In This Economy

My brother on the phone, in some other part of town, “There’s work here,” his voice says. “Digging pits.”
By tomorrow’s light I am working within a stone’s throw of my brother, excavating dirt by the sides of the road with a shovel, loose dirt with bare hands. After lunch and a second beer he explains how we are to hide in the brush and keep watch for locals stumbling into the pits we’ve made. “Then what?” I ask. “Then we commence burial,” he says. “Why? And where have you been all these years?” “It’s this economy we’re in.”
Our first catch is a pretty little thing on her way home from Sunday service. She stretches inside her grave, rolls over to one side. Beneath her dress is a body I think I could love. “Thank you, both.” Her hair has a perfect curl to it at the ends. Like J’s. “Cozy.” She speaks to us again but my brother silences her with dirt.
Clouds roll, as do months. With no one left to bury my brother and I decide on parting ways. “We worked well together,” he says, and drops his gloves and boots into an empty pit, “You agree?” “I do,” I say, shovel resting on my shoulder, “But you never really answered my question, did you?” My brother steps into the pit and lies back to nap. “Sure I did.”