I didn’t want to think it, but I had to admit the evidence wasn’t exactly looking good. A body had been buried under my deck – a deck that hadn’t existed until the previous owner who, by the way, had asked me to help burn a rather large leaf pile in the general location where Tor had dug it up. Of course, it could’ve been coincidental. Hope and doubt changed places the more I thought about it.

Then there was the issue of a bag of gold coins; money I was loath to part with. However, I was more averse to parting with my good name. Even if no one discovered my secret, I would know it. The Bible verse, “A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches” had been drummed into my skull throughout childhood, and was now pestering me like a very determined mosquito.

I got up, washed my lunch dishes, and grabbed the leash to take Tor out for a walk until I could safely let him in my backyard again. But as I headed for him, leash in hand, he bolted, and knocked over my coffee table. Darn dog! Now I had a 3 legged coffee table – one I wouldn’t be able to replace soon at the same great price I’d gotten from Susan, my house’s former owner. I snapped his leash on rather more aggressively than usual. It didn’t take long for Tor to do his business. That was one good thing about my dog. He’s focused. By the time we got back to the house, so was I.

I called the local police and asked if someone could drop by. Good thing I live in a small town with a bored police force. Thinking I’d better make the living room presentable, I picked up the coffee table leg to see if there was any chance Super Glue could come to my rescue. Ha! No need! It appeared I could just screw the thing in. As I congratulated myself on this bonus and turned the table upside down, a slip of paper fell out of the leg. I should’ve known they were hollow. You don’t get much for five bucks. Weird, though.

Squinting, I peered inside the leg. Nope. Nothing else. I unfolded the paper. It said: Hypocrisy is the audacity to preach integrity from a den of corruption. – Wes Fesler. Okay. I’m not much of a sports fanatic, but why was a quote from him written down? And stuffed in the leg of my end table?

Sitting back on my knees, I stared into space, then quickly screwed in the leg and unscrewed the other three. I looked into their small openings and shook each one. The first two were as empty as an old sock, but another slip of paper fell out of the third one on my last shake. I barred my door to bribery, and knocked it to the floor. He’ll eat his gold in silence and bother me no more. Who wrote it? The former owner, Susan? I righted the table as the doorbell rang.

By the time I’d given sweet tea to the officer, told him and showed him everything, including the two slips of paper, I was ready for an old movie. I was also richer. Detective Timmons informed me they’d do a cursory investigation, but most likely I’d be able to keep the money under the ‘finders keepers’ law. That’s not really what it’s called, but that’s what it amounts to.

As far as Simon – well let’s just say after snipping some pieces here and there and filling some plastic bags with them, Timmons confided to me he suspected it was a fellow by the name of – O why should I spread tales? Suffice it to say that he’d caused trouble for town folks for a long time, including corrupting a number of folks who didn’t have it in them to turn down a dollar; and the whole town should be grateful someone finally put a stop to it. The coroner (who I suspect had been on the bullying end of the not so dearly departed) didn’t seem interested in storing the body after doing her thing and talking to Timmons. I’d made the mistake of calling him Simon, so she asked if I had a preference for his final resting place. Small towns. Ya gotta love ’em.

It’s been a couple of months since. Tor is free to roam the back yard again. I planted my garden and, for the first time ever, its blooms are brilliant.

Images: Pexels.com

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

He picked up another piece of bread and stuffed it in his mouth as he looked at some of the ravens perching on the gnarled branches. Life was weird alright, but he’d always been one to accept that. In fact, he didn’t understand how most other folks insisted on life being the way they thought it should be. Should be! Really? Life was breath amidst delight and chaos. What did prescriptive insistence have to do with it? He deliberated over those who required people to fit into certain ideas of dignity or say things the way they imagined things should be said; over life’s roads taking particular turns at preordained times. Whose ideas of dignity? Whose way of speaking? Preordained by who? People had plenty of thoughts about him, he knew. They didn’t want to accept that God’s prophets were rough around the edges. But what was more important – their preconceived notions or the truth? A wry smile crossed his face. They had no idea of how improper and uncivilized God could be when He chose. He picked up the last piece of meat and turned it over in his hands, examining it. Holding it up, he toasted the onlooking birds, and finished his meal. Those people who said what others approved were too prideful to yield. He hoped they’d change, but even with a sign from heaven, he knew they wouldn’t. Their ideas about what was most worthy of worship were immovable and their hate for him was too strong. The sun blazed down as he slurped from the nearby brook. It was going to be a long, dry, hot, and dusty few years.

Story idea: taken from the life of Elijah – I Kings: 17:1-6; Image: Pexels.com

She laughed until she was gasping for air and wiping her eyes. Doubled over, she grabbed the back of the park bench to help her sit before she lost her balance. She looked up, her twinkling eyes still wet, and tried to talk, but couldn’t.

“I’m telling you the truth. He actually did that.”

The laughter began again.

“Twice!”

“Stop!” she breathed, “I feel like I’ve done a hundred sit-ups already.”

He sat beside her then and pulled her into his arms.

“I love your laugh,” he murmured into her hair.

“Oh now you’re just making excuses for my nearly wetting my pants.”

He chuckled.

“Even if,” he said, “Even then it would be small payment for the sound of your laugh. I could listen to that music every day of my life.”

A small smile crossed his lips as he remembered. Then the steady rhythm of the heart monitor pulled him back to the present. She lay there under the white blankets, as still as the dawn on their first day of married life, as soft as her whispers each night before they both drifted to sleep.

“Don’t go,” he choked, “Don’t leave me. I’ll tell you a million funny stories every single day if you’ll just stay.”

The heart monitor quickened, then settled again to its rhythmic pace.

He wandered over to the closet where only her bare essentials were. How did life distill to a few things in a plastic bag? He pulled out her purse and rummaged through it. Lipstick, a comb, her billfold. He opened it. Ten dollars, her license with the picture she hated, two credit cards. There. There was a slip of paper folded and refolded. He pulled it out. Her handwriting danced across a page that held only the faintest scent of her. He held it up to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he read: Dearest, This is in case I don’t make it. Maybe sometime soon, I’ll be rummaging through my things and find this note and we can both have a laugh over my dramatics. But even if . . . even then I want you to know I love the way you make me laugh, so don’t cry too much. It’ll make your nose red. On the hard days, just listen until you hear something that reminds you of the good times. Of my love. And, if you insist, my laugh. Someone said: “Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.”

The rhythm slowed, and he hurried to her bed and grabbed her hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

And all sound stopped except the echo of her laughter.

Quote: attributed to William Penn, Ralph Waldo Emerson, or R.W. Raymond; I’ll Be Seeing You: Words by Irving Kahal and Music by Sammy Fain, 1938, Sung here by Frank Sinatra