[stylist] a different take on archaeology

[Chris Kuell]

A couple days ago, Bill posted an interesting poem in which he used 
archaeology to indicate the passage of time and the wearing down of things. 
It made me think of a story I wrote a while back, in which I used 
archaeology both literally, and also to mean 'the preservation of'. It was 
originally published in the anthology "Mountain Voices: Illuminating the 
Character of West Virginia" and I'll paste it below, for anyone who is 
interested in reading. It's on the longish side, at 5600 words.


Down Home Archaeology

By Chris Kuell


"Daddy, Daddy!" called the little sandy haired boy in a Sponge Bob T shirt. 
The boy's parents stood chatting with the real estate agent.
"C'mere, Dad! C'mere!" The insistent boy grabbed his father's hand and 
pulled.
"Excuse me for a second, I'll be right back." Turning to his son, Dean 
Henderson said, "What is so important you have to interrupt me like that?"
"C'mere Daddy. You gotta see this. It's so cool."
The boy pulled Dean along. Frustrated by the slow progress, Tyler let go and 
sprinted to a corner of the backyard. He squatted near a small pile of sun 
dried boards in a thick bramble of grass. Dean approached, expecting to be 
shown a snakeskin or maybe a bird's nest. As he got closer, Dean saw his son 
peering over the rim of an abandoned well. Panic catapulted him into action.
"Tyler!" he yelled, racing towards the boy with a speed and purpose he hadn't 
mustered since high school. Tyler's eyes opened wide as his father scooped 
him up and clutched the small body tightly to his chest. Silent tears 
glistened on Dean's face. His nostrils filled with a raw, earthy stench. A 
smooth, glassy coldness filled his mouth. He shut his eyes and dropped to 
his knees, holding the boy close.
* * * * *
It was early summer, 1972, and six year old Dean Henderson sat unbuckled 
next to his father, Len, in the family station wagon. The father son team 
was headed to Grandpa's house in Fairmont. On the radio, Joe Nuxhall 
announced the Big Red Machine's starting line up as they took the field 
against the Mets on this sunny afternoon. Dean was excited, and a little 
nervous. His Mom had gone to her ten year high school reunion, which his Dad 
had no interest in attending. Instead, the boys of the family were going to 
Grandpa's for the first time in almost four years. Dad was going to leave 
Dean at Grandpa's while he visited some of his old friends. Len Henderson 
told his wife that they were going fishing, but Dean noticed Daddy had 
brought a lot more beer and Fritos than fishing gear.
The ride was long and boring. His Dad didn't talk much; he was too focused 
on the ballgame and driving to pay Dean any mind. Tom Seaver had pitched a 
no hitter through six innings for the Mets, and Len was disgusted. Dean 
occupied his time counting cars, looking through his collection of rocks and 
imagining the fun he would have at Grandpa's farm. Daddy had told him that 
arrowheads galore could be found at the farm, and Dean was anxious to start 
looking.
They arrived at Grandpa's late in the afternoon. The Henderson place was a 
typical farmhouse built in the early twentieth century. A basic cube shape 
of white-washed clapboards covered by a simple, low-pitched roof, and a 
chimney perpetually leaning  at a precarious angle.    Dean's grandfather 
had added plumbing in the forties, but, other than that, only superficial 
modifications had been made. Dean's Grandpa, John Henderson, met them at the 
door of the old place. He wore thinning, sky-blue overalls with a dark 
rectangle in the chest where a label used to be.
Len and John Henderson shook hands, then Dean went to hug his Grandpa but 
the old man didn't even bend over. He just stared at Dean in a cool way, as 
if he was a stray dog that might crap on his lawn. Uncertain how to proceed, 
Dean just hugged the old man's thighs and said a friendly hello.
They sat in the front room, the television off, strained chitchat 
intermittently flowing between the two adults. Dean kicked his sneakered 
feet up and down, as if he were on his backyard swing. He tossed an 
embroidered pillow up into the air and practiced catching. Grandpa scowled 
at the child.
Dean looked over to his Dad during one pause and asked, "Daddy, can I go 
look around?"
Grandpa said, "Don't you go gettin' into trouble. You hear me boy?"
Dean's father put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you just 
hunt around out back, see what you can find. Don't get into any of Grandpa's 
equipment, though, you hear?"
"Yes sir," Dean answered, already making his way to the door.
Dean was busy digging at the edge of a cornfield with a favorite rock he 
called Digger when his father came to say goodbye.
"What you doing, Deano?"
Dean smiled up at his idol. "I'm finding you some worms for fishing." The 
boy put a hand in one pocket and pulled out a fist full of dirt and 
wriggling earthworms. Dean's father looked surprised then chuckled and 
accepted the gift.
"Now listen, kid. I'm going to meet up with Mr. Wills and some of the other 
guys. You're going to stay here with Grandpa, and I'll be back late 
 tonight." Dean stared intently at his Dad. This was it, he knew. He had to 
be brave for his Daddy.
"Now, you mind your Grandpa. He can be a crotchety old man, but if you just 
do as you're told and stay outta trouble, everything will be fine." They 
hugged, and Dean watched as his father returned to the station wagon and 
drove away down the dirt road.
A few minutes later, he heard the shuffle of his grandfather's boots 
approaching.
"Hey Grandpa," he said, "Wanna help me dig for arrowheads?"
"We ain't got time for such foolishness, boy. Come with me over to the side 
of the house. There's a pile of wood needs stacking."
Eager to help and hopefully get on the old man's good side, Dean ran ahead 
to size up the job. When he rounded the corner of the farmhouse, Dean saw 
what appeared to be a mountain of logs. There were four cords of roughly cut 
wood, dumped by a truck in a mound three times his height.
Behind him, his Grandpa ordered, "G'won, boy. Grab a handful. See them two 
trees over yonder? Make a line of wood from one to the other."
Dean struggled to wrestle a log out of the pile, grunting as he carried it 
over to the trees. His grandfather watched him, taking five or six pieces 
himself each trip.
"Boy, is you only going to take one piece at a time? You're going to be out 
here all night at that rate."
"Grandpa," Dean said, "I'm just a kid."
"What are you, a little Momma's boy?" the old man snorted. "Come here and 
let me pile you up."
He had the boy stick out his arms, and then put three pieces in them. The 
edge of the top piece dug into Dean's chest and he let out an, "Owwww!"
His Grandpa ridiculed him as they stacked more wood. "You better toughen up, 
little boy. I can tell your Daddy's been too easy on you. You're soft, just 
like him. You want your Momma wiping your ass the rest of your life? Cripe's 
sake."
Dean's face reddened. He wished his Mom and Dad were here to tell Grandpa to 
shut up. Clenching his teeth tightly, he continued with the mundane chore of 
getting wood piled into his arms, walking it over to the growing stack, 
dropping it on the ground and placing it in the right direction.
After a half hour or so, Dean worked up the courage to ask, "Hey Grandpa, I'm 
hungry. Can we have a snack?"
The old man glared at him with disgust, dropping a sharp piece of wood onto 
the reddening flesh of the child's arms. "Dinner's at five o'clock. You'll 
work 'till then."
Dean was smart enough not to push it. He pouted and continued stacking the 
endless pile of wood until his Grandpa glanced at the sun and said, "I'm 
gunna go fix supper. You keep stacking until I call you in. Hear me?"
Dean was mad, so he didn't answer the old man, just dropped his pile and 
placed a knotty piece in its spot. A flash of pain shot through his head as 
a calloused hand twisted his ear.
"Answer me when I'm talking to you, boy" the old man said.
Dean dropped the log, crying out in surprise and pain. "Momma's boy," the 
old man spat as he went around to the front of the house.
Dean rubbed his sore ear and cried quietly. Why was Grandpa being so mean? 
What kind of vacation was this? He sat, refusing to pick up another stick of 
wood until Grandpa called him in for dinner.

Dean was a good natured kid, and his anger dissipated with time. He was 
looking forward to supper as he entered the house, letting the screen door 
slam behind him.
"Easy on the door boy," his grandpa hollered from the kitchen.
Dean ignored the grumpy old man and made his way to the bathroom to wash up. 
When he came out into the kitchen, his Grandpa still looked crabby. In fact, 
the old man's eyes were reddened slits of irritation. He held a spatula in 
one hand, a tumbler of whiskey in the other. Pointing the spatula at Dean, 
he said, "Boy, what the hell is wrong with you? You better git them shoes 
off and leave 'em by the front door. Jesus, look at the dirt your highness 
has drug in the house."
Dean glanced around, but didn't notice any more dirt on the floor than when 
he came in. Remembering his father's words, he slipped off his Keds and 
carried them to the mat at the door. Upon returning, Dean took one of the 
chairs at the small kitchen table. His Grandfather carried over two plates 
and put one in front of him. On one part of the plate was a disgusting pile 
of fried liver and onions. Next to that was a spoonful of slimy lima beans. 
Then there was a wrinkly brown thing that Dean mistakenly thought was a mud 
ball. It was actually a shriveled baked potato that John Henderson had 
cooked for himself but not eaten several days ago. In painful silence, the 
old man started eating his dinner. Dean sat quietly, head bowed, a dour 
sadness across his face.
"What's a matter boy? Thought you was hungry." The old man said between 
bites.
Eyes still down, Dean said, I don't like this."
"You ain't even tried it."
Dean glanced at his plate. The lima beans looked like they were somebody's 
guts, and the liver was somebody's guts. He wasn't going to eat any mud ball 
either. He bit his lower lip and sat pouting.
"Suit yourself boy. That's all you're getting. You can eat it now, or eat it 
for breakfast, don't matter to me none."
Grandpa drained his whiskey and poured himself another. The two sat in 
silence except for the sounds of the old man's chewing. Dean thought about 
his parents and how they usually let him eat a peanut butter sandwich if he 
didn't like what they had.
"Do you know when my Daddy's coming back?"
"I don't reckon for a while. He's off getting drunk with Bobby Wills and 
that car stealing Caudell boy."
Grandpa took another bite of supper and said," C'mon and eat some of that 
liver. It ain't gunna kill ya."
Dean sat sulking. He wished his Dad would come back and fix him some real 
food. Was he really getting drunk with a car stealer?
Grandpa spoke again through a mouth half full of food. "If you ain't going 
to eat, git the broom and sweep up the dirt you tracked in here."
Dean got up and found the broom and dustpan in a closet and tried his best 
to sweep up around the door in the front room. His Mom and Dad had never 
made him sweep before, so he did his best to mimic what he thought they did. 
After picking up a small pile of dust, he chucked it out the screen door. He 
glanced around the room and saw the pillow he had been tossing earlier on 
the floor instead of on the couch where it belonged. He kicked the pillow up 
onto the couch. It plopped hard into the fat middle of the center cushion. 
It felt good to kick the old man's pillow, so Dean fetched it and replaced 
it on the floor. Dean imagined he was a football kicker, trying for a long 
field goal. He ran up to the pillow, kicked low and hard, the shouting crowd 
behind, cheering him on. The pillow soared straight and true, smacking hard 
into the top part of the couch.
The next kick was from even further back. This time, the pillow cleared the 
back of the couch, hitting the big picture window with a soft thud. A second 
of panic shot through the boy, but then he realized the pillow was soft and 
wouldn't break anything. He repeated his kicks a few more times, honing his 
technique. Joe Nuxhall's voice played in his brain, as announcer for the 
amazing boy kicker.
"It's incredible, folks," Joe announced to the crowd. "The youngest 
professional kicker in football history!"
  Preparing for his next attempt, Dean had a great idea. To one side of the 
couch was a tall brass floor lamp. Dean relocated it behind the couch, a 
little left of center. Then he balanced the broom to the right behind the 
couch, effectively making goal posts. Now it was getting challenging. Like a 
real pro football kicker, Young Dean Henderson would attempt to kick the 
pillow all the way across the room between the goal posts. The fans in his 
mind were going nuts. "Deano! Deano!" they chanted, using his Daddy's pet 
nickname for him.
Dean was ready. He called out the signals in his mind, there's the snap, and 
the ball is down, three steps and kick. . . . The pillow caught the left 
instep of Dean's socked foot. Instead of flying straight and splitting the 
goal posts, it hooked left. Dean watched as the pillow drifted towards the 
brass lamp, then smacked it head on. The lamp toppled backwards, a fist 
sized knob on the top hitting into the window before spinning and falling 
with a crash to the floor.
For just a second, but plenty of time for his young brain to compute, Dean 
thought it was going to be okay. The lamp had fallen, but the window hadn't 
broken. It was going to be okay; he wouldn't get into trouble. Then, he 
heard a tiny, cracking sound, like someone breaking a pencil. Before him, 
through that magnificent piece of glass which offered a view of the front 
yard, Grandma's old flower beds, and the plush hill farms beyond, came a 
fine line. Then, a snapping sound, and another line magically appeared 
before his eyes. More crackling, more lines. They shot out like bolts of 
lightening now, crackling and hissing, completely covering that pristine 
glass with a spider web of fine capillaries. Then, in a final blow to the 
fragment of hope the small boy still held in his heart, the glass obeyed the 
pull of gravity. Thousands of diamond like shards fell to the floor.
Dean barely heard, and certainly didn't comprehend, the three or four heavy 
footsteps before something solid and angry walloped him in the back of the 
head. The forty eight pound youngster toppled forward, smashing his shoulder 
into the couch and crumpling to the floor.
"God dammit, boy!" growled the voice.
Stars spun in Dean's head. Tears streamed and he found his voice for crying. 
A strong farmer's hand clamped down on him and hoisted him into the air. 
Whack! Whack! Whack! The old man spanked him fiercely with his open hand. 
The wails of the child hit a frenzied pitch.
"I knew you was gunna be nothing but trouble. Well, I'll sure learn ya how 
to behave."
Dean bawled with the pain, sadness and humiliation. Grandpa dropped him to 
the floor, where upon impact, he bit clean through his bottom lip. The old 
man laced up his boots, teeth clenched, face crimson with fury. John 
Henderson stood, looked out his broken picture window, then hoisted the 
limp, cowering body over his shoulder like a sack of seeds. He banged the 
screen door open and stormed out back to his tractor. The jouncing dug a 
bony shoulder into Dean's belly, adding to his overall suffering. The old 
man dropped Dean with a thud into a wood trailer, then jumped into the seat 
of his John Deere. Firing up the tractor, he drove off into the fields.
Dean continued sobbing, balled up in a protective fetal position. He sucked 
on the blood from his ripped lower lip and drank in the coppery sorrow. His 
Mom and Dad swatted his bottom now and then when he was fresh, or did 
something dangerous, but they had never come close to the fury John 
Henderson had just unleashed.
Five minutes later, the old man whipped the tractor sharply to the right and 
shut off the engine. Dean's crying had subsided to a rhythmic whimpering, so 
he heard Grandpa jump down off the tractor and grunt as he moved something.
"Boy," he growled, "Git over here."
Reluctantly, Dean hoisted himself to a sitting position to see what Grandpa 
wanted. The old man stood next to a big rectangular hole in the ground. All 
the grass at the edges of the hole was dead, brown and flattened. Next to 
the hole on the ground was an old barn door. A spongy fungus grew on one 
edge of the door, as if it had been there a long time.
"I'm gunna count to three and you better have your ass over here."
Dean tried to stifle his crying and get up out of the trailer. A dull ache 
hammered throughout his head; his lip throbbed with every heartbeat. Needles 
of hurt shot through his thighs as he climbed over the railing of the 
trailer.
Refusing to look at his grandfather, Dean approached, head down and sullen. 
His eyes were puffy and wet, but he didn't allow new tears to flow.
"You see this?" Grandpa asked him, finger pointing into the abyss.
Remembering the painful ear twist, a miniscule "yes" escaped the boy. He 
stepped towards the edge of the hole. It was quite big, maybe twice as large 
as a refrigerator. Layers of dark, rich dirt cascaded downwards towards the 
bottom.
"Git in, boy," the old man barked.
Dean glanced up at him. Was he serious? Why did he want him to go down 
there? If he thought of inquiring, he didn't have a chance. The old man's 
leather boot kicked, propelling him forward. He pitched head first into the 
pit, flipping over and landing on his back some eight feet below. Although 
the ground was moist, the impact still knocked the breath out of him. Panic 
seized Dean as he gasped for air. The old man stuck his face over the edge. 
The eyes that stared down were perfectly calm.
"The Japs had ways of making prisoners behave. This one's easy, be 
 grateful." The old man dragged the large barn door over the top of the 
hole, closing it off from the outside world. With that, darkness grew over 
the top of the hole like the moon eclipsing the sun.
At the bottom of the vault, Dean urgently sucked in the damp, musty air, but 
there just wasn't enough. His heart raced while the darkness weighed down 
upon him. In this tomb, terror gripped like the talons of a large bird. 
Animal sounds gurgled from deep inside him, sounds which served to frighten 
him more. A clammy sweat sheathed his small body as images of killer 
spiders, poisonous snakes and boy eating trilobites tormented him.
It took a few minutes to quiet his fears to a reasonable whimpering. The 
cool dampness of the dirt penetrated his thoughts and helped to break the 
grip of the talons.
He took a few deep breaths, and between sobs he tried to yell. "Grandpa, let 
me out."
He listened, but heard only his pulse beating in his neck and the sounds of 
sorrow coming from inside his chest.
"Grandpa!" he said, louder this time. "I'm scared. Please let me out!" There 
was no response.
"I'm sorry I broke your window. I'm really sorry. Please open up."
A cloak of panic overtook Dean and he started crying again. Hard, racking 
sobs convulsed through his small body. Sitting on the damp dirt, he pulled 
his knees to his chest and put his head down on his arms. Blubbery snot 
dripped down his legs, but he didn't care. His six year old body trembled 
like that of a palsied old man.
"Please," he pleaded to the darkness.
Time passed, as did the outburst. When Dean had collected himself, he tried 
to contact the outside world again.
"Grandpa, are you out there?"
He heard nothing. Had Grandpa left? Dean thought he would have heard the 
tractor. Was he all alone? Out here in the field? An icy shudder trickled 
down his spine.
"Help!" he screamed. "Help! Help!" He shouted until his throat felt like it 
had been scoured with steel wool, then he collapsed to the ground for 
another sobbing binge. It was hopeless. John Henderson owned nearly fifty 
acres of land. The closest neighbor was almost a mile away. Sorrow kept 
bleeding out of the boy; he bit his lower lip and reopened the wound. The 
blood trickled down his chin like wax down a candle.
At that moment, Dean Henderson was fairly certain he would never get out.
After the next bawling wave passed, Dean was able to clear some of the self 
pity out of his head and consider possible modes of escape. He stood, rubbed 
some of the soreness out of his legs and jumped towards the top of the hole, 
but it was far out of reach. He tried to climb, but the hard packed mud gave 
no holds. Each attempt only ended in his sliding a few inches back down to 
the bottom. In the darkness, Dean felt his way around searching for 
something, anything to grab and pull himself upwards. Trembling fingers 
found nothing but dirt and clay. One end of the prison was lower than the 
other, and about a half inch of muddy water soaked his socked feet. Further 
depressed, he moved back to the dry section and sat, silent tears rolling 
one by one down his cheeks. There was no way a little kid could get out of 
here. In his child's mind, Dean wished he had a rope or something to help 
him escape, but he had nothing except Digger and a few other rocks.
  He stood, took the rocks out of his pocket and threw them at the old door 
with a scream, "Let me out!"
The rocks plinked into the door uselessly and fell back to the ground. One 
hit Dean on the head, further infuriating him and bringing on another deluge 
of sadness. Dean sat, curled into a ball, feeling as though he must be the 
sorriest kid in the world. Silent lips worded the name, Momma, over and 
over.
At some point later in the night, Dean felt around on the ground until he 
located the familiar curve of Digger. Dean clutched the rock tightly, 
rubbing one side with a dirty thumb. He needed to hold something of comfort 
in this murky cell. Mindlessly, he used the rock to churn up the dirt near 
where he was sitting. The task occupied his otherwise miserable mind, so he 
began to carve linear trenches in the bottom of the pit. About four rows in, 
he hit something solid, and he dug around it. Expecting a rock, Dean felt 
the object with interest. His fingertips encountered something smooth and 
possibly metallic. Whatever it was, he now had a purpose, and the excavation 
continued. The mystery item was deeper than he expected, so he had to use 
his fingers as well as his rock tool to extricate the find. After about ten 
minutes, he pulled out an object a little smaller than his hand.
Dirt chunks fell away from various surfaces and he ran his fingers over the 
treasure. He felt the head, gun and legs of a miniature soldier. It was 
metal and the limbs wouldn't move, unlike those of the plastic GI Joe he had 
back home. Dean took the soldier, which he named Joe, over to the small pool 
of water and washed him off. He dried and polished him with his shirt, proud 
of his fine work.
He returned to his spot and resumed digging, Joe acting as job supervisor. 
In the next hour the team unearthed three rocks, a marble and a skeleton 
key. Each item was washed and cleaned with care. Dean convinced himself that 
the key would open up that door, if he could only get to it.
He took comfort in his treasures, but the hour was late and he grew tired of 
digging. Hunger cramped his empty belly, and on an impulse he popped the 
glass marble into his mouth, rolling it around on his tongue and sucking it 
to placate the pangs. Momma would kill him for putting a marble in his 
mouth, but he didn't care. He hadn't eaten anything since lunch, and Momma 
was far away. It reminded him of a gumball, or a big jawbreaker, and that 
seemed to ease the discomfort a bit. As the time passed, his sore body grew 
too heavy to hold up and he slumped over onto the dirt. The spit covered 
marble slid harmlessly out of his mouth, and he was swept away into a thick, 
dreamless sleep.

Dean awoke a few hours later as the first rays of morning beamed into the 
top of his prison. Mercifully, his sleep had been solid, and he hadn't 
noticed Grandpa removing the heavy door.
"C'mon, boy. Let's go."
The old man stooped and reached low into the pit. Dean stood up slowly, like 
a drunk after a night in the tank sleeping it off. He stared up at his 
grandfather, reluctant to touch that hand. Would he pick him up, just to 
drop him down into the hole again? He decided it was worth the risk. The old 
man hoisted him out of the hole with ease, carried him over and sat him on 
the tractor. He then took a minute and replaced the barn door. He picked 
Dean up and put him down on his lap as he started the tractor. Pulling it 
around, heading for home, he said, "I hope you learned your lesson." A 
second later, he asked, "Wanna steer the tractor?"
At any other time, Dean would have wet his pants at the possibility of 
driving Grandpa's big green tractor. Dean loved cars, trucks and machinery. 
Instead of taking the wheel, though, he just shook his head and scratched 
with dirty fingers at the dried blood on his chin.
The two traveled wordlessly back to the farmhouse, where Dean noticed 
Grandpa had covered the broken window with a thick, blue piece of tarpaulin. 
There was no sign of Daddy's car.

Inside, Grandpa gave him a large glass of orange juice.
"Where's my Daddy?" he asked the old man.
"Ain't back yet. He'll be home shortly."
 Grandpa drew a hot bath and laid out some clean clothes. Dean's Mom or Dad 
usually stayed with him while he was in the tub, talking or singing songs to 
make bath time fun. Grandpa left him alone, saying only that he should be 
sure to scrub his face good, that right now he looked like a has been 
prizefighter.
Making his way back towards the front room, Dean was overpowered by the 
smell of bacon and hot biscuits.
"I'm making us a nice down home West Virginia breakfast. Is that okay with 
you?" Grandpa looked inquisitively at the boy.
Dean was starving, so he nodded in assent.
"Won't be done for a few minutes. Why don't you go watch a little TV until I 
call you."
Grandpa was noticeably different. He hadn't yelled, pinched his ear, or done 
anything mean this morning. The boy was puzzled, but pleased, so he did as 
he was told.
  A short while later he was stuffing his face with vigor. The salt on his 
eggs stung his lip, but it barely slowed him down. Food never tasted so 
good.
After breakfast, Grandpa asked Dean to follow him into his bedroom. Dean 
stood there while Grandpa poked around in a closet. He came back and set a 
toaster sized wooden box in front of the boy. He bent down and opened it.
"Take a look at this," he said, all smiles and tenderness. Inside the box 
were perhaps fifty arrowheads. "These are ones I've found over the years 
during spring plowing. Winter always brings 'em up."
Dean was awestruck. He looked at the old man, who told him, "Go ahead, you 
can have one."
Dean rifled through the collection. Some of the arrowheads were chipped or 
broken, but most were intact. He found a large one, a blueish brown color, 
still sharp and pointy.
"Can I have this one, Grandpa?"
"Sure, it's yours," Grandpa said. "Now, are we friends?" The old man stuck 
out a leathery hand. Dean hesitated, then shook it. Grandpa put his box of 
treasures back and told him to go play outside until his Daddy arrived.
Dean and his tin soldier Joe were scouting for Indians when the Country 
Squire came rolling up the driveway. He ran over and jumped into the arms of 
his Dad.
"Daddy, where were you?"
 Len Henderson groaned and hugged him tightly. "I'm sorry, Deano. We played 
cards late and I was really tired, so I just slept at Mr. Will's place."
 Len held him out and looked him over.
"Hey Champ, what happened to your lip?" Dean's face took on a somber 
expression, shame and anger not deeply buried.
"Grandpa knocked me on the floor, and I bit my lip. He was mean Daddy, I don't 
like it here."
Len Henderson stared mutely at the boy for a minute, noticing for the first 
time the tin soldier in his hand. His eyes didn't move from the soldier as 
he lowered his son to the ground.
"I'm going inside to talk to Grandpa and fetch your stuff. You stay out here 
in the car and find us a good station on the radio. OK?" Dean got into the 
driver seat and his father closed the car door.
"I'll be back shortly, you stay here."
Dean put Joe away in his pocket, then turned the radio on and fiddled with 
the dial. Mostly all he could find was static. He was beginning to catch a 
Gospel station when he heard shouting coming from the house. He turned the 
volume down, but the sounds were muffled and difficult to make out. A large 
crashing sound made Dean jump. It was followed by the sound of metal 
falling, like someone had dropped a tray full of silverware. Dean quickly 
turned the volume back up and resumed tuning the radio when he saw his 
father coming to the car, Dean's small suitcase in hand. He moved over to 
his side as his Dad slid in behind the wheel.
  Len Henderson's complexion was a mottled red, and he was breathing harder 
than normal. His hair was mussed, and a trickle of blood spilled out of his 
lower lip. Dean felt concerned, but something told him it wasn't the time to 
talk. His father had that look that he sometimes did right before he yelled 
at Dean or Mommy, so he pulled out Joe and his new arrowhead and played for 
a while.
An awkward silence loomed in the car as they weaved their way to the 
highway. Once traveling at seventy up the Interstate, Dean put down his 
things to look at his Dad. His skin was its normal color now, and his Dad 
looked like himself, except for the stubble and the split lip.
"Daddy, are you all right?"
Len turned and smiled at his son. "I'm fine, Champ. Don't you worry. I'm 
sorry things didn't go well at Grandpa's. You okay?"
Dean watched his father for a second, wondering what answer his Dad was 
looking to hear.
"I'm okay, Daddy, glad we're going home. And now we got matching lips!" They 
laughed, and Dean's father ruffled his fingers through the boy's crew cut.
A few miles further down the road, Dean was fingering the tip of the large 
arrowhead as he thought about his night in the hole. He never wanted to 
visit Grandpa ever again. He rolled his window down and tossed the arrowhead 
out onto the highway, glad to be rid of it. Let it be run over and crushed, 
along with the memories of that mean old man.
* * * * *
"Daddy, you're hurting me," Little Tyler Henderson croaked, his father's 
arms like a boa constrictor around his small chest.
Unconscious of his grip, Dean careened back to the moment and loosened his 
clutch on Tyler. The drumbeat of his pulse still throbbed in his temple as 
he tried to shake the fright of the exhumed memory. So fresh in his mind 
right now, it could have happened this very morning. Yet, Dean couldn't 
recall ever thinking of that horrible trip since it happened. Like the tin 
soldier and the marble, the memory had been buried a long time ago.
"Dean, are you all right?" Tasha Henderson put a hand on her husband's 
shoulder. Dean looked pale, his eyes bloodshot and wet.
"Dean?" she repeated.
He stood, with Tyler still held snugly in his arms. He snuffled, and wiped 
his eyes with a shirt sleeve.
"Yeah, I'm OK. I just had this horrible image . . . scared the hell out of 
me I guess."
"We can make sure the owners do something to protect that well," the real 
estate agent said.
"Be sure to do that," Dean told her. Then he grabbed his wife's hand and 
said, "C'mon honey. I don't think this place is for us."