[stylist] a different take on archaeology

[William L Houts]

Hi Chris,

I've just finished your short story, which I read with interest. It says 
a lot for your skills that you wrote a Gramdpa whom I absolutely 
detested;  if he had been a stick figure, he wouldn't have affected me 
at all.  I also hated the child's Dad, and in general the pair made me 
grouse silently about the undeserved existence of irresponsible adults. 
I had only two complaints which persist and they're  minor ones.  I 
thought you repeated the men's last names more often than necessary.  
And I wanted to see more reason for the grandfather's viciousness 
towards a little boy.  I know that he's a mean drunk and that in real 
life that's all the explanation you need.  But in fiction, it seems to 
me, you require a little more chassis for that particular engine.  Other 
than that, it's solid work, and I look forward to reading more of your 
writing.


--Bill










On 5/1/2014 10:18 AM, Chris Kuell wrote:
>
> 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."
>
>
>
>
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"Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar."

               --Saki