Enigmatic Tale: Evidence Unraveled: A Puzzling Account

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You've Skedaddled, That's Why I'm Here

This story first appeared in the 2020 edition of the Arizona Literary Magazine.

You bailed, so I'm out here, operating this darn Bobcat in this blustery wind, digging a darn trench in this darn field. The wind whips up like a beast and slips under the Bobcat, under my skirt. I hunch over the controls, jam my skirt between my legs, and clamp my thighs tight. Excavating a trench is a man's chore. Women should be ladylike, demure, homebodies—that's what the Bible says.

I'm no longer as eye-catching as I was at seventeen, when I swapped my purity ring for a wedding band. The preacher droned on, "In sickness and in health, richer or poorer, till death do us part." You mumbo-jumboed, "Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord." That's what the Bible says. Raising six kids and chasing after them ain't easy on the ol' bod. Got a touch of love handles now, a wee bit around the midriff, and my hips and derriere are beefier. But my hair stays long, straight, and lush like you wanted it. "If a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering." That's what the Bible says.

When you were jet-setting for business, the work still needed doing. Mr. Babson next door showed me the ropes on the Bobcat. He trained me to crank it up, master the controls, and carve nice, deep trenches with neat, angular sides. He dumped the manure and trash over the edges and compacted it, all while keeping quiet about the Bible. That suited me just fine. "Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." I shared that with him, and he stayed clear.

Now I'm in the corner of the pasture where you kept the burn pile. I sweep away the remnants of a few days' conflagration and slide the blade of the scoop in. I've smothered a lot of fires here these last few days. If I didn't, the ground would be frozen, and I couldn't dig till spring, and that wouldn't fly. The wind picks up, and it pelts me with little ice balls. But this trench needs digging, so I press on. "We rejoice in the trouble that comes, because tribulation produces perseverance." That's what the Bible says.

I made an honest effort to be a good wife to you. I raised your brood, cooked your meals, and kept you smirking even when I didn't feel much like it. "The woman does not have authority over her own body, but the husband does." That's what the Bible says.

I labor on this trench just like Mr. Babcock taught me. Tidy scoops. Sharp right angles. Tidy rows of soil along three edges. I keep one long edge open for filling. Dig a bit deeper. Slide the scoop under. Lift and drop the earth. My hair tickles my neck. May shave it off when I'm done out here.

I listened to you. Did what you said. "The husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church." That's what the Bible says. But you split even though you hadn't a clue about business. "Marriage is honorable in every way, but whoever treats their partner unworthy of their partner will pay a penalty." That's what the Bible says.

I finish the last scoop and park the Bobcat a few feet away from the trench. I climb out, leaving it idling. I walk to the edge and stare at my work. Nice and straight, nothing collapsing. Bottom deep.

You always returned. You always apologized and I forgave you, seven times seven times. But now you're gone for good, and I'll figure things out without you. "She buys a field and plants a vineyard with the wages she earns." That's what the Bible says.

I rummage around the ashes and find burnt stuff. Lumps of wood, mostly. Some ash from tumbleweeds. They burn hot, see. There's a piece of singed flannel from the plaid shirt I stitched for you last year. Other things. Fragments. Broken. Consumed in the lake of fire.

I climb back into the Bobcat and steer it over to the burn pile. Shove the blade beneath the chunks of charcoal, the layers of ash, the other debris. Dig it down so it grabs a little of the earth under the pile too. Everything must be hidden.

"Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." That's what the Bible says.

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Janet Alcorn penned a host of short stories and two yet-unpublished novels. Her stories have bagged the annual short story contest by Arizona Mystery Writers and the literary contest by Arizona Authors Association, and appeared in the Trouble in Tucson anthology, the Deathlehem holiday horror anthology, and the Storyteller Series podcast. Learn more about her at janetalcorn.com or follow her on BlueSky, Threads, Facebook, Instagram, or X.

Connected

Interpreting the deeper meaning of a trench-digging scenario in stories can prove challenging without specific context. However, digging can symbolize various themes:

Physical Labor and Emotional Burden: Digging can represent tireless work and the manifestation of emotional struggles.
Discovery and Revelation: Digging can symbolize unearthing hidden truths or secrets.
Loss and Grief: Digging a trench may conjure thoughts of graves, suggesting sorrow or mourning.
Preparation or Protection: Trenches may be associated with preparing for conflict or seeking safety.

Without access to the story, a precise interpretation can be elusive. If you have the story, consider the context of the trench-digging scene for a clearer understanding.

She contemplates venturing into the realm of fashion-and-beauty, seeking a new hairstyle that would compliment her current lifestyle. Alternatively, she considers delving into the home-and-garden section of the local bookstore, hunting for gardening tips to spruce up her home. In her solitude, she finds solace in entertainment, immersing herself in books as an escape from her reality.