Chapter 3 The Dig Later that day, as we passed one another in the upstairs hall, I said, “Hey Bob, is it alright if I…?” Then as if he knew what I was going to say, replied, “Yea, yea, sure, go ahead sleep in my old bedroom. I’ll sleep downstairs in Grammy and Pappy’s room. See you tomorrow.” The next morning at breakfast, as I queried notes on my laptop… Bob made a strange request. “Hey want to help me with a project I’m going to be working on?” I said, “Sure, I suppose.” I was quite hesitant, and I think Bob picked up on it, but I kind of felt trapped at the time. After all, I’m staying here rent-free for who knows how long? Yea, I felt it was my duty, I guess. He slapped a piece of paper down on the kitchen table... “Here’s the address, meet me there tonight at 9:00 sharp. It will be good and dark by then; oh yeah, bring work gloves and our sharpest spade from the barn.” “Ok, I sure will.” It was a dark, robust October night. A rainy mist fogged up my bifocals as a slight breeze lay a rosy twang into my pale cheeks. On the drive to the location, my mind kept spinning every which way on what I might be getting into. Pulling in behind Bob’s parked Scout confirmed my ugliest fear. He was there already and working. He had set up a makeshift tent to shield passers-by from asking annoying questions. This all took place just a few kilometers off the main road, of route 220 north. I noted; I’m parked by the fifth maple, then I paced twenty yards to the East, in case I had to return by myself. The tent enclosed a small area, roughly ten by ten feet. No one could see what was going on. “Grab a shovel,” he retorts, “start digging.” There on the ground lined out in orange marking paint was a 3x7 rectangle area. “Bob, you’re not right in the head!” I let him know! “No one can see us, and I’ll help you. It shouldn’t take us more than an hour if we hustle, so let’s go.” We skimmed off the sod, piling it off to one side. We dug, stacking dirt and stone on the other side. Cement… we hit a slab of cement! Bob grabbed his large pry bar, and together we stood the lid up alongside the inner hole. Then, with an engine hoist, and muscles I rarely use, we worked the contents up and out over the side of the hole. We both pushed and grunted with all our might, sliding it into the back of his truck. He says, “If you can please fill in the hole, dirt, and stone first, then arrange the sod over top, also take down the tent and load it into your car. You clean up, ok!” Thanks see you back at the farmhouse; Remember don’t speak of tonight to anyone, it’s our little secret!” For almost a week that filthy box sat on the kitchen floor pushed up against the pantry wall, unopened. When one night, out of the blue he says, “Time to go digging again.” We repeated exactly what we had done seven nights before, same time and place, only we dug next to the other hole. Gee, if I question him about what we’re doing I get the 5th degree. So I just don’t say anything. I do as I’m told. Seven days later, it’s the same routine. “Ok how long, how many holes are we going to dig?” I had to ask… with no reply.