"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 concrete 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.