The Last Martin (5 page)

“Well, that’s the story of the venison. Want to hear about that turkey?”

“No,” I swallow hard. “Please, no. Maybe later.”

“Shoot, I understand. You’re in a hurry to get to the
graveyard.” Landis pushes back and stands. “Sweetie, these kids are biting to get moving. What say we leave dessert and dishes and head out?”

“Sounds wonderful, except with roads so wet —”

“Yes. We’ll all be taking four-wheelers. Brother? Elaina? Children? Onward.”

Y
EEHAW!”

Uncle Landis’s holler floats down from the top of a distant hill. I can’t see him, but I know what he’s doing. Riding rings around the hilltop cemetery. Landis loves to “war whoop” in his maniacal pre-service tribal dance.

“Fool.” Mom shifts in front of me on our ATV. “One day, Martin, Uncle Landis will spin out, and we will arrive just in time to plant
him
among his forefathers. Won’t that be convenient? Yeehaw, indeed!”

I hear Dad laugh too. He never laughs. Except on this day. His laughs and shouts fill the spaces between the drone of four-wheeler engines. Both Dad and his brother sound like kids. Big kids on sugar highs.

“Use some speed, Jenny.” It’s Landis again. “Give my son a real ride!”

Aunt Jenny squeals. Lani shrieks. She hadn’t looked too healthy mounting the back of Jenny’s Polaris.

I close my eyes and picture the scene. A muddy race on a bumpy track around a bunch of dead spectators. Uncle Landis in first, Dad a close second, and the team of pregnant woman, tummy boy, and whiny girl pulling up the rear.

The four-wheelers’ engines snarl and rev, faster and faster.

Down in the valley, I sigh, relieved we aren’t moving fast.

Of course, going Mom-slow might be worse.

“Hold tight to the disaster pack, Martin.” Mom accelerates to three miles per hour. “A fall could mean an instant and gruesome end.”

“Instant
and
gruesome?”

“Are you obsessing about death again? You must let that go and enjoy your childhood.”

“But you brought up —”

“Watch out!”

I reach around her backpack and get a vice grip on Mom’s waist. She slaps my hands.

“Let me breathe or I’ll lose control completely.”

Already happened.

I loosen my grasp and follow Mom’s gaze, all the way down to the washed-out trail that leads straight up cemetery hill. A squirrel leaps playfully around our ATV.

Mom peeks over her shoulder. “See what I mean? In the wilderness, even gentle creatures attack with reckless abandon.”

The animal seems harmless. “We’re being attacked?”

“Predators typically toy with their prey before they plunge their teeth into unsuspecting flesh.” She nods. “Do not be fooled. There is white on the face. Foam, no doubt. You know what that means. R-A-B-I-E-S.”

Some words are simply too horrible for her to say. She squeezes the brake. “Do not move,” she whispers.

We sit motionless. A mosquito buzzes my ear, lands on my neck, and begins to drink. I want to whack it, but Mom’s being vigilant and I don’t dare move. The bug finishes her transfusion, pumps me full of itch juice, and flies away. I wince and glare at our stalker.

“I think that foam is a whitish A-C-O-R-N.”

“Drop the attitude, Martin, and marvel at the cleverness of this creature. It used a decoy in the attack.”

Yes, they are very clever, and I hold my breath. The sneaky beast bounds off, I scratch my neck with gusto, and Mom inches our ATV forward. Minutes pass, and I check the speedometer.

I cup my hand around Mom’s ear. “Are you sure we’re moving?”

“Yes.” She straightens and gives the accelerator a flutter. We crunch ahead. “The others may have reached the cemetery first, but we will reach it alive — mud!”

I jerk back and peek around Mom. Our front wheels lodge in a muddy pool and our tires spin, sludge-caked and helpless.

“Maybe if we used more speed?” I say.

“Twice stuck,” Mom mutters. “Twice stuck, raw meat, jeopardizing the children.”

Venting has begun. We will be here for a while. I stare around. Oak and elm lock knobby arms and form a green ceiling that presses down on me. All around, the woods poke gnarled fingers toward my head. They creak and rustle and want to grab me. I’m quickly claustrophobic.

“I’m going to walk the rest of the way, is that okay with you?”

“Abnormally large rodents beneath the outhouse, toilet paper on loaded guns …”

Mom’s a lister, and right now she can’t hear me. She’s only listed five horrors and I know she won’t run out of problems until she hits thirty, so I slip off the back of the ATV and watch my sneakers disappear in the mud. I lift a foot. No shoe.

“Mud ate my Adidas!”

I close my eyes, reach my hand into the muck, and feel leather. I strain and tug and slowly the ground releases my shoe with a slurp. I step off the trail, scrape out the mud, and jam in my foot. And walk.

“They’re only trees. They’re only ugly trees. They’re only, boy-hating ugly trees. They’re only boy-hating, ugly, hungry — “

A branch grabs my arm. I break into a run.

The higher I stumble, the wider the trail gets until it spreads out into a field covered with daisies and tread marks. My heartbeat slows and I bend at the waist, searching for air.

I peek down at the path. Far below Mom sits cross-armed on the stuck four-wheeler. In front of me, surrounded by tombstones, the others gather in a circle: The Circle of Death.

The ceremony is about to begin.

They stand in silence except for Lani, who moans and clutches her stomach.

“Martin, my boy!” Landis breaks from the group and approaches, smiling at my legs and feet. “I wouldn’t have imagined that you two would go muddin'.”

“First time for everything.” I force a weak smile. “We got stuck. She’s still down there.”

He peers over my shoulder.

“Hmm. She wasn’t tickled about the ride up.”

“No,” I say. “We were attacked.”

“Bear?”

“Rabid squirrel.”

“Brother! Your wife needs you.”

Dad jogs toward us and stops at my side. He stares down the hill, his eyes soft. He slaps Landis on the back
and shoots me a wink. “Looks like my wife needs a hero. Step aside, gentlemen.”

I watch Dad traipse down through the muck.

“C’mon, Martin.” Landis rounds my shoulder with his arm. “Sometimes a man’s best intentions lead to words. Best let ‘em spill out in private.”

Soon we’ve all passed beneath the wrought iron arch that marks the Boyle Family graveyard. I look at Lani. She’s green again. Mom’s a deep shade of crimson. Landis and Dad are muddy brown. I’m pale — I can feel it.

Dad slips a small journal from his pocket and steps into the center of our circle. He holds his breath. I hold mine.

To my right, Landis whispers, “Don’t hold back, now. Preach it, Brother.”

“Look around you, Boyles.” Dad waves about with his free hand. “What do you see?”

Lani leans over and gasps, “Rotting bones?”

“Heroism. Courage. The men in this field died fighting for their families, their country, their very survival.” Dad’s voice strengthens. He’s in his glory, and he gestures big and spins fast. “This field is a history book filled with stories. Our family’s stories. Stories of adventure and danger and the putrid stench of war.”

“Hear, hear!” Landis pumps his fist in the air. Jenny kicks him in the shin and he slowly lowers his arm.
“Sorry, Gav. I got carried away there. Go on, now.”

“Pouring from the veins of my dear oldest brother Marty, and spilling forth from every other Martin including the first, infantryman Martin Boyle, born in 1790, the blood in this ground on which you stand cries out. Listen! Can you hear? Yes, this mud oozes with Boyle blood —”

Lani heaves deer chunks. They splat over my muddy shoes.

Uncle Landis leans forward, nods, and pounds his chest. “The truth hits you down deep, don’t it girl?”

Mom extracts a towel from the disaster pack, wipes Lani’s face, and shoots Dad her icicle look. But Dad’s gaze is occupied. He faces me with gleaming eyes. He bends and grabs a fistful of mud. Then he straightens, raises that paw before his face, and lets brown smear seep out the cracks between his fingers. “Yes, Boyle blood. It’s a special time when we can honor the fallen. Especially for
you.”

“Me?” I ask.

“You.” His gaze won’t let mine go.

My fingertips prickle.

“As the firstborn in our family, you inherited a name full of meaning and history. Martin.” He gestures toward a small stone. “The life of the first Martin was so filled with courage, men said there could only be one Martin.”

Inside, my stomach turns and I close my eyes. When
I open them, the world is fuzzy and my head is light. I touch my forehead. It burns. I’m a Martin furnace and I think I might die on the spot.

“Clawing through a frozen wasteland …” Dad scratches at the air. “Freshly killed turkey and rabbit strapped to his back, Martin provided food for a fort’s hacking, bleeding, weeping inhabitants.”

“Dang, that’s good.” Landis sniffs.

“Air,” I whisper. “I need some air.”

Mom walks over and places the back of her hand against my brow. “Now both children have fallen ill.” She turns and thumps Lani’s back. My sister hurls again. Mom must be too hot to notice. “This ceremony must end before someone gets hurt!”

“Hey, brother, go back to the Boyle blood section. That part done grows goosebumps on my hide.” Landis gets another kick from his wife, and he scowls. “Well, it does.”

Jenny sighs, and then frowns at Lani. “She’s likely not used to consuming wild game. It’s an acquired taste. Why don’t we take a chicken when we get back? Ever whacked the head off a chicken, Lani?”

Lani covers her mouth and shakes her head.

“To continue.” Dad raises his hand and clears his throat. “Our history is filled with sacrifice.” His voice rises. “Allow me now to expand on a few such stories.”

Please, Dad, no expanding!

I blink hard and step back out of the circle. Nobody notices the absence of Fever Boy, and soon Dad’s voice garbles in the distance. He doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve vanished. Mom screeches and Jenny scolds and everyone speaks at once. I turn from my family and stagger among the stones, where my footing steadies and my head cools.

A wind gust fills my nose with after-rain smell and whisks away the droplets clinging to the field’s tall grass. Hemmed in by thick woods, the graveyard rests on the edge of Uncle Landis’s land. It looks nothing like an In Between graveyard. There’s nothing neat or manicured about it. Headstones are spaced unevenly, and most poke out of the ground at weird angles, like maybe the dead guy underneath is pushing real hard to escape.

I reach the back row of stones, inhale hard, and read:

Martin Boyle. Martin Boyle. Martin Boyle.

“Too many dead Martins, if you ask me.” I bite my lip hard.

I check the family. The Barn Owl still hoots.

Guess there’s no need to hurry.

I kneel in front of the smallest headstone. “So you’re the first Martin. What was your mom like?”

The crumbling stone doesn’t answer. I squint at the etching. Only the letters
MART
remain, along with mossy scratching beneath.

“Landis isn’t taking care of you very well.” I reach for a stick and scrape at greenish fuzz. Minutes later, the date comes clear.

“1790 – 1820. You are way old! Even for a dead guy.”

My knees stiffen and I shuffle next door to a big old stone, cocked to the left and cracked in half.

MARTIN BOYLE

The birth date is missing, but his death year is as clear as Mom’s dinner bell —
1835.
I peek at the next marker.

“Wait a minute,” I whisper, stand, and step back. “You
died
in 1835.” I point at the next one. “And you …” I scamper down the row. “You were
born
in 1835.”

My eyes widen and my legs wobble as I quick-step down the row of moldy Martins. “1835–1865. 1865–1899. 1899–1956. 1956–1998.”

I push both hands through matted hair. Sweat drops sting my eyes.

One dies, one is born. There’s always a Martin. There’s only
one
Martin.

I plop into the mud in front of my dad’s older brother. He died so fast. He died so … 1998.

“The year I was born.” I stare at the hideous pattern on the stones. “When a new Martin is born, the living one dies.” My mind races.

My name is cursed!

“Think, think. Any other Martins in the family?” I breathe deeply. “Just me. I’m fine. I’m the only living Martin.” I lean back and chuckle, then laugh.

That was close. That was really close.

“Get out of that mud, Martin. Do you have any idea how many germs hide in a place like this?” I look back at the ceremony. Mom’s hands shoot to her hips. “Antibac. Now.”

I stand, a smeary butt for the second time today, and search my pocket for hand sanitizer. It’s a happy search. I’ve been given a second chance at life.

“'Course you know, Lani, that soon as you hack off the hen’s head, she’ll start twitchin’ and floppin.’ In fact, the last one fluttered a minute against my chest. Talk about bloody suspenders. That’ll startle the tar right out of you.”