Story Time!

My mother, Donna, is a member of a writers club, and part of this club includes writing short stories given a prompt. For example, one prompted started with "My mother never..." and my mom ended up writing a great story about a woman who ends up on death row.

So one night, I was walking by a neighbor's yard, and in the back I noticed a man building a large, wooden box. It looked just like a coffin, and for some reason, the prompt came into my head, "I knew the coffin he was building was for me." Yesterday, I told my mom about my prompt idea and she definitely ran with it.

Now I would like to present her short story:

After Jack left me, I had a lot of time to think. I got used to sitting in the dark in my purple lawn chair with a glass of red wine, contemplating the woes of the world and my own personal hell. Jack, my husband for fifteen years, had decided to start a new life with "the other woman" two weeks ago, packed his clothes, and drove away to some meeting point. "The Other Woman" must have been rich because he hadn't deleted our joint bank account, drained the savings, or cashed in our 401K. I wasn't left to struggle with gambling bills, mounting debts, or a foreclosure like Mrs. Yancy down the street. No, Jack had been kind. I missed him, but things could have been worse.

Friday night, all dressed up and no where to go, I was relaxing in a wine stupor in my favorite lawn chair when I was brought back to consciousness by a pounding noise. As I lifted my head up, I realized my neighbor was building something in his yard behind my six foot wood fence. I got up and moved to the fence. Light was coming through the seams and leaned over the hedge where I could see Ron, my neighbor, pounding on some pine boards. He was over by his shed, a portable light hooked up with an extension cord. A pile of pine planks were by his side as well as his hound dog Fred. The front of the shed was flung open and I could see his table saw had been pulled out. Wood shavings littered the yard. Ron was busy nailing a large box together, pulling nails he stored in his mouth to pound into the lumber.

Odd, I thought. It looked like a coffin. Ron, I knew, was a postman. He left before I did, dressed in his blue uniform and hat. This box. Was he shipping something big? I hadn't realize that Ron had been so handy at carpentry. Bang. Bang. The pounding continued as the box took the shape of a long rectangle. Then, as if he realized someone was watching, he glanced up. I felt his eyes meet mine and I pulled back. Quickly I retreated to my screen door. As I locked it behind me, I still thought the box looked like a coffin. Maybe it was the wine talking. Why would he be doing that?

The next night as I took out my new bottle of Pinot Noir and settled in my usual lawn chair on the patio, I watched the sun set. As the darkness came, I noticed that my neighbor had on his back porch lights. The pounding was done. Curious about his project, I crept up to the fence again and peered between the panels. The box was gone, but I saw a blue tarp beside the shed covering a lump. Yes, the box was finished.

Suddenly my eye caught movement in the yard. I strained across the hedge to catch a glimpse of Ron digging a hole in his yard. He was now up to his waist, shovel working at a fevered pace. Again Fred stood like a silent soldier at the edge of the hole watching as the dirt flew over him and landed in a neat pile beside him.

I went back to my lawn chair and opened the wine. Sipping the first glass, I realized Ron was going to bury something in his back yard. Something large. Maybe in that coffin of his. After the second glass, I remembered his wife Debbie. I wondered what she thought about his project in the back yard. I had often seen her out washing her car in her red bikini, walking Fred in her skimpy pjs, and waving goodbye to me from her kitchen window when I left for work. I hadn't seen her lately but I couldn't imagine that Ron and Debbie had problems. She seemed so perfect, so cute, so happy. She was always volunteering to fed my cat when I was gone on a business trip. Jack hated my cat. I'm pretty sure he killed it when he left because it was also missing.

After I finished the bottle, I gave up any lucid thought and went back into the house. I left Ron to his hole.

Sunday night came. Fortified by two glasses of Australian merlot, I again slipped up to the fence. Ron was throwing grass seed from a Lowe's bag over the fresh dirt that now covered the hole. The tarp was gone, the wood put away, and the yard freshly mowed. Fred was rolling a ball around on the ground, hoping his master would soon come play with him. After all, the work was all done.

I gasped and Ron looked up.

"Betty, you there?" he asked, rolling the now empty bag up in his arms.

"Yeah," I answered meekly.

"You saw?"

"I saw," I acknowledged.

"Jack's in there too," he said calmly. "They're both in there. Thought you should know. You can call the police if you want. I would understand."

"Jack and Debbie?" I asked.

"Yes,"

"Thanks Ron."

"You're welcome."

I went back to my lawn chair in the dark and my open bottle. It was going to be a good year after all.

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