The Big Hole. This story won me first prize and was first published in 'Canadian Shorts" by Mischievous Press. Lucky for me, part of the prize was a week fishing at Factor Lake. A reviewer called The Big Hole "an example of the perfect short story." Wow.
The Big Hole

By Joan M.Baril

 “What the hell?” my father said. “Those little guys are still digging that hole.” My dad, in his police uniform, had just arrived home from his shift and joined my mother, my sister and me at our kitchen window which gave a good view of the yard next door. 

We all stared at the big hole, roughly coffin-shaped but much larger and deeper. Even though it was raining lightly, the two neighbouring kids had been at it for hours. Eight-year-old Andrew (Popcorn) Marrin, a square muscular red-head, knelt on the edge hoisting up a bucket of soil with the aid of a rope. After trotting a few feet to the end of the lawn, Popcorn, with a casual underhand toss, shot the contents onto a small mountain of dirt that had been growing ever larger as the summer progressed. 

Over the twin poles of a ladder scrambled ten-year-old Robert (Rocky) Marrin, covered in dirt from head to runners. Like his younger brother, he was built like a boxer and just as strong. He motioned with his thumb for Popcorn to take his place in the hole and in a few seconds the bucket sequence recommenced.

“One of these days,” my sister said, “the sides of that hole are going to collapse and those kids are going to be buried.” Her voice held a happy note of anticipation, which she could not suppress. When my father glared at her, she changed her tone. “Why doesn’t their mother stop them? Isn’t that a parent’s responsibility, the safety of the little ones?”

My father frowned. “I did have a word with Elizabeth,” he said, “and she told me that children need the creative benefits of imaginative outdoor play for proper intellectual and physical development.” He paused. “Whatever the hell that means.”

Our neighbour, Elizabeth Marrin, had been a child psychologist who believed in giving children absolute freedom, unencumbered by rules. She explained this to me many times when I went there to babysit. I could only nod, but I wondered how she could ignore the boys’ wild behaviour while at the same time imposing strange house rules including a strict vegetarian diet. 

My mother shook her head. “She’s a lovely bonnie lassie,” she said, “and as soft-headed as yesterday’s haggis. Too bad the father’s not around to set those wee imps straight.  As for this digging mania, something set them off, I’ll be bound. They’ve been at it every day for a month.”

I winced. I knew the purpose of the big hole. The boys were preparing a grave for their father if he ever showed up. They were convinced he was a vampire and were working on a plan to bury him with a stake through his heart. Unfortunately, I was responsible for the idea. Inadvertently, I had started the scheme in motion and now, I did not know how to stop it. 

I was just about to confess when my mother turned to me. “Janet, ye’ll have to baby-sit those lads tonight.”

“Why me?” I cried. “Why always me? Why not Leanna for a change? No! I won’t do it!” I was sixteen years old and too big, I thought, to be ordered around like a child but, even as I protested, I knew the outcome. There was no standing against my mother.

“Don’t blether,” my mother said. “You know Mrs. Marrin wants you. Not Leanna. She likes you. She pays well. She doesn’t want your sister ever since she locked the boys in the hall closet. You’ll go and that’s it and we’ll hear no more about it.”

“Nyah, nyah,” my sister said making a horrible face at me and sticking out her tongue. “Putting those brats in the closet was the best thing I ever did.” 

My sister’s first baby-sitting job had not gone well. It took place last winter a few days after Elizabeth Marrin and her children moved into the small house next door. Rocky and Popcorn had pelted Leanna with Lego, leaped at her from the furniture and tried to tie her feet together. When she tried to restrain them, Popcorn bit her on the neck. That was when she lost her temper and, no weakling herself, grabbed each child by their upper arms, dragged them to the hall closet and threw them in. She put a chair under the doorknob to hold it in place. An hour later, mother Elizabeth arrived and was appalled. She released her pounding, screaming sons and cuddled them to her as she rounded on my sister who did not hang around but shot out the door for home. 

Ever since, I was the baby sitter of choice.

I always prepared well for my baby-sitting stints. When I arrived, the boys threw themselves on me, smiling and hugging. As soon as their mother was out the door, Popcorn whispered, “Did you bring the candy?” 

I nodded. 

“And Elvis?” 

I nodded again.

“We sure as hell love you, Janet,” Rocky said. 

“Yes, we do,” Popcorn said. “We hate your sister. She locked us in the closet. Mom says we got a big trauma.”

“We did,” Rocky explained. “A big one. If you get traumas our mom says you get neurosises and your brain is feccted and you grow up to be mentally diffident. You walk all bent over with your hands touching the ground.” He illustrated by doing the gorilla walk around the room.

“Your mother is so right,” I said, glancing out the front window to make sure Elizabeth Marrin’s blue Datsun was gone. “First Elvis,” I said, “but remember, Elvis is worth three candies and if there’s any messing up the room you lose two.” I took the box of Smarties out of my pocket and held it on high. The boys’ wide eyes followed the box as I shook it in the air. Their mother did not allow candy or sweets of any sort. A few Smarties brought them to heel brilliantly. 

My 8-track tape player, hidden in my big purse, was useful because Elizabeth Marrin banned rock and roll from the house. TV was also forbidden but, as yet, I hadn’t thought of a way to smuggle in my family’s set. As I set up the tape player and put in the Elvis cassette, the boys were jiggling with excitement. At the first guitar chords, they began to dance wildly waving their arms. “You ain’t nuttin’ but a hound dog,” they yelled.  The house shook but I stood ready to prevent any damage. In the middle of an aerial summersault, Popcorn’s arm hit the standing lamp. I grabbed it just in time. 

“Two candies off,” I yelled.

         “No-o-o,” Popcorn wailed and threw himself on the chesterfield. But he knew I would not relent. Once, during a pervious baby-sitting occasion, the boy, angered by the penalty, threw himself on me, and bit my arm. Even as I felt his sharp teeth sink into the area above my wrist, I managed to grab him and slam him into a chair. Holding him in place by the shoulders and avoiding the kicking legs, I explained that, if he ever bit me again, I would tell my father, who was a policeman, and he would go to jail. That was the end of the biting. 

So far. 

But I was always on my guard.

Both Popcorn and Rocky had met the police before although not my father directly. A few weeks after they arrived in Port Arthur, they had emptied out all the gas from the gas pump in the yard of the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources at the end of our street. They also released the pedigree poodle in the next block from its cage, put there because it was in heat. The dog was lost for two days. Each time they’d been let off with a warning. But now, a rumour was going around that they picked up cigarette butts, removed the tobacco, put it in an old pipe and collected five cents for five puffs from the kids in the neigbourhood. When I questioned them, they denied it strenuously. 

The Elvis tape ended and the two collapsed on the rug. I doled out the Smarties, three for Rocky but only one for Popcorn. I did not allow a choice of colours. The boys regarded the candies gravely as if they were precious gems, turning then over, admiring them and, after slowly licking the hard coating, compared the colours of their tongues. I found this disgusting, but I let them do it because it kept them quiet. Then they had to wash their hands and faces, brush their teeth and put on their pyjamas. These tasks were worth two Smarties each and were done quickly.

They snuggled down beside me on the couch ready for their comic book and goodnight story. Little drops of water clung to their fuzzy red brush-cut heads. Their smiles were wide and innocent. They smelled of soap, toothpaste and Smarties. Their hard square bodies leaned against me as they regarded the new comic with happy anticipation. 

“Superman today,” I said as I unrolled the magazine and showed them the cover. Comics were forbidden in the Marrin household so both boys stayed close as I read the entire thing through. Because they sat quietly without roughhousing, kicking me or punching, they each earned their reward of two Smarties. 

“Time for bed. But first your bedtime story.”

It was at this stage, during my first session as a babysitter last winter that I made my big mistake. I had planned to tell stories from Canadian history, to give them at least something of value. So I’d said, “I’ll tell you the story of Laura Secord.”

“We know Laura Secord,” Popcorn had said. “Her picture’s in the school. She had a stupid cow.”

“She saved Canada,” I said.

“Boring.” said Rocky. “Why did she take the cow with her anyway?” He slipped off the couch to go who knew where.

“But,” I said, thinking fast, “What you don’t know is that Laura Secord was a vampire.”

“A what?” he said. He climbed back up beside me.

“Yes,” I said quickly explaining what a vampire was. I described Laura’s pointed teeth her staring eyes, her lust for blood. I explained that she stayed in the cabin all day because one beam of sunlight would kill her. That was why she did not run away when the American soldiers came. But when night arrived, she said she had to milk the cow. Then, she took the animal with her on her sixteen-mile-trek so she could drink its blood.

The boys nodded. It all made sense to them.

I spun out the story as long as possible, heading for the big finish when Laura reached the Canadian troops before the sun came up, delivered her message and ran off to spend the day in a cave. I described the next night when she went back to the cabin and released her husband, who was also a vampire. The couple pounced on the American soldiers who had fallen asleep. Later they threw the desiccated bodies into the Niagara River where they went over the falls and were never seen again.

         Popcorn and Rocky were so enthralled, I hated to break the spell. I added the little known fact that Laura and her husband, now heroes, lived on for many years until the villagers discovered they were vampires and killed them. I described in detail how the angry neighbours ran stakes through their hearts and buried them in a deep coffin-shaped grave. 

“That was one hell of a great story,” said Rocky, accepting his candy reward. That night, as I walked them into their shared bedroom, I felt bad for filling their innocent minds with such tripe. 

“We had one damn big trauma today,” Rocky said as he climbed into bed. “The biggest.”

“What?” I said, 

“Our father is coming back to live with us. We don’t like him. He has a giant neurosis.”

“He gives me traumas,” Popcorn said. “I’ll grow up an idiot. Or maybe a moron.” He jumped up and started to punch the quilted headboard of his bed. “Pow! Pow!” I let him punch because the thing was in shreds anyway.

“When’s he coming?” I said.

“We don’t know,” Rocky said. “Mom doesn’t know a damn thing.” 

“Who told you he was coming?”

“Some big kids up the street.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Damn right,” said Rocky. “When we were little he always came back until Mom made him go away again.”

As I tucked them in, and counted out two Smarties each to eat in bed, I assured them that the big kids were playing a joke but they looked skeptical. They could now read for half an hour in bed before I turned out the light. Their mother had started this practice and I continued it with one difference. The half-hour read was worth five Smarties but any roughhousing and all would be forfeit. As I closed the bedroom door, I heard them whispering excitedly to each other. When I came back thirty minutes later, Rocky said,  “We’ve got it figured out. Our dad is a vampire.” 

“What? I don’t get it. That’s silly. It’s just a story,” I doled out the last candies. 

 But just before I turned off the light, I heard Rocky say to his brother, “Don’t worry, Popcorn. We’ll be ready for him.”

I regretted that story then and regretted it more later when I saw them digging the hole and guessed what was in their minds. But I did nothing because weeks went by and the absent dad never showed up. The gossip at Port Arthur Collegiate claimed Elizabeth Marrin had separated from her husband, returning to live in her hometown. Her rich father, who owned a lumber company, bought her the house and paid her a generous allowance. No one knew why the marriage broke up but I reasoned that Elizabeth, so softhearted and scatty, probably put up with a lot before she left him. I believed it was unlikely that he would ever turn up in Port Arthur, not with her powerful father around.

My more immediate problem, I felt, was I had hooked them on gore. After the Laura Secord session, they demanded more Canadian history. With the help of the horror comics sold at the corner store, I was able to think up a variety of plots: David (Frankenstein) Thompson; Prime Minister Mackenzie Zombie King; Suzanna Moodie, Werewolf of the Bush and so on.

         “The story tonight is about John A. Macdonald,” I said settling back on the chesterfield.

         “Canada’s first Prime Minister,” Rocky said. “We studied him in school. Our father said he was a drunk.”

         “Yes,” I said, “but the reason is this: he was dead. He was one of the living dead. Under his clothes, his body was all green and hung down in shreds. He only drank alcohol to stay in the land of the living.” 

         The boys nodded their understanding and the story was on.

Late the next afternoon, I hurried home after choir practice to see a large station wagon in front of the Marrin house. It was parked on the small front lawn taking up most of the space. It looked more like a candidate for the wrecking yard than a workable vehicle. One of the tires was almost flat creating a severe sideways lean. The chrome was spotted and twisted and in a few places missing entirely as if someone had hacked off chunks. Deep scratches criss-crossed the wooden sides which were dark with dirt. Rust had eaten the metal all around the wheels and the bottom of the doors, and spattered dark red spots across the hood. 

I wanted to peek inside the vehicle but I did not dare. Someone, maybe the returned father and husband, for the car must be his, could be watching from the house. As I walked slowly past, I noted the back bumper was held in place with rusted wire. A blackened exhaust hung underneath almost touching the ground. The back window was covered in either black paint or paper, I could not discern which. This vehicle was so ugly it would give anyone a trauma, I thought, with a pang for the boys. Their friends would tease them unmercifully.

“So the missing husband turned up,” my mother said, as she was ladling out the barley soup. A large macaroni and cheese casserole sat on top of the stove. “Your dad’s late. He’s in court. We’ll eat with him later. Your sister’s at volleyball practice. So stoke yersel’ up on soup and we’ll have a late meal.” She sat down at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. 

“Did you see him?” I asked.

“Indeed I did. He walked in as if he owned the place and later carried in a few boxes. I guess he’s here to stay. He’s nay bargain that one. Braw looking lassie like Elizabeth sure picked a dud. Peaked little feller. Face as dour as a burnt boot. Still an all, he may keep those wee devils in line.”

“How’d she meet him?” I was interested in Elizabeth’s story.

“She told me once,” my mother said, saucering her tea and blowing on it to cool it, “that she met him at a party when she was at university in Toronto.”

“But if he was so poor,” I said thinking of the station wagon, “and so bad looking, why marry him?”

My mother gave me a long strange look. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Janet. A bonny rich lass attracts a certain type. The predator. I think she had to marry him after a while. At least that’s what she hinted. She only said her parents insisted.”

I was amazed. My mother had never talked like this before, as if I were a grown-up. “You mean,” I said, “she got,” I hesitated, “pregnant?” 

“Aye,” my mother said. “I dinna know for sure but…” She let the rest of the sentence hang.

An unpleasant thought hit me. “Do you think he got her pregnant on purpose so she had to marry him? To get at her money?”

“Possible,” my mother said. “It’s been done before.”

“But what made her leave him?”

“Ah, on that subject she said naught. But it could be anything. Let this be a lesson, Janet. It’s a hard life for a woman if she’s nae canny when chosin’ a husband.”

During the next week, I caught only a few glimpses of Mr. Marrin. The digging in the back yard went on as usual. On Thursday, to my surprise, Elizabeth Marrin phoned and asked if I would babysit next Saturday afternoon. When I arrived the husband was sitting at the wheel of Elizabeth’s Datsun and, as soon as I got inside the house, he honked the horn and kept it up. Elizabeth, flustered, grabbed purse, rain jacket and rain hat. “I made some seaweed snacks in case we’re late for dinner,” she said. “And Janet, it looks like rain. If it does, will you get the washing off the line?” 

I nodded.

I suggested to the boys we go to the park and they agreed. Leaving by the back door, we walked down the lane that ran beside the house toward busy Arthur Street and Waverley Park. Predictably, once there, the brothers went wild, wrestling like bear cubs on the grass, vaulting over the ornamental cannons, somersaulting down the hills and chasing each other around the war memorial. We circled my high school where they became absorbed in hunting for pieces of chalk thrown out the windows by unruly students on the last day of school. Recalling the horrible seaweed snacks waiting in the fridge, I took them down the hill to Peanut Jim’s Confectionary for a persian donut and a coke. 

They were in sugar bliss on the return journey so I felt it was a good time to ask questions. “How’s life with your dad?”

“Trauma,” said Popcorn. “We get lots. He hurts me.” He pouted, kicked his feet and punched the air.

“What does he do?” I asked, my heart pounding with fear that I would hear about beatings.

“He does this,” and Popcorn bent his middle finger with his thumb and then flicked it forward on his head. It made a loud snapping sound. 

“Yeah,” said Rocky, “the bugger flicks us. When we come out of the bathtub, he flicks us with the towel if we start horsing around. And he calls us names and says bad things.”

“Such as?”

“Space Aliens. Creatures from the Black Lagoon. Spawn of the Devil. He says we’ll end up living in a tarpaper shack on the Nipigon Highway.”  

“That is not nice,” said Popcorn. “It gives me trauma. Besides he’s a vampire.”

“Come on,” I said. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh yeah.” Rocky was indignant. “Well, put this in your pipe and smoke it, Janet. He’s got cases of blood in the car and more in the pantry. He drinks it all day long. He did the same thing long ago when we were little. Blood, blood, damned blood. All day long. Then he passes out.”

We had reached the back door of the house. The washing had turned wild, billowing and dancing on the line, barely held in place by the pegs. A bruised sky glowered over us. I heard a far off noise that might have been thunder. 

In the house, Popcorn opened the pantry door to show me several tall bottles of red liquid on the top shelf.

“I think it’s wine,” I said. “Just wine.” I looked around for the clothesbasket and spied it under the kitchen table. 

“He passes out,” said Rocky. “I think he’s in the back of the station wagon right now. I think I saw him crawl in there. He’s got blankets there and he drinks blood and passes out. He pisses into an empty blood bottle.”

“No, Rocky. He went off with your mother.” 

“No, Janet, he didn’t. He didn’t.” Rocky clenched his fists and glowered at me. “He got out of Mom’s car and walked away up the street but when she drove off, I think he came back and climbed into the back of the station wagon.”

This was more than absurd. I had to check it out. Just then, the first scatter shot of rain hit the windows.

“Stay here,” I said picking up the clothesbasket. “I’ll get the laundry in and then we can talk about this.”

The wind, now much stronger, slammed the back door behind me but not before I heard Rocky say, “Come on, Popcorn.”

A summer storm in Northern Ontario is fierce and fast. I could feel the temperature dropping as the storm gathered itself over the city, setting the trees in motion and the clothes flailing. I was halfway finished, rushing, not stopping to fold anything, throwing the pins wildly into the basket as the rain tried to tear the garments from my hands when I heard the roaring, but, this time, it was not thunder. I looked behind me. The station wagon was coming down the lane, black smoke belching from its rear end. Only Rocky’s eyes and bullet head showed through the steering wheel as he tried to turn the wagon. It skimmed the first clothesline pole and the platform where I was standing. A loud unsteady clatter rose from the vehicle as Rocky cranked the wheel. I had a brief glimpse of his square white face as the station wagon slithered across the back lawn, one wheel hitting the edge of the hole and then it fell in with a crash as if the monstrous thing had fallen apart, leaving only the crunch of broken glass and the screaming inside.

My father was out of our house, running in big leaps. The station wagon was half in and half out, its back end sticking straight up in the air. It was canted on one side but without enough room to fall over. Popcorn had cranked down his window and my father, with one foot on the side of the wagon, and avoiding the still spinning tires, leaned forward, and yanked him out. Rocky followed. Both were wailing. Blood was running down their faces. Their clothes were awash in red liquid. I could hear sirens converging on us. Later I learned that my mother had phoned the ambulance and both the fire and police departments. 

I yelled at my father. “Mr. Marrin. He may be in there.” 

The back door of the wagon popped open. A strange man hung above us for a second and then jumped, toppled over, gathered himself upright and scurried for the house. My dad, in two bounds, had him by the lower arm and was bending him backwards. My mother appeared, snatched up Popcorn, lifted him over her shoulder and ran with him to our place. I grabbed Rocky and dragged him after her but the ambulance guy stopped me and took him. My mother handed over Popcorn. She then pushed me toward our house. 

“Are you hurt, Janet?” she said once we were inside. 

“No. Just wet.” 

“Good, put the kettle on then. Keep the door closed. The reporters will be here and we don’t want our name in the paper. Why did you leave those brats alone?”

I was stunned. Was I going to be held responsible for the entire fiasco? “I told Mrs. Marrin I would get the washing in.” I felt a depressing drop in my stomach as I realized my mother would blame me unjustly but, surprisingly, she said only, “We’el, that’s the end of it then. Nae doubt you knew what you were doin’. A nice cup of tea will do us both good and we can watch from the kitchen window.”

A week later, my dad explained. “Ronny Marrin was well known in Toronto for making and bootlegging red wine. Things were getting hot so he closed shop, bought the station wagon, loaded it up with the stock and headed north probably selling the goods as he went. Arrived here. We ferretted out a few of his local customers. After a little encouragement, they decided they’d testify for the Crown. So Mr. Marrin is charged with illegal selling of alcohol. Now, he’s sitting behind the pipes at the Cooke Street Station. Can’t make bail. But as it is, he’ll not get much. A month or two. You’ll see him back next door one of these fine days.”

“I doubt it, Duncan,” said my mother. “The old man will pay him to get going. But Elizabeth’ll have no luck getting a divorce, poor creature.” 

         “As I was saying,” my father said evenly. “He may show up again. Every time he needs money.” 

“But the boys will get older and bigger,” I said. “They may not get off with a few scrapes and cuts next time,” I said. “And neither will he.”

Both parents looked at me. They were frowning but nodding as if they were considering my words. “Very good, Janet,” my father said. “Those lads are a force of nature, right enough. You may be right. This story is not over, not by a long shot.”

But we were wrong. On Monday, Elizabeth Marrin’s father showed up with a crew of lumberyard workers. By late afternoon, the station wagon was gone and the hole filled. Ronny Marrin spent only six weeks in jail. According to my dad, the old man met him outside, handed him a few bucks and told him to hit the trail. He never did return as we all expected. 

Both boys, superficially cut and bruised, seemed unaffected by their experience. I continued to babysit from time to time for the next three years. As they got older, they became quieter as if their excess energy had drained into the big hole along with the station wagon. Surprisingly, Elizabeth got her divorce, married again and moved to Winnipeg. We lost track of the family completely. Years later I heard both brothers had been brilliant high school students and star football players. Later still, I learned Popcorn became an engineer and Rocky had started a branch of his grandfather’s lumber business in Kenora. They both married, had children. 

“That accident traumatized those kids, teaching them a much needed lesson which made them see the error of their wild ways,” my sister said. This was her favourite theory, which she repeated every time the subject of the Marrin family came up. 

But I had my own idea. Maybe Mr. Marrin was a sort of vampire, who in Toronto, attempted to suck the life force out of Elizabeth and her children, turning up drunk and unpleasant until she gave him money. Had he repeated the performance many times until she fled? Did he have the same plan in mind when he showed up again in Port Arthur? If this was the case, the brothers had done a good day’s work. Even though they were very young at the time, I believe they understood this very well. 

The End