We normally met on Fridays, but that day we met on a Saturday because the women whose husbands had trucks (and all the women had husbands with trucks except me) had been sent to a section of the Guyandotte River where there was a wide, shallow sand bar covered with river rocks. Sylvia and Roberta had driven out to look and said the rocks were beautiful and had marked the ones we needed with chalk so the men wouldn’t bring back the wrong ones. Those were to be placed on either side of the bridge in places pleasing to the eye, and flowers would be planted around them. Lorraine, those rocks were huge—we’ve got some here on Bluebird. What those men got from the river would cost a small fortune in a landscaping shop today.

            It was a hectic afternoon. The women thought they knew where the rocks should go, but they hadn’t counted on the size. Once in place, they didn’t look so good. Sylvia Hudgins was frantic. The larger ones should go in the back and the smaller ones to the left or right, maybe one on each side. Ginny, Tina, get over here and tell me what you think. 

            Their husbands would groan or curse softly, but they’d strain to get the rocks on dollies, grunt to the right or left, then move forward. Spats broke out between husbands and wives. Jeremy Davis told Sylvia she’d always been persnickety and he wasn’t Superman, which caused his wife, Janice, to turn deathly pale.  Sylvia’s husband, Roland, just shrugged and said, “Jerry, this may be the damnedest, dumbest thing we’ve ever done, but if we don’t do it right and now, we’ll be back tomorrow while the Steelers are playing.”

            I’d have laughed if I’d been capable, but all I could do was go where I was directed, dragging a shovel and carrying a trowel. The shovel was necessary because someone had donated four dwarf spruces and I was the hole digger. One of the men offered to help, but I declined. When I got started on a spot, I didn’t look around. The activity and the background of human voices kept the one in my head blocked. I was digging a hole for the second spruce when I hit shale.

            Normally, shale is easy to break and I pounded the piece with the end of my shovel, but it didn’t give. I got down on my knees with the trowel and started an attack, and finally it splintered. Shale went flying everywhere. 

Now, picture this. All these people, normal people, were around me, and when I finally broke through, I swear what was left of that rock was how I’d imagined your father’s face had looked just after the wreck. Busted, bloody, a mass of exposed flesh taking on unnatural colors in the light. I blinked and blinked again. I knew what I was seeing wasn’t real, but then the voice I’d been dreading all day, started in: Do you still believe Samy is alive, Carmen? I felt a chill down to my toes. This was the first time the voice had ever called me by name. No one can rise from the dead.

I hit the shale with the trowel again, trying to smash the distorted face. I succeeded, but I hit it with so much force that I stoved my right wrist pretty badly. Dr. Burdette wrapped my arm in a sling and gave me pain pills. I was out of the Junior Woman’s Club. No, they didn’t take me off their roll, but I’d be no use in the digging department for a while.

“Silver Bottle” is available on Amazon, Kindle and Nook.