David Bell - Cemetery Girl

Buster put down his cup and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He looked thoughtful, sincere. “Have you ever thought-? And I’m only saying this because I do care about you. I really do. I mean, I know I can be a royal screwup. I know Abby can’t stand me and all that. Hell, maybe you can’t stand me either. I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I can stand you. Most of the time.”

He smiled. “Thanks.”

“And I think I know where you’re going with this. .”

“You know the odds,” Buster said. “But it’s probably true. There was never a ransom demand. She probably did die that day. There’s been no evidence to the contrary.”

I closed my eyes. Even in the noisy bar, I could imagine the screams. Caitlin’s voice. High. Cracking. Stretched to its limit. Daddy!

“I don’t like to think we lost her that day,” I said.

“That’s fine. I understand. What are the cops saying?” He reached behind him, to an empty table, and grabbed a bowl of peanuts.

“Very little. When we do hear from them, it’s the same stuff. They have one detective on it. The feds have pulled out. They call it an active case, but what does that mean? I know they have other things. Newer cases.”

“They still think she ran away?”

“It makes it easier on them, right? If she ran away, there’s no crime. She’d be sixteen now. .” I paused.

“We can drop it if you want,” Buster said.

I nodded.

Our food came. Buster salted his fries and started eating. I stared at my plate, my appetite uncertain.

“I stopped by your house on the way to that crazy church,” he said. “I thought I might catch you. I knocked and knocked, but nothing.”

“We were at the church already.”

“I know that. But Frosty didn’t bark.”

I shook my head. “He’s gone.”

“But you were just walking him the other day. He died? What happened?”

I shrugged. “I took him to the shelter. He’s an older dog, set in his ways. They said there’s a chance someone will adopt him, but if not, well, they euthanize the dogs eventually.”

“Did he get sick?”

I shook my head.

Recognition spread across his face. “Abby wanted him gone?”

I didn’t respond. I picked up a french fry and popped it in my mouth.

“And you did it? You took him to the pound?”

“I did it for Abby. And for me. He was Caitlin’s dog. He was a reminder of what we lost. If it helps us to turn the page. .”

“Jesus. That’s cold.”

“The dog who knew too much. Except how to tell us what he knew.” I emptied my cup and poured more beer for Buster and myself.

“How are things with you and Abby?”

I started eating my lukewarm food. “The same.”

“That good?”

“We’re fine.”

“Let me ask you something, and if I’m crossing a line here, just let me know.”

I laughed. “Would that stop you?”

“No.” He signaled the waitress for another pitcher. “But I’m just wondering. . do you two still do it? I mean, do you sleep in the same bed? Do you fuck?”

The pitcher came. “Put that on my brother’s tab,” I said.

“You can put it all on my tab. My treat.” He winked at me. “I guess I owe you a few.” He didn’t refill his cup. “Well?”

“I know you’re trying to provoke me now. It always ends up this way with you.”

“You don’t fuck? Ever?” He shook his head. “I don’t know how anyone could live that way. I just have to get something, you know? I can’t live without it.” He kept shaking his head. “See, I’m really just trying to find out why you stay married to someone who you don’t have anything going on with. She’s at that freaky church; you’re a college professor. She wants to do this whole funeral thing. You don’t. She thinks Caitlin’s dead. .”

“She hasn’t worked for a long time. She gave up teaching when Caitlin was born.”

“ S o? ”

“Our lives are intertwined. It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”

“Isn’t it?” He pushed away his plate and drank more. He let out a hissing burp. “I think it is easy. Easy for me to see anyway. The dog’s gone. The headstone’s been laid. People are moving on. Remember when Dad died? My dad? Remember how you cried at the funeral?”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You did.”

“Not for him, I didn’t.”

Buster sighed. “He raised you.”

“If you want to call it that.”

Buster leaned back. He brought his hand up and scratched his jaw. I could tell he was angry. Whenever we talked about my stepfather, one or both of us ended up full of anger. But Buster managed to swallow his this time. When he spoke again, his voice was even.

“Here’s my point-it wasn’t long after the old man died that you went off to grad school. You started a new life, a new career. You met Abby. You had a baby. It was like his death liberated you in a way. You know, they say we don’t fully become ourselves until our parents die. Maybe that’s why I’m something of a late bloomer.” He spoke the last sentence without a trace of irony. “Maybe you have the chance for a new life here. Now. If you just. . accept things. .”

I stared at him across our dirty, cluttered table. I thought about walking out-hell, I thought about punching him. But instead, I just signaled for the waitress, who brought the check.

“Give it to him,” I said. “We’re finished here.”

“Do you mind making a stop?”

“Where?” Buster asked.

When Buster saw the animal shelter, he sighed. “You’re kidding, right? He’s dead.”

“Just give me a minute.”

In the lobby, I smelled the accumulated odors of hundreds of caged animals. Their fur, their waste, their food. Their fear and desperation. The door at the back, the one that led to the cages, muffled the sounds, but I could still hear a faint chorus of barks and yelps. I asked the woman working at the counter about Frosty, and she seemed immediately confused by my request.

“He’s your dog?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And he was lost?”

“No, I brought him here. He’s a yellow Lab. Frosty’s his name. I wanted to get rid of him, but now I want him back.”

She pursed her lips like the nuns from my grade school.

“Well, I’ll see,” she said. “But this doesn’t happen often.” She stopped at the door to the cages and looked back at me. “You’ll have to pay the adoption donation even if he is your dog.”

I nodded my assent. While she was gone, I looked around the lobby. The faces of dogs and cats in need of homes stared back at me from one bulletin board, and next to that another one held flyers advertising missing pets. We didn’t make a new flyer for Caitlin this year. The police created an age progression image, one showing Caitlin at age fifteen, and it was so warped and distorted-the eyes too large, the hair artificial-I couldn’t bear to look at it. I thought it belonged in a mortician’s textbook, an example of what not to do to preserve the image of a loved one. But the police distributed it anyway, and from time to time I came across a faded, wrinkling copy in the corner of a coffee shop or stuck to a community bulletin board downtown.

The woman reappeared so quickly I knew she bore bad news.

“He’s gone,” she said matter-of-factly, as though talking about a housefly.

“I thought you kept them for a week-”

“He’s been adopted,” she said. “Someone got him yesterday.”

“Okay, can you just tell me who it is? I need him back.”

She shook her head, the lips pursed again. “We can’t do that, sir.”

“But he’s my dog.”

“You brought him in here. You gave him away.”