PORK BELLY

When The Old Lady walked into the shop, the screen door slapped shut before Stacy could spin around to see who it was. The Old Lady moved up the counter, more swiftly than a woman her age should move. Such an odd combination of haggard and terrifying energy thought Stacy. “Babychild, I want that hog processed before you leave today. Yer dumbass butcher man just hung it up yesterday. Already bled out. Don’t let him touch it, I want you to.” Her jaw chewed on itself, the gumming action pointing out the fact that she hadn’t bothered to put in her dentures. She stood at the counter waiting for Stacy to make eye contact.

Stacy looked up and bit the raw spot on her lip and felt the salty, metallic flavor of blood rush into her mouth. It was a habit. It had been months since she last took an actual blow to the face but it felt good to keep the sore spot open, just in case she needed a distraction. It had been almost half a year since she got this shithole job in this shithole town down the road from her dad’s shithole farm. The only reason they let a girl hold a knife in the shop was because half of the town was either on meth or appeared to have wandered off into the woods.

Stacy knew The Old Lady, but she only knew her as The Old Lady. She’d always been old. She was the woman who stood on her porch every day that Stacy walked past her faded house on the way into town. Her dogs chased Stacy and nipped at her heels but the alternate route would take her more than three miles in the wrong direction. Her brother used to shovel hog shit out of The Old Lady’s barn on his way home from his job at the butcher shop. But Jack had run away last year and stole the family’s only truck in his escape from rural Wisconsin hell. He always talked about making it big at some fancy butcher down in Chicago. Now that Stacy was 15, she could get a real job and help her dad save up for another truck, then maybe she could steal it and run away too.

“You got it”, Stacy said, finally meeting The Old Lady’s eyes, “Just gotta fill out this cut sheet and tell me how you want me to break ‘er down.” She slid the form across the linoleum countertop. “Goddammit! Just cut the damn thing up. And that pork belly, be real careful when you cut into that.” She locked eyes with Stacy as she slid the paper back across the counter. “And drop off the ham hocks on your way home. I promise my dogs won’t bite you if you toss ‘em some fat scraps. I’ll get the rest tomorrow.”

Without saying goodbye, The Old Lady walked out of the shop, the screen door slamming behind her. Stacy walked back into the cutting room and saw the shop’s owner, Steve, pulling out the entrails and leaving them in a gut pile in the gutter. “I got it from here, man”, Stacy said as she pushed past Steve to get her knives. “Well fuck you too. You think that just because Jack used to work for me that you can tell me what to do?” the words poured out of Steve’s chew-stained lips. He spit on the wet concrete floor as he walked out of the cutting room.

Stacy left high school for this job. She dropped out because it kept her out of the house for more hours of the day and since they paid in cash, she could hide some of her money under the floorboard in her room. That way when the time was right, she could get the hell out. She knew how to break down a hog, a steer, chickens, and wild game too. She could start her own shop. Out of state, she thought, as she started making her cuts on the hog.

As Stacy tugged the skin off the underbelly, she felt a snag and tugged harder. But a hard knob of scar tissue was pulling the skin against the fat. She pressed against the belly and felt a lump. With her knife she cut into the flesh being careful not to gouge the meat, this was The Old Lady’s favorite cut. Her knife hit something hard. She reached in with her gloved fingers and pulled out a transparent rubber pouch. Stacy split open the slimy sack with the tip of her knife and she saw what was unmistakably bills - one-hundred-dollar bills. From the bottom of the wad, a single key fell down and hit the cement floor with a clank.

She rushed into the bathroom and locked the door. What a filthy place to count money, she thought. She sat on the toilet seat and pulled apart each bill, her fingers sticky with blood and sinew. Slipping groups of ten into her stained butchers jacket as she went, Stacy whispered the growing tally out loud...18, 19, 20. $20,000. But that wasn’t all, in the center of the wad, she unrolled a square of paper - a map. Stacy unfolded a hand drawn sketch with a note that read, “Child, there is more of this if you are willing to dig.”

There was a loud pounding on the door and Stacy jumped, dropping the last pile of bills onto the floor. “Just a minute! Give me a minute!” she shouted. Stacy shoved the map and cash in her jean pockets and looked in the dirty mirror. Stacy shoved past Steve as she made her way back to the cut room. She knew that she needed to at least act normal for a few minutes before she took a harder look at the map. She worked with the swift efficiency that she had seen her brother use when he was handling an animal. Fear made her work better.

Once the hog was broken down and on the table, Stacy crouched on the floor, out of eye shot of the doorway. She unfolded the soggy map and held it under the fluorescent light that flickered above. As if drawn by a child doing their best imitation of a pirate’s treasure map, there was an X in the far left corner of the rectangle that Stacy assumed was the butcher shop building. Dashes snaked around toward the far opposite corner and stopped under the words YOU ARE HERE.

Stacy stacked up all the bills and split the wad between her bra, socks, and underwear. She needed to be able to move without worrying about hundreds flying around. She shouted up front to Steve that she was heading out for a smoke. Then she grabbed a meat hook and headed down the hall. Based on the curving route of the dashed lines, the only place the map could be taking her was down the basement stairs. Normally she would be scared of the basement but the cash against her skin gave her a super charged energy to find out what The Old Lady was trying to show her.

She flicked on the light switch and shut the door behind her. If Steve caught her down here he would know something was up. Stacy tiptoed down the old wooden stairs. Jack once told her that this place was built during WW1 as a cheese factory and it smelled like dank, sour cheese. Cheese and mold. At the bottom of the steps she walked toward the back corner, her boots collecting dust from the dirt floor. Stacy kicked a few milk crates and empty boxes out of her way as she came up to the stone wall. But there was nothing else there. She looked back at the map - the note on the map said “if you are willing to dig”.

Stacy got down on her hands and knees and pressed the meat hook onto the hard packed dirt. She dragged the sharp tip along the surface feeling for a soft spot. Just three feet out from the stone wall the hook sank into the dirt. Stacy pressed harder with the sharp tip and hit something solid. Tossing the hook aside, she clawed into the dirt with her hands and stopped at what felt like a hard plastic bag. Stacy pulled a dusty freezer bag out of the sandy dirt and peeled it open - inside was a little black book.

From the floorboards above, Stacy heard footsteps in the shop. She needed to hurry, if Steve wanted her help, he might find out that she had dug up the damn basement floor. Stacy quickly put the book in her butcher coat pocket and started packing the dirt back into place. She walked quietly up the stairs and made her way back into the cutting room. “What the hell took you so long”, yelled Steve. “Do you think we pay you to smoke? And shouldn’t you be in school, dumbass?”. Stacy sneered at him as she pushed the ham steaks over the bandsaw.

Through the door to the shop Stacy could see the sky turning from light grey to dark grey. She still hadn’t opened the book. She had $20k stuffed all over her body and she had dug a book out of the floor of the shop. She knew she was in some kind of trouble, but she didn’t know how bad. Stacy knew that she needed to bring the ham hocks to the The Old Lady on her way home and she couldn’t go there unless she knew what was inside that book. She crouched down beside the butchering table, out of site from the shop door. She slid the book out of her butcher jacket and unbound the stretchy band. Columns of lists covered page after page in Steve’s chicken scratch - name, date, words: German, Spicy, Cheddar, Smoked. Stacy scanned the lists for names she knew. Brian Ofdorn, a boy from her high school who went missing last month; Dane Culbert, the gas station clerk that the police said stole a car; Paul Amherst, a bartender from the tavern on Front Street. All names were crossed off until Stacy got to the sixth page of lists. JACK OLIVER, not crossed off. Beneath this line: STACY OLIVER, replacement.

Stacy packed the ham hocks in butcher paper. She put her coat on and slipped out before Steve could see her leave. She thought she would feel more scared as she made her way down the gravel road out of town. The walk was long and any headlights that came up behind her were always a reason to duck along the side of the road. Tonight was different, the money gave her fearlessness. As she walked up to The Old Lady’s porch, the dogs didn’t even growl at her. Stacy left the ham hocks on the table next to the door and walked around to the back of the house. She rolled open the sliding door to the pole shed and saw a 1980’s Cadillac. Stacy got in and slipped the key into the ignition.