the holes story, part one

i occasionally write fiction. i used to write poetry, but not much anymore, except for sonnets. incidentally, i have written about 40 sonnets since january 2005, when i started writing them in statistics class. this is the first piece of something i have in progress at the moment.

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when we were kids, we used to dig up these holes in the back yard and fill them with everything we could think of: sticks, rocks, old plastic cars, a coffee mug, mom's jewelry--one time we even killed a sparrow just so we could bury it. dad always yelled at us for tearing up the lawn, but he said he'd really have our necks if we tried anything stupid like that in the front, and mom always wondered absentmindedly where her stuff had gone, but she never seemed to catch on, so we kept at it, until i was eleven and my brother was almost ten.

we had another brother who was twenty-six that year. he lived in indiana where he'd gone for college, and he only came to visit for christmas and one week in the summer. he had a girlfriend named christi who we all really liked, and mom would ask when they were ever gonna get married. dad just kind of rolled his eyes and drank his beer, or soda after he found Jesus.

it wasn't really accurate to say dad had found Jesus, or even that Jesus had found him. but he stopped drinking alcohol, ever, even though he'd never been a really heavy drinker, and started invoking His Holy Name at every occasion.

"Jesus, Marge, why don't you leave those poor kids alone? they'll get married when they're ready."
"what the hell are you doing with my gas can?! Jesus Christ, d'you wanna light the whole house on fire?"
"i stopped drinking, but i might have a glass of champagne at the wedding. Jesus never turned wine into water."

things like that. sometimes i would wonder if every time dad said Jesus' name, it was a prayer, calling on Him for help or patience or to smite us goddamn kids. sometimes i hoped so; even with the latter, it seemed less blasphemous that way.

but the reason we stopped digging holes was, that summer something terrible happened.

they must have told my older brother first, because that was my first clue. he came for his week in the summer, but when the week ended, he didn't go back to indiana.

i woke up on the eighth day when i heard him get up from the back bedroom and go to the bathroom. the door creaks, and then the toilet seat clinked as it went up and hit the lid. when i heard the seat close again and the back bedroom door creak shut, i crept next door to my younger brother's room.

i pushed him in the shoulder to wake him up. "Jim's still here," i whispered.

my brother rolled over and groaned, trying to ignore me. "so what?" he muttered.

"so something must be wrong," i told him, trying to make my voice as urgent as possible.

he groaned again. "can't it wait until morning?"

i glanced up to note the distinct yellow glow of the room. the sun was sitting in the low branches of the tree outside my window, beaming like sleeping cats were tugging at it from all directions. it must have been about 7:30.

"it is morning," i insisted. i knew i wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Jim was still here, and something was wrong.

"go find out yourself," my brother suggested, as Jim walked through the hallway and down the stairs.

but i was scared, and i didn't want to go by myself. i went back to bed and laid awake for another hour, turning over again and again, until my brother finally knocked on the door, yawning and stretching, and said he figured it was time for breakfast.