“M-U-E-R-T-E,” he spelled out in the boy’s second language so that he couldn’t understand that there was death in the room with them. It was his parents’ language, the one that contained words he understood but could not yet spell out.
Being that her eyes were swelling with grief, the woman tried desperately not to let them be seen by the boy. Children, like dogs and the elderly, could understand almost anything by looking into the eyes of others.
“Could we maybe go back out for a bit?” the man said, looking first at the woman. Standing in the doorway to block any view of the deceased, he tried to smile but his face was muzzled by the situation’s unpleasantness—it made him look strange. “Go down to the park—I’ll come find you in a bit.”
An hour passed and after moving the garbage bag full of small, domestic animal into the trunk of the car, driving it to the local pet crematorium, and filling out some paperwork, the man went to a bodega near the park’s entrance. He believed that he needed a cigarette for the nerves before rejoining the boy and the woman.
“It must’ve died in the afternoon, the neighbor walked it sometime around midday,” he explained to the man behind the counter, “—I don’t understand.”
“I am very sorry,” the cashier said, extending his condolences. “Even small deaths are difficult to understand.”
Agreeing, the man nodded. He considered a pack of cigarettes but went with a glass bottle of soda instead.
“What do I say?” the man asked.
“Pocas palabras,” the cashier said, handing the man his change. “One should always say a few words.”
“No. Not a eulogy, not those kinds of words,” the man said. “I need to explain death to the boy.”
The cashier looked past the man, toward the doorway and the sun and the park across the street, his brow uneven, his dark hands resting on the countertop.
“Yes, I mean to the boy—you should say very few words,” the cashier explained. “Many words will make it difficult—Muy dificil.”
Agreeing, the man nodded again.
“Does the boy understand Spanish?”
“Very little,” the man said.
“Death,” the cashier said, pausing to rub his thumb into a spot of smudge on the countertop, “seems easiest to understand in Spanish.” The little bell hanging over the door rang out when a potential customer entered the shop. “It usually takes just one word. Una palabra—one word if any.”
“Gracias,” said the man. Turning to leave the shop, he shook his head with dissatisfaction. Useless, he thought. Typical wisdom.
The sun had nearly set and the orange of the sky had turned purple-blue by the time the man found the woman and the boy near the swings. There was a gust that moved dirt and wood chips in different directions. Day birds were still making sounds along with an ice cream truck. It was very warm.
“Amigo ran away,” he said to the boy, offering him the cold soda. “He ran away with a dog friend.”
The boy seized to swing. Calmly, he asked if Amigo would be coming back; he took the soda.
“No, unfortunately he won’t.”
“Did he leave a note?” asked the boy.
The woman shook her head, nearly smiling. She wiped a tear from her eye.
“He didn’t. Amigo was a dog of very few words,” the man said. “Pocas palabras.”
