Earthly Ground

By H.G. Dowdell

 

The clouds moved eastward dimming an otherwise moonlit sky as Matthew and Willy drove their spades deep, tossing fresh piles of dirt high above their heads and shoulders. Soil and sweat clung to the coarse hairs of their arms and chests. The dust darkened their faces, already as brown as the earth surrounding them. Matthew stopped for a moment, eyed Willy as he mopped his brow, then drove his spade back into the ground.

The colored cemeteries rarely took time to bury the dead at a proper six feet anymore. So after digging less than four feet down, the rich soil gave way and they soon struck the lid of a pine casket. Using their spades as levers, they hoisted the casket from its grave.

Matthew and Willy pried off the lid, tilted the casket, and dumped the body back into the open hole.  A teenage boy, crumpled and twisted, lay at the bottom of the grave.  The funeral had been just that afternoon.  A grave marker hadn't even been placed yet.  The two men had learned early on to dig up only the freshest bodies.  The soil was less packed than in those even a few months old, and there was less chance the casket would be rotted, or infested with termites or carpenter ants.

Matthew gazed down at the boy's body, then made the sign of the cross.

"I hope you know how much of a first-class fool you look like with all that religion mess. Don't know why you go in for all that religious hookaboo anyhow," Willy said.

"I don't see nothing wrong with showing a little respect for the dead," Matthew replied, his voice muted through his cotton mask.

They refilled the hole, pushing dirt onto the body with the backs of their spades. They picked up the empty casket and carried it down the gently sloping hill, past graves dating back to slavery time.  Their feet crunched fallen leaves as they followed the wrought iron fence that ran along the cemetery's edge.  The moon cast a dull shimmer between the boughs of trees knotted like an old workman's hands.  Willy walked in front, Matthew behind, Matthew slowing his pace so as not to push Willy too fast as he hobbled along.

Their cart waited near the cemetery's back gate.  Old Jasper stomped his hooves as Willy and Matthew stacked the casket in back along with the four others they had already taken that night. "One more and we'll be all set. That new colored undertaker across town said he'll take six caskets at five bucks a piece. So it'll be thirty dollars each for the two of us working."  Willy limped to the front of the cart and pulled out a jar of corn liquor he had made himself.  He drank two long swallows, then passed the jar to Matthew.  Matthew pulled down his mask, wiped the mouth of the jar clean, and took a sip.

“Wearing that thing don't help nothing, I already told you that," Willy said. "I seen people wearing 'em all over town and they're still keeling over sick as dogs just the same."

Matthew shrugged.  "Figure it don't hurt none though."

The Spanish Influenza had spread quickly with the World War I soldiers returning from Europe, hitting the black soldiers of the segregated regiments the hardest.  It descended on the town of Twin Oaks, Arkansas in late September.  The town panicked as one person after another got sick and died.  Mayor Covington and the town council took emergency measures.  Town meetings were cancelled, assemblies of more than three people were banned, and houses where someone had taken ill were quarantined.  The town's four taverns were closed down to all but take home sales.  Still, ninety-seven townspeople had died in six weeks.  Young, old, rich, poor, black, white—the flu played no favorites.

Matthew and Willy passed the jar back and forth a few more times, wiping it clean each time to avoid the spread of anything.  Leaving it in the back of the wagon, they headed back into the cemetery, spades slung over their shoulders.  They stopped at the nearest fresh grave, practically stumbling over the small hill of dirt in the dark.  They started digging.  The night was quiet.  The air carried with it a musty smell, and the moon looked distorted, as if veiled by clouds even though the night was mostly clear.  An old ash grew beside the grave, dead branches fallen from its upper reaches, and strewn around the base of its trunk.

For the most part, the work went slowly.  The earth was slightly frozen, and they had to drive their spades in with all their weight simply to break the ground.  

"It's too early for the ground to freeze.  We ain't even had a frost.  Maybe we should try another one," Matthew said.

"Ain't no more. Must have been a slow day today," Willy shot back, coarsely.

"But we hardly dug a foot down."

"And if you don't quit complaining, I'll be sure not to invite you along for digging—or anything else next time."

Matthew kept hoping to see the old Willy, the one he'd laughed and spent so much time with before the Great War. Knowing Willy since childhood, at age twelve, they both left school and were lucky enough to get jobs at the local mill, loading woven textiles onto barges. When the US entered World War I, Willy got called up to a colored regiment, but for some reason, Matthew was passed over.  He stayed behind while his best friend went off to fight in Europe, where he was later wounded by taking a bayonet to his left shin.  Luckily, surgeons managed to save the leg.  And he was luckier than many who fought beside him, even though he never really thought so.

"I'll be lame like this for the rest of my damn life," he said to Matthew one day.  

"Guess you gotta remember that a lot of them boys that went over didn't come back at all," Matthew answered.

"Oh, really? And just what would you know about that?" Willy asked.  " You wasn't even there.  Hell, I don't even know why I'm still fooling around with the likes of you anyhow, if you wanna know the truth about it."

Matthew took Willy's abuse in stride.  His way of making up for the fact that he had stayed home.  The war continued, and they were still recruiting young black soldiers for the service supply and labor positions the Army had available. Sometimes Matthew thought about trying to sign up again.  But fear was a definite factor that had somehow always stood in his way.

"Don't nobody know nothing about no war—unless they been in one," Willy added. "These scared niggers around here sure don't know nothing about it.  And then you got somebody like me, who was over there and know what the hell I'm talking about, who sure didn't get much for his trouble compared to what I gave up."

Moments passed, and soon, Willy told Matthew about his latest plan, or, perhaps scheme was a much better way to describe it.  

Simply put, there were four colored funeral homes in town.  And all things considered, it was also the perfect opportunity for him to take the caskets from one funeral home after a burial, remove the bodies, then sell them to another one for a nice sum.  

"With people dropping dead like flies all around us—who would even have time to know the difference anyway? Death is big business 'round here these days, whether folks want to face up to the fact, or not."

"More than big business it just sounds like a whole mess of stealing and confusion, if you ask me," Matthew offered.

Willy shook his head slightly in protest.

"First off, I don't really see nobody asking you though," he said. "And besides which, I really don't think the folks laying in them caskets will be putting up much of a fuss about it—do you?"

Matthew already had a good job at the mill, a job certainly good enough by most colored standards of living, and a few white ones as well. But somehow he knew Willy wanted him to go along with him on this, and couldn't let him down.  The War had made Willy a bitter and ornery piece of work, especially with anyone he supposedly cared about, but he was also Matthew's friend.  And he knew that one day the old pre-war Willy, the one who was always ready with a bullcrap story and a good shot of corn liquor, would eventually return.  In fact, there were times he seemed to actually be living for that day to arrive.

They continued digging throughout most of the night, spades boring and chipping away at the rock-hard soil. Matthew was beginning to wonder whether there was a grave at all, but Willy insisted they keep digging.  After a while, Matthew went back to the cart for the liquor jar.  They finished it, letting the homemade brew burn their throats.

"I hear they're fixing to ban alcohol," Matthew said, tossing the jar.

"Never happen though," Willy answered.

"They're saying stuff about liquor being the devil's juice and all, or something like that," Matthew said, laughing.

"Pull-eeze." Willy rolled his eyes and lobbed a pesky wad of spittle to the ground. Leaning against his spade, he looked up at the night sky.  Both men stood inside the deep chasm they had dug, their chests even with the ground.

Matthew watched as Willy shook his head and stared into the blackened heavens above him. "I ever tell you I met a pretty little French thing in a tavern over there in Europe one night when a bunch of us colored boys got together and went out on the town?"

Matthew didn't answer, but listened intently.

"Said she'd do anything for a pair of silky black stockings and a bar of chocolate in that Frenchie accent of her'n. So I told her not to worry her pretty little head about it none, 'cause I'd be her chocolate bar for the night, and took her to this quiet spot I knew of on one of the waysides over there. Anyhow, making a long story short, I woke up sometime later with my wallet gone and a bad case of the clap for good measure." Willy paused and the corner of his upper lip curled as a scowl etched its way across his forehead. "Put my life on the line for them people over there…and that cheap heifer goes and does something like that.  Ungrateful witch. Talking about the devil? She's the goddamn devil far as I'm concerned."

Soon, they were further down in the hole they had dug and uncovered the coffin.  They cleared the dirt off, revealing a mahogany casket with heavily varnished grain.  A flower was etched into the lid, the edges sharp to the touch.  The sides were also decorated with delicate trim. Matthew and Willy looked at each other, both knowing immediately that this was a member of a well-to-do black family, maybe even one of those diamond-pinky-ring-wearing black undertaker's own relatives.

"Well, all right," Willy said, grinning as they hoisted the heavy wooden chamber out of the grave. "This one alone oughtta fetch us twenty-five, thirty dollars easy."

They used both their strengths to pry the lid open, finding a young woman inside, lying on a bed of creamy beige silk.  Velvety brown, flawless skin and lengthy black curls draping her shoulders, her thick eyelids also hinted at large, moon-shaped eyes.  She wore a rose-colored dress made of heavy moiré satin, and a ruby and diamond pendant around her neck.  She looked like a brown porcelain doll in its showcase.

“I know her," Matthew said.  "That's Emma Bradford.  We went to school with her, and I remember her daddy taught at one of them fancy Negro colleges over in Atlanta somewhere."

Willy eyed the body.  His gaze stopped at the pendant.  "Yeah, I remember.  Stand-offish, thinking she was so cute and all. Never would give me the time of day."

"She was always nice to me," Matthew said. "I remember how she used to look at my palm, saying she could see my future. Told me I'd be something someday."

Willy snickered. "Yeah, but looks like she was wrong about that part, now wasn't she?"

Matthew ignored him. "Haven't seen her in years. She went to live with her aunt over in Atlanta after her mama died, I think. The aunt was a midwife over there.  I wonder when she came back here though."

Willy reached down and snapped the clasp of the pendant's gold chain as he snatched it from Emma's neck. "Don't really make no difference. Whatever her story was, she won't be needing this no more," he said, placing the pendant and chain in his pants pocket.

"Hey now listen, Willy, our deal was that we leave these folks' bodies alone," Matthew said.

"That might've been your deal, true. But it sure as shittin' ain't mine, amigo."

Willy started to tip the casket over like tipping over the bolted bales of textiles at the mill.  Matthew threw both his hands on the casket to stop him.  "Be careful," he demanded.

Willy let go of the casket.  The body remained inside.  He straightened, rushed at Matthew, throwing his weight into him and shoving him into the grave.  Matthew landed flat on his back.

"I say what goes on here, and not you," Willy said. "You got that, boy ?"

Eyes narrowed, Matthew climbed out of the grave and took his time to brush himself off as he glared at Willy.  Visibly, he was a definite head taller than Willy and outweighed him by at least thirty pounds.  And no doubt, he could probably have pounded Willy straight into the ground if he wanted to, even though it would have been the very last thing on his mind, no matter what Willy ever did.

" Look, I just wanna give this one in particular a little dignity, that's all," Matthew said.

"Yeah, I remember you was always kinda sweet on that snooty little witch, wasn't you?"

"Like I said, she was always nice to me."  Matthew gazed at her face, tilting his head to one side. "She's beautiful, ain't she? Lying there all peaceful like. So, so peaceful. Just look at her."

"Yeah, and a mortician could probably even make you look good too, you damn fool.  Now come on here and give me a hand, dammit!"

Matthew didn't move. Willy snarled. "Fine then, we'll put her in nice. But it's on my say-so, and not your'n."

Willy continued grumbling as they laid the body gently into the grave.  Matthew folded her arms across her chest, his hand brushing against her firm, round breasts.  His flesh tingled.  He became erect.  He glanced over at Willy, embarrassed.  Willy, already counting up the cash take on this particular job, didn't seem to notice.

They scooped a few shovelfuls of dirt onto the body, just enough to cover one of her legs and part of her stomach, when Jasper began to neigh. The two men worried that someone would hear, and Willy went to investigate.

Matthew stopped working after noticing that Emma's neck was marked where Willy had yanked off the pendant. But other than that, she was perfect.

He then recalled one day when they were playing together before the school bell rang all those years before.  He tried to impress her with a caterpillar he had found.  He held it out in his open palm, and it crawled slowly towards the tips of his fingers. When she barely glanced at it, he tossed it to the ground, stomping on it with his foot.

"Don't do that!" she said.  She was still a girl then, her silky, black hair twisted into two thick braids, her face without makeup.  She bent over the caterpillar.  Its torso was almost crushed. She moved in so close her lips almost touched it, and blew on it. The caterpillar stirred, then it rose up on its legs and wriggled away.  Later, he asked her how she did it. She answered with nothing but a smile that made his heart feel like it had leapt into his throat. The feeling lasted for weeks.

Matthew hopped into the hole.  In the distance, he could hear Willy yelling at Jasper to calm down.  He pulled down his mask and leaned over Emma's face.  She smelled like lavender.  He paused, savoring it.  Then he kissed her, slowly moving his tongue between her red lips and entered her mouth.  It was dry, but tasted sweet. He ran a hand across her face, surprisingly warm, leaving a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

When the horse stopped neighing, Matthew scurried out of the grave and replaced his mask over his mouth.  And by the time Willy reappeared, Matthew was working quickly to cover up Emma's body.  She was all covered except for her neckline, and the soft base of her chin.  Matthew had kissed her on impulse.  Now, he wondered if the dead were still contagious.  He let out a loud, hacking cough.

"Listen, I'm thinking you should put that pendant back before we leave here," he said to Willy, clearing his voice. "It was a gift from this girl's mama."

"She ain't no girl no more, or ain't you noticed that either?" Willy snapped.

"Don't matter. Her mama gave it to Emma on her thirteenth birthday, and I remember she died of pneumonia only a few months after that. But the thing is, those two was close, and it's all Emma had to remember her mama by. So the way I see it, you just need to put it back, that's all."

"And just how do you know all this about precious little Miss Emma anyway?" Willy asked.

Matthew thought a moment. But of course, he didn't really know how he knew, nor was he surprised that he didn't. An entire lifetime had almost passed since his youth and earlier days with a pretty, chocolaty brown young colored girl named Emma Bradford.

"What difference does it make? She must've told me once, that's how. I'm sure she must've."

"Well, she won't be telling you much of anything else, now will she? So I'm sorta inclined to believe that it don't really mean squat to her no more. How about you?"

 Matthew stood silent for a moment, then stared at Willy. "I already know it matters to God though," he said.

"What God?  Negro, please," Willy hurled back.  "No God worth talking about would have created rat-infested trenches ripe with dysentery.  No God would have invented ammo that could burn your ass alive or mustard gas that could suck the living breath out you, or machine guns that mow you down by the dozens.  No God, no sin, no judgment day in the hereafter. So the way I sees it, we might as well take whatever we can get while we're down here on this stinking earth—and whichever damn way we can get it."

Matthew remained quiet and the two men continued working.

The first light of morning appeared just as they finished filling the grave.  They lifted the ornate casket and carried it back to their cart.  It was heavier than the others.  The muscles in Matthew's arms and legs ached.  He walked half asleep, his eyes nearly closed.

Breath steamed from Jasper's nostrils as they loaded the coffin into the wagon.  Matthew suddenly found it hard to stand.  He braced himself against his spade to keep his legs from giving out beneath him.

"Don't tell me you gonna get sick on me now," Willy said.  "And if so, you're walking your ass home.  I didn't make it all the way through the war, only to come home and have somebody else's disease do my black hide in."

Matthew leaned against the side of the wagon, his eyes still cast in Willy's direction. "You know where the word flu came from?  It's from the Spanish word, influenza, or to be under the influence of it. Back in them Middle Ages, they believed that having the flu meant you was under the influence of the devil and such."

Willy's eyes rolled. "What, you s'posed to be an encyclopedia now too?"

Matthew had no idea where this information had come from.  He must have read it, but he could not recall where.  "Ever think, maybe we're the ones under the devil's influence, stealing from graves and everybody else like we do?"

Willy dismissed him with a sharp wave of his hand.  "You're looking and sounding like you got it bad, amigo.  Never seen it come on so quick."  He snickered as he tossed his spade into the back of the wagon and started toward the front. "Tell you what though, ain't no way you're riding back into town with me now. Case closed…and that's that."

"There just ain't no cure," Matthew continued, oblivious to what Willy had said. " I heard somewhere that back in them ancient times, they was giving folks basil leaves mixed with dried ginger powder, and milk and sugar three times a day to try and cure 'em of it."  Matthew paused.  His head pounded.  He felt chilled to his bones.

"It don't work though, not for me, anyway."

"You're even talking completely outta your damn head now," Willy said as he climbed into the wagon.

Then coming up behind Willy, Matthew raised his spade and brought it down on Willy's head.  He fell face down in a bed of leaves.  Blood dripped from the back of his scalp.

Jasper snorted and Matthew unhitched him, smacking him on the rear.  The horse then started off in a homeward direction.  Matthew bent over Willy, rummaging through his pockets until he found the pendant and chain. With the clasp broken, he tied the chain in a knot behind his neck.  The ruby and diamond oval pressed against his skin, leaving a deep impression in his chest.

Matthew left the coffins and wagon behind, and began the long walk back into town.  Bathed in his own sweat, he suddenly felt the cold night's air as it fell upon his skin. Pulling off his mask, he inhaled deeply.

And of course, after only a few paces, he stopped, then looked back at the dirt-covered hole he and Willy had dug, and where Emma would finally lay at rest, never to be disturbed again.

And for a change, it felt good to breathe freely.

______________________________________________________________

H.G. Dowdell is a former freelance journalist and political speechwriter. Her articles have been featured in Essence and Self magazines, the NY Amsterdam News, NY Newsday, and the City Sun News. Her flash fiction has been featured in Sister 2 Sister and Honey magazines, and her short stories can also be found at Hackwriters, Emerging Women Writers, Wild Child Publishing, and is forthcoming at Penwomanship.  She's presently busy at work on her second novel.