Words & Dreams (Book 1 of Smithers Family Saga)

Chapter 4

That night- it was around five o'clock and the summer light still reigned over the world- they went to Molly's grave.

A man stood waiting for them, which surprised them. Erica had left a message on his answering machine. He held a shovel and kept a flashlight in his belt. He was in his sixties.

They left the car parked by the side of the road, the three of them, with Erica and Violet carrying Molly out of the car to lie on the grass as the man walked over.

Dollie had popped the trunk and was getting three shovels and three pairs of gloves out of the back.

"Hey!" the man said, walking over. "You brought shovels? I told you I'd dig myself-"

"Well," Erica said, "I didn't know if you'd get my message; plus, I wanted to do it myself."

"And let three five young ladies get themselves covered in dirt?" He looked at the dog. "I do believe that dog is still alive," he said with his head tilted sideways, looking at Molly.

"We'll be doing it tomorrow," Erica said. "I wanted her- she liked it here; we live in Olinna-"

"Yeah, you told me that," he said loudly, and he began to wiggle a hearing aid, almost lost amidst a wild beard and long hair, with a hat that came partially over his ears.

"She liked to come here," Dollie said. "We used to bring her for walks down these roads and she'd stop and sniff everything."

"The name's Peter," the old man said. He'd only met Erica, and he seemed enchanted by Dollie. "I already know Erin," he said, shaking her hand.

"Erica," Erica said.

"And you are?" Peter put his hand forward.

"Dollie."

"OK. Dali. Like the painter?"

"Yes," Dollie said, not wanting to prolong the proceedings any longer than they had to be.

"And you?"

"Violet."

"Like the flower?"

"Exactly so, sir."

"A bit spindly, but still, I think I see the resemblance."

"What on earth does that mean?" Violet said.

"Not quite in bloom, I don't think," Peter said.

Violet thought, He could be a long lost father, but shook her head, and as if guilty for asking him more questions to hold up the group, picked up a shovel went forward, gloves on, struck at the ground, and began to dig.

"Really, now," Peter said. "I can't make three young ladies-"

"You may look and feel good for a man in his fifties," Dollie said, "but we wouldn't want to make you overwork yourself."

Dollie's looks and bubbly youth- and the lying implication that this man, at least in his sixties- charmed the man to order, and his old face was tinged with a rosy blush.

"Well, it seems you girls want to dig," he said. "But let me say goodbye to the dog; what's his name again?"

He put his shovel down, kneeled with an decrepit groan, as they began to dig. Rubbing the old dog's body.

Violet smiled at the man and the dog, as Erica said:

"Her name's Molly, it's right here on the tombstone," she said, and pointed.

"I'll be damned," Peter said, and he began to guffaw. The women followed suit.

"I buried my brother some years back," Peter said. "I was in Vietnam. He wasn't there, but here. He died in America right near the end of the war. I came back, his coffin not in the ground. I made arrangements to dig his grave. Strange thing, they thought, though I'd done it to friends in 'Nam. As if I wouldn't want to see my own brother in. Bury him. Strange."

They dug, and there was the awkwardness of the comparison in the air; of a human life, compared with that of a dog. The man understood this.

"Tragic things. I bring up my brother because you sisters got sisters. You have someone, and that's nice, and shouldn't be taken for granted, you know, though we always do it; think it lasts forever until it doesn't. Cute dog though, still. I like big dogs. Though I like small dogs too."

Erica's face was the most intent as she listened, with a novelist's instincts to consume when opportunity rose, as a flower that is hidden by the shade for most of the day inhales its light; she knowledgeable of the finite amount of experience that could be brought to her ears passively, and always listening.

The old man stood, his shovel in his hands. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it," the man said.

Not shaking hands, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, he made the half-mile walk back to his house, a small brick place, from which smoke rose from the chimney, despite it being a hot day in June.

"I bet he's got a wife inside," Erica said.

"Wise old kook," Violet said.

"You'd know," Dollie said, then was worried she'd been too forthright. "I don't mean to-"

"Don't worry about it," Violet said watching the man's back as he tottered off, sometimes using his shovel like a walking stick, letting it fall into the bare earth and yellowed grass that had gotten no water.

The three women worked, and by seven, the sky still light, they'd finished the hole.