secretly grateful it had not.
Frank remained in the hearse for several, long, silent hours until the skies started to darken toward late afternoon. He was cold. The carriage house was still. The thought of closing the carriage house doors and restarting the engine crossed his mind. He expected to hear the roar of the explosion and feared answering the phone regarding suspicions other people held. Even if he wasn’t a suspect, they’d call him to do the arrangements if some innocent person happened to wander through the cemetery at the wrong time. He thought of several people who would jump at the chance of urinating on Big Al’s grave just for the spite of it. He hoped they wouldn't catch the explosion, but the vision of urine setting off the bomb made him laugh out loud.
Frank looked through the driver’s side window at the remaining fertilizer and the left-over diesel fuel. Both looked pretty suspicious together in the carriage house. It wouldn’t take a genius to wonder about the identity of those ashes dumped in the garbage can. Frank thought about dumping the ashes in the street sewer—an illegal but wholly appropriate gesture given the circumstances. He'd have to wait until dark to do it, however.
Hopefully, at this point, Frank reasoned, the vault company has the bomb buried. The tent is put away. The sod is replaced over the grave hole. Any incriminating evidence and the intentions of harming anyone would remain buried for eternity.
Then the thought crossed Frank's mind as he wondered if they exhume ashes for toxicity examinations. What a shock to find a bomb in Big Al’s tomb. It would only speculate rumors that he’s still alive, living in the Caribbean with one of his mistresses, maybe that skinny, black chick. Perhaps no one would disturb the grave. Perhaps no one would ever find anything wrong. Perhaps the whole thing would just go away.
Feelings of normalcy returned to Frank. He was now more keenly aware of his expired body deodorant. His watch read four-thirty. He was getting hungry. It seemed all his fears were buried in the grave of the community’s most notorious citizen and there they would stay.
Yes, this too shall pass, he assured himself. Relieved by his belief that this episode was over, Frank went home for dinner. The events of the day left him shaken, but he put on a front of assurance that all was right with the world. He actually felt pretty good.
Secretly, he was glad the bomb didn’t explode. There were far too many innocent lives present, lives he never dreamed would be present for what was supposed to be a private ceremony. He had no idea so many people would come to pay their last respects. Big Al deserved no last respects. If anything, these people should be allowed to line up to spit on his grave.
Dinner was great, and Frank was feeling rather upbeat. After putting his children to bed, he watched the late evening news until the weather report, then switched channels and caught a comedian’s top list of funny events of the day. Frank cleaned up a few stray projects, set a few things out for the next day and went upstairs to bed.
Tomorrow was Saturday. Maybe he’d clean the garage or take the children to the playground at the fast food restaurant. Maybe he’d go to church on Sunday with his wife and kids. He tried to remember the last time he attended services. It had been a long time. He wondered what snarky comment the Methodist preacher might offer for Frank's unexpected presence as they greeted one another at the door. He thought the pastor might offer something stupid like, "It's not Christmas Eve. What are you doing here?" Frank would simply smile and let it go.
Frank always claimed the excuse of too much work, but often spent church time puttering around the basement. Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all now that Big Al was gone, although he really wasn’t gone as he literally sat in the trash can in the carriage house. Frank still pondered his options of where to best dispose of those ashes.
It felt like the longest day on record. Frank pulled back the covers and set the alarm for the next morning. His bedside clock read twelve minutes past eleven o’clock. Turning out the bedside lamp, all the cares of the day began to drift away into the darkness of their bedroom.
His wife was already asleep as he slid next to her loving body. Enjoying her warmth beneath the covers, he was almost asleep when a mighty roar shook the house and rattled the windows. Car alarms blared a cacophonic chorus of dissonant horns all around the neighborhood. Both Frank and his sleeping wife bolted awake.
The clock by the bedside table read eleven-fifteen.
###
About the Author
Grant F.C. Gillard began keeping honeybees in 1981 following his graduation from Iowa State University from the College of Agriculture. He started out with twenty hives on the family farm in southern Minnesota and now resides in Jackson, Missouri where he tends around 200 hives.
He sells honey at several local farmer’s markets as well as raising his own locally adapted queen honeybees. He is a husband and father and pastors the First Presbyterian Church in Jackson, Missouri.
He is a frequent conference speaker and may be contacted at:
[email protected] Or visit Grant’s personal web site:
www.grantgillard.weebly.com
Grant also blogs at www.expertscolumn.com and www.xomba.com
You can find him on Pinterest and Facebook
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