghim

likeleaden

mist.

He

consciously

begins o

reach,

pull

for

each

breath, fetid on

his

tongue.

Awash with

sweat, he

lurches, into the shade of

the

stadium

entrance to his

office.

Inside,

the dimness

of

the

hall

leaves him

lightblind,air

con-

ditioninga clammyshock,hisheavingechoingoff the glossytiles

and

paneling. Hog finds

himself,

eyes

adjusting,

before

the

Gallery

of

Greats,

a

wall-length

display

of

photos

and

newspaper

clippings,trophiesand

pennants,

ocked behind

glass. This pan-

theon

of

MississippiSouthern's

inest

athletes,

record-setters nd

semi-All

Americans s a

vanity

he

cannotresist.

His

breathing lows

and

softens,

sweat

drying n

his clothes

as

hestepscloser.Therehe is, thegreatHogHammond n the prime

of his

prowess

and renown.

Three

picturesof

Hog:a

senior,

nineteen

years

ago, posed

in

half-crouch,

helmet off

to show

his

bullet

head,

arms

raised

shoulder-high,ingers

curled

like

talons, vicious

animal snarl

on

his

glisteningface;

Hog,

nineteenyears

ago,

downin his

three-

point

stance, right arm

lifting to

whip

the shiver-pad

nto the

throat

of an

imaginary

ffensive

guard;

Hog, snapped n

action n

the legendaryAlabamagame nineteenyearsago, chargingfull-



5/18

hog's

heart 51

tilt, only

steps

away

rom

brutally

dumping

he confused

Alabama

quarterbackfor a loss. The Alabama quarterback s static,

doomed;Hog

is

motion,

power,

purpose.

The yellowed

newspaper

clippings

are

curled

at

the

edges.

Southern Shocks

Ole Miss.

Southern

Stalemates

Mighty Tide.

The

Hog Signs

for

Canada Pros.

Athletic

DirectorTub

Moorman s

upon

him

like an

assassin

with a

garrote,

he

only

warning he

quick

stink of the dead

cigar

he

chews,

laced

with the

candy

odor of his talc and

hair

oil.

Hog

feelsa catchin histhroat,a twinge n hissternum,salivates.

"Best

not

live on

old-timey aurels,

Hog,"says

AthleticDirec-

tor Tub

Moorman.

A

column

of nausea

rises

from

the

pit

of

Hog's

belly

to his

chest, tip

swaying nto

his

gullet

like

a

cottonmouth's

head.

He tenses

to hold his

windpipe

open. "Best

look

to this

season,"

Tub Moorman

ays.

Hog, pinned

against

the

cool

glass

of

the

Gallery

of

Greats,

gags,covers t with a

cough.

"I'mdirectly hisminutesubjectto reviewgamefilms," he is

able to

say. Tub

Moorman s

a

butterball,

head round as

a

cook-

pot,

dirty-grey

air

slicked

with

reeking

onic,

florid

face

gleam-

ing with

aftershave.

He

dresses like a

New

Orleans

pimp,

white

shoes, chartreuse

lacks,

loud

blazer,

gaudy ewel

in

his

wide

tie,

gold

digital

watch,

oversize

diamond

on his

fat

pinky, glossy

manicurednails. His

sour, ashy breath

cuts

through

the

carnival

of his

lotions.

He

limps

slightly

rom

chronic

gout.

"Thisyear four," Tub Moormansays. "Yearone we don't

care much

do

you win,

play

what

you

find when

you

come on

board.

Year

two, three,

your

business to

scout the

ridges

and

hollows

for

talent. Year

four, we

looking to see do

you

produce,

see

do

we

want

to

keep

you-all in

the

family

after year

five.

This

year

four.

Root

hog or

die,

hear?"

The

athletic

director

laughs

without

removinghis

unlit

cigarfrom

his

mouth.

Hog

can see the

slimy,chewedbutt of the cigar,Tub Moorman'swet tongueand

stained

eeth.

Hog

is

able to

say, "I'm

feeling

a

touchpuny

today,"

beforehe

must

clamp

his

lips.

"You

know

we-all

mighty

high

on you,

Hog," Tub

Moorman

says, "you one

of us

and all."

He flicks

his

lizard's

eyes at

the

Gallery's

picturesand

clippings."You

a

greatone.

Withoutenyou

got

injured so

soon in

Canada,you

might could

of

been truly

famousas a professional."



6/18

52 the antioch review

"I'm

subject o give t

all

I

got,"

Hog

gasps,

bile

in his

mouth.

"It'ssubject o takeit," saystheathleticdirector,"an-dmaybe

then

some,"

and, "Fact, you got

to

beat

Alabama

or Ole Miss

or

Georgia

Tech or

Florida,somebody

amous,

or

we

got

to be

find-

ing us the man will."

"I

might

could,"

Hog

is

able to

say

without

opening

his

jaws,

and,

"I

got

me a

nigger

place-kicker

an

be

the difference."

Tub

Moorman's

augh is a

gurgling, ike the

flush of a sewer.

"We-all

ain't

particular," ays

Tub

Moorman,

"but

the NCAA s.

Bestnotlet no investigatorsindoutyourCubaniggergota forged

transcript,

son."

Hog

hurried

to the

nearest

toilet,

the

athletic

director's

tench

clinging

o

him,

chest thick

with

sickness,

throat

charged

with acid,

head

swimming.

Wretching

nto the

closest

commode, Hog

blows and

bellows like a

teased

bull, purges

his

nostrils

of

the residueof Tub

Moorman's

mell.

On

the

portable

screen,

Alabama routs

Ole

Miss

before a

record

homecoming rowd

at

Oxford. Sliversof

the

sun

penetrate

the

room at the

edges

of

the

blackout

curtains,

casting

an

eery

illuminationon

the ceiling.

The

projector hatters,

the air

condi-

tioning

chugs.

Only Sonny

McCartney,Hog's

coordinator,

akes

notes, writing a

crabbedhand into

manila

folders,

calling for

freeze-framesand reruns.

Sonny

McCartney

reminds Hog fre-

quently hat nationalranking s only a matterof planning, mple-

mentationof

strategy, ime.

Wally

Everett,

offensive

assistant,mans

the

projector.

Once a

fleet wide

receiver or

the

Tarheelsof

North

Carolina,

he

wears a

prim and

superior

expression

on his

patricianface.

Because he

wears a jacket

and

necktie

in

even

the

warmestweather,

he is

sometimes

mistakenby

students or a professor.

Believing here

is

no excuse for vulgar or obscenelanguage, on or off the playing

field,

he is

a

frequent

peakerat

Fellowship

of Christian

Athletes

banquets.He

sits

up straight

n

his

chair, one leg

crossedover

the

other

at

the

knee, like

a woman,

hands,

when not operating

he

projector'seversand

buttons,

folded n his

lap.

The

defensive

assistant,GaryLee

Stringer,

louches n a

chair

at the back

of

the

room.

He

played

a rugged

nose-guard

or a

small

Baptist

college

in

Oklahoma,

ooks

like

an aging

ex-athlete

should, unkempt,moody,unintellectual.He shifts his weight in



7/18

hog's heart

53

his

chair, stamps

his

feet often

as Alabama's

hree-deep-at-every-

positionsquadshreds he Rebelsonthescreen.Hesnorts,says, "I

seen two countyfairs and a train, but I ain't never

seen nothing

like them

Them

sumbitches

ood, Hog "

"The problem," ays SonnyMcCartney,

"is

to

decidewhat we

can do best against hem."

"Theyexecute

o

perfection," ays Wally

Everett.

Wally

rewinds he film

for

one more

showing.

Sonny

rereads

his

notes. GaryLee Stringer pits

a

stream

of

juice

from his

Red

Man cud into the nearbywastebasket.The roomis darkerwith

the

projectorbulb off, the air conditioning

ouder

in

the

greater

silence. Hog

holds

tightly o the

armsof his

chair,

sensing

the for-

mationof an

awful

ormlessness

n his

chest.

It feels to him as if, at the very center

of his

heart,

a

hole,

a

spot

of

nothingness,appears.

He

braces

himself.

The hole

at

the

center

of

his heartdoubles

n

size, doublesagain;

his

vital, central

substance s disappearing, anishingwithouta trace left to rattle

against

his

ribs. He

tries to hear the movement

of his

blood,

but

there

is

only

the

perpetualchurning

of

the

air

conditioning,

he

click and

snap

of

the projector eing readied.

"Hog," says GaryLee Stringer,pausingto rise

an

inch

off

his

chair,

breakwind

with

a

hardvibrato,"Hog, they

goingto eat our

lunch

come

openingday."

"Every

ffense

has

a

defense,"Sonny

McCartney ays.

"There s little argumentwithbasic execution,"Wallysays.

It

will

grow, Hog believes,

this void

in

his

chest,

until

he re-

mains, sitting,

a hollow shell

with useless arms,

legs,

head.

At

whichpoint he

will

be dead. He waits n his chair o die.

"Alabama

don't

know

we haveCarabajal,"

onny ays.

"Neitherdoes

the NC double-A.

Yet," Wally

says. "But they

will if

we permit ust one personclose enough o

speakto him."

"Is that tutoringdone learnedhim some Englishyet?" Gary

Lee asks.

"Again?" ays Wally, inger

on

the projector's

tart-button.

"Ain't

this

a

shame?"

says Gary Lee,

"Our

best

offense

a

nigger romCubadon'ttalk hardlyno English."

"I

did

notforgehistranscript,"Wallysays.

"He

can

kick," says Sonny,and, "Hog?"

Hog, dying,

rises from his chair.

"You-all

discussthis without

me,"he saysand finds he cantake a step toward he door. "I got



8/18

54

the antioch

review

to

get me some fresh

air,

I am

feeling

puny,

boys," says

Hog,

reaches hedoor,opens t, leaves,walking lowly,carefully,afraid

to

bump

anything,

afraid

that

he

will break

like

a

man

made

of

blown

glass,

no

core

eft to

him

at

all,

no

heart.

There is

no

reason

Hog should wake in

the still-dark

hours of

early

morning,no

stomach

upset

or

troubling

dream.

At

first,

he

is

merely

awake,

Marice

beside

him;

then

his

eyes

focus,

show

him

the lighterdarkness,false dawn at the bedroomwindows;and

then he

sees

the

ceiling,

walls,

furniture, he

glow

of

the

nightlight

from

the

master

bedroom's ull

bath, the

light

blanket

covering

him

and

his

wife, Marice in

silhouette,

the back

of her

head

studded

with

curlers.He

hears

he

gentle

growl

of her

snoring.

He

hears

he

cooled air

cycling

hrough

he house on

which

the

mort-

gage runs

past the

year2000.

He lies verystill, in the king-sizebed, shutsout whathe can

see

and

hear

and the

rich

smell

of

Marice's

Shalimar

perfume,

closes

himself

away, henknows

whathas

awakened

im,

so

totally,

from

a

deep

sleep.Now

Hog

listens,

measures he

rhythms,

recog-

nizes

the subtle

reduction

n

pace,

tempo,

intensity

of

his

heart-

beat.

His heart is

slowing,

and

this

has awakened

him,

so

that he

can die

knowing

he is

dying.

There

comesa minuscule

hesitation,

a

near-catch,

stutter

before

he

muffled

hump

of each

beat.

He

lies

verystill, holds his breath, then inches his left hand free of the

cover,

moves

t into

position

o

press

he

decliningpulse

n

his

right

wristwithhis

forefinger.

His

heartwill

run

down

like a

flywheel

yieldingup

its

motion

to the

darkness

of

the

master

bedroom.

He

is

dying

here

and

now,

at

the

moment

of false

dawn

that

shows

him

the

shafts

of pine

trunks in

his

yard, the

wrinkled

extureof

his

new

lawn

of Ber-

mudagrass. He will die and be discoveredby Maricewhenshe

wakes

o

the

electric

buzz

of

the

alarm

on her

bedside

able.

"Marice,"

Hog

croaks.

"Marice."

His

voice

surprises

him;

how

long

can

a

man

speak,

live,

on the

momentum

of

his last

heartbeats?

"Marice."

She

groans,

turns

to

him, eyes

shut,

groping.

Her

arm

comes

across

his

chest,

takes

hold of

his

shoulder.

She

nuzzles

his

jaw,

kisses

him

clumsily

in

her

half-

sleep,

presses her

head

into

his

throat,

her

curlers

stabbing

the

soft flesh.



9/18

hog's heart

55

Hog

says,

"Marice,

I do loveyou

and

thank

you

for marrying

me, whenmy peopleis just redneckpulpcuttersandyouarefrom

fine

high-type

people

in

Biloxi. It

is

always

a

wonder

to

me

why

you

married

me when

I was just

a

football

player,

and

now

coach,

and you

was runnerup

Miss

Gulf

Coast

and

all.

They

s

mortgage

life insurance

on the

house,

Marice,

so's

you

will

have the

house

all

paid

for."

"Big

sweet hing,"

his

wife

mumbles

nto

his

collarbone.

"No,

Marice,"

he says.

"I

love

you

and

thank

you

for giving

me ourboys. I amdying,Marice,andit is just as goodI do now,

because

we will not beat

Alabama

or

Ole Miss

nor

nobody

big-

timey,

and

the

NCAA

will

likely

soonget

me

for

giving

a

scholar-

ship to

a

Cuba

nigger

has to

have

a interpreter

o

play

football,

and

we wouldlose

this house

and

all except

I am

dying

and

you

willget it

because

of

insurance."

"Lovey,you

want

me to

be sweet

for you?"

Maricesays,

kisses

his hairychest,strokeshis face, theslickbaldcrownof hishead.

"No,"

Hog

says.

"Listen,

Marice.

Tell

me

can

you

hear

my

heart

going."

She mutters

as

he turns

her headgently,

places

her

ear

against

his

breast,

then

resumes

her

light

growling

nore.

Dying,

Hog

lifts

her to

her

side

of the

bed,

throws

back

the

cover,

rises, pads

out

of the

master

bedroom.

Dying,

he

walks

downthe

hall

to

the

bedrooms

where

his four

sons sleep

the

per-

fect

sleep of

children.

He can standat the end of the hall, look into both bedrooms,

see

them

sleeping,

wo

to each

room,

and

he stands,

looking

upon

the future

of

his name

and line, stands

thinking

of his

wife

and

sons,

how

he lovesthem,

in his

wonderful

new home

with

a

mort-

gage

that

runs

beyond the

year

2000.

Hog thinks

it

cruel

to

die

when

he cansee

the

future

sleeping

n

the

two

bedrooms.

It

is

the

coming

of true

dawn,

flaring

in the

windows

of

his

sons' bedrooms,that grantshim a reprieve.True dawn comes,

lights

the trees

and

grass

and

shrubbery

utside,

stirs

a mocking-

bird

to

its first

notes

high

in

some pine

tree, primes

his flickering

heart to

fresh

rhythm.

He

feels

it kick

into vigor

like a refueled

engine,

then

goes

to

the hall

bathroom

and

sits,

grateful

and

weeping,

on the

edge

of

the

bathtub,

staring

at

his

blank-white

toes

and

toenails

and

his lavender-tinged

white

feet, his

heart

resuming peed

and

strength

or

another

day.



10/18

56 the antioch review

Marice

and

his

sons are somewhere

outside

with

Daddy

and

Brother-boy, eeing the newmachinery hed or feeding Brother-

boy's catfish.

Hog'smama serves

him

a

big square

of

cornbread

with a glass of cold

buttermilk.

The

golden

cornbread,

straight

from

the

oven,

radiates

heat

like a

small sun.

Hog

bites, chews,

swallows,

breaks

nto

a film of

sweatas he chills

his

mouthwith buttermilk.Not

hungry,

he

gives

himself over

to the

duty

of

eating

for

her-bite, chew,

swallow,

drink-his

mama's presence. He

sweats

more

freely

with the

effort,feels a liquid warmthemerge n his belly, grow.Hogfeigns

gusto, moans,

smacks

his

lips, slurps

for her.

A

viscous

heat

squirts

nto his chest,

warming t.

"No

more,"

he

says

as she reaches oward he

pan

with

a

knife

to

cut

him

another

helping. "Oh,

please, Mama,

no," says

Hog.

He tries

to smile.

"I

want to knowwhat

is the

matterwith my

biggest boy," she

says. "You say you are feelingsome puny, but I knowmy boy,

Euliss.

I

thinkyou

aretroubled n

your

spirit,

son."

"I

have

worries,

Mama,"

he

tells

her. "We

got

to

play

Ala-

bama."

"Is it

you

and

Marice?Is

it your

family, Euliss, my grand-

babies?"

"We

all fine,

Mama. Truly."

He averts

his eyes. She

does not

look

right, not his old

mama, in

this

modernkitchen,

chromeand

Formicaandplastic-coveredhairs,doubleovenset inthepolished

brick

wall, blender

built

into the counter

op,

bronze-tone efrig-

erator

large as two

football

lockers, automatic

icecube

maker,

frostless,

Masoniteveneer

on the

cupboards.Hog

remembersher

cooking

at

an iron

woodstove, hopping

wood

for

it

as

skillfullyas

she

took

the

head

off

a

chicken,

while he

clung

to her

longskirts,

sucking

a

sugar-tit.

He

remembers er

buying

fifty-poundblocks

of ice fromthe niggerwagondriver rom Laurel, aking his tongs

and

carrying t

into the house

herself(she

wouldn'tallow a

nigger

in

her

kitchen)until Hog was old

enough

to fetch and

carry

for

her,

his

daddy

out

in

the woods

cuttingpulp

timber

dawn

o dusk.

Hog

covers his

eyes

with his hand

to

hide

the start

of

tears,

hurt and

joy

mixing

in

him

like a gumbo

in

a

cauldron, hat

his

mama

has this

fine kitchen n

this fine new

brick

home

built

by

his

daddy

and

Brother-boy

n

a loan

secured

by Hog's signature

and

Hog'slife insurance, hathis mama is old andwillnot everagain



11/18

hog's

heart 57

be like he remembers

er,

that

she will

not

live

forever.

"Ido believemy boyis troubled nhis soul,"Mamasays.

"Not

my

soul,

Mama."

Hog

favorshis mama's

people,

comes

by

his

size

from her

daddy,

a

pulpcutter

who died before he

was

born.

Hog

remembersher

telling

how her

daddy

lacked four

and

one-half

fingers

from his

two

hands,

cutting pulpwood

for

Masonite

n Laurel

all his

life

until

a

falling

tree

killed him.

Hog

looks

at

her

fingers,at his own.

"Are

you

right

with

Jesus,

Euliss?"

she

says.

She leans

across

the table, hands clenched n prayernow. "I prayto Jesus," says

his

mama,

"for

my boy

Euliss.

I

pray

for

him

each

day

and

at

meeting particular."

It

is

as

if

a dam

bursts

somewhere

on

the

margins

of

Hog'sinterior,

a

deluge

of

tepidnessrushing

o drown

his

heart.

"We go to church

regular

n

Hattiesburg,

Mama,"

he is

able

to

say

before

this

spill deprives

him

of words and

will,

his

heart

nowa remoteness, ike the soundof childrenswimming n a far

pond.

"Praywith

me, Euliss,"

she

says.

"Oh,

pray

Jesus ease

your

trouble,

drive doubt and

Satan out

Oh,

I am

praying

to

You,

Jesus,

praying

up my biggest boy to You " Her

locked hands

shake

as if

she

triesto lift

a

weight oogreat

for

her

wiry

arms,

her

eyes

squeezed shut

to

see

only Blessed

Jesus, lips puckered as

though

she drew he

Holy

Spirit

nto her

lungs.Hog cannot

ook.

It is his old mama, old now,who attendsthe PrimitiveBaptist

Church

of Soso, whereshe

wrestlesSatan until

she

falls,

frothing,

to the floor

before

he

tiny

congregation,

where he

washes

he

feet

of

elders,

weeping."Jesus,Jesus,

speak to

my boy Euliss," she

prays

n

the

fine,

modern

kitchen

of

the modernbrick-ranch

uilt

on

land won

by

two

generations'driving

scrub cattle

and

cutting

pulpwood.

Nosecloggedwithsobbing,Hog'sheartmoves ike a wellhouse

pump lifting

a

thick,

hot

sweetness

nto

his

mouth.

This

death

is

filling,

filled

with Mama's

ove,

all he

feels of

his

memories

of her,

Daddy,

Brother-boy.

JesuspleaseJesusplease,"

he

chants.

"Mama,"

says Hog, standing

up, voice

breakingon his lips

like

a bubbleof

honey, "I

got to go find

Daddy and

Marice and

Brother-boy nd

those

chaps. Time flying,

Mama." He

flees, the

watersof her love

receding

n hiswake, her

prayer

choingdamply

inhisears.



12/18

58

the antioch

review

Hog and his

daddypause at the

electrified

trand

of

fencingto

admirethe glossyAngus at the saltlick, clustered n the narrow

shade

of

the

old mule-driven

mill where

Hog helped

his

daddy

crushcane for

syrup.Hog

sees

the

Angus

meldedwith the

scrubby

maverickshe

ran

in

the woods with razorbacks

or his

daddy,

hearsthe squeak and

crunch

of

the

mill

turning,

crackle

of cane

stalks. "Now

see

this, Euliss," says

his

daddy,

a small man

who

has aged by

shriveling,drying,

hardening.

"Don't it

beat

all for

raising a shoat

in

a

nigger-rigged

rib?" his

hardness glowing

redly n the terriblesunshine,burnishedwith pride over the new

cement

floor

of his

pigpen. Hog, gasping, clucks

appreciation

or

him.

"Waitand see

Brother-boy

eed

them

fish "his

daddysays.

"Daddy,"Hog

says,

"how

s it Mama so

much for

churching

and

you never

setting foot

in

it,

even for revivals?"

Hog's daddy

expertly

blows his nose

between

humb and

forefinger,

licks

snot

into the

grass

as

they pass the

row

of humming

beehives,

their

starkwhitenessconjuring he weathered tumps and gums Hog

helped

rob

in his

youth,wreathed

n

smoke,veiled.

"I

never

held

to it," his daddy

says,

and would

go

on

toward

the

pond, stoppedby Hog'sheavy

hand

on

his shoulder.

"You didn't never

believe

in

God? Ain't you

never been

so

scared of

dying

or even of

living

so's

you

wanted to

pray

like

Mama?"

His

voice

sounds

muffled,

as

if

cushioned

by

water.

"I

never aultedher

for

it,

Euliss,"says

his

daddy. And,

"And

nomandast fault me fornot. Son,a man don't get hardlyno show

in

life,

most of us.

Now,

not

you,

but

me

and

Brother-boy

nd

your

mama. Life

weariesa man. Them as needs

Jesus-ing

o die

quiet

in

bed or

wherever, say

fine, like for Mama.

Me

nor mine

never

got

no

show, exceptingyou, naturally,

Euliss, a famous

playerand coach and all.

I

guess

I

can

die withouten

I

screech

to

Jesus

o please et

me not haveto."

"Daddy,"saysHog. Blood fills his chest, a steady seeping, a

rich

lake about his

heart, pooling

in the pit of his belly, pressing

his

lungs. "Daddy,

was

I

a good

boy?"

"Now,

Euliss "His

daddy

embraces

him

there near

the

line of

beehives, the spread fingers of

his horny hands

clasping Hog's

heavingsides.

"Euliss, don't you

know I have bragged on you

since

you

was a

chap?"

"Are

you proud

of me still nowI'm groweda

man?"His daddy

laughs, releaseshim.



13/18

hog's

heart

59

"Oh,

I recollect

you then,

son

You was

a

pistol

for that

foot-

ball. I recollectyounot ten yearsold goingout to lift the newcalf

day by day to build muscles or

footballplaying "

"Daddy."He feels a

pleasantcleft

in his breast

widen,

a

tide

of blood.

"Recollect he

time

I

told

you

not to

be

blockingyourself

nto

the

gallerypost

for

football

practice?

had

to

frail

you

with a

stick

to

teach

you

not.

Oh, son, you

was

a

pure pistol

for

that

football-

ing Yourdaddybeen

bragging

on

you since,

Euliss "

"Find

Brother-boy, ee them fish," Hog chokes

with

his

last

breath, heart

and

lungs and

belly

a

sweet

sea of

blood,

this

death

almost desirableto

him.

He

staggers away,

suffocating

in

the

fluids of his

emotions.

"Brother,"says Hog,

"Brother-boy,are

you resentfulyou

stayed

and lived

your

ife here?

Ain't

you

never

wanted

a

wife

and

chaps

of

your

own?

Do youresent

I

went awayto school for

foot-

ballandto Canada ormyown ife whilesyoujuststayworking or

Daddy?"

Brother-boy ooks like Hog remembershimself

half a

dozen

years ago,

less

bald,

less

overweight.

From a

large

card-

board

drum,

he

scoopsmeal,

sows

it

over

the

dark

green

surface

of the

artificial

pond.

The

catfish

swim

o the

top, thrash,

feeding,

rile

the pond into

bubbles and

spray. "Was

I

a

good brotherto

you?

Is

it enough

I

signeda noteso's

you

can

start

a

fish

farm

and

all

this cattle

and

stock

of

Daddy's?"

Brother-boy,owing he mealin

wide arcs overthe

pond,says,

"I

never

grudged

you

all

the fine

thingsyou got,

Euliss. You was

a

special

person, famous

playing

football

in

college and

Canada,

now a

coach." His

brother'svoice dims, lost

in

the liquid whip

of

the

pond'ssurface,

the frenzied

feeding

of the catfish.

"I am

a

happy enough

man, Euliss," says

Brother-boy.

"Mama

and

Daddy

need me.

Theygetting

old,

Euliss.

I

don't

need

me

no

wife

norchaps, andI got a big brotherwas a famous playeronce and

now a coach,

and your sons is

my nephews."

Hog remembers

Brother-boy, babywearinga

shift, a chap

followingafter him

at

chores, comingto

see him

play for

Jones

Agricultural nstitute

&

Junior

College

n

Laurel,for Mississippi

Southern,

once

coming

by

train

and bus all

the way

up

to

Calgary,

there

to

see

Hog's

career

end.

Says

his

brother,

"It

is

my way

to

accept

what

is."

Hog lurchesaway,seekingan

anchor or

his

heart, tossed in a

waveof sweetblood.He wisheshe could wish to die hereandnow



14/18

60

the

antioch

review

if he

must

die.

But this

wish is like a

dry

windthat

evaporates

he

splashof love and memorywithinhim, turningthis nectarstale,

then

sour.

Seeking

an overview

of

the last full drill in

pads,

Hog

takes

to

a

stubby

knoll,

shaded

by

a

massive

ive oak

tree.

From

here,

the

practice ield

falls intoneat

divisions

of

labor.

At the far end of

the

field, parallel to

the

highway

running

toward

Laureland

Soso,

chimericbehind

the

rising

heat

waves,

FulgencioCarabajal lacekicksball afterball through erry-built

wooden

goalposts,

the

first-string

center

snapping,

third-team

quarterback

olding,

two

redshirts

o shag

balls

for

the Cuban,

who

takes

a

break

everydozen or

two

dozen balls to talk

with

his

interpreter.

Hog watches

Fulgencio's

occer-style pproach,hears

the

hollow

strikeof

the side of his

shoe on

the

ball,

the

pock

of this

sound ike

a

counterpointo the

beating

of

Hog's

heart.He

tries

to

followthe ball up between he uprights, oses it in the face of the

sun

that washes

out the

greenof the grass.

Closest o Hog's

shady

knoll,

the first-

and

second-team

quar-

terbacks

alternate

short

spot passes

with

long, lazy

bombs

to a

self-renewing

ine of

receivers

who

waittheir

turns

casually,

hands

on

hips.

Catching

balls

in

long fly

patterns,

receivers

rot

up

to the

base of

Hog's knoll,

show-boating or him. The

slap

of

ball

in

hands comes as if

deliberately imed to the

throb

of

his

heart,

adding ts emphasis o thetwistof itsconstrictions.

At the field's

center,

Sonny

McCartney

oordinates,wears a

gambler's

green

eyeshade,

clipboardand

ballpoint

n

hand.

Sonny

moves from

offense

to

defense

in

the

shimmerof the

heat

like a

man

wading against a

current.

Hog squints to find

Gary Lee

Stringer,

on

his

knees

to

demonstrate

iring

off

the snap

to his

noseguard,his

jersey

as

sweatedas

any player's.

Wally

Everett,as

immobile as Hog, stands among his offensive players,stopping

the drill

frequently

with

his

whistle,

calling

them close for

short

lectures,

as

unperturbed y the

temperature

nd

humidityas if he

chalkedon a

blackboard n

an

air-conditioned

lassroom.

Hog's heart

picks

up its

pace, the

intensityof

each convulsion

increasing o a

thud, a bang.

Now he

cannot

distinguish

he echo

of his

acceleratingheartbeat

rom

the

smack

of

pads

down

on

the

practice

ield, the slap of

balls

on

sweatypalms,

thumping

of the

tackling dummy, crash of shouldersagainst the blocking sled,



15/18

hog's

heart

61

squealing

springs,hollowpock of

FulgencioCarabajal's

icking.

Hog closes his eyes to die, digs with his cleats for a firmer

stance

on the

knoll, prepared

o

topple

into the

dusty grass.

He

tenses his

flesh,

wonders

why

this raucous

slamming

of his

heart

does

not

shake

him, why

he does not

explode

into shards of

flesh

and bone.

And

wonders

why

he is

not

yet dead,

still

holding

against

his chest's

vibrations,

when he hears

Sonny

McCartney

blow

the

final whistle o

end

the

drill. The

blood's

song

in

his ears

fades like

Sonny's

whistle

n

the

superheated

ir of

late afternoon.

It is light.

Light, falling

upon Hog,

his wife still

sleeping

as

he

rises.

Special, harder and

brighter ight, Hog

fixing

himself a

quick

breakfast

n

the

kitchen,

chrome

rimcatching

and

display-

ing early

morning's how

of light to

him

while Marice

s

dressing,

his

sons

stirring

n

their

bedrooms.

Light,the

morning ky

clearas

creek

water,

climbing sun

electric-white,

overwhelmingHog's

senseof trees, houses, streets, driving lowly hroughHattiesburg

to

the stadium. And

lighting

his

consciousness,

pinning

his

atten-

tion

in

the

gloom

of

the

squad's

ocker

room,

his talk

to his

players

before hey

emerge nto the

light of the stadium.

Hog tells

them,

"It is

not

just football.

It

is like

life.

It

is

mental

toughness.

I

do

not

know

if

you

are as

good

as

Alabama.

Newspapers

nd TV is

sayingnot, saying hey

will

whip our butts.

If

it is, they

is nothingany of us or

you-allcan do.

We-all have to

face that. It is Alabamawe are playing today. Maybe it is like

that

you-all

have

to go out and

play them

knowingyou

will

not

haveanyshow.

It might could be I am

saying

mentaltoughness s

just having

t

in

you to

face

up

knowing hey

will

whip yourbutt.

I

don't knowno

more o

say."

He leads

them

out

into

the light.

He sees, hears,

registers t all, but

all is a dependencyof

this

light. The

game flows

like impuremotes in

perfect light.

The

gameis exact, concrete,but stillonlya functionof this light. The

openinggameagainstAlabama s a

play of small shadows

within

the

mounting ntensity

of

light.

At theedgeof the

chalked

boundary,Hog notesthe

legendary

figureof the

opposingcoach across

the field, tall,

chain-smoking

cigarettes,houndstooth-checked

at,

coatless

in

the dense

heat

Hog

does

not

feel.

This

light

has no

temperatureor Hog, a

light

beyondheat

or

cold.

"They eating our damn lunch, Hog " Gary Lee Stringer



16/18

62 the antioch

review

screams

n

his ear when

Alabama, starting

on their

twenty

after

Fulgencio Carabajal sends the kickoff into the end-zone

bleachers, drives

in

classic

ground-game

fashion

for

the

first

touchdown.The kickfor

extra-point

s

wide,

the

snap

mishandled.

"I

do declarewe

can run wide

on them, Hog," says

Wally

Everett

as

Southernmoves he

ball in

uneven

spurts

to

the

Crim-

son

Tide

thirty-seven,where,stalled

by

a

broken

play,

Fulgencio

Carabajal

ffortlessly

kicks the

three-pointer.

"I

have seen

teams

field-goaled

o death,"

Wallysays.

Late in the second quarter, Southerntrails only 13-9 after

Fulgencio

plitsthe

uprights rom fifty-six

yards

out. "Wegot the

momentum,

Hog,"

says Sonny

McCartney, arphones

lamped

on

to

maintaincontactwiththe

press-box

potters.

"We can run

wide

and

prayFulgencio

don'tbreakhis

leg."

GaryLee

Stringer,

dancing, hugging he

necks of his

tackles,

spits,screams,

"I

seen

a train and a

fair,

but

I

ain't

never

see

this

daybefore "

"Notice

the

Bear's

acting

nervous

over there?"

Wally says,

points to the excited

assistants

clustering

n

quick

conferenceon

the houndstoothhat across

he field.

SaysHog,

"Youcan't

never ell

a

thing

about

nothing

how

it's

goingto

be."

His death

comes as

light,

as clarity,

comprehensive

nd per-

vasive.There s

nothingHog does

not see, hear, know.

Everything

is here, in this light, and not here. It is a momentobliterating

moments,

ime, place.

He

knows

a

possible

great

legend

is

unfolding

on

the

playing

field,

an

astounding

upset

of

Alabama's Crimson Tide.

Hog

knows

he has

come to

this

possible wonderby

clear

chronology,

sequenceof

accidentand

design,

peopledsince the

beginningwith

his

many

selves

and those who

have

markedand made

him who

and whathe is in this instant of his death. Light draws him in,

draws

everythingogether n

him, Hog, the

contextof his

death.

Dr.

Odie

Andersonsits on a

campstool

behind the players'

bench,

feet

up

on

the

bench,

scratching his

beard

with both

hands,rollinghis

bulgedeyes

at the scoreboard.

Athletic

Director

Tub Moorman's

face

is

wine-red

with

excitement, unlit

cigar

chewed o

pulpyrags.

GaryLeeStringer

drools

obacco uice when

he

shouts out

encouragement

o his

stiffening defense.

Wally

Everett mirksas he counselshis quarterback.SonnyMcCartney



17/18

hog's

heart

63

relays nformation

rom

up

in

the

press

box,

whereMarice

and

the

four sons of Hog watch the game throughbinoculars,drinking

complimentaryCoca-Colas.On the bench next to his

chattering

interpreter,

Fulgencio

Carabajal

waits

indifferently

or

his

next

field

goal

attempt.

In

the new

modern

kitchen

n

Soso,

Mississippi,

Hog's

people,

Mama,

Daddy,

Brother-boy,

isten

to the

radio

broadcast,

proud

and

praying.

Folded

into

Hog's

memory

ike

pecans

in

pralines

are

the

many

Hogs

that

make

him

Hog:

a

boy

in

Soso

lifting

new

calves o buildmuscle,football indat Jones

Agriculturalnstitute

&

Junior

College,

bona fide

gridiron

egendary

Little

All-American

on this

field,

sure-fire

prospectwith

Calgary's

Stampeders

n

the

Canadian

Football

League, career cut

short

by

knee

and

ankle

injuries,high

school

coach,

defensive

assistant,

coordinator,

Hog

hereand

now,

head

coach

at

MississippiSouthern

University-all

these

in

the marvel

of

his

death's

ight.

Dying,Hog looksinto the glareof the sun, finds his death is

not

pain or

sweetness,but

totality

and

transcendence,

dies

as

they

rush

to

wherehe

lies on

the

turf,

dying,

accepting

his

lightthat is

the

heart

of him

joining

all

light, Hog

and

not-Hog,

past

knowing

and

feeling

or

need

and

desire

to

say it is

onlylight.

He

dies hear-

ing

Fulgencio

Carabajal ay,

"Es muerte?"

gone into such

lightas

makes

ight

and

darkness

one.

AFTERWORD

y Gordon

Weaver

I

wrote

"Hog's

Heart"

because

I

wantedto

write a

crediblestory

abouta

man

who

becomes

consciousof his

humanity, .e.,

a

story

about

a

man

who

realizes his

humanity in

and out

of

the

awarenesshat he is mortal.Which is to say that he comes to a

deeplyfelt

realization,

however

mperfectly

rticulated,

hat he

is

human

because he

is

mortal.

This

theme is a

commonplace n

literature,but

no

less pro-

foundfor

all

that.

The

problem or

me

withthis

storywas to

create

a

viable

character

n

a

milieuthat

might

overcome he

inherent

familiarity

f

the

larger

ntention-to

keepthe

story

from

being

so

pat

as

to be

boring,

and,

I

hoped, to

go

beyond

that to

make

the

insight"fresh" or the literatereader.



18/18

64 the antioch

review

Hog is a

kind of

burlesque,but his like

can

be observed

being

interviewed

on national

television on

most any

Saturday

in

autumn n

any region

n

America.The

reality

hat

he is an

imita-

tion

of

is

itself

a

burlesque

of

what human

reality

can

or

probably

shouldbe.

If

the

story

rendershim

with

enough

effective

particu-

larityto makethat

"stereotype" redible, then

the

story can,

at

least

in

theory,becomean

ironic

comment

of

some worthon

that

"reality."

Something

of

the same

can

be

said

of the story's

milieu, the

fictionalworld

Hog

livesand

dies in, the other

characters,

and the

idiom

in

which

theyspeak.At the

same

time,

I

intend

something

of

a

purely

iterary eferentwith

this

story,

since it evokes

a

highly

respected

radition, hat of the

regional

iction

of our

Deep South.

If

Hog

and

his

worldare

comic, this is

perhapsnecessary f one is

goingto attempt o make a thematiccommonplace perational.

"Hog'sHeart" s a

short

storybecausethat

world,

rendered n

the terms and with

the tone I

attempt,simply acks the

substance

to

support

a

longer

treatment,

the novella or

the

novel.

Quite

apart

from

that,

the

short

story

is

still

the most

exciting

fictional

genreavailable

o me;

its tradition, ts

possible

ormalproperties,

are

still

being discovered.

Talk

of

"traditional" nd

"experimen-

tal"

story

ormsor

types

s

laughablypremature

n

light

of

the fact

thatmost discussionsof itsaestheticsrangenofurtherbackin our

history

han

Poe

and

Hawthorne.

Short fictions are

"harder" o

write han

long ones,

simply

because he

"shortness"of

the form

makes

selectivechoicemorecrucial

or

anyauthor.

Hog's Heart_gordon Weaver

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