convinced, were mostly creeps. The world was full of old goats who couldn’t think of anything else but sex, unless it was simply ways to make the opposite sex feel miserable. Her boss, Mr. Purvis, had tried so many times to get into her pants that she’d finally had to report him to the police, and this lecherous cop had sneered and drooled as he explained to her that she wouldn’t have a case without witnesses and it was pretty hard to prove anyhow and his advice was, if she couldn’t stand the thought of giving old Purvis a little enjoyment, to just try not to get into a situation she couldn’t get out of.
Cops were just as bad, or worse, than the bad guys. Take that jerk she’d seen again this afternoon, buying out the store, that Sergeant Alan of the state police. He had given her the ticket for going a little too fast on a stretch of Highway 65 where everybody else was going the same speed she was. That guy was a typical tough, unfeeling, uncouth law officer: getting into middle age, paunchy, thick, the image of a redneck, and probably the owner of an extensive private collection of pornography.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he’d asked her when he stopped her.
“No, I don’t,” she’d said honestly.
He’d laughed and said, “Then I can write anything I want on this ticket, can’t I?”
“Why are you picking on me ?” she’d asked him. “All those other people are going the same speed I was.”
“What other people?” he’d said.
“Look!” she’d said, and pointed. “Look at that guy! He’s going faster than I was.”
“I’ll catch him,” he’d said, and had finished writing out the ticket for her.
Robin was eating her salad quickly, to get it out of the way before touching the spaghetti. Robin hated salad, or anything green, but Karen had demanded that she eat what was good for her, so Robin had developed a habit of quickly finishing anything she didn’t like before starting on what she did like.
Karen reflected that if she’d flirted with that cop, maybe he would have let her off. Or maybe not. Maybe he had a quota to fill, so many tickets to write each day, in order to earn his bonuses and feed that family of thirty-seven that he was buying all that food for. Karen shook her head, and laughed.
“What’s funny?” Robin asked.
“I was just thinking about a man at the store today who bought a whole case—that’s twenty-four quart jars—of pickled pigs’ feet.”
“What’s that ?” Robin wanted to know.
“When they butcher hogs and take off all the bacon and hams and good parts, they’ve got leftovers like feet, which they preserve by pickling, and sell cheaply.”
“Ew,” Robin said. “That’s gross.”
“You’ve never had any, and I hope you never have to.”
“What did he look like?” Robin asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Anybody who eats lots of pickled pigs’ feet must look weird. Maybe like a monster.”
“He’s a state trooper,” Karen said, “although he wasn’t in uniform.” She attempted to describe him: mid-forties, strong build but potbellied, plain grizzled brown hair, bushy eyebrows. “He might not look weird but he certainly wasn’t good-looking. Just an old country boy without a brain in his head. He was buying case loads of everything. Maybe the state police are going to have a big picnic.”
Robin laughed, and said, “A zillion pigs chomping on pigs’ feet!” Then she said, “Let’s not get off the subject, okay?”
“What subject?”
“I want to go to Kelly’s slumber party.”
Karen sighed. This was going to be difficult. She tried to tell herself that Kelly’s parents, whom she’d never met, were thoroughly responsible people and would do a proper job of riding herd on the party. They would make sure nobody got hurt and that all of them behaved themselves, as much as girls of seven and eight possibly could. Maybe the parents would even make sure the kids put out the lights and went to sleep
Cops were just as bad, or worse, than the bad guys. Take that jerk she’d seen again this afternoon, buying out the store, that Sergeant Alan of the state police. He had given her the ticket for going a little too fast on a stretch of Highway 65 where everybody else was going the same speed she was. That guy was a typical tough, unfeeling, uncouth law officer: getting into middle age, paunchy, thick, the image of a redneck, and probably the owner of an extensive private collection of pornography.
“Do you know how fast you were going?” he’d asked her when he stopped her.
“No, I don’t,” she’d said honestly.
He’d laughed and said, “Then I can write anything I want on this ticket, can’t I?”
“Why are you picking on me ?” she’d asked him. “All those other people are going the same speed I was.”
“What other people?” he’d said.
“Look!” she’d said, and pointed. “Look at that guy! He’s going faster than I was.”
“I’ll catch him,” he’d said, and had finished writing out the ticket for her.
Robin was eating her salad quickly, to get it out of the way before touching the spaghetti. Robin hated salad, or anything green, but Karen had demanded that she eat what was good for her, so Robin had developed a habit of quickly finishing anything she didn’t like before starting on what she did like.
Karen reflected that if she’d flirted with that cop, maybe he would have let her off. Or maybe not. Maybe he had a quota to fill, so many tickets to write each day, in order to earn his bonuses and feed that family of thirty-seven that he was buying all that food for. Karen shook her head, and laughed.
“What’s funny?” Robin asked.
“I was just thinking about a man at the store today who bought a whole case—that’s twenty-four quart jars—of pickled pigs’ feet.”
“What’s that ?” Robin wanted to know.
“When they butcher hogs and take off all the bacon and hams and good parts, they’ve got leftovers like feet, which they preserve by pickling, and sell cheaply.”
“Ew,” Robin said. “That’s gross.”
“You’ve never had any, and I hope you never have to.”
“What did he look like?” Robin asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Anybody who eats lots of pickled pigs’ feet must look weird. Maybe like a monster.”
“He’s a state trooper,” Karen said, “although he wasn’t in uniform.” She attempted to describe him: mid-forties, strong build but potbellied, plain grizzled brown hair, bushy eyebrows. “He might not look weird but he certainly wasn’t good-looking. Just an old country boy without a brain in his head. He was buying case loads of everything. Maybe the state police are going to have a big picnic.”
Robin laughed, and said, “A zillion pigs chomping on pigs’ feet!” Then she said, “Let’s not get off the subject, okay?”
“What subject?”
“I want to go to Kelly’s slumber party.”
Karen sighed. This was going to be difficult. She tried to tell herself that Kelly’s parents, whom she’d never met, were thoroughly responsible people and would do a proper job of riding herd on the party. They would make sure nobody got hurt and that all of them behaved themselves, as much as girls of seven and eight possibly could. Maybe the parents would even make sure the kids put out the lights and went to sleep
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