Boone's bark pulled my attention away from the girl. In an unusual burst of energy, he ran through the weeds after a lizard. He ignored my yell and continued on his hunt, which took him to the north end of the park.
"Hey, goofball, leave the lizard alone," I called.
Boone disappeared into the tall weeds. Bugs of every shape and size fluttered up as my dog plowed through their hiding places. By the time he reemerged, he was breathing hard and covered with burrs and dead leaves.
A dried up pond with a stone flamingo standing in the center sat still and parched at the northern corner of the park. The benches that lined the pond were caked in bird shit. It seemed no one except pigeons had sat on those benches for years. As my eyes swept around, I saw a patch of color, yellow roses climbing along a black wrought iron fence. It was hard to believe how out of place a simple vine of roses could look, but they were like a bolt of permanent lightning in the otherwise dull town.
Boone, now exhausted from the lizard hunt, shook the dead leaves from his fur and trotted along next to me as I crossed the street. The yellow roses and a good dose of curiosity pulled me along a dirt path, leading away from the shops.
I stopped at the black fence and stared through the yellow blooms. It was a cemetery. Three precisely arranged rows of gravestones, each carved with an angel, filled the square of neatly mowed grass. Each grave had a bouquet of daisies sitting in front of the marker. Just outside, where I stood, weeds popped up from every crack in the road. Flowers were nonexistent and every building was in need of repair and paint. But inside the glossy black wrought iron fence, mounds of pink and yellow petunias spilled over the lush green grass as if spring was eternal in this one small spot on earth. Three benches, one situated in each corner of the cemetery, had been painted with bright green lacquer paint. It was like watching a black and white movie and having one character in full color. Only, in this case, the character was a graveyard.
The gate was a simple latch, but I didn't need to go inside. I could see it all from outside the gates, the pain, the agony and the small patch of comfort provided by the cheery eternal resting place.
I turned back around and whistled to Boone, whose nose was buried in a gopher hole. He reluctantly pulled his snout free and followed me back to the town square. The sun was beating down hard on the dry patch of ground. I raked my hair back with my fingers and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand.
I walked to the fountain and stood in front of it, squinting up at the horses jumping up from the base of it, hooves curved high in the air like rearing stallions. The water spouts clamped in their stone teeth were caked with algae and mineral deposits.
I could have left Butterfield right then, turned back along the cracked and crumbling sidewalk and away from the depressing little town. I could have driven off and never looked back.
The moat of weeds surrounding the base of the fountain crunched under my shoes as I climbed into the bottom tier. My fingers wrapped around a long tall weed that had anchored itself at the base of the first horse. I yanked the spindly weed free, tossed it out of the fountain and scooted around to the next weed.