Cemetery Street

We pulled away from the funeral home and turned down the one-way alley. "Go faster!" Steve Lucas ordered looking over her shoulder.

"Relax we've made it," Count said. As we made a right onto Washington Avenue, I looked back to see headlights illuminate the alley. It was the elder Lucas's hearse. "Yeah, by the hair on your ass," Steve said.

Steve Lucas wasn't the only anxiety ridden pallbearer. I was petrified. Mrs. Johnson had me freaked. To make matters worse, with Shannie on my lap, there was boner implications. No matter what image I had of Mrs. Johnson, or how I imagined her lifeless skin to feel, the mental image was not strong enough to overcome the rush of Shannie inspired hormones. Shannie's fidgeting didn't help matters. As we turned onto Cemetery Street, and the truck started up the hill, the casket slid in the truck bed and slammed against the tailgate; the loud thud gave the four of us a start. Steve Lucas farted, prompting Shannie to roll down the window and stick her head out. Steve snickered, "I shit myself every time I'm scared."

Once the aftermath of our scare cleared, Shannie, peering back at the bed of the truck, said, "I knew we should have tied it down."

"Will you sit still," I told Shannie. "I've got a cramp."

"Must be an awfully big cramp," Shannie teased.

"You can sit on my lap," Steve told Shannie.

"Not for all the Bananas in Bangladesh," Shannie sneered.

In Fernwood, Count backed the truck up against the maintenance shed. Luckily for us, the shed was hidden from the converted chapel by a row of closely planted evergreens. Without a word, we slid the casket out of the truck into the shed, resting it upon sawhorses.

"Clear the workbench," Count ordered. "Lucas," he continued. 'There's a tarp in the corner. Go get it, spread it out on the workbench."

I was so focused on replacing wrenches and pliers on the oil-splattered slat board, I didn't noticed Count next to me doing the same. I jumped when he spoke; "That's good enough." As Count and Steve Lucas spread the tarp atop the workbench I noticed Shannie standing just inside the door, keeping watch. I was surprised by the professionalism exhibited by Count and Steve Lucas. They both demonstrated the ability, as my grandfather used to say, "to know when the chips were down."

Without a word, Count guided me out of their way. Steve Lucas opened the top of the coffin. Within laid a pleasant faced grandmother with curly white hair. I've since heard a person's face in death reflects their temperament in life; if that's true, Mrs. Johnson was a pleasant person. Her lips were turned slightly upward, hinting an eternal smile. It was said that in her day, Mrs. Johnson was quite a looker, blessed with raining golden curls not unlike Shannie's. "A free spirit to the end," she was eulogized; I hoped she got a good laugh over this.