Cemetery Girl

I dug the phone out of my pocket, expecting it to be Abby checking in. I might have ignored it if it had been her, but the caller ID told a different story. It was my brother. Actually, my half brother, Buster. His given name is William, but he acquired his nickname as a child when he managed to break everything he touched.

I answered just before voice mail kicked in.

“What’s up, boss?” he asked.

His voice possessed its usual hail-fellow-well-met cheer. Talking to him on the phone was like conversing with a particularly convincing telemarketer, one who could almost make you believe your ship had come in and you’d be a fool to pass up the current offer. Buster maintained this tone even though we hadn’t spoken to each other in close to six months. He’d moved an hour away the year before, and our communication, which had always been sporadic, slowed to a drip. We shared a mother-dead five years earlier-but had different fathers. My dad died when I was four. My mom remarried and had Buster.

I told him I was walking the dog.

“Good, good.” He cleared his throat. I heard someone talk in the background on his end of the line. It sounded like a woman. “I wanted to tell you I’m coming to town this week.”

“What for?”

“For the funeral,” he said. “Or whatever the hell it is that Abby’s doing. I know you didn’t invite me, and you might not even want me to come, but Abby called. She said she wanted all of the family there, and since you don’t have much-I mean, I’m pretty much it these days. Right?”

“It’s not that I didn’t want you to come,” I said. Frosty and I stood alongside the cemetery and I could see the area where Caitlin’s marker would go up in a few days. “I just thought you wouldn’t want to come because-”

“Because it’s so fucked-up.”

I hesitated. “Yeah, because of that.”

“What’s she going to do, bury an empty coffin? How do you have a funeral for someone who might not be dead?”

“We didn’t buy a coffin.”

“But you bought a plot and a headstone?”

Frosty tugged on the leash, indicating he wanted to move on.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Jesus. Is this because of that wackadoodle church she belongs to? What’s it called?”

I regretted ever answering the phone. “Christ’s Community Church.”

“That’s original,” he said. “Aren’t they all Christ’s churches? Remember when people belonged to actual churches? You know, Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians. I hate hearing about these anything-goes religions, you know? Just put up a warehouse and a coffee bar and let them come in and feel good about themselves.”

“I didn’t know you were so easily offended.”

“Stupidity pisses me off. That herd mentality. How much is it costing you to buy this cenotaph and plot? A couple thousand bucks?”

Frosty pulled against the leash again, and I tugged back, trying to keep him still.

“Buy what?” I asked.

“A cenotaph. That’s what they call it when you put up a marker and there’s no body under it. A cenotaph. You’re not the only one who knows the big words, professor.”

“Look, I have to go. The dog’s done his business.”

“I’ll call you when I get to town. Okay?”

“Sure. But don’t feel obligated-”

“I do feel obligated,” he said. His voice dripped with sincerity, and I wanted to believe him. I really did. “For you, anything. Just let me know. I’ll be by your side.”

Frosty and I faced the choice of going around the track again, something we almost never did, or getting in the car and completing my mission. Frosty pulled a little in the direction of the car, but I pulled harder, and we entered the cemetery together.

I knew they didn’t want pets in there, digging up flowers and shitting and pissing on the graves. But Frosty’s tank was pretty well emptied, and I preferred to face the prospect of an accident in the cemetery over delivering him to the pound.

We walked down the road that cut through the center of the cemetery, then turned right and headed toward the back. I recognized the names on the larger headstones, the same names that adorned the buildings and parks throughout town. Potter. Hard-castle. Greenwood. Cooper. They didn’t skimp on death, these founding families and innovative educators, these city councilmen and spiritual leaders. Not only did they have elaborate headstones, beautifully engraved and clean as the day they were cut, but they paid for life-sized guardians to watch over the graves. Vigilant Virgin Marys and winged angels, Christ with his eyes cast to heaven as though begging for intercession. While the stone we’d picked out for Caitlin didn’t approach those lofty heights, it wasn’t cheap either. Buster was right-we’d spent too much money.