A pinch of salt. A light drizzle of olive oil. The housewife, who had no name the neighbors used, hummed a tune that was not a hymn as she followed the recipe. It was an old one, useful, scribbled in the margin of a cookbook beside How to Tenderize a Tough Cut.
The meat in the bowl was a tough cut. It had been stubborn in life, and death had not improved its texture. She worked it with her hands, the oil making her fingers gleam under the fluorescent kitchen light. Outside, the pigs grunted in their pen, a low, rhythmic sound of anticipation. They were her most reliable companions. They never judged, only consumed.
She carried the bowl out the back door, the screen slapping shut behind her. The evening air was thick with the smell of earth and manure. It was an honest smell.
“Now, now, my darlings,” she crooned, her voice sweet as pie filling. “Don’t be greedy.”
She upended the bowl over the fence. The contents landed with a wet thud. The animals surged forward, a wave of pink, bristly hunger. They were efficient creatures. Practical.
“Forgive the quality,” she giggled, wiping her hands on her apron. It was a cheerful print of sunflowers. “He was always a little stringy.”
Today was, all things considered, a good day. She had taken out the trash. The pigs, at least, would always have her back. They understood the simple economy of things: you are what you eat, and eventually, you are eaten.
She turned to go back inside, her duty done, but stopped. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway of the old toolshed, a place she kept locked. A place he had warned her to never, ever visit.
It was the girl from down the lane. Sarah. The one with hungry eyes and a brother who was too quiet. She was staring, her face a pale moon in the twilight.
The housewife did not startle, having run out of startle months ago. She simply smiled, a slow, easy thing. “Can I help you, dear? You’ll forgive the mess. Feeding time.”
Sarah’s gaze flickered from the housewife’s serene face to the churning pigpen, then back. She took a step forward, then another, until they were standing close enough to share a secret.
“I saw,” Sarah whispered. Her voice was thin, reedy. “Last night. From my window. I saw you… dragging.”
The housewife’s smile didn’t waver. It deepened. “I was just disposing of the trash. A woman’s work is never done.” She looked the girl up and down. Sarah was all sharp angles and nervous energy, a bird ready to take flight. “You look like you could use a decent meal. You and that brother of yours. He doesn’t feed you properly.”
Sarah shook her head, a quick, jerky motion. “He’s… busy.”
“I’m sure he is.” The housewife’s eyes drifted back to the pen. The pigs were already settling down, their business concluded. “Men often are. Until they’re not.”
She turned and walked toward the house, not checking to see if the girl followed. She knew she would. Curiosity was a stronger lure than fear. Inside, the kitchen was spotless. The bowl already in the dishwasher. She poured two glasses of iced tea, ice cracking like tiny bones.
Sarah stood in the doorway, hovering between worlds.
“Sit,” the housewife said. It was not a suggestion.
The girl sat. She clutched the glass but didn’t drink. “What was his name?” she blurted out.
“Whose name, dear?”
“The… the trash.”
The housewife laughed, a genuine, warm sound. “Oh, he had several. Most of them foul. But out here, he’s just supper.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He was a bad man, Sarah. The kind that leaves bruises on the soul. The world has less of a mess to clean up now.”
Sarah’s eyes were wide, trying to be horrified. The housewife could see it. But beneath the horror was something else. A flicker of understanding. A spark of grim approval.
“My brother,” Sarah said, her voice barely audible. “He… he hurts things. Small things. At first.”
“They always start small,” the housewife nodded, sipping her tea. “It’s how they practice. Does he hurt you?”
A long silence. Then, a single, sharp nod. A tear traced a path through the dust on Sarah’s cheek.
The housewife reached out and covered the girl’s hand with her own. Her grip strong, capable. It was the hand that had plunged a knife, that had swung a shovel, that now offered comfort. “This is a farm, child. We have a way of dealing with things gone bad. We don’t waste. We… repurpose.”
She stood up and went to a drawer, pulling out a key on a simple loop of string. She tossed it onto the table between them. It landed with a heavy, metallic clunk.
“The shed,” she said. “If you ever have a problem that needs… composting. The tools are in there. The pigs are always hungry.”
Sarah stared at the key as if it were a serpent. Then, slowly, her hand crept across the table. Her fingers closed around cold metal.
The housewife smiled again, this time with a touch of sadness. She was not creating a monster. She was answering a prayer. The girl had darkness in her that needed a channel, an outlet. The housewife was merely providing the plumbing.
“The trick,” the housewife said, leaning in one last time, “is salt. It draws out the bitterness.”
Sarah stood up, pocketing the key. She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to. The look in her eyes gratitude enough. She slipped out the door and disappeared into the gathering dark.
The housewife finished her tea and looked out the window at her pigs. They were sleeping now, content. The cycle was complete. And somewhere down the lane, a new cycle was just beginning. She hummed her strange, non-hymn tune and planned the next day’s menu. One heard Sarah’s father had a temper, too. And the pigs, her faithful companions, were always, always hungry.
Diamond was born in Nigeria. Her goal has always been to share her works with the world, telling moral lessons through dark and ironic stories.
https://substack.com/@diamond6777?
Doric Literary 