Well, that’s not entirely true. Can something be kind of true? I mean, at the moment I wished I hadn’t looked, but after I examined it more closely, I was of two minds. My mother used to use that phrase a lot. My father would always reply that he only needed one. Getting back to the thing Tor dragged out from under the deck – I guess I’d have to say that I was glad for part of what it was and horrified at the other part. That’s not kind of true. It’s absolutely a true statement. Score one for clarity.

I knelt down and looked at it. Okay, I admit I jumped back a little after my first glimpse. I grabbed a big stick and, scrunching my face, poked at it. Best guess, originally 145 lbs and maybe 5 feet 9 inches, or 8 or 6. It was hard to be sure. It looked like the body had been buried long enough for the clothes to decay which, in the climate I lived in would take longer than, say, the tropics. Then again, I’m no mortician.

What looked like it had been some sort of bag was stuffed in the mouth of – oh – for the sake of my sanity I’d begun calling him Simon. Giving him a name preserved my humanity (and his) to my way of thinking. The bag was nearly decayed, so its contents were visible. I looked around at my neighbor’s yards to see if anyone was watching me. Fortunately, no one was out. Who knew what was behind the curtains, but as far as I could see, there didn’t seem to be any activity. And really. If I hadn’t been up close, I would’ve thought it was a big pile of dirt. I hurried into the house for a baggie, then out again, and stuffed it full of the decayed bag’s contents. Laying the baggie carefully on the deck’s railing, I grabbed my gardening gloves and shoved the body back under the deck as well as I could.

I know. I should have called the police. But here was the problem. The bag had a decent amount of money in it; money I wasn’t altogether sure I was ready to part with without some consideration. I coaxed Tor into the house and hosed him off in the tub, but not before pouring the gold coins into a mixing bowl and covering them with the white vinegar I’d gotten a week before to clean my washing machine. It’s a good thing I procrastinated.

Once Tor was cleaned up and I was, too, I gave him a second breakfast and sat down to think this through. Whoever had buried the body there must have buried it before the deck was built because it would’ve been nigh unto impossible to do it flattened out underneath a structure. I started thinking about who had owned the house before me. It was known as the K house, I think because whoever built it had a name starting with K. Once upon a time people probably called it by name, but by the time I came along, it had become just K. I tried to recall what I could of the person who owned it before me.

She was actually, a sweet woman, big-boned some would say, and a little bookish. It was by now close to noon. I got up to make myself a sandwich. Don’t judge. I’d washed and I was hungry. And as I was spreading mayonnaise, my thoughts drifted back to the first time I had met the previous owner. I’d seen an ad on Craigslist for an end table and had come to take a look at it. She’d invited me in, and we actually had begun something of a friendship of convenience. Every once in a while she’d call me to do something for her – burn a leaf pile or change her furnace filter – and then we’d sit down to tea and cookies and she’d send some home with me. I’m not much of a baker, so it was a nice little perk.

But as I was thinking about it, I remembered that she hadn’t always had a deck on the back of the house. I remembered it because the first time she’d had me over to manage the burning leaf pile for her, I’d thought to myself that it was too close to the house. I’d even told her so. It was after that she’d burned them farther back. Huh.

to be continued . . .

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Image: Pixabay through Pexels.com

Hi. My name is Ginger Teigh. Yes, it sounds like “tea”. Yes, my parents thought it was funny when they named me – each of them having safe names like Gary and Ramona. No, I don’t mind when people ask. Yes, I do get tired of the jokes.

I was sitting outside on my rather small deck – large enough to hold  two sun chairs with pink and green Hawaiian print, a small stump I lugged up the two steps from the yard on which to put my sweet tea, a couple of flowering plants I picked up on sale at Sam’s Club, and the dog. It’s not as small as you might imagine. My dog is huge. And my dog is the problem.

He likes to dig. Fine. Dig away. I’m not in the market for a layout in Birds and Blooms, anyway, being the type of gardener with a less than admirable success rate. See, I have all sorts of grand plans every spring. I buy dirt. Whoever thought of selling dirt is probably very wealthy and living somewhere where someone takes care of every speck of dirt for him. He probably sits on a pristine beach and drinks something with an umbrella in it. I don’t imagine it’s sweet tea. Anyway, I drag the bags over to my “gardens”, cut them open, and dump. Then I smooth the area with a hoe, and lovingly plant delightful little plants in even rows. And as the spring turns to summer, I watch them die a slow death. It’s tradition. But I digress.

So the dog – I might as well tell you his name – Tornado (Tor, for short) – had been digging up a storm under the deck for two days. This morning as I was sipping my morning brew of green tea and Mountain Dew, I noticed he was heaving and panting; even whining a little. That’s unusual for Tor. He’s not a whiner. He came out from under the deck as black as sin a couple of times, looked at me, and returned to his digging.

His project had by now become my project. I wondered how big a hole he was making and was wondering how many bags of dirt I’d have to buy to refill them. Then I wondered if it was necessary. Who looks under a deck anyway, right?

I was on my second cup when Tor pulled a huge bag of something out where I could see it. I hopped down to the yard to have a closer look. And immediately wished I hadn’t.

to be continued . . .

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Image: Pexels.com

He scraped the key back and forth in the lock again. Nothing. He rubbed the tip of his nose with the side of his finger and looked at his watch. Humph. Seventeen minutes. The first minute was annoying, the next four – irritating. The ten after that were demoralizing.

It shouldn’t be this hard! He had the key. He was in front of the door. Sure, the lock might be a bit old. Used many times? No doubt.

He took the key out of the lock and rubbed it on his pants, then between his fingers. He prayed. Again. Skritch skritch . . . faster, then slower . . . skritch skritch skritch. He pulled the key out, dropping as he did so. His fingers scraped on hard cement as he retrieved it from the step. Sighing, he put it in his pocket and started down the stairs.

This wasn’t the first time he’d worked to get through the door, but maybe it should be his last. He was tired. Disconsolate, truth be told. He glanced over his shoulder and stopped.

Once more. Just once more, then he would leave. For good, this time. He trudged back up the stairs, inserted the key, and . . . click. It turned like new. No. Really? Really. He turned the knob and opened the door.

It is labour indeed that puts the difference on everything.     

Image: Wikipedia.org; Quote: John Locke