this story begins and ends with bones




On a fine day in the heat of a summer afternoon, a young toddler played in his backyard. Doused from head to toe in sunscreen by his over-protective father, he sat in the long uncut grass near his swing set and plowed his plastic yellow shovel into the ground. His parents watched idly from the clean brick-laid patio, sipping imported beer in between chat about expanding the garden. They both kept eyes on their son as he smiled to himself and flicked a chunk of grass into the air with the tip of his shovel. The family cat sauntered over and rubbed against his arm, nearly knocking him over because of his small size. He minded not and simply giggled at it, clutching at it’s short bristly fur with his chubby fingers. It purred and arched into him, but once his interest in his feline friend was over, he returned to his task at hand: digging. Again he managed to stir up a chunk of dirt with the scuffed shovel, and again he tossed it to the left where it hit against the tall wooden fence that his father stained last year.

He kept at his digging for several minutes. At this point, his mother leaned over in her padded patio chair towards her husband, a hand at her sunglasses. “David, you don’t think he -”

“You’re over-reacting,” he said simply, leaning back in his own chair, tipping his weathered face to the sun, a sheen of sweat over his forehead. Their son, accumulating a larger pile of grass and dirt next to him, waved to his parents when they looked in his direction. His father smiled and eased himself out of his chair, beer still in hand as he walked over. “Hey there, trooper,” he said cheerily. “Whatcha doin’ there?” he said, pointing the index finger of his free hand at the small divot in the earth.

“Digging,” the son told him matter-of-factly in his cute, young voice.

“What are you digging for, honey?” His mother appeared beside his father, squatting down as he had done. Only her husband could hear the anxiety in her voice, as the boy in front of them was still far too young to pick up on things like that.

“Buried treasure!” he stated happily. “I'll share with you, don't worry, mommy.”

Face a pale white, she stood and walked back into the house, leaving her bottle on the patio table.


* * *

Being barely five years old, the boy soon forgot about his expedition for buried treasure. This was much relief to his parents who, in time, forgot it ever happened. They returned to their careers and home renovations with little care. When they weren’t out working, they were working at home. There was always something to be done: the house had to be painted, there were bulbs to be planted, weeds to be pulled, stairs to be fixed, pictures to be hung. Their young son started school that fall, eager and bright-eyed like the other children doing the same. He was not a rude child, nor was he a star student. He struggled in school, but he tried his best. In just second grade his parents got him a private tutor after meeting the other children in his class because they didn’t want their golden son to end up in the same basket as those aimless trouble-makers. They figured a tutor would get him on the right track in his studies.

He and his tutor became close friends. She was a girl, two years his senior, named Marissa, who had long ginger hair and a winning smile. She was reportedly one of the brightest girls in her class and did all she could to help those she tutored. The boy’s parents loved her and paid her well for her work, for their son’s grades and participation in school were on the rise. She visited the house from four to six every Tuesday, and when they were done going over the boy’s homework, they played in the backyard. She pushed him on the swing set and they picked flowers from his parent’s vast garden, later presenting the array of colorful flowers to his parents with a fun skit.

On a chilly day in the breeze of a spring afternoon, the boy went digging again, this time with Marissa at his side with her own shovel: a garden trowel of his mother’s. They dug in that same spot between the blue swingset and fence after the boy miraculously remembered a snippet from that one summer day when he was five. His parents were at work – his mother was an accountant and his father a doctor – when they began, and didn’t return until after they had found their buried treasure.

His mother trotted through the house down white hallways past baby photos and potpourri, calling her son’s name, then Marissa’s. The sky was tucked up in a blanket of white-grey clouds, misting the town with light rain. She peered through the french doors at the back of the house, having caught a glimpse of Marissa’s flame red hair from her bedroom window upstairs. When she saw her son in his yellow anorak, his knees in the grass in front of a hole in their backyard, she threw the doors open. The boy saw his mother standing on the patio, the wind blowing her hair and outfit dissaray, and he waved before beckoning her over. Her heels made her unsteady in the grass, but she managed to wobble her way over and she soon stood in front of their excavation site. Marissa greeted her politely and said that they had already finished tutoring, so she saw no problem in letting him play a little before dinner.

“Mom, look! Look what Marissa found!” the boy said, his voice full of glee, and with that he thrust his fist in the air towards his mother. Flecks of dirt from his hand flew in the wind and hit her immaculately clean pantsuit, but she paid no mind. In his hand, grasped tightly between bony knuckles, were six grey bones strung together on a colorful shoelace. “She used her own shoelace and everything! It’s like those guys on TV! We’re excavating!”

His mother put her hand on the swing set to steady herself, headache from the stress of the day only amplifying. Wind blew around them, tossing her son’s dark hair to the left, leaving his right ear exposed and protruding, pink from the cold. He was grinning happily, left hand wiping dirt off on his shorts. In the back of her mind, his mother saw this and grimaced at the thought of extra laundry to be done. She found herself unable to do otherwise.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Pinneo,” Marissa said. “He wanted to dig, and we just found these here ... I think they might be from a bird, or some small animal ... They’re so tiny!”

The boy went to put the shoelace-bones around his neck, but his mother’s hand on his own stopped him. She took his makeshift necklace from him, clenching it tight in her own fist as he had done, though her action was lacking the enthusiasm his had. “Awww, mom!” he whined instantly. “It’s like those explorer guys on TV! I wanted to bring it for show and tell tomorrow!”

“No,” the mother said sternly. “No. Come inside, I brought dinner home.”

Her son pouted and stood, wiping more dirt off his knees. “Fine.” He didn't see why she had to take it away.



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