Beneath the Crape Myrtle
Originally published simultaneously in Plain Spoke, Vol. 1, No. 2 Fall 2007, and by The Liars League for their "Ghost and Monsters" themed issue, Fall 2007.
Buddy is buried under the crape myrtle tree in the back yard.
Early in the spring he began to limp. He slipped when fetching his toy. He moaned when he lay down and when he stood up. He needs to see a doctor, my husband said.
The news wasn’t good. The doctor told us to keep Buddy comfortable. In time the tumors grew, making his hipbones brittle. Soon his groans became whimpers. I massaged the tender spots in his back. I added padding to his bed. I did what I could. But my husband insisted. We had to do what was best for Buddy, he said. It’s time. We drove into town, the three of us. Buddy’s nose pressed against the window. My husband and I silent.
At the clinic, I could stay quiet no longer. Twelve years, I said, twelve years he’s been with us, a part of our family. Twelve years he’s been by our side, through our good times and bad. Twelve years. He’s the only child we ever had. Surely there’s another way. My husband shook his head. My heart fluttered like a bird in my throat. The doctor readied the needle.
The injection was quick. Buddy lay quietly on the table. His eyes never left mine. I tried to stay strong. I caressed that soft spot behind his ear. I whispered my heart to him and kissed the place where his whiskers bristled from his nose. His breathing slowed from a quick pant to quieting heaves to the inevitable nothing. Empty. I draped myself over his still body. My tears ran down his neck, mingling with his wiry coat.
Buddy is buried under the crape myrtle tree in the back yard. In the fall, the spent pink-crimson blooms will cover his grave.
The morning Buddy was three days in the ground, a dark blur out the garden window caught my eye. The milk I was pouring splashed out of the bowl. My husband cursed, shaking his wet sleeve. I glanced again out the window, saw nothing, and dismissed the blur for a bird. I cleaned up the mess, apologizing, and retrieved my husband a new shirt. Was it a raven? No, bigger than a raven. I found myself looking over the garden throughout the day, wondering.
In the middle of the night I heard a thump. I woke my husband. The house settling, he said. I lay in the dark, listening, waiting for the sound. Yes, there it was. And again. I nudged my husband. He mumbled and turned away, pulling the covers around his ears. I thought of the blur in the back yard. Was it Buddy asking us to let him in for the night? I crept through the dark to the back door; but by the time I got there, Buddy was gone. I was still awake when dawn pushed her glow through the branches of the old sycamore.
The days crept along without Buddy. In the country, with so much distance between, only my voice filled the emptiness of the house. Only my voice, putting words to my grief. When my husband returned home at the end of the day, I had no words left. All were spent. Cast into the corners of the rooms. Vapor in the air.
One morning, I opened the door to get the paper and found an ancient and decrepit steak bone. Like a gift left on the doorstep. What is it, my husband asked. I showed him the bone. He saw the look in my eyes and shook his head. Just a coincidence, he said. He took the bone from my hands and threw it into the garbage bin under the sink.
Evening encircled the house in quiet. The fire crackled in the corner stove and the air was in turns chilled and warmed. Buddy would have been there beside me on the sofa, curled into a tight ball, his nose tucked under the curve of his back leg, his soulful eyes gazing up at me. I looked at my husband sitting in his chair, quiet, reading a book. He does not look longingly at the spot where Buddy napped during the day. He does not listen for the scratch at the back door. He is not heartsick from grief. He has mended quickly from the blow of death. I miss him, I said, caressing the sofa cushion to my left, my voice hollow. You loved that dog too much, my husband said. You loved him more than me. He tossed his book to the floor and left the room. Yes, I thought. More than you ever did.
The next morning while my husband was away at work, I saw the blur of black and white racing again through the back yard. I opened the door and whispered, come in. A rush of wind moved the hem of my skirt. An unexpected joy filled me. Come in, I whispered again, closing the door. You are welcome here. The rest of the day was harmonious. The house was calm. My heart was at peace.
That night, there came a rustling of the bedspread at my feet. I felt Buddy’s hot breath against my ear. He smelled of earth and musk. I raised my hand and waved him off. The breath came again, this time more insistent. I felt the whooshing of my heart beating in my ears. The full moon cast blue shadows across the room. I slid from the bed and slipped into my bathrobe. Together we exited the house. The moon was bright and Buddy was eager to show me his world. He raced around the yard and the night air whipped through my hair. Buddy dug around the ginger bushes and the dirt caked beneath my fingernails. He howled at the moon and together our voices composed a ballad of hope and of grief.
I resolved to keep the sightings to myself for fear of my husband’s ridicule. The rolling of his eyes. The you-know-better-than-this looks. But it became difficult to hide the fact that I no longer fetched the morning paper. How was I to answer when he accused me of digging holes in the yard? Did he think I was poisoning the birds? Stop, he said one evening as I collected the rib bones from his plate. Stop. Buddy is gone, he said. Let him go.
Don’t you see, I asked him. The bones? The birds? The holes? My arms beat the air as I tried to make him understand. Buddy is here, I said again and again. I opened the door, I said. I let him in. He sits by me on the couch. He sleeps at the end of the bed. He’s back. Don’t you see?
Stop, my husband said. His fist hammered the table, making me jump. Stop this. Stop acting crazy, he shouted. Then his voice was gentle. You need to see a doctor. It’s time. My arms went limp, my breathing shallow. I turned my eyes to the garden window where I saw a pink tongue beneath a shining black nose. He’s there, I pointed, my eyes rimmed with tears. Right there. My husband just shook his head and looked away. I understood what needed to be done.
My husband took a sip from the cold glass at dinner the next evening. Have you let the milk go bad again, he asked. I continued to eat my meal, unable to move my eyes from my plate. I imagined his esophagus squeezing the cold liquid down, down, down.
The earth turned three times and settled into darkness.
Now the fire crackles quietly in the corner. The house is quiet, but I am not alone. I look to the door with its window gaping over the garden. The specter of my husband has a sad face, a forgive-me-I-didn’t-know face. I meet his eyes and I whisper no, I will not let you in. You refused to believe. I did what was best for Buddy. His weight nestles in close beside me on the sofa, and I smile.
Buddy is buried under the crape myrtle tree in the back yard. My husband is buried under the old sycamore.