Marge holds the leash.
Marge strides up to me with her finger pointing at my face, yelling, “And just what the hell would you have done, you silly little girl? You think you can do better? Everyone thinks they can do better than me, but the truth is no one else has the courage to do whatever it takes to keep us alive. I do. I make the hard calls no one else wants to face.
“You think that was easy? You think I won’t lie awake tonight picturing that poor boy’s face in those final few seconds? You have no idea!"
“Bury him,” I say, refusing to be intimidated.
“What?”
“Bury him with dignity. Don’t just throw him on a pile of zombies. He deserves better than that.”
“We all deserve better,” she says coldly. “But what we deserve has no place here.”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“You?” Marge says, trying to suppress a laugh, but I’m not laughing. Life demands respect. Somewhat appropriately, a light drizzle begins to fall as dark clouds blot out the sun. A cool breeze blows in from the north.
Marge says, “If you want to give him a proper burial, you go right ahead. I don’t have time for this.”
Ferguson looks me up and down as though he’s sizing me up for a fight, but he says, “You’ll find a shovel in the barn.”
And with that, he and Marge walk on.
Dad walks up to me with a bloody rag wrapped around his wrist.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I can do this. I need to.”
He doesn’t say anything, but there are tears in his eyes.
“Go with them,” I say, and he pats my shoulder softly as he walks on, following Ferguson. Marge has already gone inside one of the other homes.
Ferguson sits on a porch swing watching me as he talks with one of the women about arranging a communal lunch for the workers.
The two men standing by James look lost. They tower over his crumpled body.
“Go,” I say.
With heads hung low, they leave to join another work detail.
I’m determined to honor James with a decent burial. There’s a fire in my heart. I’ve lost Steve, David and Jane in a single day. As much as I’d like to think Steve’s still out there somewhere, Marge is right. I’m a silly little girl clinging to a dream. Reality lies in front of me with blood dripping from a bullet hole in his forehead.
I grab a shovel from the barn.
I’ll bury James where he fell.
Thunder rumbles in the clouds.
Rain falls, washing the blood away. Clods of grass give way beneath my shovel as my boot drives the blade on. The dirt is heavy, much heavier than I thought, and I strain to lift the soil and heave it to one side.
The last of the work crews return as the storm breaks in all its anger. Thunder shouts from the heavens, lightning tears at the sky, but I will not be deterred. After clearing an outline roughly six feet long, I steel myself to dig down at least five to six feet. Over the next few hours, a mound of dirt builds slowly beside me.
A bitter cold wind drives across the open ground.
Rain lashes at my face.
The storm pounds me in its fury.
“You won’t win,” I yell above the crash of thunder. “I won’t let you.”
As if in response, lightning shatters the sky, tearing through the clouds. Thunder breaks in a defiant boom overhead.
“No,” I cry, raising my head to the dark sky. “You have no right!”
Again, lightning cuts through the clouds as thunder rattles my bones in anger. The very heavens are set against me.
“You cannot win,” I yell in defiance. There is no wisdom or acceptance, no courage either, just stubborn pride. “I won’t let you win.”
Mud slides into the hole and I struggle to keep one wall from collapsing. With my shovel, I hack at the wall, digging into the dirt and widening the hole.
Minutes drag on like hours. The water laden dirt is heavy. Slowly, I edge down, hacking at the dirt until I’m standing waist deep in a shallow grave.
Blisters break out on my palms, but nothing can stop me from digging. My back hurts. Each ache and spasm
Marge strides up to me with her finger pointing at my face, yelling, “And just what the hell would you have done, you silly little girl? You think you can do better? Everyone thinks they can do better than me, but the truth is no one else has the courage to do whatever it takes to keep us alive. I do. I make the hard calls no one else wants to face.
“You think that was easy? You think I won’t lie awake tonight picturing that poor boy’s face in those final few seconds? You have no idea!"
“Bury him,” I say, refusing to be intimidated.
“What?”
“Bury him with dignity. Don’t just throw him on a pile of zombies. He deserves better than that.”
“We all deserve better,” she says coldly. “But what we deserve has no place here.”
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“You?” Marge says, trying to suppress a laugh, but I’m not laughing. Life demands respect. Somewhat appropriately, a light drizzle begins to fall as dark clouds blot out the sun. A cool breeze blows in from the north.
Marge says, “If you want to give him a proper burial, you go right ahead. I don’t have time for this.”
Ferguson looks me up and down as though he’s sizing me up for a fight, but he says, “You’ll find a shovel in the barn.”
And with that, he and Marge walk on.
Dad walks up to me with a bloody rag wrapped around his wrist.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “I can do this. I need to.”
He doesn’t say anything, but there are tears in his eyes.
“Go with them,” I say, and he pats my shoulder softly as he walks on, following Ferguson. Marge has already gone inside one of the other homes.
Ferguson sits on a porch swing watching me as he talks with one of the women about arranging a communal lunch for the workers.
The two men standing by James look lost. They tower over his crumpled body.
“Go,” I say.
With heads hung low, they leave to join another work detail.
I’m determined to honor James with a decent burial. There’s a fire in my heart. I’ve lost Steve, David and Jane in a single day. As much as I’d like to think Steve’s still out there somewhere, Marge is right. I’m a silly little girl clinging to a dream. Reality lies in front of me with blood dripping from a bullet hole in his forehead.
I grab a shovel from the barn.
I’ll bury James where he fell.
Thunder rumbles in the clouds.
Rain falls, washing the blood away. Clods of grass give way beneath my shovel as my boot drives the blade on. The dirt is heavy, much heavier than I thought, and I strain to lift the soil and heave it to one side.
The last of the work crews return as the storm breaks in all its anger. Thunder shouts from the heavens, lightning tears at the sky, but I will not be deterred. After clearing an outline roughly six feet long, I steel myself to dig down at least five to six feet. Over the next few hours, a mound of dirt builds slowly beside me.
A bitter cold wind drives across the open ground.
Rain lashes at my face.
The storm pounds me in its fury.
“You won’t win,” I yell above the crash of thunder. “I won’t let you.”
As if in response, lightning shatters the sky, tearing through the clouds. Thunder breaks in a defiant boom overhead.
“No,” I cry, raising my head to the dark sky. “You have no right!”
Again, lightning cuts through the clouds as thunder rattles my bones in anger. The very heavens are set against me.
“You cannot win,” I yell in defiance. There is no wisdom or acceptance, no courage either, just stubborn pride. “I won’t let you win.”
Mud slides into the hole and I struggle to keep one wall from collapsing. With my shovel, I hack at the wall, digging into the dirt and widening the hole.
Minutes drag on like hours. The water laden dirt is heavy. Slowly, I edge down, hacking at the dirt until I’m standing waist deep in a shallow grave.
Blisters break out on my palms, but nothing can stop me from digging. My back hurts. Each ache and spasm
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