He found the downed tree enthralling, and in truth, so did I. I’d seen uprooted trees before, including one on the way to the cemetery that very day, which had fallen across the road and forced a detour. But I’d never actually witnessed the dramatic event in all its glory. All things considered, it was an experience I could have lived without. Which was closer to the literal truth than I cared to acknowledge.
I followed SB to the base of the willow, thinking that if he sniffed any harder, he’d turn inside out. The tree’s underpinnings had erupted from the ground as an intact mass of soil and roots nearly my height, carpeted in pristine sod on the flip side. The contrast was stark: choir practice upstairs and a meth lab in the basement.
The smell of raw earth bombarded my nostrils as I gazed at a part of the tree never meant to be gazed at. This tangle of broken roots represented the death of a living thing. I dealt in death on a daily basis, made my living from it in fact, but this was different. There’s something about trees that speaks to the human soul, and the sudden, violent demise of this stately weeping willow left me awestruck.
And no, I didn’t haul out my phone to snap a few pictures. I just gaped at the upended jumble of dirt and roots, from cables as thick as my arm to dangling shoestrings. A few rocks peeked out, along with a handful of outraged earthworms. One rock was as big as a good-size cantaloupe, held in place by roots that had snaked through a couple of holes in it.
Reflexively my mind played connect the dots, seeking patterns as if I were lying on my back contemplating stars or cloud formations. I noticed several curved roots that ran parallel to one another. Below those, a straight root seemed to connect, end to end, with another one and finally with a cluster of small, irregular stones.
I stepped back, tilting my head this way and that to take in the whole picture. “Well, this has been vastly entertaining,” I told the dog, “but I think I’ve had about as much fun as I can stand.” I hooked the leash to his harness. “Let’s finish what we came for and get out of here.”
I trudged back to Dorothy’s grave, lifted the mostly empty wine box, and pressed the spigot. I stood staring at the headstone but without seeing it. Inside my cranium, roots and rocks played bumper cars, coming together in intriguing ways, coalescing into a whole...
“Nope.” I shook my head. “It’s preposterous.”
Sexy Beast cocked his head at me.
“Insane.” I cocked my head right back at him. “Right, little man?”
He gave a sharp, interrogative bark.
“There we go!” I shook the box to ensure it was indeed empty, then turned to the headstone. “Cheers, Dorothy. Enjoy it in good health. Or... oh, you know what I mean. Come on, SB. There’s a Vienna sausage in the fridge with your name on it.”
I flattened the wine box underfoot, tucked it under my arm, and led Sexy Beast back across the cobblestone footpath to the lawn. I had to pass the downed tree on the way to my car, which was parked on a side street. Deliberately I detoured around the top part of the tree, striding with brio, determined to not so much as glance at those stupid roots. I refused to humor the flight of fancy that had taken the rational part of my brain hostage.
I made it to the cemetery’s gate before my brisk pace slowed and finally ground to a halt. I closed my eyes and threw back my head, bemoaning my lack of willpower. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I also knew that if I left without one more peek, I’d never be able to let go of the fantasy that I’d seen something I hadn’t.
Which is why I retraced my steps and planted my feet in front of the upended roots of that defunct weeping willow. SB explored the ground near my feet, managing, as always, to wrap the leash around my ankles.
“All right then.” I let out a gusty sigh, exasperated and a little embarrassed by my own foolishness. “Nothing to see here, folks. Move right along.”
At first, as I stared at the head-high mass, I saw only random roots poking through the soil, punctuated by a few rocks here and there. I concentrated on the parallel roots I’d noticed before, the ones my imagination had turned into the side of a rib cage. The big rock sat above them. The longer I studied the rock, the more its root-choked holes came to resemble a human skull’s eye and nose openings.
Automatically my gaze slid down to an irregular shape that sure looked like the side of a hipbone poking through the dirt. Then came those straight roots, the ones that seemed to connect at an angle, terminating in a cluster of small shapes whose names I’d memorized in Mrs. Deluca’s high-school biology class.
Metatarsus. Phalanges.
I heard a low, throaty “No no no no no…” and realized it came from my own throat. I swallowed hard. SB, exhibiting his customary pack-member empathy, propped his front paws on my legs and whined.
The skeleton lay in a reclining position on his—her?—side, held in place by the tree roots that had grown around and through it. At the end of a bent arm, fisted finger bones clutched a gnarled root. Or so it appeared. Distractedly I realized the root must have grown through the fist. Bits of rotted cloth flapped in the breeze.
My voice was a quavering whisper. “Who in the world are you?”
Uprooting Ernie is available at all retailers.
Books by Pamela Burford
Jane Delaney Mysteries
Undertaking Irene
Uprooting Ernie
Perforating Pierre
Icing Allison
Romantic Suspense
Snatched
Going Commando
Storming Meg
Twice Burned (Double Dare book 2)
A Case of You
Contemporary Romance
Rags to Bitches
In the Dark
Snowed
Too Darn Hot
The Boss’s Runaway Bride (a novella)
The Wedding Ring series:
Love’s Funny That Way
I Do, But Here’s the Catch
One Eager Bride To Go
Fiancé for Hire
Author’s Note
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Copyright
Ebook edition published by Radical Poodle Press, 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Pamela Burford
ISBN 9781939215840
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
Undertaking Irene Page 29
