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The Quarry 

“Hey. What do you think you’re doing? That’s my side of the pile,” Philip growled.

Milton jumped and looked over his shoulder. Phillip’s head poked through the opening in the fence. The bully scrambled to his feet. He was shirtless; his well formed nine-year-old body looked formidable. “I said what are you doing fucking around with my dirt?”

“I didn’t know it was your side. I didn’t see your name on it anywhere’s.” Milton shrugged his small shoulders and frowned into the late afternoon sun.

Phillip hitched up his patched Levi’s and ambled forward. “Don’t try being a weisenheimer, Pluto. Move your butt to the other side.”

Milton didn’t argue. He gathered his stuff, but his gaze lingered on his handiwork. There was a cave scooped out for his truck and a smaller one to house his cars. He had shaped and tamped a road into the side of the dirt pile connecting his two cave garages. It was good work. He hated to leave it, but starting over was better than a bloody nose. For thirty minutes things went well.

Milton was making truck noises with his lips, lost in his trucker world. He had a full load and the road gang was waiting at the top of the mountain. It was the toughest haul of the day, but Red Beauty could get the job done.

He made growling sounds as he pushed the dump truck to the top of the pile. Like any experienced trucker, he had the pedal to the metal, but he overreached. His fingers slipped and Red Beauty surged forward, bouncing over the top into Philip Tanner’s territory.

“Jesus. What do you think you’re doing, you boney little shit?” Phillip’s scream echoed off the walls of the quarry.

Milton stood and scrambled backward. “I’m.... I’m sorry. My fingers slipped. I’m....”

Phillip rose above the dirt pile, face twisted in rage. “You fucked up all my roads, you asshole.” He scooped a dirt clod from the pile and fired the missile at Milton’s head. The dirt clod was formed around a jagged piece of limestone. Milton was slow to react. On impact the dirt exploded into dust, the limestone carved a deep gash in his forehead. Blood gushed from the cut and he dropped to his knees, stunned.

Philip’s face turned white. “Oh, fuck,” he said, ran to the fence and scrambled through the opening.

Milton clapped a hand over the cut. Tears mixed with blood streamed down his cheeks. He gathered his toys and ran for home, praying Momsy would be late. Wiping blood from his eye and dodging oleander limbs, he began to fabricate his story. By the time he cut between the two vacant single-wides he had a good start on something promising. If Momsy knew he played at the quarry....

                                                            ***

Milton sat at the small, fold-down, utility table. He held a damp washcloth to his forehead. The bleeding was stopped, but the gash stung and his head ached. He tried to clean himself up, but smears of blood marked his chin and neck. This was a real pickle. His stories were starting to sound phony even to him.

Ava came through the door and Milton saw the look.