Chapter Text
It was early evening and Five-year-old Dennis was cuddled up in bed beside his mama who was reading him a chapter from Charlotte’s web.
It was a page without a picture so Dennis was looking around his little room.
His older brothers were eleven, twelve and fourteen and they had bunk beds and a trundle bed in the big room down the hall but Dennis stayed in the box room beside his parents bedroom.
The box room at one time had been pink but hastily painted over with green when Dennis was born; the streaky paint was more grey than the fern green colour that his brothers room was painted.
His bed was old too; It was wooden and once a baby cot. His brothers had slept in it and so had he. They had all helped dad to take away the bars to turn it into a big boys bed for Dennis. Mama had cried that day although Dennis couldn't remember.
At the end of the bed there was a wooden toy chest full of hand carved animals and plastic toy soldiers. Hand-me-down broken action figures and Nerf guns. Dennis had one stuffed animal; a pale blue teddy bear that had been a gift from his brothers when he was born. Dennis was clinging to the teddy bear as his mother read.
“...More story?” the little boy asked with big eyes when she finished the page and closed the book.
“Not tonight. School night.” Mama told him, even though Dennis wasn’t at school yet.
Dennis smiled and Mama stroked his curls and kissed him on the cheek. He giggled and then wiggled out of bed, rushing over to the low shelf where a few books were resting. He picked up his Children’s Bible, knowing she wouldn’t say no to that.
He carried it back to the bed with a skip and opened it; he loved the book and would pour over the pictures; rainbows and clouds in pastel colours. There were people and animals and promises. When mama read this book it sounded different to how scary it could sound at Church and Sunday school.
Dennis opened the book to a random page. Mama smiled and read to him. She read so many pages and Dennis was so happy that he wasn't sleepy at all. He jumped out of bed and span around the little room; dancing without music. Then he raced to the kitchen where his brothers were still chatting and doing schoolwork. He danced around for them. They laughed, clapped and cheered him on before picking him up and carrying him back to his bedroom and tucking him in, ruffling his hair and tickling him.
Mama was laughing too but Dennis knew he had pushed his luck. It was time for him to say his prayers and go to sleep.
Mornings in the Whitaker house always began early and loud.
The older Whitaker boys would stomp around and rush to eat their breakfast so that they could help a little on the farm before school. Dennis was still considered the baby and so he would stay in the kitchen with Mama. They would eat breakfast together and then start cleaning the house. Sometimes she would turn on the radio and they would dance together. Dennis loved to dance and loved how it made his Mama smile and his Daddy and brothers laugh.
Dennis couldn’t wait until next year when he would go on the bus to school like his big brothers. He would have a backpack with new books to read and his own lunch in a paper bag.
It was mid-morning and Dennis was following his Dad around the farm; learning and helping.
A litter of piglets had been born in the night. It was very exciting.
Dad watched as Dennis climbed into the pen and walked over to look at the piglets, proud that his boy wasn’t afraid of any of their animals.
Dennis picked up the littlest piglet. The runt. It hardly squeaked and its head hung limply to one side, it was too weak to lift it up. Sometimes the little one’s surprised them but this one’s mouth and face weren’t formed correctly. It wouldn’t be able to be fed by bottle.
Dennis hugged it.
His father sighed and shook his head before walking to the other side of the barn and collecting an axe.
“Hand over the Pig, Dennis.” his father told him softly, reaching out.
Dennis didn’t understand and didn’t move.
“Come on now, it’s unkind to let it suffer.” his father tried to explain.
“We can look after him. Like Wilbur!” The five-year-old smiled hopefully.
His father shook his head again and reached over the pen to grab the piglet.
“The thing’s almost dead anyway.” he said, watching the piglet sleep in his son's arms, “listen to how it’s breathing, son. It’s in pain and its mama can’t feed it.”
“It’s a he and his name is Wilbur.” Dennis insisted.
When his father easily grabbed the piglet with one hand, he walked out of the barn and Dennis began to cry. He climbed out of the barn pen as quickly as he could and chased after his dad, tripping up in his hand-me-down boots that were too big for him and falling onto the straw covered wooden barn floor he cried louder.
His Daddy ignored him and outside there was a whooshing sound of an axe swinging through the air and a dull thud. Not a squeal or a breath but Dennis knew that the piglet ‘Wilbur’ was dead.
“Come on now, son. It was only a runt. It was hurt and this was the kindest way....to take the hurt away.” His father had told him as he walked back into the barn where Dennis was still lying on the floor, his knees and hands scraped and bloody.
Father picked up son and carried him back towards the farmhouse.
Dennis wrapped his arms around his dad, it wasn’t often that his dad hugged him. Mama gave hugs. Dad ruffled hair gave pats on the back that sometimes hurt a little too much. Dad would play fight and sometimes hit but hardly ever hugged.
“What…what happened to Wilbur?” The little one dared to ask.
“When his father didn’t answer Dennis tried again:
“Is he with God?” he asked, remembering his children’s bible and his lessons at Sunday school.
Dad still wasn’t answering.
“Why did you kill him, Da?”
“He was just too little. Too sick to live.” Mr Whitaker explained to his youngest son. “Come on now, stop that crying.” he said impatiently before putting Dennis down on the front doorstep. “You quit crying then go find your Mama.” he said before turning away to go back to work.
“But…but I’m helpin’ you.” The five-year old sniffed. Wiping his scraped up hands on his T-shirt; an already stained hand-me-down from one of his brothers.
“I’ve got to work Dennis. You can feed the chickens in the yard then help your mother.”
“But I want to help you!” Dennis told him, tears still welling in his eyes.
“You’re too little.” his dad snapped, looking down at his youngest son. “I told you, stop crying. Send your brothers out to find me when they get back from school.”
“....Yes sir.” Dennis nodded.