Cemetery Street by John Zunski (ebook reader color screen .txt) đ
- Author: John Zunski
Book online «Cemetery Street by John Zunski (ebook reader color screen .txt) đ». Author John Zunski
âOpen it up,â Bradigan said.
âWhatever,â Count sighed and opened the casketâs lid. I looked to Count, who looked to the funeral directors son, who looked downward and didnât fart. âI think I was shitted out,â he later bemoaned.
âAre we missing something?â Bradigan jeered as he looked into the empty coffin.
I followed Steve Lucasâs lead and studied the asphalt street. Steve Lucas broke the uneasy silence: âIt was that Cunt Janice, she stole the stiffâŠâ
âWe donât need to use that language!â Bradigan barked.
âYou donât know my sister,â Steve Lucas answered. Big Dick Bradigan slammed the coffin lid down and was met with Shannieâs continuous stare. âWeâre going to talk with Mr. Lucas. Iâll follow you.â
âNo body, no crime,â Shannie said in the truck.
The elder Lucas stood outside the rear double doors of the funeral parlor, his waxen semblance glowering. A chill fell over me as I caught his image in the rearview mirror as Count backed into the funeral homeâs rear parking lot. For good measure, Big Dick Bradigan parked his cruiser across the curb cut. Count parked next to the hearse.
As the three of us approached the funeral director, he stared past us, as if we were invisible. His gaze appeared captured by the street light above the police cruiser. Formaldehyde clung to him like cheap cologne. Shannie spoke first. âI apologize; this was my idea and I accept responsibility.â He appeared not to hear Shannie -or chose to ignore her. Instead, he lowered his gaze, locking onto the approaching image of his son and Big Dick Bradigan.
âYou should know better,â he scolded. Both Shannie and I cringed as he spoke - his voice screeched like the breaks of a freight train.
âYour right sir,â Shannie responded.
The funeral director diverted his gaze and scrutinized Shannie. âIâm not talking to you!â
âSorry,â Shannie rose her chin. I stepped back.
âJanice set us up!â Steve cried.
âOh?â Mr. Lucas responded. He sounded amused. âIs that so?â
âDamn straight,â Steve kept a safe distance from the ashen undertaker.
âJanice set you up,â Mr. Lucas chided. âThere you go again, blaming your sisters. What do I have to do for you understand accountability?â
Years later, Steve Lucas admitted to Shannie and I what his father had in mind. Shannie and I were enjoying cocktails at Dino and Luigiâs when Steve Lucas stumbled in. We invited him to join us and after a few drinks the conversation came around to our Halloween stunt. âYou know what that prick did? He made me sleep in the room with the fucking stiffs! The fucker locked me in there. He bolted the doors! Whenever we had a full house, he made me sleep in that room. âIâm putting you in charge of security,â heâd tell me. âI donât want any more corpses walking away. I hope he rots in hell!â Steve Lucas sermonized.
âThatâs disgusting!â the tipsy Shannie cried.
The elder Lucas made my mother seem like Mother Theresa. The Funeral Directorâs idea of retribution for Shannie, Count, and I was much more subtle. He sent us on our way - with the warning: âIf the deceased doesnât turn up by 8:00 A.M., I will have the three of you arrested!â
âHeâs bluffing,â Shannie said. âHe has Mrs. Johnson. If he didnât, heâd be having a conniption.â
âYouâre wrong,â Count told her. âMy old man deals with that bastard - the prick is half-stiff. He doesnât get excited over anything. Heâs as cool as a cucumber!â
âCountâs right,â I said.
âWhatever. Iâm not spending all night on a wild goose chase. Drop me off at home. Iâm getting a good nightâs sleep. Do the same.â
âBut, what if Lucas doesnât have her?â
âThen you better get a good nightâs sleep because youâre going to need it,â Shannie said.
âI think we oughta look around. I mean, what if Byrne took the stiff and dumped it in the weeds somewhere. Lucas, that big mouthed twerp.â
âSuit yourself,â Shannie climbed out of the powder fairy blue cab. âIâm going to bed.â When she reached the front door she turned and thanked us for being in her court.
âThe way I figure it, the old lady can be in one of two spots: Somewhere behind Fernwood or at Ursinus college,â Count reasoned.
âOr in Lucasâs funeral parlor,â I added. I was tired and didnât want to deal with a wild stiff chase. I wanted to go to bed and forget the whole mess. I hoped Shannie was right.
I tossed and turned all night. Tired as I was, I couldnât sleep. I pictured the pleasant grandmother - wearing her stupid smile -lying somewhere in the junkyard, waiting to be Dukes next meal. I climbed out of bed and stared at the tombstones - their grayness illuminated in the moonlight. I made out the old truck resting peacefully next to the converted chapel. I climbed back into bed, tossed and turned some more, decided I was hungry, climbed out of bed and went downstairs and made a late night snack.
The old house creaked and groaned around me. The old joists and trusses limbered up for a new day. A large truck rumbled down Main St. shaking the house. I sat at the kitchen table and stared down a peanut butter and banana sandwich. An eerie calm fell over me, the events of last night seemed like a dissipating dream; the gist barely remembered, the details forgotten. About me the unnoticed appeared: the metronomic ticking of the clock. The inane pattern of the wallpaper, the texture the tablecloth, the knots in the phone cord. Even the brightening eastern sky gained my attention.
Above me, footsteps make their way across the floor. I tried to determine if the footfalls were my motherâs or fatherâs. The flush of the toilet startled me, my new found calm cascaded with piss down the pipes. Like the water replenishing the toilet tank, Mr. Lucasâs threat washed over me. I bit into my sandwich. God, let Shannie be right!
I passed out when I reached school. I slept through most of homeroom, bolting when the morning announcements crackled over the PA. Disoriented, I looked around the room. It was 8:10. Our fate was sealed! Count informed me that his early morning search was futile. Steve Lucasâs empty desk was another ominous sign - the undertaker probably had his son arrested first.
When the bell rang, I stumbled my way to first period. I looked over my shoulder, wondering which of my peers was an undercover cop. As the morning ground on, my paranoia increased. It takes time for a police report to be filed. Itâs not like the cops would arrest me at 8:20, not even Beyfordâs - whoâs most pressing issue of the morning is the choice between Boston Cream and French Crullers. I was certain theyâd get me early afternoon, late morning at the earliest!
Understand the horror I felt during Mr. Linkâs third period Civics class. A police car crept up Cemetery Street. âWho can tell me who would assume the presidency, if both President Reagan and Vice President Bush were (A) incapacitated,(B) killed , or ( C )any combination of the above mentioned?â
Normally, the titters of my classmates would have given away what was about to happen. Mr. Link was famous for launching erasers at anyone who didnât pay attention to his monologues. He was deadly accurate â his nickname was the never missing link. The police car held my attention as it slowed to a crawl in front of the school. I was kneeling on my seat when I felt the sting of the eraser on my shoulder. I turned in time to inhale a plume of chalk dust.
âMr. Morrison, would you care to answer the question for the class?
âDonald Trump,â I coughed, gagging on the chalk dust. My classmates erupted with laughter. I couldnât help but look out the window again. The police car had stopped in the middle of the street.
âSilence!â Mr. Link decreed with an evil stare and raised hand. My classmates capitulated. âMr. Morrison look here!â Like my classmates, I complied. âWhatâs so fascinating?â the teacher sighed.
I blurted: âBig Dick Bradigan!â before turning my attention back to the street. My fellow window dwellers rose from their seats, curious to see what was a Big Dick Bradigan.
âSee here,â Mr. Link commanded, snapping his fingers.
Across the room a classmate shouted: âSilly faggot, dicks are for chicks.â More laughter. Mr. Link was slow to squelch the coup, his attention held by my spontaneous case of Attention Deficit Disorder. My classmates used the occasion to launch paper bombshells at the classroom dictator. Not as accurate as their suppresserâs, the missiles missed their target.
âSILENCE!â Mr. Link bellowed retreating to the blackboard. âWho wants to try me?â He challenged holding up an eraser. âEveryone, take your seat! We will have none of this nonsense! Do we understand?â His voiced boomed. After a moment of uneasy silence, he barked: âVery good.â Turning his attention to me, Mr. Link continued, âYou can tell Mr. Hillman what is fascinating about a Big Dick - Bradigan.â My classmates sniggered. He banished me to the principleâs office. As I gathered my books, I noticed the police car had moved on.
I was condemned to the horrors of detention - with Mr. Link! After making sure I understood the Speaker of the House of Representatives was the correct answer and his name was Tip OâNeil, D-Mass, and not Donald Trump, Real Estate magnate- NY, he disappeared into the hallway. I overheard him making time with an unseen lady teacher. Curiosity got the better of me and I snuck across the room straining to identify her voice. Good luck pal, I smiled recognizing Ms. Horne. Shannie would have a better chance than you. I laughed as I returned to my seat.
After hours, school hallways are lonely places - like cemeteries after dusk; subtle hints of decomposition lurk. I imagined Mrs. Johnson falling out of a locker. Freaked, I broke into a sprint, punching the lockers as I ran. I burst through the front doors of the Junior High.
Shannie sat Indian style atop the concrete abutment in front of the piano factory. Her face - camouflaged by billowing hair â was buried in a book. I slithered across Cemetery Street, across the sidewalk and up the short bench. I dove behind the hedge in front of the piano factory. I looked over the hedge, Shannie was floating towards the school.
âHey Bug!â I cried.
âWhat the are you doing up there?â Shannie asked.
âI got lost,â I answered.
Since that afternoon, I have tried to sneak up on Shannie on occasion. I never had any luck. âHow do you know?â I asked. Beats me, she shrugged. That New Yearâs Eve the opportunity to test her ability presented itself.
Diane was a big shot with Laurel Hill Cemetery â a Victorian boneyard on the banks of the Schuylkill River in the East Falls section of Philadelphia. "The cemetery has a hundred thousand âresidents.â Diane said. âItâs the Main Line of the dead.â
New Yearâs Eve was the birthday Dianeâs favorite resident: Civil War General George Gordon Meade â Diane and rest of the Friendâs of Laurel Hill used the opportunity to sip champagne and act genteel. After a brief ceremony commemorating the general, the wonks retired to the gate house - the only entrance to the city of the dead - leaving Shannie and I to frolic amongst obelisks and mausoleums that populated the terraced cemetery.
A light, persistent snow fell, shrouding the cemetery in gray silence. Our words seemed muffled - distant, otherworldly. Despite the snow, the sun made momentary appearances, casting a dull orange glow over the necropolis. On the horizon, an occasional sunbeam slipped between the clouds, as if claiming another soul for the heavens.
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