The Last Martin

by Jonathan Friesen

  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 a
nd 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.”

  “Stop scaring the girl, Landis!” Aunt Jenny fumes. She’d probably kick him with both feet if she could. But then she’d fall and that would be bad for the little one —

  My gaze zooms in on her gut, and I drop my bottle of scrub. The little one.

  Aunt Jenny carries the first child in their family. It’s a boy. They will name him Martin after the Boyle tradition.

  There can only be one Martin.

  I stare at the row of headstones, at the space next to Dad’s brother. My space.

  Lani vomits again, but this time I don’t care.

  When that kid is born …

  “I’m going to die.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I WONDER WHAT DYING FEELS LIKE.

  The question has haunted me since the cemetery. On our silent drive back from Landis’s. Throughout a sleepless night. It sticks with me now.

  I walk the rails westward; my house long vanished behind me. I’ve never been this far down the tracks at 5:30 in the morning without the Barn Owl’s permission. I shiver and clutch the whistle that hangs around my neck. One tweet on the safety device would activate Mom’s bowels and bring her screeching to my side.

  “Death. The last gasp. The big send off. Dust to dust. Farewell, cruel world.” I pry a stake from the track and point it at the sky. “It’s not fair. Being dead isn’t fair,” I whisper. “How was Disneyland, Martin? Sorry, never been there. Do you have your driver’s license? No, corpses can’t parallel park.”

  My free hand cups around my mouth, and I whip the stake toward the clouds. “I mean, what did I do to you? What did I do to anybody? Sure, I put a little hot sauce in Lani’s eyedrops, and I did cover her toilet with Saran Wrap, but those don’t deserve —”

  The stake plummets to earth and impales the dirt between my feet.

  Cripes! What do you have against Martins?

  I break into a run, a stumbling, angry run that carries me away from the tracks and toward the outfield wall of Midway Stadium.

  The field looms large and foreboding and empty. I clank into the ten-foot security fence down the right field line and tug at the loose chains connecting oversized gates. I release the chain links and glance at my hands, covered with rust.

  Note to self. Check on tetanus booster.

  I hold my breath, think skinny thoughts, and squeeze between the gates and into the stadium. I straighten on the right-field warning track and inspect my arms for scratches and skin breaks.

  Minutes later I plunk down on the bleachers, surrounded by ten thousand empty seats.

  Nobody will miss me anyway.

  I stare at the field, groomed and waiting — waiting for a living kid to leave cleat marks on the base paths. How great would it have been to play baseball, run track — anything?

  “Next up … Martin Boyle! They’re carrying him out right now. He’s looking a little stiff. What’s that? Duct tape? Yes, sports fans, his teammates are yanking him out of the coffin and duct-taping a bat to his hands! Have you ever seen anything — “ “Popcorn! Peanuts!”

  I jump and reach for the whistle around my neck. “Kinda early for you, isn’t it, Marty?” Grimy waves from the upper deck and slowly makes his way down the aisle. “Your mom’ll blow when she finds you gone.”

  Poole doesn’t look so scary. Not now. He strolls by me onto the top of the dugout, where he plops down and dangles his feet. Not a grimy care in the world.

  “I’m thankful for this beautiful morning!” He points toward the sky. “See that sunrise? Smell that air — “ “That’s stink from the rendering plant.” “Someone’s having a bad day.” He grins. “Shame too. Such a glorious —”

  “Stop it! You don’t have … issues. Well, maybe an ongoing odor problem, but besides that, no issues. I, on the other hand, might look normal — “ “You don’t.”

  “Whatever. I look normaller than you.” I hold up a hand and rub my knuckles. “But you, at least, might live to get arthritis.”

  Poole frowns. “And that’s a good thing?” I leap to my feet, pause, and kick the bleacher in front of me. “You have no idea what’s going on — okay, that hurt my toe — where was I?”

  “Um. You have no idea —”

  “Right,” I say. “You go where you want and sleep where you want and take a shower every third week —”

  “Fourth.”

  “… fourth week. And you have a whole grimy life in front of you. Seventy, eighty, ninety grimy years.”

  I breathe hard. I’ve never yelled at anyone like that before. Poole yawns at me, like he’s waiting for more, but I’m exhausted. “Sorry, yesterday was tough and today is tougher and tomorrow …”

  “Tomorrow?” He stands.

  I drop my gaze. “I found out I don’t have too many of them.”

  Poole exhales, long and slow. “You don’t look sick.”

  “Not sick.” I bury my face in my hands and feel the wet. “Cursed. See, Dad named me Martin.”

  “Tragic.” He wears a thinking face. “A Martin Boyle curse. What are ya going to do?”

  He’s an idiot. Die! I’m going to die!

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Didn’t say that. It’s just not something you see much in obituaries.” Poole lifts his hand and traces an invisible headline. “Boy Killed by His Name.” He stretches. “Are you into baseball?”

  “I’m telling you I’m curse — I, uh, think I’d love baseball. Mom never let me play. Dirt fungi. It grows around the base paths, then gets beneath the fingernails and causes cuticle rot —”

  “Follow me.” Poole leaps off the top of the dugout and disappears from view. I scamper forward and peer over the edge. Grimy stands on the spongy field near the batter’s box. He waves me down. “Jump, Martin.”

  I shake my head. “Five foot rule. Did you know that if you freefall more than five feet you have a better than thirty percent chance of doing internal damage to the ligaments near your ankle?”

  Poole glares with that Dad glare. It pulls me forward. I sit down, grab my whistle, and slip off. I land hard and my ankles scream.

  “My feet! Oh, oh, here comes the ache … Yow! I told you —”

  “You’re fine. Shake ‘em out and wait here.” Poole vanishes into a small stadium door and quickly reappears.

  �
��Okay, slugger, you’re in luck. I know Frank, the watchman. He lets me use the equipment. Here you go.” Poole tosses a bat toward home plate and shoves a pitching machine toward the mound.

  He whistles. A vagrant shouldn’t be whistling. I frown. “You really live in my backyard.”

  “No. Your house is in my front yard, but it’s all in how you see it.” Poole sets down a bucket filled with baseballs.

  “And you sleep out there,” I say.

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t you get cold?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hungry? Where do you get food?”

  Poole turns the pitching machine toward home plate and leans over the top. “Those tomatoes you paint are always mighty tasty. Now, that pumpkin years back was certainly a letdown.”

  I frown, and Poole rolls his eyes. “Frank checks in on me now and then.” He raises a hand. “Any more questions?”

  I adjust my glasses. “Not right now.”

  “Good.” He straightens. “Here’s how this works. You stand at the plate, I’ll load ‘er up and fire you some balls. Plaster ‘em!”

  “But I don’t know how to —”

  “Exactly, and it sounds like you don’t have much time.” He grins. “Now or never.”

  I bend over and pick up the bat, turn it around in my hands. “This curse is not my imagination.”

  Poole slips twenty balls into a duffel and slings the bag over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter what I think. Besides, you don’t live much anyway.” He points at the batter’s box. “Play ball!”

  I inch closer, place the bat on my shoulder. “Those aren’t going to come fast, are they?”

  Whoosh. Inches from my nose. I fall to the ground, jump up quick, and swipe dirt off my shirt. Fungi everywhere. “That’s slow?”

  “Fire!” he hoots.

  Whoosh! The ball skims my rear.

  “How do ya like that one?” Poole pumps his fist into the air.

  “What are you do —”

  “Run. Martin, run!” He fires another ball, pegs my calf.

  “Ah!”

  “Direct hit!” Poole leaps and dances and shoves the machine toward me. “Run!”