Richard’s Grave
Adrian Stone
Fall 2009
Fall 2009
Richard was shot to death last night and now we are working on his grave. At first, the digging was easy, as the ground was soft and cool, but a foot down we hit clay and sand. I am using a spade, carving out the earth six inches per scoop. Tom is using a flat-headed shovel. He is panting and sweating, cursing Richard's death. He pushes on the curved lip at the back of the shovel with his foot, cuts the ground three inches and flicks a spit of clay into the pile.
“Damn it,” he says as the shovel freezes against a hidden stone. “God damn it, why don't we just put him out there?” He points to the river, hidden under the moonless sky. He lays down the shovel and lights a cigarette.
“And risk him being found by some hick fisherman?” I ask, joining him in the break. “Good thinking, maybe we can paint him orange to make it easier to spot him.”
“We could, you know, cut him up. The crabs'll get him.”
“Jesus!”
“I know it's...uh..”
I interrupt, “...barbaric? Savage?”
“Yeah, barbaric, but I think it's the best option. How far you think we goin' to dig before we can't no more?”
I do not reply. Instead, I smoke my cigarette, hoping that he will drop the subject. Richard was more than food for bottom-feeding bugs. He deserves a proper burial.
“I know what you're thinking.” Tom says, butting out his cigarette in the loose dirt and lighting another, “but he wouldn't've givin' a damn 'bout what happened to his body. You know that.”
“That ain't the point.”
“And he wouldn't have wanted us to get caught neither.”
I turn to him, looking him in the eyes. “And what? You think he would've wanted you to shoot him in the face?”
“It was an accident. Jesus, you know I loved him like a brother.”
“And you want to chop him into bits. Man, brothers don't shoot each other.”
I think of Cain and Abel.
I have never understood why people would kill for grass, but Tom and Richard seemed to know well enough. They were obsessed with security, setting up traps to catch and kill trespassers. They strung razor wire between trees, hid bear traps under piles of dead leaves and disguised Claymores as rotten tree trunks. They were intent on protecting plants with death and disfigurement.
While we never had trouble with outsiders, Tom and Richard had problems communicating. Simply: Richard was checking the grounds the same time as Tom, neither of them knowing the other was there. Richard got a shotgun blast to the back of his head; Tom got to realize how damn foolish their protectiveness was; I got to clean up the mess.
“He shoulda called me.” Tom says. “I shoulda called him. Look, we both fucked up, but it was an accident. God, it was an accident.”
“I told you damn fools this would happen. 'It's just pot.' I said. 'It ain't worth killin' or dyin' for.' I wish you would’ve listened to me.”
“We shoulda.” Tom says. “You were right.”
“But it's too late now.” I say, picking up the spade. I start to dig again.
“Damn it, Phil.” Tom says, throwing down his cigarette. “You are always thinkin', so think now. Look at this place: ain't nothin' but land waitin' to be flooded.”
He is right. When the spring storms start this place will be an extension of the river. There is no way Richard's body will stay hidden. Sooner or later, the ground will erode and expose him. Leaving him here will result in a game in which we wait for the cops to come looking for us.
We should have thought this through. We should have had a plan. But how often do we need to get rid of a body?
I throw down the spade and look at Tom.
“Then we go somewhere else. I know a place in the mountains that might work.”
“Ain't now way I'm drivin' three hours with him in my car.” He says. “It's too damn risky.”
“But...” I say.
“....What if we get pulled over?" He interrupts.
“Even if we did, ain't no reason for them to look in the trunk.”
“You really wanna chance it?”
No. The air coming off of the river carries a sharp chill. I smell the turned earth at my feet. A branch cracks. Tom clears his throat. The burlap bag that holds Richard's body is still.
“Shit.” I say.
“Yeah,” Tom says, taking a hit from his flask, “shit.”
He offers me a drink and I oblige. It is foul and filled with a low heat. It burns my tongue and causes my face to involuntarily contort in repulsion. Tom is a whiskey man.
“How?” I ask, passing the flask back to him.
“I got a toolbox back in the car. It's got a saw in it. I think I got a hatchet somewhere in there, too.”
I light a cigarette and he goes to his car. I sit and watch the branches above moving in the wind.
“Sorry it had to happen this way, Rick.”
Tom comes back carrying his toolbox. He sets it down next to me and opens it. “I couldn’t find the hatchet, but I got this.” He says, pulling out a hacksaw. “I was thinking that spade should work good too.”
“I can't believe this.” I say, shaking my head.
“Which do you want?” He asks.
“Neither.”
“C'mon. I need your help. Which one?”
“Guess I'll stick with the spade.” I say, standing up and grabbing it.
“We got some time,” he says. “Sun don't come up for a few more hours.”
“Yeah.”
“You ready?”
“No.”
He walks over to the burlap bag. He opens it and Richard's leg falls out. He grabs the bottom of the bag and pulls up, the rest of Richard falls out. It reminds me of birth.
“C'mon.” Tom says.
“After you.”