Bohemia Village Voice

The Day I Dug My Father Up

The day I dug my father up, it hadn’t rained in months. My ex-girlfriend told me the graveyard where he’d been buried was collapsing into the sea, a long stretch of cliff crumbling like cake. She was sat on the edge throwing stones when she saw the skeleton sticking out, right arm raised, left leg forward as if it were running away.
The head came off in her hands so she took it home and hung it from a nail above the door. She named it Captain Kidd but then began to worry it was my father. I told her it was okay, his flesh would still be on his bones and anyway he was buried on the far side of the cemetery where the small Norman church remained locked most Sundays, but she became obsessed. She kept leaving messages, writing cards, phoning at odd hours, dropping notes through the door. So I went along to see for myself.
It was a hot and humid afternoon and the sky was full of crows. My eyes were gummed up with sweat. Between my toes the skin itched and burned. I hit the ground with my spade the way his fist used to hit the old pine kitchen table when he had something to say. I dug away the dry stony earth. I sweated and cursed until I hit wood. His coffin lid wasn’t easy to prize off. I should have brought a screwdriver or jemmy but it was okay – I managed with the spade. When the lid finally came off, he was only too glad for the fresh air.
He rubbed his shoulders and said they ached from being in the narrow hard coffin. He looked well rested, relaxed and in a buoyant mood after a few turns in the graveyard to strengthen his legs. I let him take in a few lungfuls of the warm offshore breeze before I spoke.
“How are you?” I said.
He smiled.
“Never felt better.”
“That’s good,” I said.
We walked shoulder-to-shoulder back along the cliff edge. He was wearing his best suit, a checked three-piece in beige and dark brown. His beard had been clipped back and his hair – what was left of it – was combed back neatly. His face though was dark yellow and the skin drawn tightly over his bones.
“Lets go to the beach,” he said.
I followed him down the steep winding stone steps. We sat on a rock twenty feet from the shoreline and skimmed stones. The sea was like glass. High tide. There were seagulls in the air, crows and flies. I suggested a swim but he declined.
“You know this whole beach used to be an oak forest,” he said.
“You look happy dad”, I said.
“Imagine a forest down there as far as the eye can see.”
“Yes dad.”
Later when it grew dark I took him to the village pub and brought him a pint. He grew animated and told funny stories. I’d never heard him be funny before. The whole bar roared with laughter; they stood him drink after drink.
I left him there and went home where I found my ex-girlfriend waiting on the doorstep with the skull in her hand. She was crying and saying how much the skull frightened her and how it reminded her of my dad.
I told her not to worry. Everything was going to be okay.