The Art of Fielding_ A Novel - Chad Harbach [205]
A light rain began to fall. Henry stopped digging and leaned on his shovel. The hole was shin-deep. The dog had fallen asleep. “Let me relieve you,” Owen said, but Henry waved him off. The night was close and soupy, so that the rain didn’t seem to be falling so much as oozing out of the wet air, and the sweat that trickled down Mike’s and Henry’s cheeks and noses mixed with the ooze as well. Henry looked exhausted. Owen declared that it was time for a break; they sat on headstones and ate pâté-and-Triscuit sandwiches, drank more beer. Pella passed around her scotch. After that, Henry held the lantern while Owen and Pella took turns digging beside Mike.
It wasn’t long before Schwartz’s spade banged against one of the metal runners on the casket’s lid. The unexpected contact sent a rude judder through his forearms, like fouling a fastball off the neck of the bat in cold weather. At the noise they stopped and looked at one another in the moonless dimness. Their plan wasn’t just a plan anymore. Schwartz felt more worried by the second. Not worried that they’d get caught; his worry, his fear, was more obscure. He was thinking about his mom. He looked at Pella, who nodded with fierce and possibly drunken resolve. “It’s okay,” she said.
Schwartz had planned the excavation as scrupulously as he could. First they widened and deepened the hole to free the sides of the casket; then they dug out, at the head, a space large enough for Schwartz to climb down into and stand. He knew from the funeral-home director that the oak casket weighed 240 pounds; that plus Affenlight’s weight was a lot, but he needed to hoist only one end of it. He hunkered down in his deepest catcher’s squat, grasped the single metal handle at the casket’s head with both hands, and said a little prayer that his back would hold up. He drove through his heels, yanked with his arms and shoulders, felt the pain knife down his spine. Was this the origin of the word deadlift? Surely not, but it was the same motion.
That first effort was needed to free the casket from the earth beneath. The second would be the tricky one; more a power clean than a deadlift. He dropped low, rocked even lower. He exploded upward, jerked his hands toward his chin. As the head of the casket moved upward, Schwartz let go, dropped his hips, maneuvered his hands and shoulder, just barely, beneath the casket’s bottom. Then it was a matter of walking it up to vertical, letting it tip over and lean, almost upright, against the far side of the hole. A little rain was falling. It wasn’t a ceremonious procedure—he could feel Affenlight’s body sliding inside the box—but at least it was getting done.
Henry and Pella and Owen grabbed hold of the casket’s handles from above. They pulled from above while he tried to push from below. He’d imagined this part would be easier, but his friends weren’t strong, and their footing on the wet grass was poor. The casket moved inch by inch, and he bore its weight from below. “On three,” he said. “Owen, count.” And as Owen counted Schwartz got down as low as possible, grunted, gave a last Olympian shove. Henry and Pella and Owen stumbled backward. The casket slid over the lip of the grave and, now upside down, settled beside the hill of dirt they’d made.
The rain had slowed again. Schwartz dug in his equipment bag for the sanitary gear he’d brought—facemasks, nose plugs, elbow-length rubber gloves. He handed a set of gear to Henry. Pella and Owen dragged Contango off to the opposite side of the cemetery. Mike could hear her laughter ring through the darkness; it sounded a bit hectic, but not worryingly so. He was glad she’d finally gotten drunk.
He reached a rubber glove into the cooler and produced two cans of beer, handed one to Henry. They drained them at a long slow gulp.
“Ready?” he said, and Henry nodded.
With effort they flipped the casket over. Schwartz undid the buckles. As he raised the lid he held his breath and stood as far back