The Sweater
By Jennifer Haynes

“Is that your brother’s sweater?” my mom yells down to me.

“Yeah,” I answer.

I am in a bad situation. I was out here, digging a hole in the back yard, obsessively searching for the body of my murdered brother. And I finally found it. But now I am stuck in the huge hole. When I try to climb the walls of dirt, they crumble under my hands, and all I do is make the hole bigger.

“Help me out of here, Mom,” I say. “I found Jim’s missing body.”

“Throw me the sweater first. I don’t want it to get torn while you climb up.”

“Okay.” I take a rock and wrap the sweater around it to give it some weight. I throw as hard as I can, and it lands about four feet from her.

“Thank you,” she says. “I really wanted this.”

Why is she messing around? “Go get some rope. I want to report this to the police.” I want to know who killed my brother Jim, and so does Mom. But she’s just standing there, staring at me.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask. I’m getting impatient. I’m sweaty, and dirty, and triumphant. Now she won’t help me get out of the damn hole. It’s like I dug my own grave, which is a creepy thought. I push it from my mind.

This could be the answer, this sweater. All evidence of my brother disappeared. But this may hold some hair, or maybe some blood stains from the murderer if there was a struggle. However, my mom can act very strange at times, and I never have any patience.

“Look,” I say. “Go to the garage, get the rope, tie one end to a tree, and then throw the other end to me.” Slowly but loudly I enunciated: “Do…You…Understand?” This is not a time I want Mom to screw around.

She looks at me a moment, then turns slowly. Thank God I got through to her. I guess perhaps she’s a bit traumatized. I will have to apologize for my words later.

“Hurry up, Mom!” I yell as she saunters away. I hear a suppressed giggle. “Mom?”

“Goodbye, dear,” she says. “Keep your brother company?”

I’m never going to get out of here. I look at the dirt walls with my finger scratches carving every inch. I start digging in a frenzy. The hole just gets bigger.

I stop. I will retain my dignity and not cry. This was obviously meant to happen, and that’s okay. I’m not scared. My mom will pay for what she has done. Vengeful spirits never sleep peacefully, and the ones they seek revenge upon don’t either.

07/2000