Cemetery Street by John Zunski (ebook reader color screen .txt) đ
- Author: John Zunski
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Diane politely dismissed her colleagueâs comment. I couldnât. Out of respect for Diane, I said nothing. Instead I waited, biding my time glaring in his direction. I waited for an opportunity to have a private word with Rupunzel. I figured it was time the fair professor had a lesson in real life. My chance came as he meandered to the buffet table in the small kitchen aside the main gathering. I stepped behind him as he refilled his plate. As he turned, I threw an elbow, knocking his overloaded plate into his chest.
âWatch where youâre walking,â Rupunzel snapped, attempting to wipe pasta sauce from his jacket. The buffoon didnât realize that Iâd purposely elbowed him.
âSorry,â I reached for a napkin. âLet me help,â I said patting his chest.
âYouâve done enough.â He swatted at my hand like a Victorian woman.
I shoved him against the kitchen cabinets. âWhere do you get off insulting Mrs. Ortolan like that? You fat tub of shit, she just buried her daughter.â I raised a fist. âI think you owe Mrs. Ortolan an apology. Donât you agree?â Fear filled his eyes. âDonât you agree?â I repeated.
Rupunzel nodded yes.
âIâm glad you understand.â I slapped Rupunzelâs face. He watched me as I ran a dishtowel under cold water. âClean up your mess.â I threw the towel at him and walked out of the room without looking back.
Somehow Diane, my father and myself survived the torment of Christmas. During lighter moments, we would go through old picture albums and other memorabilia. On Christmas night Diane handed me the page from Shannieâs journal written in the Maryland motel room. A tear welled reading her simple description of her complex emotions. After reading it, I knew it was right to leave Beyford. I couldnât live with the constant, concretized reminders of the past and of my emotional cowardice. If Iâd only spoken up! Life wouldâve been so different. Iâm sure of it.
âI wish you would have returned my calls,â Krista said. Her bracelets dangled from her wrists. It was December twenty-ninth, Shannieâs birthday.
âI had a lot on my mind, I wanted to be alone, I needed to think.â
âI understand, but you canât shoulderâŠâ
âYou know what?â I interrupted. âHome is overrated. Home is horrible. I am sick and tired of home! Home is a place where youâre locked into the past. Home is where people argue for your limitations. You canât grow at home. If I stay, Iâll always be just James. Iâm tired of that! Iâm tired of being brain injured James. Iâll always be brain injured James. James canât hold a real job because of his condition. James gets angry because of his condition, not because something just pisses James off. Itâs always because of my condition. Iâm telling you Iâm a prisoner of my own identity. Iâll always be brain injured James! Maybe my mother was right; she knew a sinking ship when she saw one. She knew that home life sucked. She knew to get out.â
âYour mother sunk her own ship James. Donât repeat her mistake. What about Shannie? Do youâŠâ
âShannieâs dead!â I snapped.
âDo you think Diane, your father, yourself, or even Shannie argued for Shannieâs limitations?â
âShannie had no limitations! She did anything she damned well pleased anytime she damned well pleased. She didnât let anyone stop her! Iâm not going to let anyone stop me. Not Diane, not my father, not you, no one. No one is going to stop me!â
âWhat are we stopping you from James?â
âFrom leaving.â
âI canât stop you James. Diane canât stop you. Your father canât stop you. The law canât. Only you can James. Only you.â
âThatâs right!â I said full of bravado. âI wanna see anyone get in my way. Iâll stomp on âem; Iâll roll right over âem. No oneâs going to keep me from what I want!â
Krista sat back in her chair. A hush fell over her office, punctuated by the hypnotic tick of her office clock.
As the New Year approached I went about the business of leaving home. I shuddered under the burden of freedom and anonymity which loomed over my shoulder like a silent predator. As fearful as I was, I emptied my plate. My final chore was penning a note to Diane and my father.
Diane and Dad:
Iâm hoping that it wonât come as a big surprise that Iâve decided to move on. With all that has happened I canât go on living in this town, this state, this part of the country. I donât know exactly where Iâm going, but I know Iâm headed out west. Iâll contact you when I get where Iâm going. Donât worry about me, Iâll be fine. Iâm in good hands with Ellie. Dad, all things considered, youâre as good a father as they come. Diane, I love you like a mother.
Talk soon,
James
Without ado, on the morning after New Yearâs Day, after sliding the note under Diane and my fatherâs front door, I loaded Ellie and my worldly possessions in my hooptie. With a tail of swirling exhaust trailing my faithful old beater and Ellie perched proudly beside me, we escaped from the dead end known as Cemetery Street.
Chapter 22 Things Bittersweet
It would be a year before Beyford witnessed my shadow. I wasnât keen on spending New Yearâs in the prison I finally escaped. I hadnât a choice, I couldnât not attend my fatherâs and Dianeâs wedding. I glanced out the planeâs window as it descended into Philadelphia. A shiver ran through me as I caught sight of the Limerick Nuclear Plantâs cooling towers. Itâs hard for me to believe that all which haunts me has its genesis in the innocuous landscape below, even as Philadelphia came into view, it appeared benign in its lighted splendor. Its toxicity non-evident until my flight reached its gate, when even the most well-adjusted of my fellow passengers bounded out of their seats in a race to stand in the aisle.
While waiting for the last of the passengers to exit, I reread Dianeâs letter.
Dear James:
Considering the difficult circumstances and what may seem to be callous timing of our wedding, I beg of you to come home and share with us our joy. I know the difficulty the timing presents; believe me, who realizes this more than me? But, it also affords us an opportunity like no other to make a fresh start, to put our pain behind us - at least momentarily - and celebrate what we have.
James, I hope you realize the importance of your presence; in it, both your father and I share the opportunity of being graced by both our children. In your absence, we miss out on that wonderful gift. If you chose to come home, not only do I experience the joy of being with you again; I also will be able to see the reflection of Shannie in your eyes.
I hope to see you over New Yearâs, if not before.
Love,
Diane
I refolded the letter and shoved it into my pocket, grabbed my backpack and sauntered up the jetway. I could hear Russellâs crusty old voice: â Coming home ainât ice cream, but it sure ainât liver either.â
I smiled seeing Diane and my father awaiting arm-in-arm. Despite their smiles they wore the past year on their faces. The crowâs feet edging Dianeâs eyes sharpened, the lines in her forehead etched themselves deeper. Her long coat hid a still well cared for body. Her blonde hair still cascaded over her shoulders like a college studentâs. Iâd feared sheâd chop such artwork for the sake of her assistant dean-ship. âWelcome home James,â she said with a hug and kiss.
âThanks Mom,â I held Diane tight. âItâs good to be home,â I punctuated our fuzzies with a white lie.
âMom?â She engulfed me with another hug. âDid you hear that Joe?â
âSure did,â my father smiled. âWelcome home son.â He extended a hand. Gray hair had grown across his mane like wild sage. His slender frame gave the first hint of a potbelly.
âTake that stick out of your ass and give me a hug.â I wrapped my arms around my father. Squirming uncomfortably, he met my hug with a lame pat on the back. âHow you been?â I asked my father.
âFine. Fine,â he answered, axiomatic. âHow are you?â
âGood. Good, couldnât be better.â I stepped back and turned my gaze to Diane. âLets get my bags and get out of here.â
I was thankful my father chose the Blue-Route over the Schuylkill Expressway, avoiding the uncomfortable silence bound to befall us as we passed Laurel Hill. Shannieâs ghost already hung heavily about us, it needed no more inspiration.
âWe rented out the old house,â my father reminded me. âWe have good tenets.â
âThatâs good,â I answered.
âYou can sleep in Shannieâs old room,â Diane paused, adding matter-of-factly, as if her daughter was simply out of town, âor on the couch. Whatever you choose.â
My heart raced atop Beyfordâs exit ramp. Cold sweat sprung from my palms as we drove past Fernwood. Dim lights glowed inside the old chapel. It reminded me of a weather-beaten schooner, pitching and yawing over endless waves of tombstones as it sailed across the sea of eternity.
âHowâs Flossy?â I asked.
âNo one sees her. She keeps to herself. Itâs really a shame,â Diane answered.
My father and I nodded in tacit agreement.
âAnd Bear. Howâs he?â
âHe does his best,â Diane said.
The glow of the street light at the end of Cemetery Street greeted us as we turned off Bainbridge onto the dead end. Like it or not, I was home again. Despite my attempts at creating a new life there is no denying the power of a lifetime of memories.
âMissoula, Montana?â Steve Lucas asked. âWhat the hell is in Missoula, Montana?â
âNothing! Absolutely nothing!â I smiled.
âI think your brain injury got the best of you. You canât stand the cold. I figured youâd end up in LA, Florida, somewhere, anywhere warm, but Missoula, Montana?â Steve shook his head. âI dying to know what possessed you.â
âNothing,â I chuckled.
âBullshit!â Steve cried.
âOkay, if you need to know.â I leaned over my beer as if guarding a secret. Steve and I were warming two stools in JDâs Tavern. Copying me, Steve leaned over his beer expecting to have his philosophy confirmed - that man couldnât move his bowels let alone mountains unless pussy was involved. âI figured that Iâd go to San Francisco, tool around a bit, but I never got there.â
âNo shit!â
âI pulled into Denver, looked around and decided to make a right turn. Before I knew it I was in Missoula. The rest is history.â I leaned against the back of my stool, finished my beer and sat my mug atop the bar with a self-congratulatory thud.
The remainder of the night, Steve tried tricking me to admit being roped into my newfound home by a deranged cowgirl. âDonât I wish, I still live a priestly life,â I said.
After closing the bar, Steve dropped me off at the end of Cemetery Street. âEven though youâre a lying sack of shit, itâs nice to see you in one piece,â Steve waxed as only a drunk could.
Slapping his shoulder I told my friend: âI wish I could say itâs great to be back.â I stumbled out of his car and towards my house.
âYo Asshole,â Steve called. âYou donât live there anymore. That one.â He pointed at the Ortolanâs.
âI knew that.â I watched Steveâs taillightâs disappear down Cemetery Street. I fumbled
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