The young man walked out across the cemetery in his boots and overalls, carrying the spade he

had gotten from the tool shed. The sun shone brightly on his sandy hair, making it almost blond

in the morning light. He felt rather nervous here, in this place of the dead. It was a job, and in

these times, a man held onto any job he could. It seemed there was no work anywhere. He saw

this evidence daily, as he watched the men stealing rides on the passing freight trains. Their

faces were tired and dirty, haggard-looking, care worn. Though it felt strange to him to be

walking through this place where the dead were to rest eternally, he was glad he had a job.

 
He walked up to the old man, also in overalls and boots. The old man’s face was wrinkled from

years of working in the sun, and he wore a brimmed hat which protected his head. Yellowed

silver hair curled over the old man’s collar. He had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his

mouth, and he leaned on the handle of the spade as he waited for the younger man. He sized the

younger man up as he approached. He pulled a flask from his hip pocket and took a long pull of

whiskey, then replaced the flask. The old man thought he looked to be in good condition. He

didn’t appear to have missed many meals lately, though he was by no means fat. The old man

saw a bit of himself in the young man. He had once been nervous to be here, too, though it

quickly passed. The dead couldn’t bother you now. They had already left. The families and the

Undertaker had the hard job. All he had to do was dig a hole.

 
The young man finally came up to the old man.” Mornin’ ”, he said, “ Name’s Sam. They told me to meet you here.”

The old man flipped his cigarette away and blew the last puff of smoke out from between two

thin lips that seemed made of leather. “ Name’s Earl”. He turned and walked off, assuming the

young man would follow. He showed Sam a newly dug grave.

“ We got four more to do. Ye know what do with thet spade?” he asked. He spit a piece of

tobacco from his lip, and waited for the answer.

“ Yessir, I reckon so. I just got to dig a hole.”

 
“ Well, Yore half right, young’un. Dig it six feet deep, six feet long and four feet wide. Make it

neat. It’s easier to lower the coffin in that way.”

 
Sam nodded his head and set to work, digging a grave. Once he found his pace and rhythm, it

didn’t take too long. Suddenly, Sam found himself in hole that was a head taller than him, and

momentarily panicking at being stuck in an open grave. He reached up and grabbed the edge of

the hole, and pulling with his arms, he dug his toes into the sides of the rich black dirt and

climbed back out. He found Earl waiting on him topside, grinning like a possum. He laughed, a

half-coughing, half wheezing sound. “ Gets deep quick, don’t it, boy?”

Sam just looked at him sheepishly.

 
They had now dug two graves, and it was time for lunch. Sam pulled a sandwich out of his

pocket, wrapped in wax paper, and a flask of water from his hip pocket. Earl pulled a sandwich

and flask out in the same manner. They sat for a time in silence, when Sam asked,

“ Earl, don’t it bother you to be here? In the graveyard, I mean?”

 
“ No. It did at first. But somebody’s got to dig them holes and set them tombstones. This place is

for the dead. They cain’t hurt you. They don’t care no more . It’s the living ye gotta worry

about.”

Sam nodded, taking this perspective in. It seemed to make sense. Earl looked to be about seventy,

but Sam didn’t dare ask. He seemed to be as spry as Sam was at twenty-five.

“ How long ye been here, Earl?”

“ Since I’s about fifteen or sixteen, I reckon. I’m fifty now.”

 
“Huh” Sam said, taking this information in. Sam had been a farmer, and been hired out to work

since he was nine years old. He was wearing his daddy’s britches by the time the was thirteen,

but then he stopped growing. He was a stout five feet six; he was no stranger to hard work. Earl

seemed to be about the same size as he.

Sam thought about his wife, Rose. She was expecting, and due any time now. He was glad it was

summer, though she seemed a lot more uncomfortable in the heat. Their last baby, a beautiful

girl, had been born way down in the fall, and died in the winter, of pneumonia. Rose had cried

so that it broke Sam’s heart even more than the loss of the baby. The doctor had given her a

sedative to calm her down. Sam guessed it wouldn’t have been so hard on her if it hadn’t been

their first baby. Now it was June, he hoped Rose and the baby would be alright. He knew Rose

was worried and scared.

The two men got up and went back to work, each taking a spade and digging a grave six feet

deep, four feet wide, and six feet long. As the sun faded, the two went their separate ways,

cordially. Sam could not know what awaited at home. He was just eager to get there.

Sam walked out of the graveyard and up the street, making a left turn at the corner, and walking

the next mile or so outside town to home. It was dark when he arrived. He knew something was

wrong. There was no smell of cooking, or even the smell of coffee. He ran inside, calling for

Rose.

“Rose! Rosie! Honey, where are ye?”

No answer came to his ears, then he heard her scream from the back room. He ran in to find her on the bed, her dress covered in blood, her face covered with sweat, straining and pushing. He

ran to her, and held her close for a moment, and tried to reassure his tiny wife everything would

be alright. He left her side long enough to put a kettle of water on to boil, and to gather some

towels. He washed his hands in the sink, all the way to the elbows. He knew there was no time

to call for a doctor. She was covered in sweat, and he helped her change her gown, and wiped

her face with a cool cloth. He held her waist as she walked around the room, and helped her

quickly to lie on the towels he had laid out when she said to. She pushed and pushed, and finally,

he saw the crown of a baby’s head. She pushed once more, and the baby was out. It was blue,

and it didn’t cry. Sam saw that it was a little girl. He wiped the goo out of its mouth, and slapped

its bottom, but nothing happened. He cut the cord, and tied it off with a string. He laid the poor

baby aside, just in time to hear Rose scream again. She pushed and pushed, and another baby

came, also blue. He slapped and slapped, praying that this baby would cry. He did not cry. Rose

was nearly hysterical now, and still pushing, and Sam hoped to God there would not be another

dead baby. He got his wish. The placenta finally came, and he laid it in the newspapers she had

placed by the end of the bed earlier. He saw that Rose was bleeding, knew that women bled

when they gave birth, but it seemed too much. It seemed to Sam as if his Rose were bleeding a

river of blood. He reached up and rubbed her belly, like he had seen the doctor do when the last

baby was born. It did no good. He tried to clean her with a hot towel, but there was no end to the

blood. He ran outside, Screaming for someone to help him, and began to run back towards town.

There was a widow woman about a half-mile away, who would help, he was sure. He ran til his

lungs felt as if they would burst. He was so afraid. He got to the neighbor’s door and began to

pound on it.

“Hey! Hey, Miz Johnson! Hey!” The older woman came to the door with a dishtowel in her hand.

“Good Lord, Sam! What’s the matter with Rose?”

“She’s bleedin’ bad, and the babies are dead. I need help!”

Mrs. Johnson had an old car, and they got in and drove the half-mile to Sam’s. She went straight

to the back room, to find the bed a bloody mess, and Rose had already bled to death. She hadn’t

been dead long enough for the blood to congeal. She stood there a minute, trying not to cry for

her and for Sam. He loved her so. She closed Rose’s eyes, and arranged a peaceful expression on

her face. She walked over to the cedar-chest that Sam had been sitting on to help his poor, dead

wife, and got a blanket to cover her. She walked out of the room, and into the kitchen. Sam sat

slumped, elbows on the table. Fat tears fell from his eyes and landed on the kitchen table where

she had put out so many meals for him, and where they had shared breakfast each day, and

laughed and joked so often. Mrs. Johnson placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 
“Sam, I’m so sorry. We were too late. Something went wrong. Yore Rose is gone”

. Sam said nothing, but his shoulders began to shake in great, heaving sobs. He knew a man was

not supposed to cry, but he also knew he couldn’t help it, and he wondered what he had done for

God to make him suffer so.

Mrs. Johnson put out the dish of salt, stopped the clock, and covered the mirror. Then she drove

into town for the doctor. When she returned from town, Sam was still at the table, staring at the

wall with a hurt look of disbelief on his face. The old doctor tried to comfort him.

“Sam, I’m sorry. Sometimes things go wrong. It is just God’s will.”

Sam still made no sound, acknowledged no presence, only stared straight ahead. Mrs. Johnson and

the doctor went to the back of the house to clean up, and get the bodies ready for the undertaker

to measure. Both stillborn babies were swaddled and placed on Rose’s chest after she was

dressed, and her arms placed around them, as if she were cuddling her babies close. The doctor

placed pennies on her eyelids, and stepped out of the room just in time to see Sam shoot himself

in the head. His brains blew all over the kitchen wall, like someone had thrown calves’s brains

and bits of skull everywhere. Sam slumped over, then fell to the floor, dead.

 
The Undertaker came, and the bodies were measured for the caskets. Funeral rites were over very

quickly. The babies were buried with their mother, and Sam and Rose were buried side by side

in the graveyard. Earl said he had done a good job; it was easy to lower in the caskets in the

graves Sam had dug. Earl continued his business, and filled in the holes, setting the tombstones

as they arrived. Earl stopped to read them:

SAM BROWNE ROSE BROWNE, WIFE OF SAM BROWNE

1910- 1935 LOVING WIFE

LOVING HUSBAND, GOOD WORKER 1915-1935 STILLBORN TWINS 1935

Earl figured that was all there was in the end, a box in a hole in the dirt. He turned and walked away to dig another grave.