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
âHow do you know that I know that theyâre sleeping together?â
âDiane approached me,â Krista answered.
âSo? Whatâs the big deal?â
âWhy donât you tell me.â Krista leaned back in her chair, evaluating me from behind her reading glasses.
âLike I said, whatâs the big deal? My fatherâs knocking off a piece, so what?â
Leaning forward in her chair, Krista rested her arms on her desk and locked her fingers together. âYouâre full of shit. In the two weeks since Thanksgiving you havenât made any progress in cognizant and remedial therapies. Youâve regressed in math and reading skills and your RAâs say youâve withdrawn emotionally.â
I fell into my seat.
âJames, Iâm considering not recommending you for release from inpatient status before Christmas. Clue me to whatâs up.â
âYouâre the expert. Why donât you tell me whatâs wrong.â
âThereâs nothing wrong with youâŠâ
âSpare me the bullshit, Okay. If nothings wrong why am I here? Iâll tell you why Iâm here, Iâm a goddamn sped. Iâm brain damaged, and Iâm never going to be right again.â
âYou finished?â Krista implored.
I nodded.
âThank you. I was going to say thereâs nothing wrong with you outside of the brain injury, which means somethingâs bothering you.â
âOh Jesus Christ, here we go.â
âIâm not Jesus Christ, Iâm Jewish.â
I laughed and laughed at her comment. A symptom of my brain injury was inappropriate laughter. When I returned to earth, I forgot what we were talking about.
âSo, whatâs bothering you James?â
Smiling as I puzzled, I said: âI canât remember.â I burst into another fit of laughter. During our next session Krista asked if either Jeromeâs death and/or the discovery that my father and Dianeâs were seeing each other were the underlying issue of my setbacks.
âI donât remember this Jerome kid. Shannie acts like I was friends with him. Maybe I was, I donât remember.â
âTell me about Ellie,â Krista beseeched.
âMy dog Ellie?â
âYes. Tell me about Ellie.â
âSheâs my girl,â I smiled. I told Krista how Ellie out willed me over sleeping arrangements. âBut, what, what,â I stuttered, losing my train of thought, âwhat does Ellie have to do with that kid, Godamnit, I canât remember his name.â
âJerome,â Krista replied.
âYeah that. What does my dog have to do with Jerome?â
âYou tell me.â
âI donât know,â I said with a huff. âDoesnât make any sense to me.â
âDoes your father like your dog?â Krista inquired.
âI think so,â I hesitated. âYeah,â I answered with more confidence, remembering how he delighted in Ellie following him around or how I busted him slipping her table scraps. âHe likes her more than heâd admit.â
âHow so?â Krista pried.
âI think, I think heâs lonely. You know, ever since my mother bolted. Yeah, heâs lonely. I mean, besides his job, he doesnât talk to people. I think, yeah, he misses my mom. He never talks to anyone except Diane. Yeah, I think he needs to get laid.â
Krista laughed. I enjoyed watching her neck as she threw her head back and how the ends of her hair curled forward not quite reaching the sides of her neck. I laughed because she laughed. I liked making Krista laugh.
âMaybe he isnât lonely. Maybe he doesnât need to get laid.â
âWhat do you mean?â
âWhy donât you tell me.â
âI donât know,â I said.
âGive it a try,â Krista implored. âImagine playing a game, its name is reasons why your dad doesnât need to get laid.â
âMy mom cut his balls off,â I said.
âThatâs one. Give me another.â
âUm, heâs celebrate.â
âHeâs what?â
âHeâs celebrate. You know, like a priest.â
âCelibate,â Krista corrected.
âWhatever. He is catholic. I remember going to church as a kid. I donât remember going after my mom left. Come to think of it, maybe he isnât celebrate.â
âCelibate.â
âWhatever.â
âAny others?â
âHeâs a bigger jerk-off than me.â I blushed as the words slipped off my tongue. âAny more?â
I hesitated, knowing the only other answer. The blush of embarrassment gave way to the flush of anger.
âYeah, that.â
âWhat?â I played dumb.
âThat thought. The reason youâre angry. Tell me, what are you thinking?â
âYouâre the doctor, why donât you tell me,â I rubbed my temples.
âIâm a doctor not a mind reader,â Krista said.
Sinking further back into my chair I complained that I didnât feel good.
âStick with me James,â Krista ordered.
âIâm ignoring you now,â I said.
Leaning forward in her chair, her weight shifting onto her arms, Krista looked ready to pounce. âCould it be youâre angry. Do you blame him for your mother? Or maybe, youâre jealous. Is that it?â
I pulled my knees up to my chest to hide my nakedness. I rocked back and forth in the chair. Kristaâs sharp words were replaced with a maternal gaze. We sat in silence.
âJames,â she said breaking the silence. âItâs okay. Those feelings are natural.â I heard Krista stand. I imagined her gliding over the carpeted floor. I felt her hand upon my arm. âJames, take this.â She handed me what I thought was a pillow. I hugged it. When I noticed a teddy bear buried into my shoulder, I punched it before whipping against the far wall.
I was discharged from inpatient status the week before Christmas. I learned it wasnât that big of deal. I slept at home, but I still spent eight hours a day, five days a week at the torture chamber. It would be months until Lenape Valley Rehab gave me my walking papers, and even then a facilitator would visit two or three times a week. It would be two years before I escaped the facilitatorâs talons. I saw Krista weekly until 1999 when I moved out west.
The day I was âdischargedâ no thoughts of future therapies clouded my mood. I was the happiest man on earth. I was beaming as Shannie, Diane, and my father escorted me out of the Rehabâs front door into the brisk December sunlight. Shannieâs description of the freedom she feels the first twenty minutes after checking into a hotel room best fit my mood - the world held no ills. After going out for breakfast, we headed to the dead end I knew as Cemetery Street.
Steve Lucas visited that day. The five of us sat around the Ortolanâs kitchen table. I was silent as spoken memories flew like snowflakes in a blizzard.
âSpeaking of Count, howâs his old man and Flossy doing?â Steve Lucas asked.
âI see Bear here and there. Flossy who knows? She turned into a recluse,â Diane said.
âI saw her,â I said breaking my silence.
Four sets of eyes turned their attention to me. âWhen did you see her?â my father asked.
âWhen Shannie showed me Countâs grave. She was on the side porch staring at us. It was spooky. She didnât wave, did say anything - she just stared, and when she knew I saw her, she stomped into the house.â
âWhy didnât you say anything?â Shannie asked.
âI thought you noticed her. You notice everything,â I said.
âDidnât see her,â Shannie said.
âI think she blames me?â
âWhy?â Diane asked.
âI donât know. But I feel it,â I answered.
Steve Lucas spent a chunk of his Winter Break with me. Although he never said, I think he regretted doing so. He learned the craziness a traumatic brain injury can cause, like the night I imitated Nancy Kerrigan at the King of Prussia Mall. The mall was packed with Christmas shoppers. Frustrated with the crowd, I started screaming âWhy me? Why me? Why me?â while drooling like an idiot. People got out of our way. I felt like Moses after parting the Red Sea.
He learned how fast I could succumb to fits of fury â an innocent comment could set me off on tirades that Steve said were reminiscent of my motherâs. Two days after Christmas, Linda, one of my occupational therapists, stood talking with me outside the rehab when Steve pulled up. âYou getting any of that?â Steve questioned as I closed the passenger door.
âGetting what?â I was in a bad mood.
âJesus Christ Morrison, youâre not that out of it. Youâre tapping it.â
I didnât answer.
âWho cares is sheâs carrying an extra hundred, itâs all pink on the inside.â I tried counting to ten. âYou donât want some of that? Wow, that mangy blond of yours is putting out.â
Without a word I punched him, sending his head into the side window. âIf you ever call Shannie a dog again Iâll kill you!â
Steveâs hands never left the steering wheel. âWhat the fuck is your problem? I meant Ellie you asshole.â
âWhatever.â
Two days later - Shannieâs birthday - I erupted on Steve again. Diane, Shannie, Steve and I were sitting around the kitchen table. Steve asked, âAny one see Jenny Wade around lately?â
âI heard sheâs really round lately.â Shannie inflated her cheeks.
âShe rode one too many poles,â Steve Lucas laughed. He stared at me.
âMan, why do you have to bring that shit up?â
âWhat stuff? Oh, that stuff,â Shannie snickered.
âYou canât leave it alone can you? You have to blab it to everyone! Dickwad!â My voice rose an octave.
âCalm down, youâll give yourself a stroke,â Diane snapped.
I reached for my coffee cup. Shannie pinned my arm to the table. If she was a second slower I would have launched the cup at Steve. âI didnât mean anything by that brother,â Steve Lucas said. He was a sage, he understood my memories were returning.
Unlike Steve Lucas, I rarely snapped on Shannie. Not even later that winter when she raked me over the coals after Mr. Miller broke his hip. We were walking down Cemetery Street when we witnessed his fall. I exploded into a fit of laughter, even as he writhed on the ground. âAre you insane? Wait, I already know the answer,â Shannie snapped as the ambulance drove away. She turned and walked home.
âI hate to see you leave, but I love watching you walk away,â I cried.
âAsshole.â She flipped me off before slamming her front door.
The Millerâs never forgave me. I earned their scowls until the day they died. I didnât care, they never visited me in the hospital.
I shuffled into Fernwood. I wandered up and down the rows of tombstones until I found my Grandfatherâs phony grave. I stood admiring our ruse when Bear startled me, âWhat was all that ruckus?â Bear stood next to me.
âOld man Miller broke his hip.â
âWhat a shame,â Bear shrugged.
âGod how I miss him,â I nodded at the headstone.
âYeah, I know what you mean,â Bear said. I spied him looking in the direction of Countâs grave.
âHow do you deal with it?â I asked.
âIt seems I donât have a choice. I gotta deal.â He ran a hand over his head.
We stood in silence, the frigid breeze and the echoing expressway our only company.
âYou know heâs not buried here,â I nodded at my grandfatherâs headstone.
âI wish I could say that about my boy,â Bear patted my back. âOh how I wish I could say that.â I watched him walk away, his head down as if counting blades of grass. He disappeared into the maintenance shed.
From the old churchâs porch Flossy glared. I managed a half-hearted wave. She answered with a continued stare. Mustering my courage, I moved towards the old church. She disappeared inside, slamming the door behind her. I retreated across Fernwood. I wandered past my house and down Cemetery Street. I wanted to talk to Russell.
Beyford is a small town, itâs almost impossible to get lost - I managed. Till this day, I have to think about right and left. Iâm better with cardinal direction. I meandered around hours before finally finding Main Street and Russellâs column of cigar
Comments (0)