54

Ed shuts the car off and the engine ticks a few times before anyone moves. “Okay, let’s get those chrysanthemums watered.” He isn’t looking at Alice, because he knows that he can’t possibly deserve the look on her face. “Where are the watering cans?”

“Over there.” Alice climbs out of the Cutlass, letting Buddy jump out behind her. For once, she doesn’t grab his leash.

Ed comes back from the cemetery shed with a can. “Why don’t you have one of your own? Why use these?”

“Never gave it much thought.” Alice lets Ed fill the can, watches like a mother hen as he drains it over the parched mums.

Ed is careful to water the way Alice wants him to, each one of the four golden mums given an equal share of the water. They are tall and quite bushy, almost, but not quite, obscuring the lettering on the headstone. This is the first time he’s seen it, and he is surprised that it doesn’t hurt as miserably as he thought it might to look at it. For seven years, he’s avoided looking at this rock inscribed with the short life of his only child, as if by putting it in the hard writing of stone, the loss would be made tangible. But in the end, it’s just a rock. One that his wife has been carefully tending, making sure no lichen sullies it, no flowers go dead in front of it; that all the major holidays are represented with flags or wreathes, daffodils, or chocolate bunnies. It is Alice’s place, her last remaining maternal responsibility. In the end, it is just a rock, and the loss is just the same.

*   *   *

Buddy’s eyes are on the pillars. He keeps thinking that he should go and sit there, but he can’t remember why that is. It’s far more comfortable here, where Ed and Alice bend over the plants. He stands and shakes himself vigorously from nose to tail, circles three times on the soft moss-covered space between the stones. He tucks his nose beneath his tail and continues his nap. This is a pleasant place and he can wait until they are ready to take him home.