by C.T. Millis
Chapter 20
It was at the point in the night after the dew settled on the grass outside and before the sun came up that James’ headache was well enough for him to sneak outside. He made his way to the big green trash bin at the end of his driveway and silently lifted the lid. The stale sweet smells of old trash invaded his nose as he peered down into the bin. With his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the box, which he lifted out and set on the sidewalk before closing the trash bin again.
With the box of his father in both arms, James traversed through Mr. Heckerman’s woods. The potatoes James planted outside absorbed enough of the oncoming spring weather to blossom. Just like the Jar in the kitchen, each stalk extended a flower. Together, it became somewhat of a field. As the sun came up, heat slunk through the fresh leaves on the branches of the trees above him, and the evaporating dew on the sleeping blossoms filled the air with a heady sweetness. James breathed in deep while he dug off to the side of the potato plants.
James dug deeper than he did for the potatoes, deeper than any hole he dug before. It was about four feet in when his shovel hit something solid. James reached down into the hole and pulled out golden hair poking through a torn black plastic tarp that came loose from the body it was attached to. James thought about Sophie’s dog that disappeared only a month ago. James dropped his shovel and held the hair tight in his fist as he burst into Mr. Heckerman’s house. He knew Mr. Heckerman was sleeping, and usually he would not bother him, but James went upstairs anyway. He pounded on Mr. Heckerman’s closed bedroom door. The door creaked open,
“Well, look at you, making yourself at home!”
“I think there is a dead dog buried near the tree house!” Mr. Heckerman in his pajamas and a housecoat shuffled across his yard behind James. When they got to the tree house the sun was up enough to light the woods the way fancy restaurants are lit by candles.
“James,” Mr. Heckerman looked at the plants, “did you plant all of these potatoes? My, it looks kind of nice.” He looked at James’ face, and realizing he was alarmed, moved towards the hole. “Well, no harm in getting my hands a little dirty,” he said while squatting down and reaching into the hole. James heard Mr. Heckerman move dirt away from what was in the hole in order to get a better look. Mr. Heckerman put his hand to his mouth and nearly leaped away from the hole. “James!” Mr. Heckerman was not looking at James, “You need to get the phone right now, and we need to call the police.” When James handed Mr. Heckerman the phone, he asked,
“I was going to bury my father’s ashes, can I put them in the tree house? Just for now.” Mr. Heckerman was quiet for a few seconds,
“Yeah, James. Go ahead.” A calamity of expressions wore thick on his aging face. James was in the tree house, trying to understand the crayon portrait of his father, trying to remember the color of his father’s eyes while Mr. Heckerman made the phone call. James went back down to the woods. While James was in the tree house, Mr. Heckerman put his housecoat over the hole James dug.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Mr. Heckerman said, “You’re a good kid.” James nodded, “You were just digging up the potatoes you planted, and you’re okay.”
