[stylist] a different take on archaeology

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

He has, and it's quite good. Full of really great, fully-realized
characters.


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Barbara
Hammel
Sent: Friday, May 02, 2014 11:17 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] a different take on archaeology


Chris, have you ever thought of writing a novel?  You draw a person so
far 
into your stories that the world doesn't exist while reading them.
Barbara




Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.--Robert
Frost -----Original Message----- 
From: Atty Rose
Sent: Friday, May 02, 2014 8:41 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] a different take on archaeology

Very emotionally charged, should have a trigger warning!

I think I knew that nasty old man.

Love,
Atty

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Chris Kuell" <ckuell at comcast.net>
To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Thursday, May 01, 2014 12:18 PM
Subject: [stylist] a different take on archaeology


>
> 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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