***
We carried Shannie from the church into a clear, crisp December afternoon. The sun shined brilliantly in the southern sky. Vehicles raced up and down Main Street, their occupants, lost in the bustle of normality, were oblivious to my grief. I took a deep breath as we paused to balance Shannie's weight. I'd rather die before suffering Shannie the final indignity of dropping her down the church steps. Slowly we descended, I studied my shoes, intently watching every footfall. My throat tightened and I struggled catching my breath as we crossed the sidewalk to the waiting hearse. I gasped for air as the six of us slid Shannie inside. Tears clouded my vision as I backed away, closing my eyes as Steve Lucas closed the door. I winced as it latched shut.
An arm wrapped around my shoulder. "Ride with me." Steve said. "I wouldn't feel right if it was only Shannie and me."
I smiled, albeit a weak one, but it was a smile. "Thanks," I mumbled before dropping my head.
In a matter of moments, Shannie, Steve and I led the small caravan on the thirty-odd mile jaunt to Laurel Hill cemetery in Philadelphia. Silence kept us company as we drove past places named King of Prussia, Gulph Mills and Conshohocken. It wasn't until we exited the Schuylkill Expressway at Manayunk that silence abandoned us. "I hate it here," I said leaning my head against the passenger window.
"I don't like the city myself," Steve answered.
"No, I mean I hate Beyford, I hate Philly, I hate Pennsylvania, I hate it all."
"Yeah, I know what you mean." Steve sighed.
The funeral procession passed over the Schuylkill River before entering the walled cemetery through its gatehouse. "I quit Steve," I said breaking another growing silence. "I'll give you two weeks, but that's it. I'm done. I can't take it anymore."
It wasn't like Steve to protest. He accepted events as they happened. Even so, I was surprised, when he shook my hand and wished me good luck and without a word of objection or discouragement told me not to worry about two weeks.
***
A raw breeze skimmed off the Schuylkill River as we gathered around Shannie's grave. I glanced past Shannie's casket at the monuments where she and I once frolicked. Gone was their appeal - no longer were they the innocuous art forms that Shannie taught me to appreciate, instead they were cranky reminders of foregone pain, their former splendor eroded by the ghosts of mourners who forever stand shedding tears.