Brody

The howling wind rattled the old shutters causing them to bang against the side of the house. It was a terrible day for chores but they couldn’t put it off for any longer.. Luckily, the recent rain would make quick work of what they needed to do.

The man took sip out of the chipped mug, half the design worn off from use, and gazed out of the kitchen window, looking but not seeing the vast emptiness of the dying landscape before him. He glanced down at the sorry excuse for coffee in his cup and grimaced. Being this far from civilization made it difficult to get a good quality bean but even shitty coffee was better than no coffee.

A creak of the boards above his head drew his attention upwards, dust falling from the beams. Slowly, the creak moved away from him as it descended down the stairs, the sound of footsteps straining the old, half-rotted wood. The woman emerged from the shadows of the hallway into the early morning light of the kitchen. Dark circles under her eyes and a pale complexion marked her exhaustion.

“Windy today,” she croaked, her voice raspy.

The man grunted his agreement.

“At least the ground is soft.”

“Mm.”

“We better get moving.”

He responded by putting his mug on the counter and grabbing the shovel leaning against the wall behind him. Without saying another word he walked past the woman and out the front door. She stood for a moment, bracing herself for the task at hand. Taking a quick glance over her shoulder she swiftly moved to the counter and picked up his coffee mug. Carefully holding the mug between both her hands, she took a whiff of the contents of the cup. Her eyebrows drew together in confusion and she glanced over her shoulder one more time.

Brown shoulder length hair whipped around his face as he stood on the steps leading down from the house, the rusty chain of an old porch swing squeaking back and forth. Thick, heavy clouds rolled in from the distance, threatening a storm and blocking any hope of sunshine. The woman joined him on the steps, her own shovel in tow. They exchanged a brief look before the man took off down the beaten down path. The woman sighed and followed closely behind.

They walked in silence from the house, past the long-dead garden, the dry crunch of un-watered grass beneath their feet. The woman’s eyes took in the sight around her, painful memories of a time when the property was full of life flashing across her face. She can almost see the various blues and purples of her favorite flowers. Now all that’s left are dried up petals of the red spider lily. Blue is such a depressing color he had told her. It didn’t matter it was her favorite, he wanted red. It’s bold and powerful. Just what we need to portray right now.

Wind continued to circle around them as they approached the wooden fence separating the garden from the pasture. A large wooden box with brass accents and a small sapling with its roots wrapped in burlap was laying on its side next to the fence. The woman gasped and rushed over to pick up the tree. She examined each branch and leaf carefully as the man scowled at her.

“I don’t know why you kept putting it off. It’s a miracle the leaves didn’t get blown to bits,” his southern drawl elongating each word, turning his simple observation into a verbal dagger.

She responded without returning his gaze. “No other day felt right.”

The man just grunted and hauled his shovel up to his shoulder.

“Where do you want it?”

Carefully stepping away from the sapling, the woman turned and surveyed the nearby area.

“There,” she pointed to a bare spot on the ground. “That’s where it should be.”

He grunted in acknowledgment and slammed his shovel in to the dirt. It went in easy thanks to the rain earlier in the week. She picked up her shovel and started digging beside him. They worked silently together, the air heavy with the incoming storm. Lightning flashed in the distance followed by the quiet rumble of thunder.

Time dragged by as they lifted shovel after shovel of dirt, the hole in the ground slowly growing with each scoop. The man used his tool to compare the size of the box to their progress, each time the hole coming up short.

An hour passed.

“I think that’s good,” the man said, staking his shovel into the ground.

The woman continued digging. “It’s not deep enough.”

He rolled his eyes knowing better than to argue and picked his shovel back up.

Another hour passed.

Another flash of lightning. The rumble of thunder closer this time. The woman looked up at the sky. A large raindrop landed on her cheek. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the smell of rain permeating the air.

“Now?” He asked.

She nodded.

The man once again staked his shovel into the ground and walked over to the box. He crouched down to inspect its details, his hand running over the brass plate that read “Brody” with 2017-2021 just below. He closed his eyes as he braced both hands on the box, a swirl of emotions raging just beneath the surface.

“We have to keep going if we want to beat the rain,” the woman whispered, moving to just behind the man. He nodded and turned to face her opening his mouth to ask if she wanted to say a few words.

A loud CLANG rang out as the shovel made contact with his skull. His eyes rolled back and his mouth went slack as his collapsed onto the ground. The woman stared at him still holding the shovel like a baseball bat, her eyes as cold as the rain that had begun to fall more steadily.

She watched his chest rise and fall ever so slightly. She had hit him hard enough to knock him out but not to finish him completely. That would be left to his poison-laced coffee.

Tossing the shovel aside, she grabbed his arms and lugged him into the hole. Barely conscious, he tried to reach for her, reach for anything to pull himself out but there was nothing.

Another strike of lightning. Another rumble of thunder, this time much closer.

The woman picked up one of the shovels and began the task of refilling the hole. Fierce determination covered her face as she covered the man in a layer of dirt, his fingers grasping for help that will never come.

When the hole is half refilled the woman turned back to the box, rain hitting its surface like tiny mallets on a xylophone.

“I’m sorry, Brody,” she whispered, planting her hand flat on the top of the box. A teardrop fell from her face, lost in the rainfall.

This time the lightning and thunder cracked simultaneously. The storm had arrived. She was taking too long. Her hands grasped the box and tossed it into the hole. She threw more dirt on top and hastily grabbed the tree. Using her hands she covered the tree with the rest of the dirt.

By the time she was finished, rain was coming down in buckets. Her dark hair was plastered to her head and she was soaked to the bone, but she was done. With one last pat of mud on to the tree, she slowly stood up and backed away to take in the days work.

She was finally done. She was finally free. She looked back up at the sky and closed her eyes, feeling the rain hit her face, imagining it washing everything away. She stood there until she saw one last flash of lightning followed by a long pause before hearing its accompanying thunder.

A smile crept across her face. She was finally done.