“D’you know why they put gravestones on graves?” George had asked me that August day, so long ago. We was both ‘bout ten years old that summer, ‘n we were thicker ‘n thieves in them days. That afternoon, we was sitting in the shade, on cool, moss-covered stones in the backyard.
My mother and me was visiting George and his family at their summer camp on Little Sebago. They had a place down on Campbell Shore Road, and we generally spent a week or two there with ‘em every summer, usually in August. My father had died six years before, in France, fightin’ the Kaiser’s army. I was only four at the time he died. so my memory of him ain’t so good. I ‘spect I have no real memory of him at’all—it’s just that I’ve heard so much about him ‘n seen old photographs of him that I think I remember him.
Anyways, I was saying—when George asked me that question, I just sat there, starin’ at him for a moment or two, suspectin’ it was some kinda joke or somethin’ ‘n he had some silly-arsed answer. George usually did things like that. ‘Least ways, that’s how I remember him.
The sun was gettin’ low in the sky, glintin’ white off the water. Late afternoon shadows stretched across the lawn, lookin’ thick—almost furry. It was still too warm to do anythin’ as active as play croquet or badminton, so we was just settin’ ‘n talkin’.
“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “It’s just to mark where the grave is—or who’s buried down there.” I remember thinkin’ at the time that my voice sounded like I was on a vibratin’ machine or somethin’, but I didn’t want George to know that his question had spooked me any. It didn’t pay to let George know you was scared of anythin’.
You know, though, now that I think about it, George always had a kinda unique talent. He could scowl ‘n laugh at the same time. Try it. It ain’t so easy as you think. Years later, I used to think George would’ve made a great school teacher ‘cause he could tell you your idea was wrong as rain without really hurtin’ your feelings.
“Follow me,” he said, suddenly jumpin’ to his feet and lightin’ out towards the woods behind his folks’ camp. “Come on. I wanna show you something.”
He ran swiftly along a narrow path, through scrub pine, high bush blueberries, maple saplings, ‘n finally into the deeper pine woods where the air was thick with resin. I followed as fast as I could, but George could always run faster than me. I had a tough enough time just keepin’ up with him.
He dodged through the woods, duckin’ his head under branches or hangin’ onto ‘em ‘n then lettin’ ‘em snap back with a
whoosh
. I was glad I wasn’t followin’ too close, ‘cause I would’ve been whooped in the head or somethin’.
I could tell by his general direction which way he was headed—toward the brook that ran between his family property and old man Kimball’s. Whenever we played guns or whatever out there in the woods—which wasn’t much lately ‘cause we was gettin’ older—we rarely came over the brook. After a heavy rain, the ground was all soggy ‘n such. Our parents warned us ‘bout there bein’ quicksand out there, too. ‘Course, I realize now they just told us that to keep us away from the brook.
At last, George slowed his pace, but he was still a good fifty feet ahead of me when he stopped at the edge of the brook. Callin’ it a
brook
really is an insult to them openrunnin’, babblin’ streams that can make a walk in the woods so pleasant. Kimball’s Brook, which was what we called it, was really more of a quagmire—thick, black mud and dense stands of cattails and black flag marked most of its course.
George stood there by the water, waitin’ for me to catch up. My breath felt like a fire in my chest, but I tried not to pant too hard.
Pointing in the direction of Kimball’s house, George said, “It’s up this a’way.” His voice had a hushed, respectful tone—almost like he was speakin’ in church or somethin’. The discomfort I had felt when he first mentioned gravestones now got worse. I looked back along the trail where we’d come and saw that the woods was darkenin’. I imagined I saw shapes thickenin’ and movin’ in the late summer shadows. The sky overhead was deep blue, almost purple, and I knew even then that we shouldn’t have come so far from the camp this close to dark.
“It’ll be gettin’ on time for supper,” I said, forcin’ my voice not to betray how nervous I was feelin’. “Don’t you think we oughta head on back now?”
“You have to see this first,” George said. His voice was tinged with wonder and—’least ways as I recall it now—a bit of dread. We pushed and fought our way through the brambles and cattails. Both of us got scratches on our bare arms and legs. I remember looking down at my muddy Keds sneakers and thinkin’ ‘bout how much hell there’d be to pay when my mother saw ‘em. I wouldn’t be able to fool her ‘bout where we’d been, either—I knew that much. She had a way of knowin’.
“‘S not far now,” George said over his shoulder. Even he was beginnin’ to sound a bit tired. But there was this determined set to his jaw that I could see, even in the fadin’ light, ‘n it made me realize we should’ve considered all of this a bit more before leaving his yard.
“What is it, anyway?” I asked. This time I knew he’d hear the fear in my voice, but I didn’t care.
“You wait ‘n see,” he said, smiling thinly. “You just wait ‘n see.”
He ducked under a low-hanging branch and then stopped still, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncomin’ car.
“There,” was all he said.
When I got up to him, he stood to one side so’s I could see. My gaze followed his pointin’ finger. At first I couldn’t make out anything, it was so dark under that old pine tree where he was pointin’. Then—faintly—I thought I could make somethin’ out . . . it looked like the outline of . . . somethin’.
“Go on,” George said. “Get closer. You’ll see.”
I took a coupla steps closer, ‘n as I did, the thick, black object resolved in front of me out of the gloom. I stumbled backwards, gasping for a breath, but the air was humid and thick, like takin’ a lungful of water.
“Jeeze!” I said. “It looks like a . . . gravestone!”
George was smilin’ and noddin’ his head up ‘n down like some silly puppet. There was a look of pride on his face that made me feel . . . well, somehow worse, like he was just askin’ for trouble.
“Not just a gravestone, either,” he said, walking up to it and placin’ a hand on the aged, pitted stone marker. “Look.”
Bracin’ his feet against a rotten log, he leaned forward and, with a belly-deep groan, pushed against the stone with everything he had.
“Cripes!” I shouted when I saw the gravestone teeter back ‘n forth. At least I thought it did; it was kinda hard to tell there in the gatherin’ shadows.
The effort was too much for George alone, though, and with a loud exhale, he stopped pushin’ ‘n let the stone come to rest where it’d been. I had this sudden image that the gravestone was like a giant loose tooth, ‘n it looked ready to come out if someone gave it a hard enough push.
“Come on. Help me with it,” George said. “I think between the two of us we can get it.”
“What, are you crazy?” I shouted, takin’ a step backwards. My foot hit soggy ground, ‘n I went up to my ankle in warm water. “No-sir-ee,” I said, shakin’ my head back and forth. “I ain’t gonna touch that!”
“Aww, come on,” George pleaded. He walked over to me and grabbed me by both arms. His hands were covered with a fine, mossy grit. Just the thought of him smearing my arms black made me want to upchuck. My stomach did a quick little flip-flop, somethin’ it hadn’t done in a long time—not since my last ride on the rolla’ coasta’ out to Old Orchard Beach.
“I found it last summer, right after you and your mom left,” George said. “I’ve been waitin’ all year for you to help me move it!”
“I don’t think we should be messin’ around with something like this,” I replied weakly.
“How come? You ain’t chicken-shit, are you?”
I shook my head, unable to speak. It felt like somethin’ had a’hold of my throat.
“Maybe what you’re thinking is, a tombstone ain’t just to mark where someone’s buried. Huh? Is that it?” George said, nibbin’ his blackened hands together. “Maybe . . . just maybe that stone’s put there to weight the dead person down. You know—something they put on their chest to keep ‘em from gettin’ up and walkin’ around.”
“Come on . . . Cut it out,” I said, looking fearfully over my shoulder at the way we had come. The sky was now a deep purple, and rafts of clouds, underlit by the settin’ sun, stuck out like dead, white fingers. “We—uh, gotta get back for supper. Our moms are gonna be
wicked
mad at us.”
“Just help me push it over,” George pleaded. “I can’t do it myself. After that, you can go back to the camp if you want to. I want to check this out.”
“We shouldn’t be messin’ around with stuff like this,” I said. “What if old man Kimball sees us out here?”
“He ain’t gonna see us. ‘N even if he does, what can he do about it?”
We both fell silent as we cast our glances toward the gravestone. It was much darker, now, under the trees. From where I stood, I could hardly make out the stone, but the growin’ shadows made it look a lot bigger than before.
Finally, realizin’ that George wouldn’t take no for an answer, I walked over to him ‘n we both approached the stone. Reachin’ out, I placed my hands on the gritty surface. I felt this chill go clear up my arms, all the way to the back of my head. My teeth wanted to chatter, but I wasn’t ‘bout to let George know how scared I was.
“Dig your feet in real good,” George said. “When I give the word, we both push with everything we got, okay?” He crouched into position, his foot back by a rotten log, and started countin’, “One . . . two . . . three—
heave!
”
I pressed my shoulder to the stone ‘n puffed out my cheeks as I pushed as hard as I could. It was kinda scary when the stone started to move, but then it stuck at one point and wouldn’t budge any more.
We was facin’ each other, ‘n I remember thinkin’ it was kinda funny the way George’s face got all red from the pushin’. We rocked the tombstone back and forth, but every time it would get to that one point and then stick, like it was gonna stay there forever. Gritty black soot covered our faces ‘n hands. I could feel sweat tricklin’ down my back between my shoulder blades. I was a lot skinnier back then, you understand.
“We’ll . . . get . . . it . . . this . . . time,” George said, keepin’ the stone rockin’ back and forth. Then, on his signal, we both grunted ‘n pushed hard, givin’ it everything we had.
The stone reached its stickin’ point again, paused there for maybe one heartbeat, though it seemed like forever, ‘n then it slowly toppled over. I thought of how a large tree falls kinda in slow motion as I watched the gravestone keel over with deep-rooted resistance. It hit the soggy ground with a sickenin’ squishy sound.
I stepped back quickly from our work, wipin’ my hands on my shirt. It was already a mess, so a little more wasn’t gonna hurt. We was already in the dog house, anyway.
“Jeeze,” I said, barely above a whisper. I looked at George ‘n added, “You know our moms are gonna kill us!”
George wasn’t listenin’ to me. He was down on his hands ‘n knees on the ground, lookin’ into the hole where the stone had been.
“Cripes! Look at this!” he said, his voice tinged with wonder.
I shook my head ‘n started backin’ away. “Uh-uh! No way! We’ve gotta get back to camp before it’s all the way dark.”
I didn’t notice that I was backin’ up toward the fallen stone, but when my foot tripped up on somethin’, maybe the edge of the stone, I fell backwards onto the surface of that cold stone. I grunted softly as I twisted around ‘n managed to bang my knees on the edge of the gravestone. It took off a coupla layers of skin from my knees, but that ain’t why I let fly a scream. Hell no, I was scared . . . scared right outta my mind!
I rolled off the stone ‘n onto the soggy ground, tuckin’ my head down ‘n pullin’ my legs up tight to my chest, as if that was gonna protect me or somethin’. George’s laughin’ at me stung my ears. When I finally dared to look up, though, I noticed somethin’ on the stone—some writin’ or somethin’ we hadn’t noticed before. Maybe our pushin’ had removed enough of the crud coverin’ it, or else I just had the right angle to see it. I crawled toward the stone on my hands ‘n knees, tryin’ to make out what I saw written there.
“Look at this!” I said. My hand shook like a branch in the wind as I pointed at the stone.
The years had almost totally erased the letterin’, but by tracin’ each letter with my finger, I was able to spell out the name—”S-T-E-P-H-E-N-L-O-G-A-N . . .
Stephen Logan!
My voice threatened to break into a scream. “That says
Stephen Logan!
”
George looked at me, ‘n I could tell by the expression on his face that he was ‘bout ready to pass out. He looked white as a sheet.
“Wha—?” he said, but then his voice cut off like he was chokin’ or somethin’. He started toward me. His throat all the while was makin’ this weird clickin’ sound.
“That’s what’s carved on the stone here,” I said, surprising myself by the sound of my voice. I stood up stiffly and rubbed my hands on my shirt again. “Is this someone . . . someone from your family that’s buried here?”
For the first time in my life I saw surprise and, I think it’d be fair to say, genuine fear on George’s face.
“That’s my . . . my grandfather’s name!” George said softly. One of his hands was coverin’ his face, so the words was muffled. “I was . . . named after him—George
Stephen
Logan!”