The Boy and the Man

The boy looked up at the bluff, then down at the man lying at his feet. Up at the bluff once more, then down at the man again. He wondered if he had jumped from the cliff, like his mother told him some do. Because of the overcast and often dreary skies or because they simply didn’t have anyone left to talk to.

“Maybe his dog died, and he was really sad,” the boy thought to himself. He looks like the kind of man to own a dog. Or maybe they went for a swim together and both of them drowned. But then the dog would have most likely ended up on the shore too, near the same spot the man was in. Maybe it was all just an accident or maybe it was on purpose. He would never know. The man wasn’t breathing, and he knew from movies and his science class that that meant he was dead.

He didn’t feel much of anything when looking at the man and knowing he was no longer alive. He didn’t react the way his mother did at her mother’s funeral, when she had snot dripping from her nose and her shoulders wouldn’t stop shuddering from her weeping. He hadn’t cried then either. He loved his grandma, and he was always excited to see her when she would come into town, but he didn’t feel any sorrow. It sort of just happened, and he accepted it, and then he kept going on with his daily routine like usual. His mother kept asking him how he was doing after it happened, if he was sad that grandma wasn’t around anymore. He was puzzled by her question and annoyed when she wouldn’t stop pestering him about it. Grandma was gone, and he knew that, and so did she, so what was the point of being so heartbroken? They had spent a lot of time together, and that time had come to an end, as all things do.

He peered into the man’s milky eyes, clouded like a cup of tea with a splash of cream in it. Why weren’t his eyelids closed? Why did he still look alive, when clearly, he wasn’t? His lips hung open and it seemed as if a breath would escape from behind them any second. Each time the boy blinked, he half expected the man to startle awake with an intense gasp, sit up, and ask where he was and how he got there. But the boy knew better. He also knew something had to be done.

His mother was inside making his lunch, the usual grilled cheese he always craved in the early afternoon. She was using the panini press instead of the stovetop because he preferred it that way. When you cook it in a frying pan the cheese always melts unevenly and the bread has a better chance of getting burnt. So, it was a daily occurrence where his mom would have to lug out the oversized machine and make his lunch with it. He was always thankful for her efforts, and she didn’t mind, at least not too much. Today though, she was talking on the phone with her cousin who lives in New York. Grilling and chatting at the same time, he knew if he went inside to bug his mom about the man, she would probably send him back to the beach without listening to what he had to say. She told him to only interrupt her conversation if he broke a bone somehow, and he hadn’t, so he didn’t get her. She wouldn’t be interested in the man anyways; she didn’t even know him. At least he didn’t think so. Though, the man’s facial hair did remind him of the man who works at the grocery store, the one who bags the items each time he goes. The man was always happy, smiling constantly, and often let him help put the bags in the cart. As the boy looked down at him, he came to the conclusion that it couldn’t have been him. That man had to be at the store at that very moment, helping another boy’s mom with a grin on his face. He had a face that was alive and breathing and happy.

This man on the other hand was dead. And slightly gray. His skin matched the ocean water, like the very color of the Pacific had stuck to him, or rather seeped into him like he was a human paper towel. His belly was round, which reminded him of his uncle’s stomach, but that was the only similarity they shared. His uncle had dark, black hair that looked like it was painted, and he lived in California, not Washington. Plus, he wasn’t dead. This man on the other hand, was lying in front of him, in the wet, dark sand, and the rotundness of his belly made his soaking wet shirt ride up slightly, revealing a hairy navel.

“He has an outty,” the boy said quietly to himself, as he reached for his own belly button, which was an inny.

The man’s face and hands were bloated, the watch on his wrist stretched to its limits, like it would snap at any second. His knuckles were hairy and sausage like and laid limply at his side. His arms had thicker hair than his head, his scalp nearly barren except for some scraggly patches near his left ear. He had some on the other side of his head as well, but there was no ear there.

The boy’s eyes widened. One ear, only one ear. What happened to the other? Did he only have one when he was alive? Or could a fish have eaten it after he died? Had a shark come to his floating body, eaten the ear, thought it was too gross and spat it out?

“Maybe his dog bit it off when he was sleeping,” he reasoned.

He bent down to get a closer look, to see if it was ripped skin or smooth, scarred tissue. The scent set him stumbling backwards. It hadn’t made its way up to where he stood, but it punched him square in the nose when he was just a few inches away.

It was the worst thing he had ever smelled, worse than the cow manure his father put on the lawn every spring. Worse than the floral white trees his neighbors had that smelled like fish each time they bloomed. Worse than his classmate’s puked when he threw up mid math lesson, with no warning. He remembered seeing chunks of apples in it from that afternoon’s lunch, and how the janitor sprinkled a powder on top of it to rid the classroom of the smell. It worked, but only slightly. The smell still lingered by the time school was let out, but thankfully the next day it was gone.

That’s it, that’s what he would do. He would cover him in sand, bury him not only to put him to rest, like his grandmother, but also to ensure the stench of the man’s corpse wouldn’t ride the breeze straight in and through his house’s windows.

With his nose tucked into his shirt, he knelt next to the body and started dropping sand on the man’s head. He decided to lay it on top, rather than dig and then flip the man into a shallow grave. This would let him complete his task without having to touch the body, which he knew he didn’t want to do. What if he was squishy? What if he started to leak water like a wet sponge when you squeeze it? The thought sent goosebumps up his arms and down his spine.

As he continued around the body, switching positions to make sure he covered every inch possible, he imagined what the man’s name might be. What could he write in the sand once he was finished? George? Bob? Tom? Something old and somewhat simple, like the names of his grandpas or great uncles. He pondered as he scooped it on, and each time his fingers raked up a shell, he put it aside for future decoration. He would adorn the burial mound with them, placing them in a circle around his name, a name of the boy’s own creation and decision. He contemplated collecting flowers to lay on top as well, but there were none nearby. Perhaps bits of washed-up seaweed would do the job.

After many minutes of careful work, he finally had covered the entire body, from the top of his head to the bottoms of his soles. The sand was still loose, so he began to pat it down, hardening it to make sure no seagulls could dig their beaks in and peck at the man. He had almost finished when his mother called out his name from their weathered deck. She was done with her phone call and his grilled cheese, and it was time for him to eat lunch.

He squinted up at her from down on the beach, about a hundred yards away, and shouted, “One second. I’m almost done.”

“We talked about this,” she yelled back, “when I say it’s time for lunch, it means now. Your sandwich will get cold and then you won’t want it, and I’m not making another.”

He looked down at his hands, the sand stuck under his nails, and the lump in front of him. He rose slowly as to not disturb the man. He knew he had to be gentle or else his weight could send the packed sand tumbling off the man’s body. With light steps, he made his way up to his mother. As he walked in through the deck door, the boy looked back in time to see a large wave had come and broken the shoreline, washing over the gravesite. The water took some of his work with it, revealing the tips of the man’s shoes and his protruding gut. He would have to redo it after lunch. He hoped his mom would be willing to lend a helping hand.