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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Some Things Are Universal” Down in the Dirt v208 (6/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Pullin’ Toward the Pigs
Terry Sanville
At the 17 tee box, Eddie selected his driver, teed up, and smacked his Titleist. It sailed high then pulled toward the river and the dense growth of reeds that clogged both sides of the Rio Grande. He muttered something under his breath and steered their golf cart toward the river.
“What did you say?” Ellen asked from the seat next to him.
“What? Nothing, honey, nothing.”
“It had to be something. You gotta remember my hearing is better than yours. You really should get yours checked. I almost have to shout at you just to ask a simple question and—”
“I know, I know. No nagging, please. We’re on vacation, remember?”
“Sorry. But what seems to be the problem?”
“I’ve been pulling my damn drives and fairway shots all afternoon and can’t figure out how to stop.”
His wife laughed. “Why should you care? It’s just a game played by a senior trying to recapture his youth.”
Eddie scoffed. “That’s nonsense. I can barely remember my youth. I’m afraid it’s beyond capture.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
They arrived at his ball. Eddie stepped from the cart, selected his fairway wood and assumed his stance. His swing felt good and the club’s connection with the ball solid, better than his drive. But again it pulled toward the river.
From the tangle of reeds came a grunting sound, like the low rumblings of an outboard motor. Then a high squeal and a huge sow, half covered in mud with her full tits swinging, burst from the reeds and charged Eddie. Four little piglets rolled and tumbled after her. With a yelp Eddie stuffed his club into the golf bag, jumped in the cart and took off down the fairway, with mama pig in hot pursuit and Ellen laughing her ass off.
They outdistanced the enraged mama and pulled up to Eddie’s ball for his third shot. It lay even closer to the brown slowly-flowing river. To the west, the sun rested on the horizon and cast shadows of the reeds onto the fairway’s lush grass.
He looked back at the sow herding her children into the cane.
“You know, yesterday in the clubhouse after my game I heard these old duffers talking about ‘pullin’ toward the pigs.’ Now I know what they were talking about.”
“Maybe we should have brought pepper spray, or a shotgun and a portable barbeque,” Ellen said, laughing.
“Cut it out. I’m trying to concentrate here.”
He climbed from the cart and selected a club. But a low muttering noise distracted him. From downriver a Border Patrol boat motored upstream, with a uniformed officer at the wheel and another scanning the water and the Mexican shoreline with binoculars. Eddie waited until the boat’s sound had faded before taking his stance.
“Wait,” Ellen murmured.
“What? I’m trying to play.”
“Look.” She pointed across the river.
Through a gap in the reeds they watched two adults and two children slip into the water. The adults pulled strongly for the American side but the children lagged behind. The adults circled back and swam with the kids, helping them along.
“We’d better leave,” Ellen said. “Those people could be dangerous.”
“For cryin’ out loud, it’s a family. Why would they be dangerous?”
“They could be smuggling something. You know, working for the cartels.”
Eddie shook his head. “You’ve been watching too much TV. Look at ’em, for Christ sake. They’re carrying nothing. Probably meeting up with someone here at the resort.”
Ellen stuck out her lower lip and Eddie knew he was in for a stubborn response.
“Still, they could be dangerous.”
“But why?”
“Because they’re desperate.”
“You would be too if you had to swim across that river.”
The couple watched the family struggle ashore and disappear into the reeds. From across the fairway in an upslope parking lot, a dark van flashed its headlights in the dusk. The family emerged from the shadows. Ellen clutched Eddie’s arm and he winced. The family spotted them and froze. The mother wore a long shapeless dress that failed to hide her pregnancy; its hem dripped brown water. The father and son stood shivering, arms crossed, both shirtless and wearing ragged shorts. The little girl, maybe four, wiped her eyes and buried her face in her mother’s hip. Shoeless, they carried nothing but themselves.
The father stepped forward. “Lo siento, señor. Lo siento.”
Eddie took all of this in – their brown skin, their fearful eyes, the streaks of mud, their white teeth, almost as white as his new golf shoes and the belt around his waist. Jesus, those kids look about the same age as Ronnie and Sarah, Eddie thought. We’re seeing them for Thanksgiving. Wonder what these folks will be celebrating?
The van’s headlights flashed again. The family crowded together and edged upslope.
“Wait, wait,” Eddie called and moved forward, not knowing what he would do or say but knowing something should be done.
Ellen let go of his arm. “Be careful,” she whispered.
He moved toward the father who straightened himself, ready to defend his own. Eddie withdrew a money clip from his pleated slacks and without a word handed it over. The man’s eyes grew huge. His mouth dropped open. With a trembling hand he took the money.
“Gracias, señor, muchas gracias.”
A quiet smile spread across the mother’s face. For the third time the van flashed its lights.
“Lo siento, señor. Pero nosotros tenemos que ir.”
The family hustled across the fairway and disappeared inside the van, its side door sliding shut, sounding like a knife’s edge against a butcher’s steel. Taillights disappeared into the evening.
The couple stared at each other. “That . . . that was kind of you,” Ellen said and laid a hand on his arm. “They did look desperate . . . but not dangerous.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Eddie said, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m never gonna say ‘pullin’ toward the pigs’ again.”
Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.
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