“What’s Oliver doing out there?” I pointed through the kitchen window to where our son was using a garden spade to dig holes in the backyard.
“He’s looking for buried treasure,” my wife replied.
“Seriously?” I watched for a minute as Oliver filled in the hole he had just dug before moving a few feet away to start a new hole, “Where’d he get that idea from?”
“The neighbor, Mr. Fleming,” my wife explained, “He told the kids that he saw your father burying something in the backyard when you were just a kid yourself.”
“That’s news to me,” I said, “The only thing I’d ever seen him bury back there was my cat.”
My wife got a concerned look on her face when she started thinking about Oliver digging up the dead feline.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “It’s over on the other side of the yard. He won’t find anything where he is except a bunch of rocks.”
Five minutes later, Oliver proved me wrong when he rushed into the house, holding an old dirt-crusted cigar box, babbling excitedly.
“IfounditIfounditIfoundit,” he repeated over and over again, speaking so fast that his words ran together.
“Slow down,” my wife said, placing her hands on his shoulders, “And tell us what you found.”
“I found Grandpa’s treasure right where Mr. Fleming said it would be,” he held up the cigar box and grinned, “It’s full of gold nuggets.”
“Gold nuggets, huh?” my wife replied, “That’s amazing. Can I see them?”
Oliver nodded and held the box up to her.
She took the box and carried it over to the table where I was sitting and drinking my coffee. Oliver followed close behind her.
“Let’s take a look at these gold nuggets,” my wife said, taking a seat next to me.
When she flipped up the lid of the cigar box and saw what was inside, she gasped and quickly closed it again.
“Um, Oliver,” she said, “Why don’t you go and wash your hands so I can talk to your father.”
“Okay,” he said, reaching out to take the box but my wife stopped him by placing her hand on top of it.
“Leave the box here,” she said.
“Okay,” he pouted.
“What’s wrong?” I asked my wife.
She turned the box around and slid it across the table to me.
“Open it,” she instructed.
I reached down and flipped the lid open.
“Oh my god!” I gasped, “Are those…”
“Yep,” my wife confirmed.
What Oliver had thought was a box full of gold nuggets was actually a box full of gold-capped teeth.
“Why would my father bury a box of teeth in the backyard?”
“Maybe they’re not his,” my wife suggested.
I reached into the box and removed the rusty pair of pliers that was nestled amongst the teeth. Flecks of what looked like dried blood coated the metal tip.
“These were his,” I held up the pliers so my wife could see where my father had written our last name on the inside of the faded rubber grips, “He marked all of his tools like that.”
“Did he ever lend any of his tools to Mr. Fleming?” my wife asked.
“Maybe,” I replied, “Why?”
She pointed through the window to where Mr. Fleming was standing on his patio deck, staring at our house with a huge grin on his face. As creepy as that was, it wasn’t as creepy as the sunlight glinting off his gold-capped canine tooth.