Saturated

Waiting, waiting. Sounds filled the deep dark night—the hoot of an owl, the whir of bat wings, the screech of wild things, the crackling of branches in the air, a frog croaking bass while cicadas sliced the cold night air with their ancient soprano. Where WAS Roy? Something big was about to happen. Something big and strange and terrifying and we can’t wait—we gotta hurry, hurry, hurry! Ira stood in the shadows of the sycamore by the old pump waiting. He was a wiry boy of ten with black hair and a sparkle in his eyes. Eyes that usually belied a huge laugh—one that came from down deep and cracked like lightning as it exploded. Not tonight. Tonight, the sparkle had given way to a gleam that was dark and the eyes from which this phenomenon resided were intense and wary. This was to be a night that young Ira would remember until his dying day.

Ira, Roy, and Ben were the infamous rascals of the town and the surrounding Oklahoma hills. They were a threesome swaggering about, fishing poles slung over their shoulders, laughing at some inside joke or heads together devising new schemes of torment. Teachers shuddered and took a deep breath at the beginning of school as the trio bounded into class (late) and didn’t exhale until school let out in May. These three attended school only on occasion—much to their teachers’ relief and to their mothers’ worry—because they had better things to do: namely, fishing for the granddaddy that lurked elusively somewhere in the muddy waters under every rock for miles around. They knew every puddle of water that stuck out at different angles. But now, fishing was not on the mind of this young boy—no, not even close. Something else filled his thoughts.

When had he noticed a difference, he wondered, as he stretched his mind through all of its nooks and crannies. Was it at the school picnic when Ben didn’t want to chase the girls with a garter snake, or was it before that? Stretch, stretch. His mind reeled in a memory of last August. It was the absolute hottest day of the year—106 in the shade at least, maybe 107! The three of them lay in the stream out by Black Hawk’s place, listening to the water splash over the smooth rocks and looking up high through the tall sycamores to the blue, blue sky. When the afternoon got old and their stomachs began to rumble, the three got up and started up the bank heading for home, already smelling dinner in the pot. That’s when he first noticed that Ben couldn’t seem to make it up the bank. “What’s the matter, you ninny? Girl!” They laughed as Ira and Roy both grabbed him under his arms and shouldered him up the incline. Now, standing here in the silence, memories cascaded like a meteor shower: Ben begging off tree house building, Ben sleeping during a rodeo—gol durn—and even turning down snipe hunting! Something had been real wrong and that was sure, but this? No, no, no!

Last Saturday night, after lights were put out for young boys needing their rest and while the grownups were all gathering at the Ward place for some card playing, the threesome had made plans to climb out of their bedroom windows and meet down by the pump for some night mischief. Ira could hear the group down in the kitchen laughing and jawing as he slipped noiselessly out the window and down the side of the house, landing in the soft earth below. He reached the pump to find Roy waiting, but time ticked by and Ben never showed up. So Ira and Roy took off through the glen to the O’Malley house to pick him up. At first they threw rocks at his bedroom window. When that didn’t rouse him, Roy did his owl impersonation. Still Ben didn’t come to the window, so they shinnied up the drainpipe to the roof above the shed next to the house and jumped the six feet to the main roof. Gazing through the window, they saw him lying there in the moonlight with his eyes wide open but not a muscle moved or flinched—still, so still. Ira would never forget that look on Ben’s face—so pale in the moonlight, just staring with eyes that didn’t see. They pounded and pried on the glass window (the only one in the house) and tried to rouse him but he never moved. Finally his mom came out and shouted, “Hey, what’s going on in the name of Jesus?”

“He’s not movin’!” they yelled back, and that was the beginning of the nightmare. Try as they might, nobody could wake him up—nope, nobody—not even Doc Hess. He just lay there so still—he didn’t even fog a mirror, as Grandma Julie used to say.

Ben’s ma started hollering and soon everyone in the lane came running down to see what was causing the ruckus. They laid him out on the kitchen table while everybody cried and turned him this way and that, but there was not a single mark on his body—nary a one. Sheriff Henderson got down and looked us straight in the eye: “Alright boys—what do you know about this?” Roy started crying and spilled his guts on just about everything we had ever done.

Me, I said, “Nothin’—sir.”

Ben lay on that table from Saturday night until Wednesday noon. The strange thing was—he never got stiff and he never got real cold and he never stirred and he never breathed and…he never woke up. No heartbeat could be found. Finally the sheriff said that by law, a dead body had to be buried. Doc said we should wait because, as he put it, “This ain’t a stiff!” But by this time the whole town was divided and tempers were flaring, and in the end the sheriff ruled, so Ben’s dad and brother built him a casket. His mom dressed him in his Sunday go-to-meeting clothes, which were scratchy and tight, but they didn’t make him wear shoes. Roy and I had already made a pact to steal them if they did. The whole town turned out for the funeral—even school was let out. Roy and I hid until it was too late to wear our fancy duds and then ran in and sat by Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley, Ben’s folks. Preacher Chester just wouldn’t stop talking and there was sobbing and nose-blowing till all get out. Roy and I just wanted to grab Ben out of the box and take off down to Cow Creek. They buried him in the graveyard next to his grandpa and then everybody went down to the church where the ladies had laid out a spread.

It made me think—I decided that I was never going to die. Roy wasn’t either. They’d have to chase me down before I’d go into a box. Roy said the same. I couldn’t sleep that night just thinking about Ben—who could burp the Star Spangled Banner, among other great stuff—lying there in the darkness in a box with the lid nailed down, and I got goosebumps all over. Next day I took the day off from school and went behind the barn to have me a smoke when I heard some talking going on inside. Dad was talking to Uncle Earl and some other men. I couldn’t hear everything but a word floated by every once in a while. Something about being buried alive and Sheriff Henderson. I took off to tell Roy.

Strange goings on. Then that night, just as we were eating dinner, somebody knocked on the door and Dad excused himself and got up and left—and we were having meat and potatoes and corn on the cob out of the bin! I could hear voices outside. As soon as Mom turned to fuss with the baby, I ducked out and sneaked myself around the corner of the house in order to get a good earful. And that’s when I heard my Uncle Earl say: “You be the lookout, Clyde—better bring your gun, Jake. We’re going to need torches.”

“I got ’em!” A voice called out.

“We’ll meet in the graveyard at half past midnight when the moon is on its way down, and bring your shovels. This is just between us! No outsiders—ya hear?”

“Yes sir’s” were heard all around. Me—I took off through the woods for Roy’s. That’s when we decided to meet at the pump at midnight.

And now the moon was falling. Dad had left about a half hour ago and where in the bejesus was Roy? “Hey!” He slipped up behind me.

“Hey yourself,” I answered.

“Got some smokes?”

“Yup.”

“Save ’em.”

The graveyard was spooky and ground mist made the grass wet as we wound our way through the old stones that stuck out at different angles. At first I thought I had heard wrong because not a sound could be heard, but just as we got down in the ravine we saw a glow. There was Dad and Uncle Earl, the Doc, Mr. Hicks and his nephew Bub, Clem the blacksmith, old man Mose, and even the preacher! Some were holding torches which made a tight yellow glow over the cluster of men as they all watched with eyes down at the men in the middle shoveling. Grunts were heard as the earth was thrown over their backs, wet with sweat even in the cold still night. And finally Ben’s casket was pulled up and placed on the mound of earth.

I saw Dad take off his hat and wipe his brow with the back of his arm as he bent over the casket with a long metal rod. “Here we go,” someone announced as the lid was pried off. Roy and I had worked ourselves into the throng and wormed our way to the front. And there was Ben, all dressed in his scratchy suit. He just lay there with his eyes open, not saying a word, and then—he blinked! A gasp went up all around and then his papa grabbed him up: “My boy, my boy—Praise the Lord!” He was alive! Well, we got shoved back in the commotion, which was just as well, or we would’ve gotten a tanning for being up after moonrise, not to mention being out after the moon had set. But we did have that smoke before we got home. We couldn’t believe our eyes! Ben was back! He had been buried alive! What tales he would tell. We couldn’t wait!