Frosty sat at my feet, head down. Defeated. The refrigerator cycled, made a low humming noise and then shut off. I shrugged.
“You keep saying we have to move on with our lives. Right? Turn the page?”
She nodded, a little uncertain. Over the past couple of years, Abby’s face had rarely shown uncertainty. Her involvement with the church made her seem certain all the time, as though nothing were ever in doubt. Except for me. I knew she harbored doubts about me. As a last resort, I was sacrificing the dog. A show of good faith on my part. But I didn’t think she’d let me go through with it. I thought once she saw Frosty on his leash, ready to be led out the door and to the pound, she’d stop me.
Tears stood in her eyes, and she took a deep breath.
“I think we do need to do that, Tom.” She sighed. “With the memorial service coming up, I think we can move on.” She sighed again, and it sounded more like a hiccup, almost a cry. “I used to love Frosty, but every time I look at him now, I think of Caitlin. And I can’t. I don’t want to do it anymore.”
“You’re sure, Abby? Really? He’s such a good dog.”
She shook her head, tapped her foot against the floor. “I’m sure, Tom.”
“Fine.” I tugged the leash, harder than I needed to, and Frosty jerked to his feet. His paws clattered against the floor, slow and methodical. Dead dog walking. “Will you be here when I get back?”
“I have a meeting at church.”
I nodded, my hand on the doorknob of the back door.
“It’s funny,” I said.
“What is, Tom? What’s funny?”
“You say you can’t stand to see Frosty because he reminds you of Caitlin. I love having Frosty around for the same reason.”
“Tom. Don’t.”
“I won’t.” I opened the door and stepped outside, leading the only known witness to my daughter’s abduction to his demise.
I didn’t go straight to the pound. My guilt got the better of me—guilt over Frosty’s impending doom, guilt over the slap on the nose, guilt over who knows how many things—so I drove a short distance and stopped at the park. When I pulled into the lot, Frosty perked up. His ears rose, his tail thumped against the backseat, and he started panting, filling the enclosed car with his musky dog breath. I found a spot in the shade and climbed out, then opened the back door for Frosty. He jumped down, nose to the ground, sniffing every square inch he came across, stopping only to pee against a small tree. I took that opportunity to attach the leash again and let Frosty lead me through the park.
Since it was a Saturday and late summer, the park was full of activity. At the baseball diamond near the road, a boys team practiced, their aluminum bats pinging with every contact. Joggers and speed walkers traced the running track, and I followed along in their wakes, letting Frosty pull me off to the side every ten feet while he inspected a fallen branch or a curious scent. I tried to tell myself I was there for the dog, that he deserved to spend his final moments on this earth doing the things he loved the most: romping through the park, chasing butterflies, or charging after squirrels. But it was a lie. Caitlin had disappeared from that park four years ago, while walking Frosty, and I found myself returning there, alone, again and again.
The park occupied nearly two hundred acres just two blocks from our house. To the east and south, new subdivisions with streets named after variations on deer—Running Fawn, Leaping Hart—dotted the landscape. The bricks of the houses were new and gleaming, the streets smooth and unstained. As we walked, Frosty continued to huff at the end of his leash, his tail bobbing like a metronome. Forgiveness came quickly to him. My earlier transgression was apparently forgotten, and I didn’t have time to think about it anyway. I knew that Frosty was leading me toward the edge of the park where it bordered Oak Ridge, the oldest operational cemetery inside the town’s limits and the site of Caitlin’s upcoming memorial service and “burial,” which was scheduled for later in the week.
The neat rows of headstones and cleanly cropped grass came into view. I must have slowed, because Frosty turned his head back to look at me, one eyebrow cocked. I hadn’t been to the park or the cemetery in the weeks since Abby decided to hold the memorial service and place a headstone in Caitlin’s honor. She had been receiving “counseling” from the pastor of her church—Pastor Chris—and he apparently felt that four years was enough time to grieve for a lost child. He’d managed to convince Abby it was time to move on.
I used to take some measure of comfort from cemeteries, even after Caitlin disappeared. They assured me that even death could be beautiful, that even after we are gone, some memory, some monument to our lives could still exist and endure.
My cell phone buzzed in my pocket.