Leslie Lindsay

“BREAKING GROUND”

Rumor has it there’s a magnificent magic trick in the home, that the Kickapoo Indian chief once dug a tunnel from the old apple orchard to the house. That is what the hatch door is about. If you look closely, you will see remnants of wigwams and peach pits, hard as stones.  Old man Haseltine’s bones are there, too. They are. That’s what the children say. They think if they reveal these artifacts to the city, then they will become rich and can have indoor plumbing. The jars of tomatoes and beans will float away in the flood that will surely come. All of that available water. They will turn the taps and there will be a deluge, a flood. Their ship will come in. 

They cannot bury the baby because the ground is frozen. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Oscar has a pickax. Dirty, tender murmurs are exchanged. It’s intolerable to hear such things. Little Frances and smaller Beulah, David Junior standby. Get into your Sunday best. We’ll go to the Brick Church Cemetery. The children can hear sweat slipping down their backs, their fingerprints being rubbed off. Stripped. Barren. They shiver. Frigid fear. They heave and curse. The sky is white-hot, pearlescent, a knob of sun like an eye. The Eye of God, the children think. Harlan scraps the shovel into the earth, mounds of icy red clay. Strong arms. 

Dad complains of another headache. Stress. Pressure. He wipes his brow. Well damn. Flannel shirt. Gimme that boy. 

Cora hands over the pine box. Her hands tremble. She bows her head. 

The children whimper. 

He says, we need those nickels, Cora. 

She opens the box. 

Gray baby. Blond hair. Pudding cheeks. 

She cannot look. She closes her eyes. How ironic! She removes the coins by touch, slips them in her pocket. A torrent of tears. Bread. Milk. 

Babies. 

Here is the magic. Children go in the ground and disappear. 

Sprinkles of dust and dirt. Ashes to ashes, she says. A chant, a mantra. 

He says his ears hurt. 

They’re cold, she says. 

No, this is different. Deep. Like a well of pain. 

Milk or lima beans? she asks. A whole pound of limas. Only a quart of milk. For the same price. 

Get both, he says. He winces. Cups his ears. 

No. She shakes her head. 

Get both, woman. We have two nickels and six children. 

She does the math. No. Seven, she says. 

Ten, he corrects. Two nickels, he says. Five plus five is ten.

Seven. She says again.

He’s gone. 

He’ll always be my baby. 

The nickels go for food at the shack on Nichols Avenue. They are still warm from the lids of her baby. 

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