by Janet Alcorn
This story first appeared in the 2020 edition of the Arizona Literary Magazine.
You’re gone. That’s why I’m out here driving this gosh darn Bobcat in this gosh darn wind to dig a gosh darn trench in this gosh darn field. The wind rises like a breath and works its way under the Bobcat, under my skirt. I hunch over the controls, press my skirt between my legs, and clamp them shut. Digging a trench is man’s work. Women are supposed to be, “discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands.” That’s what the Good Book says.
I’m not as pretty as I was when I was seventeen, when I traded my purity ring for a wedding band. The preacher said, “In sickness and in health, richer or poorer, till death do us part.” You said, “Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord.” That’s what the Good Book says. Having six babies and chasing after them is hard on a body. I’m a little thick around the waist now, a little thick in the thighs and bottom. But my hair is still long and straight and thick like you wanted it. “If a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering.” That’s what the Good Book says.
When you were gone on business trips, the work still had to get done. Mr. Babson next door helped me learn to use the Bobcat. He taught me how to start it and how to use the controls and dig nice deep trenches with neat straight sides and push the cow manure and burnt trash over the edges and tamp it down and cover it up. Mr. Babson was kind and patient when he taught me. He didn’t tell me what the Good Book said like you did, but that was okay, because I already knew. “Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.” I told him that, and he stopped coming around.
Now I’m in the corner of the pasture where you kept the burn pile. I scrape away the remains of a few days’ burning and slide the blade of the scoop in. I did a lot of burning here these last few days. If I hadn’t, the ground would be frozen, and I wouldn’t be able to dig till spring, and that wouldn’t do. The wind gusts and little ice balls sting my face. But the trench has to be dug, so I keep going. “We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience.” That’s what the Good Book says.
I tried to be a good wife to you. Raised your babies, cooked your supper, kept you happy even when I didn’t much feel like it. “The wife does not have authority over her own body, but the husband does.” That’s what the Good Book says.
I work on this trench just like Mr. Babcock taught me. Neat scoops. Nice straight sides. Neat little rows of soil along three edges. I keep one long edge clear so I can push stuff in. Lower. Slice. Scoop. Lift. Drop. My hair makes my neck itch. Maybe I’ll cut it off when I’m done out here.
I always listened to you. Did what you said. “The husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church.” That’s what the Good Book says. But you left anyway. Carried on after Shelley over at the Kroger and Becky down at the bookkeeping place. Took a lot of business trips for a man who didn’t have a business. “Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.” That’s what the Good Book says.
I scrape the last scoop out and set it on the edge of the hole. I pull the Bobcat up till it’s a few feet away from the trench and climb out, leaving it to idle. I walk to the edge and look at my work. Sides nice and straight, nothing falling down. Bottom nice and deep.
You always came back. You always said you were sorry. And I forgave you, seven times seven times. But now you’re gone for good, and I’ll find a way to get along without you. “She considereth a field, and buyeth it: with the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.” That’s what the Good Book says.
I walk over to the burned stuff and poked around with a shovel. Most everything burned pretty good. There’s light, fluffy ash. That’s from the tumbleweeds. They burn hot. There’s lumps of wood. They’re from the firewood I used to keep the pile burning nice and hot and even like you taught me. I learned my lessons. I learned ‘em well.
I poke some more. Turn up a few singed pieces of flannel from the green plaid shirt I made you last year. Turn up other things. Grey, cracked things. Hit a few with the shovel, and they break. Destroyed in the lake of fire.
I climb back into the Bobcat and drive it over to the burn pile. Slip the blade under the chunks of charred wood, the layers of ash, the other things. Dig it down so it grabs a little of the dirt under the pile too. Gotta make sure it all gets covered up.
I push it to the edge of the hole. Push it over the edge. “Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” That’s what the Good Book says.
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Wow. I’m not quite sure what to say. I found myself talking to her, spewing old woman wisdom because witnessing her suffering made my chest ache. What a talented marvelous writer you are, Janet! This piece moved me deeply. I’d say more but I’m too caught up in it.