(March, 1991) Atop the brownstone church, a bell tolled. Birdsong overtook the bell's keen. Its mournful plea ignored, the bell soldiered on, beseeching nature to suspend its joyous song. Sensing its duty's futility, the seasoned bell gave way to the roar of the pipe organ. Inside the church bird song was silenced. The mighty organ paused, as if catching its breath. Shannie's sobs pierced the organ's echo. Sunlight burst through the stained glass windows and danced in pools across the gray floor. An errant bit of sun reflected off the medal pinned atop the flag draped casket. In the first pew, the Lightman's sat stoically, a lesson learned from the tombstones that lined Fernwood. Flossy was sedated into a stupor. Leroy Sr., the knowing soldier, the incredulous parent, still was in shock; a soldierly shock - determined and marching.
Behind the Lightman's sat the Ortolans. Diane, an arm draped around her daughter, whispered into Shannie's ear. Sobbing, Shannie rested her head upon her mother's shoulder. Diane stroked Shannie's hair which poured like tears over her black dress.
My father and I shared the second pew with the Ortolans. I trembled in the organ's embrace, hoping its grasp would spring my tears. Like my mother, my tears vanished. Next to me, my father stared at the simple white cross that served as the altarpiece, his hands resting in his lap, his upper lip stiff. Through arid eyes, I gazed at Shannie, the small space between us a gulf of empty pine.
In the pew behind us was the Lucas family. Marcy sat next to Count's casket. Janice held an arm around her younger sister. The pipe organ receded - reloading for another barrage. The clickitty-clack of Russell's cane tap-danced around the scattered coughs and whispers of the congregation. I wished to be with Russell, I wanted to feel his strength. I'm sure he saw through the folly! I'm sure that's why he arrived late! He saw how everyone needed to be part of Count's funeral, Count's story, Count's posthumous fifteen minutes of fame. I'm sure Russell saw through it all. He knew that most of the people who filled the church didn't care a rat's ass about Count before his death. He was just that redneck gravedigger's son. Hypocrites!
The pipe organ again sprung to life, announcing the beginning of the service, beckoning the congregation to join in hymn. The congregation accepted, in unison they stood - stood all around me - and sang their hearts out. They sang for Leroy Lightman Jr.; they sang for Count. Despite their best intentions, they sounded like a gaggle of geese. And Mr. Lucas - the greatest offender of them all - that prick! That hypocrite! His croon - the cadence of an artillery shell, - rose above the others. I winced as the undertaker's wail bounced about my bitter, empty heart. With Shannie, I agreed we lost a brother. Unlike Shannie, I didn't sing for Leroy Lightman Jr. I didn't have to sing for Count. He wouldn't have wanted me to; he would have told me to "shut up the hell up dumbass! You can't carry a football, what makes you think you could carry a goddamned tune."