If he hadnât come so cussed early in the morning, while the grass was still wet, the sun would have dried the earth and it would have fallen apart in loose little crumbles that meant nothing.
He wished he had come later, that he had gone out to Grace Cemetery first, as he had set out to do when he left home.
But he hadnât, and that was all.
The fragments of footprints petered out less than twelve feet from the
(grave)
hole in the ground. Digger suspected the dewy grass farther on might still hold impressions, though, and he supposed he would check on that, although he didnât much want to. For the time being, however, he re-directed his gaze to the clearest marks, the ones in the little pile of dirt close to the hole.
Grooves which had been drawn by fingers; a round impression slightly ahead of them; a footprint beside the round mark. What story did that configuration tell?
Digger hardly had to ask himself before the answer dropped into his mind like the secret woid on that old Groucho Marx show, You Bet Your Life. He saw it as clearly as if he had been here when it happened, and that was precisely why he didnât want any more to do with this at all. Gawdam creepy was what it was.
Because look: hereâs a man standing in a new-dug hole in the ground.
Yes, but howâd he get down there?
Yes, but did he make the hole, or did someone else do it?
Yes, but how come the little roots look twisted and frayed and torn, as if the sods were pulled apart with bare hands instead of sheared cleanly apart with a spade?
Never mind the buts. Never mind them at all. It was better, maybe, not to think of them. Just stick with the man standing in the hole, a hole that is a little too deep to just jump out of. So what does he do? He puts his palms in the closest pile of dirt and boosts himself out. No particular trick to do that, if it was a full-grown man, that was, and not a kid. Digger looked at the few clear and complete tracks he could see and thought, If it was a kid, he had awful damn big feet. Those have got to be size twelves, at least .
Hands out. Boost the body up. During the boost, the hands slip a little bit in the loose dirt, so you dig in with your fingers, leaving those short grooves. Then youâre out, and you balance your weight on one knee, creating that round depression. You put one foot down next to the knee youâre balanced on, shift your weight from the knee to the foot, get up, and walk away. Simple as knitting kitten-britches.
So some guy dug himself out of his grave and just walked away, is that it? Maybe got a little hungry down there and decided to hit Nanâs Luncheonette for a cheeseburger and a beer?
âGawdammit, it ainât a grave, itâs a friggin hole in the ground!â he said aloud, and then jumped a little as a sparrow scolded him.
Yes, nothing but a hole in the groundâhadnât he said so himself? But how come he couldnât see any marks of the sort he associated with spadework? How come there was just that one set of footprints going away from the hole and none around it, none pointing toward it, the way there would be if a fellow had been digging and stepping in his own dirt every now and then, as fellows digging holes tended to do?
It occurred to him to wonder just what he was going to do about all this, and Digger was gawdamned if he knew. He supposed that, technically, a crime had been committed, but you couldnât accuse the criminal of grave-robbingânot when the plot which had been dug over didnât contain a body. The worst you could call it was vandalism, and if there was more to be made of it than that, Digger Holt wasnât sure he was the one who wanted to do the making.
Best, maybe, to just fill the hole back in, replace what flaps of sod he could find whole, get enough fresh sod to finish the job, then forget the whole thing.
After all, he told himself for the third time, it ainât as if anyone was really
He wished he had come later, that he had gone out to Grace Cemetery first, as he had set out to do when he left home.
But he hadnât, and that was all.
The fragments of footprints petered out less than twelve feet from the
(grave)
hole in the ground. Digger suspected the dewy grass farther on might still hold impressions, though, and he supposed he would check on that, although he didnât much want to. For the time being, however, he re-directed his gaze to the clearest marks, the ones in the little pile of dirt close to the hole.
Grooves which had been drawn by fingers; a round impression slightly ahead of them; a footprint beside the round mark. What story did that configuration tell?
Digger hardly had to ask himself before the answer dropped into his mind like the secret woid on that old Groucho Marx show, You Bet Your Life. He saw it as clearly as if he had been here when it happened, and that was precisely why he didnât want any more to do with this at all. Gawdam creepy was what it was.
Because look: hereâs a man standing in a new-dug hole in the ground.
Yes, but howâd he get down there?
Yes, but did he make the hole, or did someone else do it?
Yes, but how come the little roots look twisted and frayed and torn, as if the sods were pulled apart with bare hands instead of sheared cleanly apart with a spade?
Never mind the buts. Never mind them at all. It was better, maybe, not to think of them. Just stick with the man standing in the hole, a hole that is a little too deep to just jump out of. So what does he do? He puts his palms in the closest pile of dirt and boosts himself out. No particular trick to do that, if it was a full-grown man, that was, and not a kid. Digger looked at the few clear and complete tracks he could see and thought, If it was a kid, he had awful damn big feet. Those have got to be size twelves, at least .
Hands out. Boost the body up. During the boost, the hands slip a little bit in the loose dirt, so you dig in with your fingers, leaving those short grooves. Then youâre out, and you balance your weight on one knee, creating that round depression. You put one foot down next to the knee youâre balanced on, shift your weight from the knee to the foot, get up, and walk away. Simple as knitting kitten-britches.
So some guy dug himself out of his grave and just walked away, is that it? Maybe got a little hungry down there and decided to hit Nanâs Luncheonette for a cheeseburger and a beer?
âGawdammit, it ainât a grave, itâs a friggin hole in the ground!â he said aloud, and then jumped a little as a sparrow scolded him.
Yes, nothing but a hole in the groundâhadnât he said so himself? But how come he couldnât see any marks of the sort he associated with spadework? How come there was just that one set of footprints going away from the hole and none around it, none pointing toward it, the way there would be if a fellow had been digging and stepping in his own dirt every now and then, as fellows digging holes tended to do?
It occurred to him to wonder just what he was going to do about all this, and Digger was gawdamned if he knew. He supposed that, technically, a crime had been committed, but you couldnât accuse the criminal of grave-robbingânot when the plot which had been dug over didnât contain a body. The worst you could call it was vandalism, and if there was more to be made of it than that, Digger Holt wasnât sure he was the one who wanted to do the making.
Best, maybe, to just fill the hole back in, replace what flaps of sod he could find whole, get enough fresh sod to finish the job, then forget the whole thing.
After all, he told himself for the third time, it ainât as if anyone was really
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