The Plot of Potatoes

A story with a twist that twisted my heart. You can tell me your verdict :)

There was once a man whose father was incredibly proud of him. Everywhere the father went, he would tell people about his wonderful, fantastic boy, unable to keep from boasting about his son's successful job, his down-to earth nature. In return the man also loved his father deeply, although secretly he knew he was not nearly as great as his father proclaimed. There was always the threat of disappointment hanging over him - afraid that one day, his father would see his failures and faults. This stress whispered at first, then insisted, then  screamed - until it magnified into a deafening shriek that took over his mind. But we will learn more about the man's torture - and the consequences - later.

Always every year, the father and son planted potatoes in their garden. It was a ritual they accomplished together and although neither of them said it out aloud, they silently recognised it as a chance to bond. It was in the firm feel of the hoe as they dug in the earth, preparing the sods for planting. It was in the selecting of suitable potatoes to plop into the plots. This palpable sense that, as a team, they could breathe life into the soil and achieve something together. 

After weeks of watering and hilling up around the potato plants they came together again, this time to unearth the potatoes from the ground. Row by row they tugged tirelessly, smiling with pleasure as firm potatoes appeared, still attached to the roots. Later they would cut and fry home-cut chips, perhaps even whip up a potato pie. Then the man would leave once more for his apartment in the city, and the father would settle down to await his son's next visit.

Every year, both father and son looked forward tremendously to potato planting. As far back as the man could remember, they had never missed a planting together. Somehow, without fail, he had always been there to see his father's expectant face break into a smile as he handed him a hoe.

And then, it all came out. The man, shaking and angry with suppressed emotion, had done something very very bad. As time passed, the police had picked up on the small minute clues until they caught up with the man, and charged him with manslaughter. In one moment, the man went from a respected, well-loved member of the community to a filthy criminal. I always thought he looked, well, a little strange, neighbours whispered to each other over their fences. I never trusted him. 

And there was still one more thing the police wanted out of him, something they needed to completely solve their case. "Where are the bodies? Where did you put the bodies?", they asked him day and night. Yet the man shut his eyes and said nothing.

When his father heard the news, all rational thought disappeared. Disbelief and pain clouding his mind, he mustered up the courage to visit the son he had once flouted, now subdued behind a plastic panel. There were so many questions the father wanted to ask, but he struggled to say. Why did you do it? Why lie to me?

"What's... going to happen to my potatoes?" he finally got out. "Who's going to dig up the soil sods for planting? It's a big job."

"Don't Dad! please don't dig in the garden without me." The man found he could not look up at his father's face. A tear slipped out, and he opened his mouth to say more. Then the buzzer rang - time was up, and he was led back into his cell.

The very next day, the man's lawyer informed the police that the man was ready to disclose the location of the bodies. "In my father's potato garden," the man said quietly. "I buried them at night in my father's garden, and he knew nothing about it." 

His bewildered father opened the door to a force of aggressive policemen, who then carried their hoes and shovels into the back and began furiously excavating the site. At the terrible thought of corpses fertilising his potatoes, the man's father gave a cry of outrage and betrayal. How could his beloved son do such a thing to him? The policemen dug and sifted and explored, working their way through the entire potato plot. After a few hours, there was still no sign of the bodies, and the policemen began to grumble. How deep had the man buried them?

The man's lawyer, who had accompanied the police, had watched their efforts on the sidelines with some amusement. Now, he walked towards the father, holding out a folded note. "A message for you from your son."

Wondering what excuse was written on the small piece of paper, the father opened it roughly with trembling hands. 

It read : "I'm so sorry Dad. This is the best I can do."

Always Remember, Happiness Equals Bracket =)