The Diggers

“Do you think it’s here, by the tree?” Jared asks me, already scrapping away grass with the tip of the shovel.
“Maybe. Yeah, I think so,” I answer. If there were two shovels I really would help dig, but we could only find one in the garage. The ground is paralyzed in November’s frost and Jared struggles with the packed earth. When I light a cigarette I’m certain I hear him scoff. We started together, maybe a year ago in Ely’s backyard, but he had to quit for basketball season. As if my smoking matters right now, now while Molly is in the house.
“They’re not there,” he says spreading spindly fingers over his blonde buzz cut. We used to look so alike when we were younger, but now people don’t believe us when we tell them we’re twins.
“Are you sure they’re not down deeper? I can dig if you want.”
“Naw, Zach. We couldn’t have dug that deep; we were, like, eight. Maybe we should go in now.”
“Let’s try over by the fence.” He holds the shovel out to me and I stomp out my cigarette. The frozen ground fights with me more than it did with Jared and I try not to feel shame. He doesn’t get it, I’m sure he doesn’t get it. Molly is sick. Molly is really sick and she could die. Also, he doesn’t understand why it is so important that we find these damn Barbie dolls we entombed so long ago to tease her. Molly needs them now; somehow I know that seeing that her big brothers can make something return from the grave will make her smile.
The moon rises higher and I can see our breath swelling in sharp puffs. I find nothing by the fence so I tell Jared to try the patch of dead lawn where the trampoline used to be. We dig a lot of holes, racking our brains for another hiding spot we kept as children before digging another hole. An hour passes and all we come up with is the skeleton of our pet hamster, preserved in a Ziploc bag, rocks colored with glitter crayon and a few toy cars.
“I think we should go in now,” Jared says.
“You know we have to sit with her, right?” I tell him.
“I know. I just don’t know what to say to her.” His eyes, brown like mine, contemplate the holes for a moment and I put my hand on his back. I’m half afraid he will shrug me off or walk inside without me, but when he doesn’t, I say, “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

*January 2008, Published in Writer's Block Anthology