In the smokehouse of the Whole Hog BBQ, Izzy mixed together salt, pepper, and vinegar in a bucket using a wooden oar while poring over a Bible-size Dr. Sears book on babies. Now three months’ pregnant, Izzy finally felt like an authentic expectant mother; although it was only noticeable to her, the flatness of her stomach was becoming the slightest bit convex, something beyond her powers making itself known.
She had finally told her father; he reacted at first with an anger that Izzy had not expected, a desire to beat up whatever boy had done this to her, but that eventually gave way to a stoic acceptance of the fact and a belief that Izzy’s mother, had she been alive, would have been very excited about this, though Izzy knew for a fact that her mother would have been furious that Izzy had allowed a baby to slow down her inevitable rise to greatness.
Word got out among her few friends and coworkers and, once it was clear that she was not going to reveal the father and that he was out of the picture anyway, people let it drop, or at least didn’t discuss it around her. In fact, the waitresses at the restaurant now seemed more interested in talking to Izzy, as if her pregnancy finally made her normal in their eyes, and they shared numerous stories about their own experiences, most of them so unpleasant that Izzy wondered why anyone willingly got pregnant.
Mr. Tannehill refilled Izzy’s cup with water; he was always making her drink water, as if he’d heard water was important to expectant mothers and this was the only thing he knew about the subject and he was going to stick with it until the baby was born. He tipped an imaginary cup to his lips and Izzy nodded and took a deep gulp of the cold water. Mr. Tannehill had also purchased a carbon-filter HEPA mask for Izzy to protect her from the smoke, but it fit strangely on her face and made her feel dizzy, the sound of her breathing always in her ears, so she took it off. Mr. Tannehill now made her take frequent breaks to walk outside and get air. And he would not allow her to lift anything over five pounds, which meant he was hoisting the pig carcasses onto the chopping block by himself, a task for which Izzy had assumed she was necessary. But she found that Mr. Tannehill could do it without much effort, which made her feel the slightest bit patronized, all those times she’d used every muscle to move the more than one hundred pounds of pig around the room, thinking she determined whether it fell to the ground or not.
One of the waitresses stepped into the back room and hollered that someone was here to see Izzy. “Who is it?” Izzy asked, but the waitress was already rushing back to her work. Mr. Tannehill was preparing a new pig for the smoker, which could hold two pigs at one time and therefore was always in use, using an electric saw to remove the head and legs. He looked over at Izzy and asked, “You need to check on that?” Izzy shrugged. “I better go check. It might be my dad.” Mr. Tannehill returned to his work and Izzy walked through the kitchen, where all the frying was done and the sides prepared, into the seating area for the restaurant. She scanned the area, a huge space lined with picnic tables, but saw no one she recognized. The waitress who had called her was walking by with a tray of food, and Izzy stopped her for clarification.
“That old lady over there,” said the waitress, pointing to a woman in a business suit, sipping a glass of water and looking quite worried to be in her current predicament. Izzy realized instantly who it was, Hal’s mother. She felt sick and her knees wobbled for a second before she righted herself, just as the woman spotted her. Izzy placed her hand over her stomach, as if there was something to hide, and she considered going back to the smokehouse. She understood, there was no other explanation, that Mrs. Jackson knew about her and Hal. The only mystery was how much she knew. It was a strange sensation, to finally be discovered, especially since Hal was now out of her life. The woman gestured for her to come over, and Izzy found that her feet were moving without her consent, her subconscious hoping that Mrs. Jackson had a message from Hal, who had never responded to Izzy’s letter rejecting him.