John Gardner - Nickel Mountain

She pressed her lips tight together, weeping, and the old man struggled painfully to her side, swearing at the cane as he came. They stood there leaning on each other, and Henry, free to move now, went over to stand beside where Jimmy lay at the head of the grave. Most of the top of the box was clear, and they’d dug out a two-inch slit of dirt around the sides to about halfway down the walls. The man down in the hole looked up at the man on top and nodded, and the man on top went over to the truck. He ground on the starter and got the truck going and backed it around to the side of the grave, and they unhooked the chains hanging down from the winch and lowered them into the hole. There was a rod that went between the two chain ends, just above the hooks, so when the hooks were clamped to the ends of the box the loops at each end of the rod held them tight, like tongs. When the man down in the hole had the rig on and the man on top had the winch turned so the chain was taut, the man below climbed out, helping himself up with the chain. Henry moved back a little, drawing Jimmy up on his knees and back with him.

The old woman said as if angrily, “We kept his room just like it was the day he died.”

“But we had to move,” the old man said. “The farm was played out, and I had to get some kind of work, so we moved to Rochester.”

“We had relatives there,” the old woman said.

The winch creaked, beginning to turn, and Jimmy kneeled with his hands on his knees, in the shadow of Henry’s leg. The chains pulled tighter and the rear end of the truck went down a little, and one of the grave-diggers wet his lips and shouted something and the other one laughed and nodded. Then the box came out with a sucking sound and tilted, free of the grave sides now, threatening to roll sideways and spill the dead boy out, but it righted and kept coming till it hung a little above the level of Henry Soames’ belt. The taller of the grave-diggers, the red-headed one, went around front and moved the truck a few feet forward, and when he came back they swung the box into the truckbed. The old man waved his arm. “Well, there it is,” he said. He was excited and pleased, as if he’d managed the whole thing himself. “See how easy they done it, Hessie?”

“Praise the Lord,” she said, weeping. Immediately the old man scowled and flapped his arm at her, waving her off.

The men slid the long, dirt-caked box to the front of the truckbed and chained it in place and got down and went back to their shovels. They began filling the grave. The two old people went over, very slowly, to look at the box.

Jimmy said, “Is there a dead man inside?”

Henry nodded.

The old man was patting the side of the truck. “I loved that boy more—” he began, but he seemed to lose track.

“Can we see him?” Jimmy said.

Henry shook his head.

“Are they going to see him?”

“I don’t know.”

The old woman was crying, wringing her hands. “We’ve always loved you, Bobby.”

The old man said, confused, “Shut up.” Then, finally, as if with relief, he too was crying. He began to pat the old woman’s arm.

Suddenly Jimmy laughed. “They’re funny,” he said.

Henry turned to look at him, frowning anxiously, and said quickly, “No they’re not, Jimmy. When you grow up—”

The grave-digger with the red hair said, with a look of disgust, “Just pitiful, sonny.” He hardly glanced up as he said it.

“That’s not true,” Henry said. He chewed his lip and stopped himself from saying more.

The grave-digger smiled to himself, wry, but Henry pretended not to see.

They went back to the tombstone near the front fender of the old peoples’ car, where Henry had left the rifle and the canvas bag that held the rabbit. It was after noon and Callie would be worried. I lost track of the time, he thought. I’m sorry.

“Please, why can’t I see?” Jimmy said.

“No,” Henry said. “I already told you once.”

“You never let me see anything.” A whine this time.

The old people were crossing the grass again, leaning on each other, as always, seeming to make no progress.

“You don’t like me,” Jimmy said. He started to cry.

Henry clenched his jaws; but looking at the boy’s face, seeing beyond any possible doubt that however trivial the cause, however ridiculous the words, the child’s grief was perfectly real, the injustice terrible and never-to-be-forgotten, he bent down to him and said, “Now listen, Jimmy. I love you and you know it. Now quit that crying.”

“Well I don’t love you,” Jimmy said, not looking at him, seeing what would happen.

Henry smiled sadly, reaching out to touch Jimmy’s shoulder. “Poor dreamer,” he said.

He was tired and it was a long way back. He thought how good it would be to lie down, only for a little while, and rest.