Make It A Double(18)

This was the fourth time I’ve had to bury an animal out here… on the back edge of the main property. It hurts just as bad as the first time, but I knew when I took Jethro in that his final resting spot would be at The Haven. He was too old for anyone to adopt him, and he was too tired to keep going. I say a final goodbye to the pup, sending a small prayer up to God to look out for him.

Pushing to my feet, I let out a groan as the muscles in my back scream in protest at the movement. Apparently, my hands aren’t the only thing that took a beating from this burial.

I reach out to grab the handle of the shovel, having previously wedged the spade into the hard dirt at the edge of the grave before I took a moment to say my final goodbyes. The soil had been packed hard for the digging, but at least it would be easier covering him back up with the loosened pile of dirt.

Just as my fingers grab onto the wooden base, another hand comes to rest above mine and I hear Brody’s soft voice, “Let me.”

Turning to look at him, I’m caught off guard. The late morning sun is behind me but hitting him full in the face, causing his blue eyes to turn aquamarine and the golden highlights in his beard to shine. For the first time since Brody’s been back, his face doesn’t appear closed off. Instead, it is open and his gaze is tinged with a touch of care. It is a look that is so out of tune with the Brody Markham I’ve seen since his release from prison, that it almost knocks me backward.

I take my duties and responsibilities seriously. I meant it when I told him earlier that this is my sole responsibility… to bury my wards that didn’t make it. But without a moment’s hesitation, I release my grip on the shovel and let Brody take it from me.

I do this because I think Brody needs this. He has finally stepped across the line he had drawn in the sand that kept him closed off and removed from the real world. He needs to be able to do something worthwhile, and he needs to be able to open himself up to emotion. If this is the way in which he wants to take that step, I’m not going to hold him back.

“Thanks,” I tell him, moving back a few paces from the mound of dirt resting at my feet. “Let me go get you a pair of gloves. The ones I’m wearing won’t fit you.”

“Don’t bother,” he says as he shoves the spade into the turned earth. “By the time you get them, I’ll be done.”

I start to argue, but then I’m stunned as I watch Brody place the first shovel of dirt. And by place, I mean place. He doesn’t throw the dirt onto Jethro’s body, but rather gently tilts the spade and sprinkles the soil lightly on him. It’s a move so caring, so soft… my breath hitches in my chest.

My gaze moves from Jethro to Brody. His face is hard with determination, but his eyes are filled with respect for his task. Every scoop, he plunges the shovel deep into the mound of dirt, and then carefully tilts the edge so the dirt is laid softly until Jethro becomes covered in a gentle cocoon. Sweat starts to bead on Brody’s forehead, which is bare to the sun because he has his long hair pulled back in a tie. It’s trickling down his temple, past his scruff-covered jaw, and drips onto the ground. It’s hot as hell out here… I know because I worked up quite a sweat getting the hole dug.

Turning, I decide to head back to my office and grab us some cold bottles of water from the fridge I have in there, but Brody’s words stop me in my tracks. “Thanks for letting me volunteer here.”

A warm burn starts in the center of my chest and flares outward over the gratitude in his voice. It’s hard to believe I was pissed as hell at him just but a few hours ago, but right now, I have a blistering urge to wrap my arms around him in a hug. “You’re welcome.”

Brody continues to shovel more dirt into the grave, but he doesn’t respond. The silence is oppressive, and I find myself wanting to hear him talk more. So I say, “And I’m glad you’re doing this. I thought it would suit you.”

The sound of the spade scooping dirt rings loud, but Brody stays quiet. His body bends, his biceps rippling with exertion, the soil being spread carefully over the dead dog.

“And I’m appreciative,” I ramble, now almost desperate to have him say something else. “It’s been hard doing this without solid help.”

The scoop and pour of dirt reverberates over and over, the only other sound a seagull crying as it flies overhead. Brody still won’t engage in further conversation.

“I think you’re a really good fit here,” I say lastly… lamely.

Brody hauls up another shovel of dirt and spreads it over the growing mound that’s almost completely covered Jethro now. When the spade is empty, he sticks the tip of the shovel on the ground, resting his forearm on top of it. When he turns to look at me, his eyes are still just as light, sparkling in the sun, but if I’m not mistaken… there’s a hint of amusement there now. “Are you always this talkative?”