I waited for the Isuzu engine to start but heard nothing. A long wait, too long. But then there it was—faint, so faint, as if the sound came from half a mile away. I imagined them slowly driving out through the trees, avoiding ruts, stumps, stones.
George at the wheel or Floon? George—he knew the town, knew to turn right when they reached the road and go that five winding miles till he hit the parkway.
I maneuvered my way awkwardly down into the hole and started digging. The earth was soft and damp—it gave up a lot to each shovelful. Digging, I busied my mind by imagining their car driving down the road toward the parkway. I tried to remember all of the landmarks along the way—the large copper beech tree that had been struck by lightning. The small white cross by the side of the road marking the spot where a fatal accident had happened years ago. The still pond nearby that was always covered by green scum and water lillies. We’d caught so many frogs there when we were kids. I once pushed Marvin Bruce into it and made sure his head went all the way under.
For no reason my heart began racing. Closing my eyes, I willed then begged it to calm down. After some more crazy uneven beats it eventually quieted. I waited to see if it would stay that way. My chin rested on my chest. Quiet down, heart– everything is going to be all right. I couldn’t trust my body anymore. How much time did I have left? Maybe I should have let them finish digging the grave and drive me back to town. Maybe that would have been a whole lot smarter than what I was attempting to do now.
Opening my eyes I saw the ground at the bottom of the hole. Slowly I lifted another shovelful. It uncovered something. My heart stayed calm but I could feel it beating throughout my body.
Something white down there. Something white covered by moist black dirt. Pushing the shovel up out of the hole, I went down on my knees for a closer look. Tentatively I brushed some dirt aside. More white appeared. It was cloth, cotton, some kind of clothing. A T-shirt? With cupped hands I dug way more dirt until yes, I saw it was a white T-shirt and oh Christ, it’s a body.
The lizard and the shovel said Dig here. There’s a body here. Find it. All the time I’d been moving toward this without knowing it. Dig here.
Dig here.
I carefully brushed away more dirt until the face showed. A child. I knew who it was. It was impossible. I knew who it was. No! Run away, get out of here. His small mouth, nose, the peacefully closed eyes.
It was the boy. The boy I had just sent away, Dreampilot, me. He was dead now and covered with dirt at the bottom of this hole. This hole we had just dug, this hole he had wanted to help dig. He lay dead in it now and I had unearthed him. His face was still warm when I touched it. His lips separated under the pressure of my hand. They were still wet. The bottom one shone.
“No!”
I found a way through it. I found a way through it by going crazy a little but that helped. He was dirty. He was lying under the dirt and needed to be brought out, cleaned. I set to work rescuing him. That wasn’t the correct word but it’s the one that stayed in my mind. Rescue him—get him back to us—back from where he shouldn’t have been in the first place.
I talked to him while I got him out. I talked to him when I lifted him up, had him in my arms, was brushing dirt off him, off his soft child’s skin, his clothes, any dirt I could see. I talked while I lifted his body gently up to the rim of the grave and lay him down next to the shovel.
I climbed out. I felt weak, sick, but strangely exhilarated at the same time. I had this job to do, this rescue mission: Bring the Dreampilot back. All of my own problems must wait till that is accomplished.
I had to stop and rest. I sat down next to his body. I had to hold him to make sure nothing else happened to him. We were too close to the hole. I didn’t like that. It was too close to us. We had to move farther away. The hole was dangerous and deep. No matter how careful you were you could still fall in.
I stood, picked him up, and walked away from there. I think I probably would have kept walking out of the forest if my body hadn’t said stop. It said stop now or I won’t give you anything more. So I did what it demanded—stopped where I was, waited, hoped that it would let me go on. I wasn’t talking to the boy anymore, wasn’t apologizing for not letting him help us dig. I only wanted everything to be silent then.
His body was light. Was that because he was a little boy or because death had taken his weight? Standing in the woods with my back to Floon’s grave, I waited for something to happen, not caring if anything did. I knew I should put the child down, go back to the hole and finish that job. I knew I should do that but I didn’t.
I guess I just stood with the child’s body in my arms, dreaming. Is that possible? I stood there without even thinking now what? Yes, I just stood there.
Until I heard maybe the third or fourth whump. There are sounds you know but don’t recognize till you see them happening. With my back to the hole I heard it one-two-three times– whump whump whump. Slowly, not fast in any way. I knew the sound but could not place it. It came from behind me in the forest where no one was. But I didn’t turn to see. Not yet. Whump whump.
Not until more of those heavy dull, familiar sounds came did I want to look. Pulling the child tighter to my chest, I turned.
There were five of them. They were all shoveling dirt back into the hole. Whump-whump. Although none spoke they all looked really happy, smiling, delighted to be doing this chore together. Their ages varied widely. The youngest looked around fourteen, the oldest forty-five. I am only guessing. Every one of them wore what the dead boy in my arms wore—khakis, a white T-shirt, black high-top canvas sneakers.
And all of them were me. They were finishing filling Floon’s grave. His body bag was gone. They must have lowered the black bag into the hole and now were filling the dirt back in. Together they had done the job for me.
I watched until they were finished. With five of them working it didn’t take long. The shovels were light in their hands. Giant loads of dirt flew back into the hole. All the time they worked they kept looking at each other and smiling. They were having a ball. It was as if this were a family outing—all the brothers together again and goofing around. Digging a hole, having fun. But they weren’t brothers, they were me.
When they were finished they stood back from the hole and, leaning on their shovels, surveyed the work. From where I stood there was no sign of anything on the ground. No one could have known that a deep wide hole had been dug and filled there. The forest floor looked as untouched as it had been when we first came to it.
The diggers looked at each other and the oldest nodded his approval. Another slapped the youngest on the shoulder and, winking, handed him his shovel. Was it the one I had used? All of them were identical. The boy took it, an adoring look on his face. They all loved each other—being together like this was the greatest thing in life.
And then as one they came toward me. When they were near, the one who had given over his shovel reached out his arms and gently took the dead child from me. I didn’t resist.
He said, “It’s okay. We’ll take care of him now.” Holding the bodv more carefully than I had, he looked at it with wonderful warmth. Of course he would know what to do with it.
“Come on,” another of them said but I didn’t know which. They started to walk out of the woods, and it felt like the most natural thing to follow. They walked on either side of me. I kept looking from one to the other. I knew them all, each one a different version of myself when I was younger.
My body felt calm and okay as we walked. I felt peaceful and at the same time deeply, deeply sad. Because seeing them all together like this, seeing them work together with such pleasure and concentration, seeing how much they liked each other, seeing the dead child lying in one’s arms, I finally understood.