Cemetery Street by John Zunski (free ebook reader for ipad .txt) 📕

earlier incarnation of myself peering from behind darkened windows. I’d much rather watch, I thought as my mind returned to the task at hand.
Summer days spent hurtling tombstones or autumn nights carting Shannie’s coffin through Fernwood never prepared me for it, could anything? Who was ever prepared to literally bury a friend?
Earlier in the morning I opened the grave, soon, I have to close it. I am of the mind that opening a grave is much easier. No wonder I latch on to each passing second with desperation. The determination to see the process through wilts with every rose tossed atop Count’s casket.
This morning, opening the grave came as a relief, something to occupy my time. I didn’t have to sit around waiting for the funeral service, or attend the horrid wake. As horrible as I feel for Bear and Flossy, I can’t stand being in their presence. Since Count’s death, I feel guilty. I told her that Count would be fine, “he’s a professional doing a professional’s job.”
“Professionals get killed,” Flossy’s stare answered, ripping into me like the backhoe ripping into dewy grass, opening a wound in the earth that would become a grave. This morning, after the Lightman’s pulled out of Fernwood’s driveway, I trudged across the cemetery, focused on the job at hand. Waiting until they left gave me little time. Starting earlier was unacceptable, I couldn’t imagine the horror the Lightman’s would have felt hearing the backhoe’s engine turnover, knowing it’s purpose was to dig their son’s grave.
As the mourners filed away, I lingered. “Are you going to make it to the reception?” the good reverend asked, whapping my back.
“I don’t know,” I averted his gaze.
“Try to make it,” he said before turning towards his car.
“Father… I mean Reverend,” I called.
“Yes,” he answered facing me.
“Do me a favor? Make sure Mr. and Mrs. Lightman don’t leave early. Keep them as long as you can.”
“Oh?”
“Can’t have them coming home while I’m still closing the grave, can we?” I glanced past his heavy jowls into cold brown eyes.
“You’re right, we can’t have that.”
“Give me an hour, hour and a half.”
“That long?” he asked.
“I’m working alone,” I answered.
“I think I can keep them occupied.”
The reverend’s car pulled out of Fernwood; I was alone with the most confronting task of my life, penance for my tunnel running stunt. I faced Count. I placed my hand atop the casket. “I love you brother.” I found the switch for the electronic winch. The motor sprung to life and Count began the descent into his final resting-place. I turned away before the top of the casket sunk beneath ground level. “If I hadn’t met you,” Count’s voice echoed in my memory. “I’d never had met your Grandfather and if I hadn’t met your Grandfather, I wouldn’t be going into the army.”
If you hadn’t met me, you wouldn’t be dead, I thought. I released the switch when I heard the thump of the casket against the floor of the burial vault. Tears clouded my vision as I gained my feet and sprinted home. I wasn’t about to bury Count wearing a suit.
My father offered his help adnauseam. I turned him down. When it came down to it, the choice of working alone or having the well intentioned help of someone who didn’t know their ass from a hole in a ground was an easy one. Despite our conversations I wasn’t surprised to see someone sitting on a folding chair next to the open grave. Only when I walked under the trees into Fernwood did I recognize that it wasn’t my father, it was Steve Lucas.
“Thought you could use some help,” Steve Lucas said as I approached. “I know something about burials.” What Steve didn’t say was that it’s state law that a Funeral Director or his representative needed to witness the sealing of the vault.
“I could use a hand,” I said.
The two of us got to the business of burying our friend. We worked with deliberate silence, speaking only when necessary. Determined to handle every last detail, we resolved that Bear would not have to restack a folding chair. After breaking down and storing the canopy and chairs we sprinted past rows of tombstones to the maintenance shed. I jumped in and started the backhoe. Steve chained the vault’s concrete cover to the front-end loader. With a hydraulic squeal, the front-end loader lifted the concrete. The cover swayed back and forth like a pendulum, struggling to find its center of gravity. As it steadied itself I slid the tractor into gear. Steve jumped on the step aside the backhoe’s cab. As the tractor lurched forward, he grabbed hold of the side-view mirror. Speechless, we rode across Fernwood.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Steve’s white knuckles. I glanced at him. He stared forward in deep concentration. Under wind blown hair, a tear trickled down his face. At that moment, I gained new respect for Steve Lucas that I haven’t lost. Steve didn’t have to be there, it would have been a lot easier for him if his despicable father would have supervised the ordeal. I made it through that afternoon because of Steve Lucas’ determination.
He leapt off the backhoe and directed me in lowering the cover onto Count’s vault. With another dull thud, it fell into place. I lowered the loader to the ground and Steve unhooked the chains. Nodding as he finished, he stepped aside. Biting my lower lip, I plunged the loader into pile of topsoil. With a full bucket, I swung the backhoe around and crawled to the edge of Count’s grave. My chest heaving, I dumped the bucket. The topsoil avalanched atop Count with a sickening clunk.
After closing the grave. I used the front end loader to contour it. I motioned for Steve to hop back on when he finished raking the mound. He looked at me puzzled. Knowing what was next, I broke our silence: “Hop on.”
Shrugging his shoulders, he threw the rake into the front end loader and hopped on. As we lumbered across Fernwood, I glanced into the rearview mirror; clad in her black dress, Shannie emerged from behind the tree line carrying her last mudpie.


Chapter 14 What Happened

Random House defines fratricide as the act of killing one’s brother; the United States Army defines fratricide as the employment of friendly weapons and munitions, with the intent to kill the enemy or destroy his equipment or facilities, which results in unforeseen and unintentional death or injury to friendly personnel. James Morrison defines fratricide as a fucking tragedy.
Shannie claims that its harder to accept that Count was killed by an American bullet. I asked her what difference did it make, Count was dead, knowing what happened wasn’t going to bring him back.
“How can you be so obtuse?” Shannie asked. We were sharing a six pack in the maple tree. The overcast afternoon matched our mood. Since the funeral Shannie and I fell into the habit of spending time in places that the three of us hung out. I don’t know why, but it helped, as if we were absorbing Count’s remaining aura. Shannie went a step further, she started drinking Count’s favorite beer.
“Whatever,” I exclaimed. “I just don’t see the difference.”
“Geezus Pete James! It makes all the difference in the world. It’ll give us some sense of closure.”
“Closure, let me tell you about closure, I had it up to here with closure. Burying him was enough closure. But if you want closure, I’ll give you closure: Closure, closure, closure; Closure, closure, Closure; there’s your fucking closure!” I jumped out of the tree and whipped my empty in a high arc. The bottle shattered somewhere in the junkyard, Duke Nukem sprung to life, his insane chorus silencing the expressway’s traffic. “Take your closure and shove it up that pretty little ass of yours.” I escaped into Fernwood.
“You insensitive prick!” Shannie yelled after me.
I shot Shannie the middle finger.
“Your mother is right. It is all about James. James is all that matters, James, James, James; it’s what’s best for James! It’s all about James!” Shannie’s voice chased me.
“Piss off,” I yelled.
“You think you’re the only one who hurts?” Shannie’s voice rained upon me.
I stopped, needing to answer; I had an idea what I wanted to say, but somewhere between my brain and tongue my train of thought derailed. I skirted Fernwood avoiding Count’s grave. Despite being mid-afternoon, I slipped into bed and slept until the next morning.

A pall hung over Cemetery Street during the following months. The sun didn’t shine as bright, clouds hung lower, and rain fell longer. At night, stars glowered and the moon wore a constant frown. The weeds flourished, thriving on the melancholy. When I worked I perpetually weed-whacked Fernwood. I kept Count’s grave immaculate.
Days which Bear and I had a funeral were blessed, the work required enough concentration to be distracting. The work was a good reason to crawl out of bed. Other days when nothing was on tap, I began my weed-whacking odyssey late in the afternoon often finishing after sundown. Those gloomy days taught me darkness could be my friend, it coddled me tight in its bosom, protecting me from a didactic world.
After a dismal day of weed whacking, Fernwood faded in dying gray. Welcoming the darkness, I shuffled past the ashen tombstones. Passing under the trees between the cemetery and my house I heard Shannie’s voice: “Come with me to Washington.”
Shannie was nowhere to be found. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to sprint for the safety of my bedroom. With Shannie-like determination, I kept a normal stride.
“Up here,” Shannie’s voice called after me.
I glanced up. Shannie sat in a tree. “Come with me to Washington,” Shannie repeated from the branches where I used to spy funerals.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I snarled.
“I think I’m on to something,” she said ignoring my complaint.
“Not this again!”
“Yes this again. There’s going to be a parade in D.C. Count’s unit is marching. It’ll be a good chance to talk to some people, find out what happened.”
“I told you I don’t care.”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Shannie’s eyes glowed like emeralds in dying light. “You walk around like a zombie. It’s like you’re dying to find out and won’t admit it to yourself.”
“Bullshit,” I protested.
“I’m only going to ask you once more; Come to Washington with me.” Shannie swayed with the breeze.
Avoiding her gaze I kicked at the ground.
“You coming or not?” she implored.
“Why should I?” I mumbled.
“Cut the shit, do you want to go or not?”
“NO!” I answered.
“Suit yourself,” Shannie swung off the tree. “I’ll ask Beetle. She’ll go.”
“Fuck her!” I protested. “I’ll go!”

The sun reflected off the Potomac as Shannie and I made our way through the crowd lining the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Its shadow skimmed over the water reaching for the distant Fourteenth Street Bridge. Overhead, the chopping sound of a helicopter washed down upon the crowd. Around us, people looked skyward. Taking advantage of the crowd’s preoccupation, Shannie led us to the parade’s disassembly area. It was here that Shannie choose to lie in ambush, waiting for the right moment to assault any member of the 2nd Brigade, 101st airborne.
I spent the afternoon marveling at Shannie’s tenacity; I’d rather roll over. I didn’t get Shannie’s obsession. The harder I tried to understand the worse I felt. I understood that she wanted to find out what happened, but once she did what good would it accomplish? The effort wasn’t worth it. Why am I here? I asked myself as wave after wave of soldiers marched down