Holes Aren’t Holy and Cats Don’t Need Singing Kayla Esther Ciardi
Shuck, shuck, shuck went the dirt—shuck, shuck, shuck—like a hymn, and Arlene’s shovel
the conductor. The dirt clung to the rib of her socks and fell down against her ankles; the soft granules might have tickled, if she’d had any feeling. Arlene rolled backwards, her wheels resisting in the grass for only a moment. She shivered, wiping chilly sweat from her hairline, and rested the shovel against the wheelchair’s side. It wasn’t deep but it’d have to do. Any deeper she might hit lake water and the last thing she wanted was Bramble buried in mud. He never did much like being wet. Her gaze drifted from the hole to Greenfield Lake. Its still surface expanded backwards and vanished into the morning fog, suspended in the space between liquid and air. Children’s laughter coasted across the water and Arlene could just make out their scampering silhouettes along the tree line. Every Sunday from here onward she would come to this place, Arlene decided. She would come and Bramble’s grave would keep her company against the noisy children and the fog. Her gaze buckled from the water to her wrinkly, speckled hands. Liver spots, they were called. Organs on the skin, like God is turning you inside out, trying to undo the work of the womb. She decided it: on Sundays she would come here, come to this consecrated grave. Maybe on those pious mornings she would hum Bramble a song, pretend to pray. Bramble’s absence would be less felt here than in the house, with him in the ground. And then, maybe— “Arlene!” Arlene turned from the lake to the stooped figure approaching on her right. Frank’s saggy arm waved. As he got nearer, she could see how his Adam’s apple hung droopy and rotten. He was yelling. He couldn’t hear worth shit. “Now what’s this business with the shovel?” He looked at the size of the hole and the cardboard box on the ground. “Hi, Frank.” “Lemme help you. Here.” He grabbed the shovel and poked into the ground, leaned in with his foot. The dirt gave way beneath the iron and the hole opened up. “Oh, now Maisie told me what happened with poor old Bramble—” “Frank, I can do it. I can—”
Volume III
19
