Act 1, Chapter 3, Part 10: The Eternal Struggle

Recapitulation: Barry and Jenna’s run at Gertrude Wilborough’s funeral have resulted in partial success. Jenna managed to nab an emerald ring from Ms. Wilborough’s finger before fear of discovery pushed Barry into getting them out of Willow Grove funeral home as soon as possible. Now, he plans to affect a more old school grave robbery.

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A graveyard makes more sense at night. Absent strong light, absent signs of sentient life, absent anything that would disturb the solemn still layered over the graveyard, the gravemarkers are free to do what they do best: commemorate the existence of the body interred within the grave. Cast in a faint glow from the moon, maybe even pulled by the moon, the graves stand a quiet vigil, unable to halt any that would trespass upon their land, their birthright.

Clarity seeps through the brisk midnight air. In an ironic fashion, you can see further in the darkness than you could in the day, when artificial lights and technology conspire to draw your attention Here, instead of There. Look off into the graveyard. Through the graves weave two figures. One a huskier individual, toting a large shovel in one hand, moving with surprising grace. The other more slight, her dress flowing and drifting as she moves as you would expect the larger man to move, grunting as she bogs down in the grass, or stumbles upon something on the ground. Her shovel looks larger as she carries it in both hands, like a child carrying a broom.

It is so quiet you could hear your own shallow breaths skirting past your nostrils. From a distance, their footfalls are more soft swishes, basketballs through nets. Occasional curses from the woman as she continues awkwarding her path through the field. Though she hurls expletives at the ground, it continues not to pay her heed. It is full, enriched with the collected nutrients and preservatives of bodies, once encapsulated within wooden and metallic boxes.

He is a homing pigeon come to roost. It is nothing to find the site that they need. She whispers to him. No, she whispers at him. She muffles her indistinct words, and he points down towards the ground beneath them. Always down, always ground. The grass bulges in this spot; the only tamping has been of shovels this afternoon, so the grave still juts outwards.

They exchange more words, though not a true exchange, as neither can hear the other all that well, despite the quiet, and even from this distance, their crossed arms and bodies leaning away from each other imply that they do not want to hear each other. Faint, wispy clouds cross the moon, etching dark swaths across, darkening further the field. He chucks the shovel into the ground blade first, leans his elbows on the handle. She tries the same, but the shovel is too tall, she cannot get enough leverage, and must content herself with resting her chin upon that handle. She wobbles, her weak strike could not plant the blade down into the soft earth.

They confront each other, their weapons of choice at the ready. They do not battle on the man’s familiar grounds, with words and compromise, but on the woman’s terms, with cold stares and an unyielding nature. In such a situation, as it has been since time immemorial, man can hope to triumph, but the eventual outcome will disappoint man. Such is the natural order, such is it when he lifts his elbows from the shovel, wields his weapon, and starts to dig into the dirt.