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The Grave Diggerby
Ron Stafford
"Beth, look, ain’t that something out there?" Caleb pushed his wife's chair up to the kitchen window, and parted the curtains, exposing a view of the moonlit graveyard. "They’ll be getting a backhoe pretty soon. Won’t be needing me or Milt after that." Caleb had always enjoyed digging a good hole.
A knock at the front door startled Caleb. "I’ll be out in a minute." Leaning over Beth, he whispered, "That’ll be Milt. We have to finish the Hopkins kid’s grave. Service tomorrow at ten. I’ll fix some supper when I get back."
Milt was resting his skinny frame against the tool shed when Caleb pulled the back door shut. He rattled the knob three times to make sure it was locked. Caleb shook his head in disgust when he saw Milt rolling a cigarette. One step closer to the grave, he thought. Any minute now, he’ll be hawking up phlegm, and blowing clouds of smoke from his hairy nose. That guy really got under Caleb’s skin sometimes. For the life of him, Caleb couldn’t understand why women went for that short, horse-faced guy.
Milt fired up the coffin nail and took a long hard drag. The end glowed like a torch. It reminded Caleb of how a kid would shine a flashlight under his chin to look creepy. Milt needn’t have bothered. Right on schedule, a wad of spit flew past the cigarette and splattered onto the toe of a boot.
"Beth still in Joplin?" Milt asked.
Caleb didn’t respond. He wasn’t interested in chitchatting with Milt on matters concerning Beth. Caleb shouldered his shovel, grabbed one end of the ladder, and led the way across Cherrytown Cemetery.
When they reached the partially dug grave, Milt lowered the ladder and climbed into the hole. They always took turns slinging dirt. Caleb flopped down on a mound of cool, fresh soil, and relaxed to the sound of a cricket symphony. He was acutely aware of the night sounds. What he enjoyed most were the death screams of any nocturnal creature that had fallen prey to another. Looking back toward the house, his thoughts returned to Beth. Poor Beth, she hadn’t been the same since he caught her talking to Milt out by the tool shed. She said she had just gone out to shut the door, not realizing Milt was there. Milt said he had just stopped by to return some tools, but Caleb didn’t recall Milt borrowing any tools.
After a bit, Caleb and Milt traded places. Caleb looked toward the house. The hole was so deep now he could barely see the roof.
"Did you know the Hopkins kid?" Milt asked.
"Yeah. I mean I saw him around some. Good kid, I guess. Was a paperboy, I think. We don’t get the paper, but he shoveled the snow off our walk once. Charged a dollar. Why you asking?"
"No particular reason. Was at the Perkins Funeral Home today. Paid my respects. Family seemed nice. Too bad when they die young. Why they want this hole eight feet deep? Don’t recall ever going deeper than six."
"Didn’t ask. They’re paying extra, so don’t reckon I care." That was the trouble with Milt, always asking questions and sticking his hairy nose in other people’s business.
Twenty minutes later, Caleb climbed out of the hole and swapped places with Milt for the last time. The old pine ladder groaned under Caleb's weight. He’d put on a few pounds since he started cooking for himself. Got to cut back on those fried foods, or I’ll end up sleeping in one of these holes myself, Caleb thought.
Finally, Milt said, " That should about do it, but I’m afraid you’re gonna have to gimme a hand getting out of this hole." He threw his shovel to Caleb, and then started up. When he neared the top rung, Caleb swung his pick, driving the pointed end into Milt’s head. It sounded like a ripe melon popping open. Milt let go of the ladder, and fell back into the hole, landing with a soft thud.
Caleb crawled back down, pried the pick from Milt’s head, and then made sure Milt was comfortable before he left.
It won't be the same without Milt around, Caleb thought as he headed back to the house. Sure Milt had gotten under his skin once in a while, but he had also been a good friend at one time. Caleb glanced over his shoulder at the gravesite, and quickly brushed a tear from his cheek with the back of his soil stained hand. He then shook his head from side to side in an effort to rid himself of the melancholy feeling. He couldn't believe he had actually thought he would miss Milt, especially after that tool-shed incident.
When he entered the house, he nodded to Beth. She was sitting where he had left her.
He grabbed a pork chop from the fridge and washed it down with a glass of buttermilk, while watching the last five minutes of the ten o’clock news. It was so depressing. Some husband had killed his wife for absolutely no reason, and then claimed he didn’t remember a thing.
"Beth, I found the perfect place. You won’t get lonely with Milt and that Hopkins boy to keep you company." Caleb dressed Beth in her blue Sunday outfit and put her body into a canvas bag. She hadn’t worn that dress in over a month, not since tool shed day. When the people at church asked about her, he told them she had gone to Joplin to care for her sister. At first they acted kind of strange, but finally they quit asking. Townsfolk really didn’t care that much about an old gravedigger’s wife.
"I’m going to miss you, Beth," Caleb murmured, when he reached the hole. The old ladder groaned more than usual as he descended with the canvas bag over his shoulder. He hummed Beth’s favorite tune, "Bringing In The Sheaves," while arranging her body alongside Milt’s. Milt still had a pulse. "Imagine that." Caleb chuckled. When he finished, he spread a sheet over both of them and said a short prayer.
A few minutes later, he climbed out of the hole, shoveled in two feet of dirt, and then returned to the house. Tomorrow, after the Hopkins’ service, he would close up the grave, go down to the funeral home and collect the money due him, and Milt. Then he would buy a one-way ticket on a westbound bus. He had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Heard that was a good hole.
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© Stafford, 2006
Ron Stafford, born and raised in a small town in Southeast Missouri, was employed for 20 years in law enforcement in New York City before retiring to South Carolina to live in the shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains. He now spends much of his time writing short stories and flash fiction.