10.05
The shovel finally hit rock, a few feet from the topsoil with a dirty thud. Roger dusted calloused hands against his work pants, staring into the shallow hole. This was now a final resting place, some distance behind an old Oak tree and just under a cable line. The house was still visible behind him, soft lights playing out onto the dusk-darkened porch. There were faint noises of people milling about inside, but they took no notice of him out here in the cooling September evening. Silt fell from the edges of the freshly dug grave, rearranging itself in the bottom over the rocks he felt unwilling to excavate. He lit a smoke and sat down a foot away from the grave, holding his forehead with a knee and trying to convince himself he didn’t need to head back to the house yet.
This had been a job none of the others had wanted. Cowards. It always fell to him to do the dirty work, the shit no one else would step up to. He flicked the cigarette butt into the bottom of the small pit and dragged the black bag into it, covering the bottom of the hole with the remains. Upon filling the grave with displaced dirt, stamping on it a few times, and replacing the shovel in the shed, Roger stood again in front of the back door of the house, head to his chest. With a low sigh, he trudged up the short steps and walked back inside to the expectant faces of the others.
*****
With a small, make-shift cross fashioned out of sticks wrapped in twine, Roger led the small procession back outside. They stood solemnly as he carefully placed the cross at the head of the patch of dirt, and held their breath as he began to speak.
“Something terrible has happened today. Something none of us will ever forget. God, grant us the courage to carry on. Whiskers was a wonderful cat, taken much before her time. Please let her rest in peace. Amen.”
Lucy began to cry.