The Man Who Painted Fences

by Margaret McMullan

 

issue 63, November 2nd, 2009

He was there helping with the new sewer line because Katrina messed up everything.  He started digging using a backhoe. It was an un-secure hole, fourteen feet down. He did this kind of thing all the time. You get confident, and too sure sometimes. That’s when you take chances. He was alone. It started to rain.

 

He was that man on Scenic, the one who painted fences. We always saw him out there, every morning, before the hurricane took away all the houses and their fences. He knew better than to go down by himself. The backhoe was still running by the time we got there, but he was nowhere in sight. Everybody came out of the house calling for him. His wife didn’t know what else to do. She was beside herself. She brought out the little boy.

Find daddy, she said to the boy.

 

Daddy? Daddy? he called. The boy was three, almost four years old. I saw him near that scary hole, he said, pointing.

 

We’re hoping the weight of all that dirt knocked him out. It makes it hard to breathe just thinking about it, like you can’t catch your breath. They had to dig and dig – almost three or four feet down just to get to his head at 7:30 that night. And all along the news people just kept edging closer and closer to that hole. The scary hole. Just like the boy said.

They showed too much on the news. They reported the cause of death before they’d even gotten the body to the coroner’s. We know news needs reporting, but sometimes they should show more respect.

 

It’s hardest on her. The little boy is just mad. We tell him, your daddy’s gone to live with Jesus. He says, No. He says, I want him back here to live with us.

 

He was still standing upright, holding his shovel.