"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 propose 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.