Walking Stiffs

We were shuffling around the body, surveying for a reasonable entry point for his knife. “Goddam’. It stinks already.” I said, leveraging my wrist against my nose, kitchen knife in hand. Mom isn’t happy about my knife choice. It’s the only knife sharp enough to do the job. That knife, a Paula Dean collector’s edition de-boner, was meant to carve the turkey tomorrow morning; after tonight, its conversation piece.

“The longer we wait, the worse it will get. Just…just cut here and start removing whatever we can.” Stephan said, making use of his elder brother status while he still could.

We lifted the head, inspecting the neck’s girth. The knife looked more like a spoon with every attempted dead lift. How this poor creature died was beyond our understanding, but no one else had volunteered to remove it. No one else was strong enough.

“Good bye, Milky.” Said Stephan. “You were a good horse and I know little Beth Silver is going to miss you an awful lot”. We stood there wishing the horse would evaporate into the air, and knowing it wouldn’t. It was cold, and neither of us thought to put on a hat. How long could dead horse disposal take anyway? What started as a refreshing prick of cold on a well warmed nose became an impossible bite. Resolved to displace Milky, we moved.

“Jordie, that knife’s not going to do us any good. Let’s get the shovels from the barn. Bring some plastic bags, too. I’ll run and get some lye from the hardware store”. Stephan had a plan, thank god. But I’m sure Milky had plans too. Plans often fall short.

“Dummy. It’s Christmas eve. Ain’t no one in town is going to be open, ‘cept the bar.” I said. “and dad said to never go ‘round there again”.

“Well, we don’t have much of a choice, now do we? Dad ain’t here and we need lye. You get those supplies and I’ll ask around the bar for anyone with some lye. Let’s just get this done, alright?”

Stephan entered the bar and saw the usual crew: the farmers that lost everything, their women, the women that lost their precious everything and the men that stayed with them through it all. Desperate souls, useful for those willing to pay.

“10 dollars for anyone who will help bury a dead horse!” Shouted Stephan over the juke box.

“buy me 10 dollars in drinks right now and I’ll help you” slurred a man at the bar.

After the drinks, they piled themselves into the truck, mindful of the snow starting to fall. The man was disheveled and stunk of rye whiskey. His five o’clock shadow was running 3 hours fast and he broke wind with every bump in the road. The lye was at the co-op elevator. They put three bags onto the flat bed and headed towards the barn again.

“You’re Henry’s boy, Stephan, ain’t ya’?”

“Yes sir. Now, this horse has been dead a few hours. Its cold and stiff, so we figure moving it is not an option. All we need is your help with the lye and the digging and we’ll get you back to…where ever it is you’d like to go.”

I was standing next to the horse, a hat and bandanna newly adorned, waiting as the headlights swept across the barren grass field and approached. I was anxious to start digging. Stephan stepped out and approached slowly, dusting off snow that had gathered on the headlights. The man stumbled out of the car and clumsily picked up the lye. I squinted and shaded my eyes from the glare.

“This gentleman got us some lye, he’ll help us”, said Stephan. “He smells as bad as the horse, but he’s got the lye, so…”.

The further we dug, the harder the soil became. At only a foot or so deep, and after two hours of digging, all three of us sat and reassessed. The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering one to each of us.

“Hey mister. Why ain’t you with your family tonight? Don’t you celebrate Christmas?” I said, reaching for the offered smoke.

“Don’t you even think about it, youngin’”, said Stephan. “Grammy can’t speak because of those things. And let the man be, he’s doing us a favor”.

“This diggin’s gettin’ to my back, boys. I’m going to lay in the truck a while”. Said the man, pushing his body out of the shallow grave, wobbling into the truck.

“…we got the lye. I knew he was only good for that”, quipped Stephan. “He knows dad somehow. He mentioned him by name in the car.”

The cabin of the truck was steaming with the heat of the drunkard’s body. The windows were a matte finish and the man’s head lay tilted against the frame, mouth agape.

Stephan sighed and blew out a plume of breath into the air. “That bar is the bane of this town, I tell you. Nothing good ever comes out of there. Just a bunch of hard livers and bygones”, he said.

“That ain’t no shit, either”, I said. “Them boys get there at 11 in the morning and don’t leave until 2 in the morning. Everyday. I tried booze a couple times. I could see how someone could fall in love with it”.

That notion put Stephan at a distance. His eyes were wide and he stared for a minute while I picked at the ground with my shovel. He collected himself and pulled me close to him with one hand, yanking the collar of my coat around my neck. “Listen, Jordie. First the cigarettes and now booze. You’re talking like you and I don’t come from the same family. You remember harvest? We lost 10 grand in grain because Billy was too drunk to put out his cigarette properly. Nearly burned our entire crop. That example right there should be enough to keep you away from both.”

“Damn, steff. I just said I understood them. I didn’t say I wanted to be them. Maybe you should take a swig of that old man’s flask and fall in line”.

“Piss-ant. Let’s get this done already.”

We started to dig again and after a while made a sizable hole. Deep enough to bury Milky for a night, until we could get some of the boys down the road to help us dispose of it properly and until Beth came to know its passing. The hole was adjacent to the back of the horse, assuming we could roll it into the grave. But Milky’s weight was too much for two teenage boys to bare.

“That old drunk’s been asleep long enough. We need his help”, I said, dropping the hind legs, which struck the ground like stiffened rope. The window’s had cleared by that point, which struck me as odd. I pounded on the hood of the car and hollered “Wake up, Clementine! Santa’s here, you rosy-cheeked bastard”. Stephan’s laughter in the background prompted more harassment. “…looks like he put some Wild Turkey in your stocking, you piss bathed handle slugger”.

Stephan grew impatient and snapped, mid-giggle “Just wake him up, already. We ain’t got all night.”

The cab door flew open at my release of the handle, and out tumbled the man’s body. His skin had yellowed and his breathing had stopped. I pushed him a few times, but to no avail. A check of his pulse confirmed that the bum had died not too long ago.

“He’s dead, Stephan. Old man bit it, right here in our truck”. I said, stepping away from the body.

Stephan didn’t say a word as he approached, bright eyed and shovel in hand. He removed his gloves and put ear to his chest. He listened for what seemed an eternity for a heart beat that would never come. Without hesitation, he slowly stood up and handed me a shovel.

“Do you know this man?” Stephan said.

“No.”

“Check his wallet.”

“He’s from Nebraska. McCook. About 50 miles north of here.”

“Well, lets get to work. Its already 2 and we don’t have much time.”