They Call Me Crazy by Kelly Stone Gamble Read Free Book Online Page B

protests and keeps my shoe. I take one step and fall on my ass. The ground sucks me down, claiming my backside for its own.
    Rumor has it that Booker had a bootleg operation going out here, using the entire house as the still and the hot water heater, which ran on propane, as the furnace. I don’t know if it’s true, but when the house burned, it didn’t just catch on fire—it exploded. Booker never had to answer for it, since he was extra crispy when they found him.
    He’s still around, though. I see him once in a while, walking the grounds. I haven’t told anyone that, not even Grams. He doesn’t hurt anything, and no one would believe me anyway. I’m sure if he’s out there now, watching me sit in a pool of mud, he’s laughing. I am, and I don’t even know why.
    I toss the bubble bath back in the truck. I’ll get it tomorrow. I begin to crawl down the driveway. My hands, knees, and feet are consumed by the sludge as I head toward the yard. I lie in the wet grass, breathing hard, and look up at the stars. They are always brightest after a rain, and they seem to be twinkling at high speed. They must be laughing, too.
    It’s not too far up the hill. I make the walk every day after my trip to the mailbox. But I’ve never made the trip at night, soaking wet and covered in mud. I hear the crickets rubbing their legs together to serenade a partner. I’m used to it being just me and the crickets. And Old Man Booker. But Roland is home now. I don’t feel alone tonight.
    I think I’ll miss our conversations, but all in all, I’ve missed those for a long time. The past few years, he seemed so preoccupied. Maybe we’ll talk more now. Maybe this will be better for us.
    I decide to check on Roland and tell him goodnight. In the darkness, I can see that something is already growing on his plot. That was fast.
    As I get closer, I realize it’s a finger sticking out of the mud. “Damn it!”
    I tilt my head back and scream. I can’t leave him here. Another big storm and he’ll be sliding down the hill like a Jamaican bobsledder, and I can’t have that. I sit down next to the koi pond and imagine the pretty orange and white fish that should be swimming around in there. Instead, I’ll have another damn flower garden. I watch the river rushing by below, a violently churning deluge.
    If I wait too long, the ground will dry and harden, and I’ll have the only garden in town with a pinky finger sticking out of the earth. I already stand out enough. I’ll have to get my new shovel, and I remember seeing a weather-beaten tarp in the barn. The river will wash everything away… wash Roland away.
    I stand up, take a deep breath, and turn back to the truck. From inside the shack comes the faint meow of the black cat clock, chiming nine o’clock. I turn to the house and then back to the truck and then back to the house again. It’s going to be a long night, and I could use some herbal tea before I get to work.
    Then I’ll send Roland on his last float trip.

    Digging up a body is a little harder than burying one, especially in the dark, when the only light is from the moon and a small kerosene lamp. Finding that lamp was nothing but luck. When I went to the shed for the tarp, I spotted it right next to Roland’s canoe. It even had kerosene in it. All I had to do was find a match and not set myself on fire lighting it.
    I pull the canoe out next to the koi pond, thinking it might be easier to use if tarp-hauling the body got to be too much. I’m not quite sure how I’m going to get Roland out of the ground—he’s a lot bigger than I am—but I’ve been doing a few things on the fly today.
    The digging is hard. The shovel sinks right into the mud, but wet dirt weighs a lot more than dry. An entire shovelful is more than I can handle, so I can only remove bits at a time. I can’t just toss the dirt behind me, either. I have to walk a few feet away and put it in a pile; otherwise, it slides right back into the hole. I