Night in the Graveyard

“Dare ya!” one of the Sullivan brothers shouted defiantly.

“Double dare ya!” one of the other brothers added with an unmistakable sneer and a malicious laugh.

And with all the confidence and pride that two stubborn little seven year old girls can muster,

Ruthie and I accepted. We knew if we were caught, we'd likely be grounded for the remainder of the summer – who knew, maybe for several summers to come – but a dare was a dare. We were blessedly sure none of the grownups would understand.

And so it was that by eight o'clock when the light in the lighthouse on Peter's Island came on, we were tucked snugly into one of the upstairs feather beds with the covers up to our chins. We listened to the night birds and the incoming tide and the steady hum of the hydo electric poles for the next three hours, finally creeping out of bed and down the stairs barefoot and hardly daring to breathe. When we got to the kitchen and crossed the linoleum floor directly in front of the sleeping dogs, we moved like molasses, one careful, silent inch at a time. Then we were outside, running like wild animals up the gravel driveway, through the strawberry patch and finally to and across the road to Uncle Willie's pasture. There was a sliver of moon to guide us but otherwise we were stealth itself. The entire village seemed to be asleep, it was eerily still and quiet and when we spoke it was in whispers.

“Car!” Ruthie hissed at me as we passed Curt's shuttered up store and made the turn onto Overcove Road. Like shadows, we dove for the ditch but it was only Hubie and his battered old Volkswagon, making his way home after a night of drinking. He choked and sputtered past us without a glance but we could hear every word of the song he was singing, “Hey, Good Lookin'” by Hank Willliams. The words were clear and sharp on the night air.

“Hubie always could hold his liquor some good,” I whispered to Ruthie once the coast was clear.

“Ayuh,” she whispered back, “But he cain't sing for dogshit!”

We reckoned it was close to midnight when we got to the cemetary but there was no sign of any of the Sullivans. Hearts pounding, we inched open the cemetary gates just enough to squeeze through and cautiously, lightly, carefully walked in among the shadowy gravestones. We could hear each other's fear in our panicky breathing and I think we were both regretting leaving the feather bed for such a foolish and dangerous dare. Could you die of fright, I wondered and thought Ruthie might be wondering the very same thing. An owl hooted and we nearly jumped out of our skins. When something unseen rustled along the tree line and we froze in absolute horrow and desperation.

“Let's go!” I whispered, pulling at her sleeve, “I don't care what they say 'bout us!”

“Don't be such a baby!” she snapped at me, “You'll care in the mornin'!”

I was so scared I wasn't sure there was going to be a morning, but I kept it to myself. Then something slithered by my feet and I let out a small shriek of pure terror. Ruthie caught me square in the jaw with a right hook, hard enough to knock me down, bring me to my frail senses, and pull myself together against the mounting hysteria. She half-pulled, half-dragged me

to the least occupied corner of the graveyard, shoved me roughly down so that my back was to the fence (and to the dark woods, I shuddered at the thought of what fearful, bloody-eyed creature might be hiding in those trees) and setttled down Indian style beside me.

“All we hafta do,” she said with a remarkable calm, “is sit here 'til the sun commences to come up. Then we'll go home the way we come and be in time for breakfast.”

“How we gon' prove to the Sullivans that we was here all night?” I wanted to know.

“We ain't got to prove nothin',” she said grimly, “They'll know allright. They's watchin' and they'll know.”

“But...........” I began and she punched me not so lightly in the ribs.

“Jist sit and shut up,” she told me and moved a little closer, “We gon' be fine and we ain't gonna get caught neither.”

I wasn't convinced but I did sit and shut up. For the next several hours, we sat and shut up, slowly smoking our way through an entire stolen pack of my mother's Parliaments and waiting for sun up. At times it was so deadly quiet that we imagined we could hear the owl smoothing his feathers. At other times, the woods seemed alive with things that crept and crawled and hid and sounded like footsteps.

“Mice,” Ruthie would whisper confidently, “Maybe a fox or a badger. Maybe even a deer.”

I hoped so but I hated how brave she was.

Dawn finally came and the sky began to lighten. There had been no sign of the Sullivans and nothing had come slinking out of the woods to ambush us or do us harm. We had spent a whole night in the graveyard and were just the same as when we went in, then made our way back home the same way we had come and slipped back into the feather bed unnoticed. If it hadn't been for us both coming down with incredibly virulent cases of poison ivy, we might've gotten away with it. Instead, we had nearly a week of vinegar baths, antihistamine shots, and being lathered in calamine lotion daily. In the end, we were so miserable that we confessed, hoping it would somehow ease our suffering. It didn't but Nana didn't have the heart to hand out any additional punishment.

We never did tell the why of it and it earned us the grudging respect of the Sullivans. We were young enough and foolish enough to think it was worth it and at the time, it was.