Backhoe Blues

Solomon attacked the yard with an iron toothed rake, scraping and pulling at the scraggly weeds, adding them to the mountain of crap behind him.

Sol fanned his reddened face with his wide brimmed fedora, leaning on the rake. His sandy brown hair bunched into damp tufts on his head, and his two-day stubble shimmered golden highlights in the early springtime sun. Sol’s tee was soaked to near see-throughness.

“Hey buddy. That’s gonna take ya a week if ya keep on like that.” Sol’s next-door neighbor, Brian, was peeking over the fence between their yards, his ebony skin black in the shadow under his ball cap.

“Dude. I promised Marcie a swimming pool by the end of spring…”

“Cool man. But you don’t look so hot… you wanna beer?”

“Uh, yeah sure.”

Brian popped back down like a gopher ducking from a hawk’s shadow. Minutes later he came through the gate to Sol’s yard, brandishing two cans of Coors Light. He handed one over. “I get you’re doing all this to save some cashola. And I’d offer to help but…”

Sol’s bushy eyebrows lifted hopefully.

“But I have a better idea. Y’know Norm, right?”

Sol nodded. Norm was Brian’s pal who had been over to Kyle’s a couple of times for poker nights. Brian continued, “Well, he works for Cal Trans y’know…” They popped the tops in unison, Brian drank a deep swallow.

“Yeah, I remember that. And what about him?” He tipped his own beer to his parched mouth.

“Well, he’s got, like, fifteen acres or something. Takes care of it all himself.”

Sol saw where Brian was headed and said, “he’s got a backhoe?”

“I am sure that he does.”

Sol looked around at the mess in his yard and swigged his beer. He was surprised to find that he had emptied it, he was that thirsty. He was clearing the yard to save some money on the swimming pool project, figuring the more he did himself, the more money he’d save. He stood up, put his hands behind his head, and stretched, pivoting from side to side. He grimaced with some pleasure as his vertebrae popped softly. “Man. That would be so cool.”

“No sweat, brother. I’ll call him tonight when he’s off work and get back to you…let you know what he said. Pretty sure he’ll let us borrow it.”

Sol and Marcie had finished their supper and had their two-year-old off to bed by eight. Sol’s phone was set to silent, he checked it every twenty minutes or so, wary of Marcie’s eyes catching his not-so covert moves. She’d not been pleased by the lack of progress on the back yard. She’d not said anything, but Sol knew that the turned down corners of her mouth and flattened eyelids under her dark bangs indicated a chastising curdling away just under the surface of her pretty green eyes.

Their six-year-old, Samantha, watched tv with them until nine.

They were watching Honey I Shrunk the Kids on Hulu.

Sol’s phone vibrated. He’d dozed off and looked around sleepily to assess the situation. Kid on couch asleep between him and Marcie, Marcie looking at him expectantly.

Sol said quietly, “I’ve got to take this.”

She nodded and began gently prying Sam’s little pudgy fingers from Sol’s arm. Marcie carried the sleeping girl away down the dark hallway as Sol answered his phone, “Hey Bri, what’s up?”

“Great news good buddy. Norm says sure I can borrow it. He asked if I knew how to operate a backhoe and I said sure…”

“Uh, can you?”

“I’ve driven one before. Eazy Peazy man. He says I can come get it tomorrow.”

“Cool. Awesome. Great news. Marcie will be pleased.”

“Aw man, she givin you the guilty eyes?”

“Yeah.”

“That pretty lady’ll be the death of you, y’kmow?”

“Yeah…she’s got me whupped for sure. But she’s worth it.”

“Well, hey, I gotta get…speakin’a them women givin the eye thing…” he snickered.

Sol pictured Brian’s wife, Meg, doing the Marcie eye thing.

Brian said, “Oh, and he wants to host the next game, asked if next Saturday would be alright. You down?”

“Heck yeah. By next Saturday, the pool guys should be ready to pour the concrete, thanks to Norm. I’ll get him a bottle of Woodford. Might even let him win a hand or two.”

They signed off as Marcie came back to the living room. Sol happily told her his excavating plans.

The pit was mapped out by stakes where the corners of the swimming pool would be. Between them, the ground was a churned-up mass of damp, loamy earth. Their pit was a rectangle, four feet deep, with a slope from the shallow end about halfway across. Brian was manning the backhoe, muscles corded beneath his chocolatey skin as he shifted gears, backed up, and lowered the four-foot bucket for another scoop. Sol returned the now empty wheelbarrow to be filled with another load. While Brian filled it, Sol spread the fresh smelling earth across the yard in the sunniest corner where he was planning a raised bed vegetable garden. Marcie would love it…if he promised to keep up the maintenance- the weeding and fertilizing and so on. Sol loved gardening. He revelled in the scents of damp mineral rich dirt and the green grass scent of happy plants. He daydreamed about where the peas would go, and the eggplant, zucchini, lettuce, carrots, pumpkins in the Fall for Samantha to carve---

The deep chugging engine sounds halted. Brian shouted, “We’re at four feet now. Two more deeper right? How’s the slope lookin?”

Sol straightened and walked over to the cooler in the shade by the picnic table under the porch overhang. He grabbed a couple of Coors Lights from the ice and gently tossed one to Brian who deftly caught it in his mitt-like hand. Brian tapped the top of the can a dozen times but the airy light suds poofed up and over his hand anyways. He laughed and drank.

Sol said. “Yeah, a couple more feet oughtta do it.” He was grinning. “Should be done by sunset, eh?”

Brian nodded as he swallowed a mouthful.

Sol said, “This would have taken me a week…”

“No dude, more like a month at the rate you were going. That is iffin you didn’t have a stroke or something.”

They chuckled and finished their beers. Sol took the full wheelbarrow as Brian lowered the bucket for another scoop.

As sol reached the future garden locale the regular sounds of the Cat’s rumbling engine and metallic thud of the gears changing were interrupted by a loud “Clank! Screeeeeeeeeee!”

He turned as Brian shut the engine off. Brian said, “Dude. Did you hear that?”

They said, “what the fuck?” in unison.

Brian got down and peered at the ground before the yellow Caterpillar.

The earth was flat under the lowered back-hoe bucket, and six long scrapes from its teeth revealed what looked like flat grey metal under the earth - dark grey pitted metal like pewter left outside in the rain. Sol and Brian jumped down into the pit; Sol crouched low and began shluffing aside the dirt with his garden-gloved hands, revealing four by five sheet of metal.

“Dude. Is that blood?”

Sol shuddered and touched the maroon chips mixed into the dirt. He felt as chilled as a forgotten hunk of freezer burned ground beef. The panic that he felt rising in his belly was like pins and needles in his leadened extremities; he felt like swooning…and did not understand why.

Brian’s words echoed in his mind, “…Is that blood?” He said, “hmm. It’s paint.” He brushed away more dirt and the maroon surface of the metal was still shiny enough in places to reflect the waning sun’s light. It certainly did look like old, dried blood.

Brian helped smoothing away more dirt from the surface. After ten minutes, they’d discovered what appeared to be a 6x6 foot sheet of metal. The metal curved slightly at the edges, and a couple inches below the thing, they found thin, pitted silver rails, mostly blackened but spotted with chrome here and there.

It was obvious now that it was a car. Buried in Sol’s backyard. “…Is that blood?”

Both men got busy scraping and digging until the top three inches of the windows were revealed.

Brian said, “I can’t see inside. Too dark. Too much glare outside.”

“Hmm.”

They continued unearthing the vehicle until the sound of tires on the gravel driveway alerted them to the homecoming of Marcie and the girls.

Sol said, “Quick. Let’s pull that tarp over it. I don’t want to answer any questions until I know what’s going on. Samantha is likely to want to inspect it if she sees it. Could be dangerous…”

“Dude. There could be bodies in there,” Brian whisper-hissed. “In fact, there probably are bodies in there. I mean, who buries a car? Lesson it be a grave…know what I mean?”

Sol hissed back, “Yessss. My point exactly. We’ll make it look like we’re just covering a plain old hole. For safety reasons…I dunno. That sounds dumb. Oh well.”

After Brian left, Sol went up the back porch stairs to the kitchen where the clattering, dinging sounds of dinner being prepared greeted him merrily. He left the porch light on and stood by Marcie who was filling a saucepan with water from the tap.

She said, “Pee-you!”

Samantha burst into laughter at the kitchen table where she was snapping the ends off a pile of green beans. “Daddy is a stink monster! Hahahaha!”

Baby Gwendoline screeched laughter and clapped her tiny hands together from the seat of her highchair.

“Hey now. This is the ode-ure of a hard workin man. Check that out.” He cocked his head out the window over the sink as he lathered up his hands with liquid soap.

“Wow honey. Is it finished? I mean is it ready for the pool company?” She said, “Wooooowwww,” again with awe.

“I wanna see!” shrilled Samantha ear piercingly.

“Oh honey. It’s dark outside. And there’s not much to see anyhow…it’s just a big ole hole.”

“Ya but…”

Marcie said, “Daddy’s right honey. Great big holes in the dark are dangerous. And those beans won’t snap themselves, will they?”

Samantha pouted but only because she had an affinity for making exaggerated faces. She handed a green bean to Gwendolyn who crunched it, then made a face that trumped her older sister’s. She opened her mouth and pushed the slimy green saliva and bean parts down her chin.

Samantha made an ew gross face and Sol came over to clean the toddler before the mess got any worse. “…Is that blood?”

Sol awoke at 3:07am and sat up woodenly in bed. “…Is that blood? Blood…blood…blood…blood,” echoed through his head as his forgotten nightmare faded. He had been disturbed by the reaction his mind and body had experienced earlier that day, he’d never been a faint of heart type person. Now, he suddenly knew why…

It was his father’s car in that pit.

Solomon, at eight years old, sits at the kitchen table working on simple mathematics problems in his school notebook. It is mid-march, the late afternoon sunlight tints the pine cabinets jewel toned amber shades, a gentle but chilly breeze sets the leaf shadows fluttering like a thousand butterflies playing on the clean shiny surfaces.

Michael Bartholomew Castelli enters, grabs a Carlsberg Lager from the fridge and says, “Hey! My little Scimmietta, good for you, you work hard on da homework, you go places.”

Sol cringed at the nickname, it meant ‘little monkey’. In the schoolyard he’d serve a knuckle sandwich to any kid for calling him that... but…it was his father, so he smiled, reveling in the attention. Big Micky C was not around often but when he was home, he doted on his son.

“Hey dad,” Sol says without looking up. He feels his father looking over his shoulder, he feels that he is grinning broadly. Sol pauses before his last problem and glances up curiously at his father who is bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“You done? Dat stuff’s important y’know….”

“Yeah yeah, I know, ‘work hard and you’ll make a great man.’”

“Son, when you work hard you earn yourself rewards. Come on, I’ll show you what I’ma talkin about.”

Sol stands and can’t help grinning himself, his father’s mood is as contagious as the measles…plus, when his father’s in a good mood, he’s good to be around, and now Sol feels he’s tucked into the bosom of a happy family. He has recently figured out this may be an illusion most of the time. He follows his father and is extra pleased that his father has taken his hand. A small boy’s smooth, soft, slightly damp hand, enfolded in a giant’s slightly calloused mitt.

They go outside, Micky C leads Sol along and around the hedges and freshly bloomed daffodils. In the driveway sits the most fabulous car Sol has ever seen.

Mickey says, “This is a brand-new 1965 Buick Riviera. A reward to myself for workin hard.”

“Wow dad. It is outta sight! Whatta beauty!” Sol lets go of his dad’s hand and walks around the shiny maroon car, touching the chrome and whistling softly. “It’s got four headlights!”

Micky beckons his kid to sit in the passenger seat. The new carpets and fresh clean vinyl bring fresh cheery smiles to both their faces. Micky eases into the driver’s seat and says, “Well? Whatchoo think? Is she a beauty or what?”

Before Sol can respond, Micky adds, “Check out the eight-track tape deck. And power windows…she’s power everything!”

“Wow Dad. She’s amazing!”

“Whatchoo think of the color? Cooler than black dontchoo think? Dark red. Maroon. In da brochure it’s called oxblood.”

“Michael!” Sol’s mother calls from the kitchen window. “You get rid of that garish hunk of junk! I mean it! It’s as tacky and tasteless as one of your whores!” Sol cringed.

Mickey says softly, “I’m sorry Simmietta. She’s just not herself. You go play. Go on now…”

But Sol was drawn to the raised voices clamoring through the window. Eavesdropping was the only way he was kept in the loop; he was beyond curious and concerned. He felt the tension tearing at his sanity every night when he tried to sleep at night.

“…her in that car”

“Mona put down the knife…come here!”

A crash…a glass shattering. Screaming. Wailing. “Get out! Just get out! Take that car! Go to your whore!” Another crash.

Low-timbered words he couldn’t catch, then footsteps. Sol shakily crept around the house to his bicycle and took off down the road.

He returned home at sunset. The house was dark, the kitchen un-cooked in. He peeked into his parent's room with much trepidation, his bladder felt bloated and fragile.

She was dead! Sprawled on the pale green chenille bedspread…a bourbon bottle by her starfished hand. Then she snorted wetly and began to snuffle weepy snores.

Sol went back outside. The car was gone.

Thirty years later, wide awake at 3:10 am… “Is that blood?”

“Oxblood.”

A relentless marching army of goosebumps stomp up and down his spine like stormtroopers.

Brian shows up a minute after Sol’s wife takes off to drop the kids off at daycare and school before heading to her office.

By noon they have uncovered the entire car. Through the tinted windows they beheld the sightless, grinning, skeletal occupants. As the two had been excavating, Sol had talked of his dad, the car, the life lessons…and his own assumptions about his dad, who was not around much but was a carnival when he was home.

Sol opened the driver’s door. The skeleton in the seat was definitely his father. It was wearing his favorite jaunty fedora, the one with the little red feather. This was no big surprise.

The skeleton passenger was obviously a woman, the shoes were red with high sloping heels. They were not the sort his mother would have been caught dead in. He snickered at that thought and was concerned it would turn to the hysterical laughter of the newly committed. Both skulls had two small black holes between their cavernous eye sockets.

Brian said, “What? What’s funny?”

“Mom was right. Dad was fuckin around on her.”

“You mean all that shit she spouted on and on about was true?”

“Apparently.” On a whim, Sol takes his dad’s fedora, brushes it off a bit, and puts it on his head.

The next day Sol drove the four hours to St. Theresa’s Garden Home. It was a nice old folk's home- expensive and gated and pooled and pickle-ball courted. His mother was housed in the quiet wing for the catatonic.

As Sol entered her room, he forced a smile to his face. It was dimly lit by only the overcast day seeping in through the portico’s glass door, and that was fine by Sol. Her appearance was one of disturbing deterioration. She was a yellow, papery skinned mummy sitting at the door looking out. She did not move but uttered softly, "Sol. What have you done?”

“Mom? I don’t…” The fact she’d spoken was a bomb.

The husk of a woman in a pale blue robe turned only her head in his direction. This was more reaction he’d seen in 36 months. She said, “You brought him.”

“What?”

“Him!” she pointed a white, bony, blue veined finger his way.

She was not pointing at Sol…but about two feet from him.

And there was his dad.

Once all powerful, now reduced to being semi-opaque, Micky C approached the woman that had murdered him and his beloved young lover. He lifted a finger and pointed at the old crone.

Her stormy, cataract-clouded eyes cleared, and she smiled. He’d come back to release her.