A Grave Adventure

My brother and I grew up outside of a small town in the northern midwest on a five-acre homestead. There wasn't (and still isn't) much to do around those parts so finding activities to entertain us during the summer months, when mom was at work, became interesting. We were just curious kids, looking for something to do besides torture each other - as siblings do.

There were many days spent crossing the railroad river bridge by foot, then sneaking into the woods to the abandoned house on the other side where we made up fake names and pretended we were bandits hiding from the police.

The house was full of old, filthy junk that we considered treasure and used in our games. We often brought a lot of that junk home, to our mother's dismay.

"Where did you get this old pot?" Mom would ask.

"Um, we found it in the little house." The little house, not to be confused with the abandoned house, was on our property and filled with mom's old stuff.

"I don't remember this." She'd say, as she turned it over a few times - inspecting every little scratch and dent, looking for a lost memory.

"Well, you should. It's yours." We'd tell her.

She'd shrug and toss it aside.

We always thought we were so clever. Yet, someday we'd grow up and realize that mom knew we were full of shit up to our eyeballs and none of the treasure we brought home would ever pass as hers.

Before we'd grow up, we would keep going on dangerous adventures. We'd fill our little house with stolen garbage loot, we'd create new stories about our thievery, games to go along with it, climb on the little house roof and yell curse words at the neighbor kids across the river, and a whole lot of other nonsense until we just plain ran out of imagination. Then we'd hop on our bikes and go exploring elsewhere.

If the neighboring kids weren't out and about (or if they decided they hated us that day) we'd take to the highway to collect sugar beets. You could get a quarter back then for each one you picked up. Someone told us that once, but to be honest - I never did see a single quarter. Just a big pile of stinky sugar beets.

Somedays, when "sugar beeting" was low, we'd crawl into the big culverts that ran under the highway. There were always cool drawings up and around the walls and a few inches of nice warm water to play in...that left us smelling a little extra ripe in the summer heat. We liked it in there because we were not supposed to be in there. Just like the abandoned house.

There was one day in particular that I'll never forget. And that's hard for me to say - because I have forgotten a lot. Much more than I'd care to admit, to be honest, due to an accident that scrambled the memory portion of my brain just enough to create a heavy fog. But, this day will always be there just like it happened yesterday.

The two of us, my brother and I, had found a day that we couldn't go thieving in the abandoned house across the train bridge, we couldn't meet up in the highway culvert because our friends weren't home, and it wasn't sugar beet picking season. We had played in our little house so much that it just wasn't all that fun anymore and we weren't up for fort building in the woods either. We had so many train-squished pennies that we went broke with it, so that idea was out the window as well. What the heck else were we suppose to do now?

This day - the day of nothing else to do - turned into a day that we wished we would have just sat on the couch and watched whatever was on PBS at the time. Instead, we hopped on our bikes and went to a new place, down the highway to the little cemetery on a gravel road. That day left us utterly confused and sent our imaginations spiraling into the dark.

We watched for cars, took our time, and stayed close to the ditch on the side of the highway. The cemetery was a little further away from home than we should have been on our bikes, even though we'd frequently take a mile north into town to swim on occasion at the small town pool. Our new destination was probably about 2 miles total. Way further than we should have been, considering I was about eight years old.

The cemetery was clear to see from the highway. It was a mile east and a mile south from the end of our driveway with just a handful of trees around the back side of it. Not a very big section and not too many headstones either. It was just a small, private cemetery.

Apparently, from what we'd assumed, there had been a service recent to our secret visit as there was a fresh dirt mound in front of a headstone near the southwest corner. It was easy to see as soon as we arrived. As fresh as the mound was, however, the stone wasn't. It didn't look new, perhaps five to ten years old if I had to guess at that age. But, we didn't care just then.

Now, we didn't pay much mind to it at first. We walked around the perimeter of the cemetery and admired the flowers on some of the graves. Some had little sparkling windmills, vases, pictures, and trinkets left by loved ones. We never touched a thing because we thought it was bad luck. Neither one of us was willing to risk bad luck, so we just looked.

My brother went off ahead as I fell behind trying to read some of the names. I couldn't read for shit at eight, so I was a few stones back. By the time I caught up with my brother, he was standing still next to the fresh mound of dirt, staring down at a plastic bag.

"What is that?" I asked.

He didn't say anything.

The mound didn't look right. We realized that in the silence we shared for the next few minutes.

"What do you think is in there?" I whispered, gesturing at the plastic bag.

"I don't know. What do you think?" He whispered back.

He picked up a stick nearby and poked at it. The end of the stick squished into something inside the bag. My brother's eyes got a little wider.

"Should we open it?"

He didn't answer back. We knelt down, next to the stone and the strange fresh mound that didn't look right, and in an instant decided that we'd open the bag and see what kind of treasure someone had left there.

Oddly enough, for the adventurers that we were - something just didn't feel right and we were both nervous as could be. How could one little plastic bag make two kids, who frequented an abandoned house across the train bridge in the woods by foot, so nervous? It was just a plastic bag. Someone probably left their garbage there. That had to be it. Maybe a dirty diaper to have squished the way it did.

That wasn't it, though. I wish it was, but it wasn't.

My brother used that stick to carefully pick open the plastic bag to reveal what had been left inside next to that fresh mound that didn't look right. Now, I had never seen one of these before, but my brother was older and he'd seen pictures so he knew right away what it was...and he turned a bit white.

"It's...it's a kidney."

My eyes widened this time. "It's a WHAT?" I shouted a little too loudly.

My brother elbowed the crap out of me and told me to shut up, looking around to see if anyone had seen us out there in that cemetery. But, there wasn't even a house in sight. Just us, in that cemetery, next to that mound of fresh dirt that didn't look right, staring down at a kidney in a plastic bag.

"We have to get the fuck out of here." He said very slowly. "Right now."

And we did. We left the bag wide open, hopped on our bikes, and went straight home as fast as we could. My brother and I ran into the house and upstairs to his room and closed the door. Mom wasn't home yet, but we always thought she could hear us somehow. Maybe telepathic mom powers or something. So he whispered just in case her telepathy was on.

"You can't tell mom. Like ever. I mean it." The look on his face was enough to tell me I'd get a punch in the gut if I did tell her.

"I promise, I won't. But, who left their kidney out there?"

"Shut up! Don't even say it to me! We're done talking about it! It never happened! Now get out of my room!" My brother was shook.

We never discussed it again.

It's been thirty years since we found that plastic bag, but I can remember the whole ordeal as though it just happened. I've always wondered why it was there. Did whoever stole it not get it out right and toss it? Did they only need one? Did they forget to take it with them after they filled the hole back in? If so, that would mean they'd be back for it and we left it wide open. There was sure to be a wild dog taking a chunk out of it if they didn't come back soon. What if they came for it and we were still there? Would they take our kidneys too? Would they have buried us in that mound that didn't look right with whoever's kidney that really was?

I know I'll never get an answer to any of my questions, but I know I'll never forget seeing it. The image is forever burned into my memory and I will always think of it every single time I drive past that cemetery.