And each time the oncoming car would swoosh by without slowing.
Once someone shouted out, “Get a job, monkeymeat!” and there was laughter.
I’m not afraid of the dark—or wasn’t then—but I began to be afraid I’d made a mistake by not taking the old man up on his offer to drive me straight to the hospital. I could have made a sign reading NEED A RIDE, MOTHER SICK before starting out, but I doubted if it would have helped. Any psycho can make a sign, after all.
I walked along, sneakers scuffing the gravelly dirt of the soft shoulder, listening to the sounds of the gathering night: a dog, far away; an owl, much closer; the sigh of a rising wind. The sky was bright with moonlight, but I couldn’t see the moon itself just now—
the trees were tall here, and had blotted it out for the time being.
As I left Gates Falls farther behind, fewer cars passed me. My decision not to take the old man up on his offer seemed more foolish with each passing minute. I began to imagine my mother in her hospital bed, mouth turned down in a frozen sneer, losing her grip on life but trying to hold onto that increasingly slippery bark for me, not knowing I wasn’t going to make it simply because I hadn’t liked an old man’s shrill voice, or the pissy smell of his car.
I breasted a steep hill and stepped back into moonlight again at the top. The trees were gone on my right, replaced by a small country graveyard. The stones gleamed in the pale light. Something small and black was crouched beside one of them, watching me. I took a step closer, curious. The black thing moved and became a woodchuck. It spared me a single reproachful red-eyed glance and was gone into the high grass. All at once I became aware that I was very tired, in fact close to exhausted. I had been running on pure adrenaline since Mrs. McCurdy called five hours before, but now that was gone.
That was the bad part. The good part was that useless sense of frantic urgency left me, at least for the time being. I had made my 414
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choice, decided on Ridge Road instead of Route 68, and there was no sense beating myself up over it—fun is fun and done is done, my mother sometimes said. She was full of stuff like that, little Zen apho-risms that almost made sense. Sense or nonsense, this one comforted me now. If she was dead when I got to the hospital, that was that. Probably she wouldn’t be. Doctor said it wasn’t too bad, according to Mrs. McCurdy; Mrs. McCurdy had also said she was still a young woman. A bit on the heavy side, true, and a heavy smoker in the bargain, but still young.
Meantime, I was out here in the williwags and I was suddenly tired out—my feet felt as if they had been dipped in cement.
There was a stone wall running along the road side of the cemetery, with a break in it where two ruts ran through. I sat on the wall with my feet planted in one of these ruts. From this position I could see a good length of Ridge Road in both directions. When I saw headlights coming west, in the direction of Lewiston, I could walk back to the edge of the road and put my thumb out. In the meantime I’d just sit here with my backpack in my lap and wait for some strength to come back into my legs.
A groundmist, fine and glowing, was rising out of the grass. The trees surrounding the cemetery on three sides rustled in the rising breeze. From beyond the graveyard came the sound of running water and the occasional plunk-plunk of a frog. The place was beautiful and oddly soothing, like a picture in a book of romantic poems.
I looked both ways along the road. Nothing coming, not so much as a glow on the horizon. Putting my pack down in the wheelrut where I’d been dangling my feet, I got up and walked into the cemetery. A lock of hair had fallen onto my brow; the wind blew it off.
The mist roiled lazily around my shoes. The stones at the back were old; more than a few had fallen over. The ones at the front were much newer. I bent, hands planted on knees, to look at one which was surrounded by almost-fresh flowers. By moonlight the name was easy to read: GEORGE STAUB. Below it were the dates marking the brief span of George Staub’s life: January 19, 1977, at one end, October 12, 1998, at the other. That explained the flowers which had only begun 415
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to wilt; October 12th was two days ago and 1998 was just two years ago. George’s friends and relatives had stopped by to pay their respects. Below the name and dates was something else, a brief inscription. I leaned down further to read it—
—and stumbled back, terrified and all too aware that I was by myself, visiting a graveyard by moonlight.
Fun Is Fun and Done Is Done
was the inscription.
My mother was dead, had died perhaps at that very minute, and something had sent me a message. Something with a thoroughly unpleasant sense of humor.
I began to back slowly toward the road, listening to the wind in the trees, listening to the stream, listening to the frog, suddenly afraid I might hear another sound, the sound of rubbing earth and tearing roots as something not quite dead reached up, groping for one of my sneakers—
My feet tangled together and I fell down, thumping my elbow on a gravestone, barely missing another with the back of my head. I landed with a grassy thud, looking up at the moon which had just barely cleared the trees. It was white instead of orange now, and as bright as a polished bone.
Instead of panicking me further, the fall cleared my head. I didn’t know what I’d seen, but it couldn’t have been what I thought I’d seen; that kind of stuff might work in John Carpenter and Wes Craven movies, but it wasn’t the stuff of real life.
Yes, okay, good, a voice whispered in my head. And if you just walk out of here now, you can go on believing that. You can go on believing it for the rest of your life.
“Fuck that,” I said, and got up. The seat of my jeans was wet, and I plucked it away from my skin. It wasn’t exactly easy to reapproach the stone marking George Staub’s final resting-place, but it wasn’t as hard as I’d expected, either. The wind sighed through the trees, still rising, signalling a change in the weather. Shadows danced unsteadily 416
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around me. Branches rubbed together, a creaky sound off in the woods. I bent over the tombstone and read:
GEORGE STAUB
JANUARY 19, 1977–OCTOBER 12, 1998
Well Begun, Too Soon Done
I stood there, leaning down with my hands planted just above my knees, not aware of how fast my heart had been beating until it started to slow down. A nasty little coincidence, that was all, and was it any wonder that I’d misread what was beneath the name and dates? Even without being tired and under stress, I might have read it wrong—
moonlight was a notorious misleader. Case closed.
Except I knew what I’d read: Fun Is Fun and Done Is Done.
My Ma was dead.
“Fuck that,” I repeated, and turned away. As I did, I realized the mist curling through the grass and around my ankles had begun to brighten. I could hear the mutter of an approaching motor. A car was coming.
I hurried back through the opening in the rock wall, snagging my pack on the way by. The lights of the approaching car were halfway up the hill. I stuck out my thumb just as they struck me, momentarily blinding me. I knew the guy was going to stop even before he started slowing down. It’s funny how you can just know sometimes, but anyone who’s spent a lot of time hitchhiking will tell you that it happens.
The car passed me, brakelights flaring, and swerved onto the soft shoulder near the end of the rock wall dividing the graveyard from Ridge Road. I ran to it with my backpack banging against the side of my knee. The car was a Mustang, one of the cool ones from the late sixties or early seventies. The motor rumbled loudly, the fat sound of it coming through a muffler that maybe wouldn’t pass inspection the next time the sticker came due . . . but that wasn’t my problem.
I swung the door open and slid inside. As I put my backpack between my feet an odor struck me, something almost familiar and a trifle unpleasant. “Thank you,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”