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 does it make, Count is dead, knowing what happened isn'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.