Pet Sematary(11)

Ellie ran from one monument to the next, exclaiming over each. Louis followed her while Rachel kept an eye on the baby. Jud sat down cross-legged, his back against a protruding rock, and smoked.

Louis noticed that the place did not just seem to have a sense of order, a pattern; the memorials had arranged in rough concentric circles.

SMUCKY THE CAT, one crate-board marker proclaimed. The hand was childish but careful. HE WAS OBEDIANT. And below this: 1971-1974. A little way around the outer circle he came to a piece of natural slate with a name written on it in fading but perfectly legible red paint: BIFFER. And below this a bit of verse: BIFFER, BIFFER. A HELLUVA SNIFFER / UNTIL HE DIED HE MADE US RICHER.

"Buffer was the Desslers' cocker spaniel," Jud said. He had dug a bald place in the earth with the heel of his shoe and was carefully tapping all his ashes into it. "Got run over by a dumpster last year. Ain't that some poime?"

"It is," Louis agreed.

Some of the graves were marked with flowers, some fresh, most old, not a few almost totally decomposed. Over half of the painted and penciled inscriptions that Louis tried to read had faded away to partial or total illegibility. Others bore no discernible mark at all, and Louis guessed that the writing on these might have been done with chalk or crayon.

"Mom!" Ellie yelled. "Here's a goldfishie! Come and see!"

"I'll pass," Rachel said, and Louis glanced at her. She was standing by herself, outside the outermost circle, looking more uncomfortable than ever. Louis thought: Even here she's upset. She never had been easy around the appearances of death (not, he supposed, that anyone really was), probably because of her sister. Rachel's sister had died very young, and it had left a scar which Louis had learned early in their marriage not to touch. Her name had been Zelda, and her death had been from spinal meningitis. Her mortal Illness had probably been long and painful and ugly, and Rachel would have been at an impressionable age.

If she Wanted to forget it, he thought there could be no harm in that.

Louis tipped her a wink, and Rachel smiled gratefully at him.

Louis looked up. They were in a natural clearing. He supposed that explained how well the grass did; the sun could get through. Nevertheless it would have taken watering and careful tending. That meant cans of water lugged up here or maybe Indian pumps even heavier than Gage in his Gerrypack carried on small backs. He thought again that it was an odd thing for children to have kept up for so long.

His own memory of childhood enthusiasms, reinforced by his dealings with Ellie, was that they tended to bum like newsprint-fast... hot... and quick to die.

Moving inward, the pet graves became older; fewer and fewer of the inscriptions could be read, but those that could yielded a rough timeline extending into the past. Here was TRIXIE. KILT ON THE HIGHWAY SEPT 15, 1968. in the same circle was a wide flat board planted deep in the earth. Frost and thaw had warped it and canted it to one side, but Louis could still make Out IN MEMORY OF MARTA OUR PET RABIT DYED MARCH 1 1965. A row farther in was: GEN. PATTON (OUR! GOOD! DOG! the inscription amplified), who had died in 1958; and POLYNESIA (who would have been a parrot, if Louis remembered his Doctor Doolittle correctly), who had squawked her last "Polly want a cracker" in the summer of 1953. There was nothing readable in the next two rows, and then, still a long way in from the center, chiseled roughly on a piece of sandstone, was HANNAH THE BEST DOG THAT EVER LIVED 1929-1939. Although sandstone was relatively soft-as a result the inscription was now little more than a ghost-Louis found it hard to conceive of the hours some child must have spent impressing those nine words on the stone.

The commitment of love and grief seemed to him staggering; this was something parents did not even do for their own parents or for their children if they died young.

"Boy, this does go back some," he said to Jud, who had strolled over to join him.

Jud nodded. "Come here, Louis. Want to show you something."

They walked to a row only three back from the center. Here the circular pattern, perceived as an almost haphazard coincidence in the outer rows, was very evident. Jud stopped before a small piece of slate that had fallen over. Kneeling carefully, the old man set it up again.

"Used to be words here," Jud said. "I chiseled em myself, but it's worn away now. I buried my first dog here. Spot. He died of old age in 1914, the year the Great War begun."

Bemused by the thought that here was a graveyard that went farther back than many graveyards for people, Louis walked toward the center and examined several of the markers. None of them were readable, and most had been almost reclaimed by the forest floor. The grass had almost entirely overgrown one, and when he set it back up, there was a small tearing, protesting sound from the earth.

Blind beetles scurried over the section he had exposed. He felt a small chill and thought, Boot Hill for animals. I'm not sure I really like it.

"How far do these go back?"

"Gorry, I don't know," Jud said, putting his hands deep in his pockets. "Place was here when Spot died, of course. I had a whole gang of friends in those days.

They helped me dig the hole for Spot. Digging here ain't that easy, either-ground's awful stony, you know, hard to turn. And I helped them sometimes." He pointed here and there with a horny finger. "That there was Pete LaVasseur's dog, if I remember right, and there's three of Albion Groatley's barncats buried right in a row there.