The Graveyard Game
John Singer Sargent, "Palmettos," 1917. From the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art. All the neighborhood kids play the game, but none of them are as good at it as Gail and Sasha. Ginny’s daughters stand over the other children with their fists dug into their hips and their legs spread wide. They survey the backyard with the serious expressions of seasoned military drill sergeants. It’s a game they play religiously. Every day after school, the same thing. Gail explained the rules to Ginny over dinner one night when Ginny got tired of guessing why they both had dirt in their hair.
You play dead, you stay dead. Gail said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Whoever lasts longest wins.
Eight kids sprawl in the weeds with their arms crossed over their chests. The sisters toe them with their sneakers to make sure they don’t move. Sasha smiles if she can make someone twitch; Gail frowns. These reactions say a lot about Ginny’s daughters. Her youngest finds humor in everything, but her eldest can’t stand it when things don’t go according to plan. It’s a very Ginny thing, to get angry about things you can’t control.
Dead children lie between anthills that cropped up overnight between the patio and the stunted orange tree. I need to go buy more ant killer, Ginny thinks. Someone’s going to get ants up their shorts.
She knows she should say something. It’s morbid to playact death on a daily basis, but she doesn’t have the heart to put a stop to it. Mostly she’s proud of her kids for being the best at something. They boss all the other kids around, even the ones who are a few years older. Sasha yells at a boy when his arm twitches. Gail stands over a girl and watches her face for signs of life. They take the game very seriously. They act like it’s real life and death.
Good, Ginny thinks. Let my kids know what it’s like to be winners. Get it in the bloodstream. Let them crave that feeling.
“You have to really hold it,” Gail says when a girl argues over an out. “I can see your stomach moving. No faking.”
“Like this.” Sasha pinches her nose closed with one hand and cups the other over her mouth. Her eyes get wide and bug out. “Dead. No breathing.”
It was originally called Living Dead, but her girls renamed it The Graveyard Game. They’ve been doing it for two months straight. No end in sight.
She holds a cold cup of coffee and watches her
