Pigs are pink, baby

Ten more steps and he can start running.

Hand behind his back, he creeps sideways out of the kitchen. Not that dad’s looking. Tom can just see him in the lounge through the archway, plonked on the couch and staring straight ahead at the TV with those zombie eyes he gets after about the third can. He’ll be like that for hours but still, Tom holds his breath, heart thumping, sweat slicking the coin in his hand. After all this time pinching money from the ashtray he couldn’t bear getting caught today. Today of all days.   

Lily’s there. She’s at the kitchen table doing her maths homework and he knows she knows what he’s doing. But she’d never tell. Her face is hidden behind Division: Grade Two as if it shields her from being an accomplice.

Three, two, one steps and he’s safe.

He turns and races down the hallway, the slap of bare feet absorbed by carpet, into his room and softly clicks the door shut. In his palm the silver glints, turned to salvaged treasure in the shards of afternoon light: the last dollar. His stomach gives a nervous jerk.

Then he’s over to the bed and down on his belly, peering through the dusty gloom. He shoves his backpack, fully packed, aside and drags the pink pig towards him.

Man, he really hated this thing when his mom gave it to him.

“But pigs are pink, baby,” she’d said. “Pink’s not just for girls.”

Now it’s his most prized possession. Even the porcelain, cool and smooth against his hot hands, reminds him of her soft skin.

Sometimes he burns with guilt after stealing. He imagines her telling him how nothing, not even this, makes crime okay. So he tries to explain it to her in his head like she can hear him:    

Mom, I don’t know what else to do. I have to get out of here. Since you left it’s been… it’s been bad mom and I can’t take it anymore.

Not that he blames her for getting cancer and dying. It’s not her fault.

He lines the last dollar up with the hole in the pig’s back. $42.50. If he’s done his addition right, then he should have enough now. $42.50. He’s been repeating that number to himself since he worked up the courage to ring the bus company a few months back. And he grits his teeth and silently repeats it to himself every time it happens, to get him through it. $42.50. Almost there. $42.50.

The coin slips inside. 

No.

That’s not right.

No chink of metal on metal. Just a weird, dull, rustling kind of thud.

No!

She wouldn’t.

He flips the pig over onto its ears. It’s too light! And there’s no grinding avalanche of coins falling like there should be. The rubber plug pops out with one yank and scrunched up inside is a ball of gridded maths paper. He rips it from its porcelain nest, flattens it out, and immediately recognises her untidy scrawl.

Tom,

Don’t be mad! Please don’t be mad!

I’m so so sorry that I took your Mexico money.

Despite his anger he snorts, although it’s really not funny. Any of it.

Lily had caught him one day, stashing coins in the piggy bank. He’d thought about lying to her, telling her he was saving up for a bike or something, but knew he couldn’t just leave without her knowing so he told her about the bus and made her swear to keep quiet. Then that look on her face, the crinkled eyebrows mom got when she was worried, and he knew she was imagining him somewhere horrible, eating scraps to survive in a city gutter, so he told her he was going to Mexico, instead of the next city over. Of course, she believed him.

And then she started asking all about it. What was it like there? Hot and sunny, he’d said. What will you do? Lay on the beach under palm trees and drink coconuts and learn Spanish. She’s one of those kids that asks a million questions. Although, she’s been pretty quiet in the last few days. Yeah, he thinks, because she was getting ready to pilfer my stash! And now it looks like he isn’t going anywhere, least of all Mexico. And his heart sinks. And his eyes are prickling.  

He keeps reading, words blurred.

I had to take it Tom. I HAD to! You CAN’T leave me here alone.

And why the hell not?! She has no idea what it’s like to cop these beatings. She’s the angel. The girl. So much like mom. He’ll never lay a finger on her. Why can’t he leave her here and they can play happy family without him?

But then, could he sense the same panicked voice, the desperation he hears in his own head when he tries to justify his stealing?

Come meet me in The Spot? Please. Don’t be mad.

I’m sorry.

Lily.

He screws up the paper and throws it against the wall before taking a big, steadying breath. Then he creeps from the room and pads quietly down the hallway.

He isn’t sure how he’s going to react and he’s still deciding if he should yell at her when he opens the cupboard under the stairs and crawls through the narrow space into the small opening. Suddenly he knows where the money’s gone.

The space is lined with colourful posters: tropical scenes of white sandy beaches and palm trees and turquoise water. Near his feet, the laundry basket is filled with fresh coconuts and flowers. And he sees Lily sitting on the floor next to pile of books. Spanish for Dummies reads one spine. Photography of Mexico, reads another.

And covering her cheek is an enormous purple bruise.

Her silence, her hidden face. Of course. Oh man.

“It’s not as good as Mexico but…” Her lip quivers.

He races over to her, skidding onto his knees, and she collapses into his arms.  

“I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I know it’s wrong but I had to.”  

And he knows that she did.