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Read books online Ā» Fiction Ā» Cemetery Street by John Zunski (ebook reader color screen .txt) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«Cemetery Street by John Zunski (ebook reader color screen .txt) šŸ“–Ā». Author John Zunski



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for the house key. I chuckled realizing how many times I wished that I had the key. Emboldened by the irony, I slithered into Shannieā€™s bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
It was still dark when I awoke. I rolled onto my side snuggling under Shannieā€™s blankets. I gathered her comforter to my nose. I inhaled. Lingering behind the fresh scent was an echo of a memory. I rolled over. A blue hue glowed from her alarm clock: 5:30. I slid out of bed and rummaged through Shannieā€™s drawers. I searched for a letter Shannie told me about years ago. I smiled when I came across it. My hands trembled holding Shannieā€™s self-addressed envelope.
I opened the envelope. On a piece of parchment paper was a hand drawn map ā€“ a treasure map - of her back yard and the nearest section of Fernwood, each detail drawn fastidiously. An X loomed centered in the offset between a tombstone that belonged to Joseph Meneget and the last elm tree on the right side of the Ortolanā€™s property line. ā€œ7 paces from the tombstone; 6 paces from the elm,ā€ Shannieā€™s cursive read.
I hijacked a flashlight and shovel from Dianeā€™s basement and slipped outside. The first hints of daylight kissed the sky as I found the tombstone. I located the offsetā€™s center and began digging. The early-morning sky faded from black to purple to gray by the time the shovel unearthed Shannieā€™s treasure.
ā€œYou must really miss her,ā€ a frail voice said behind my back.
I leapt to my feet from a sitting position. My eyes slammed against their opposite temple and my heart bound up and down my throat like a yo-yo.
ā€œI know how you feel,ā€ the voice continued, ā€œI miss my baby terribly.ā€
ā€œFlossy?ā€ I struggled to regain my composure.
ā€œYouā€™ll always miss her. I really thought the pain would lesson with time. It never goes away. It keeps me company on my daily trips. I bet you donā€™t know that I walk through the cemetery every morning. Itā€™s the best time of day. You can feel Godā€™s touch. And when I feel his touch, I go visit Jr. I visit him every morning. Rain, snow, donā€™t matter. I visit my baby every day,ā€ she said proudly. ā€œHeā€™s never too far away ā€˜cause heā€™s in the hand of God.ā€
She spoke as if we were old friends meeting on the street, not a bizarre chance meeting in a predawn cemetery. Her words were her first to me since Countā€™s death. She was completely at ease; she was completely in her element. For the briefest of moments she made me understand, that the world outside of Fernwood was diseased.
ā€œI gotta go now,ā€ She patted my arm as she shuffled by. ā€œYou wish good tidings to your father and Diane for me you hear. I wonā€™t be able to attend that wedding of theirs, but Iā€™ll be thinking ā€˜bout ā€˜em.ā€
I turned and watched Flossy meander through Fernwood, zigzagging about the tombstones waiting to feel the touch of God.
I filled the hole and retreated with Shannieā€™s treasure in hand, once inside her bedroom I opened her personalized time capsule. Still smiling after years underground, a faded Papa Smurf doll greeted me, its fur dank. Under him rested two sealed envelopes. Shannieā€™s print labeled each. The first read PICTURES; the second was addressed to Shannon Lynn Ortolan. ā€œDo not open prior to my thirtieth birthday!ā€ The instruction ordered.
Smiling, I once again obeyed, opting instead for the photographs. I was met by a smiling twelve year old Shannie, caught forever beaming thanks to her schoolā€™s photographer and her foresight. I doubled checked the lock on her bedroom door before sliding the picture into my wallet. I carry it today, guarding it with a weird sense of paternal pride.
Tears welled as I flipped through the others. I kept all of them, filing them in my backpack. In Missoula they serve as permanent reminders of previously forgotten memories. Mission accomplished, I curled up under Shannieā€™s blankets and drifted into a restful sleep.

As the world made last minute preparations for Y2K and Diane and my father made last minute preparations for their wedding, I slipped away to visit Shannie. It was her birthday and I had a special gift for her. A light snow fell as I made my way through Laurel Hill. I almost expected to see Shannie sitting atop her headstone, doodling in her sketchpad.
At her headstone, I closed my eyes. If I didnā€™t read it this entire nightmare might end and when I awoke, Shannie would be lying in my arms. Iā€™m unsure how long I stood like this, swaying like another tree in the breeze.
There was no waking from this nightmare. A single snowflake told me so as it slid down the front of her headstone and crashed to the ground. Countless others rested atop her headstone. I watched the flakes accumulate like memories. When I grew tired of watching, I ran a hand over the smooth granite, wiping away heavenā€™s frozen tears.
A breeze rustled the trees, their bare limbs swaying to the sound of her voice. I turned quickly, praying she would be sitting on the sandstone bench, like she was thirteen years ago - Indian style, her wild mane speckled with snow flakes. I imagined her gaze staring across the dozing river, past the distant rushing traffic, into eternity. Only snow, dusted atop the bench met my gaze.
ā€œHappy Birthday Bug,ā€ I whispered. ā€œI have a surprise. Itā€™s your favorite.ā€ Careful not to spill a drop, I poured the steaming coffee on the ground in front of her stone. ā€œHow did you guess?ā€ I watched the snow evaporate. ā€œYes, youā€™re right. Of course I remembered. How could I forget? ā€ I tell her.
ā€œIf eyes are the gateway to the soul,ā€ she wrote after my accident. ā€œOur memories are its gatekeepers. Out of memory comes ritual. Out of ritual - meaning, out of meaning - warmth, out of warmth - love, out of love.ā€
ā€œUs,ā€ I whispered to the wind. ā€œBeyond anyone ā€“ I remember you!ā€
ā€œI didnā€™t forget,ā€ I stroked the polished graniteā€™s face. ā€œItā€™s your recipe,ā€ I confided as I placed a mud pie atop the coffee soaked soil. I retreated to the bench and sat casting my gaze out over the sleepy river and past the rushing traffic, listening for the echoes of her laughter in the wind.

The following day I again trekked down the Schuylkill Expressway, this time passing Laurel Hill on my way to Atlantic City. As angry as I thought I was with Genise, I felt obligated to visit her. Diane gave me directions to the cemetery and Genise and Jeromeā€™s gravesites. I stared blankly at Geniseā€™s grave. I thought of our afternoon. I remembered what she told me of Shannieā€™s expectations. I remembered her smile, her freckles, and her stricken expression as I betrayed our secret. I walked away. At Jeromeā€™s grave, I remembered little, other than guilt for not being able to attend his funeral.
I decided to drive by Geniseā€™s apartment in Lower Chelsea. This little corner of the city, tucked along the Intra-coastal waterway could pass for a ghost town. I parked my fatherā€™s car and stood on the sea wall across from Geniseā€™s old brick apartment. A strong wind whipped across the bay stinging my face. I gazed across the water towards the setting sun. Although beautiful, I preferred the aesthetics of a Bitterroot sunset - mountains are wondrous, mysterious things. I jumped off the sea wall, climbed into the car and headed for Beyford. As I left Atlantic City I caught my last glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean in the rearview mirror.

On New Yearā€™s Eve day as Diane took leave for a few hours to visit Shannie, my father and I watched the world greet the new millennium on the same television Shannie, Diane and I witnessed the opening of Desert Storm. Thereā€™s irony for you, I thought.
ā€œNervous?ā€ I asked my father.
ā€œNope,ā€ my father lied. ā€œWhatā€™s there to be nervous about?ā€
ā€œItā€™s only your wedding day,ā€ I chided.
ā€œSecond timeā€™s easier. Anyway, Iā€™m not marrying the wicked witch of San Francisco.ā€
If you only knew how envious I am, I didnā€™t say; instead I opted to watch Sydney, Australia greet the new millennium. Iā€™d give the world if today was Shannie and my big day.
ā€œYou know,ā€ my father spoke. ā€œI could have told everyone that this Y2K hype was much to do about nothing. Do you know that in the computer world itā€™s a status symbol if you have to work tonight. What a crock of shit. Serves ā€˜em right,ā€ my father laughed. ā€œIā€™d rather get married than sit in a stale, fart smelling office sipping cheap coffee. Idiots.ā€
ā€œYou are nervous,ā€ I reproached my old man. ā€œI never heard you talk so much.ā€
ā€œMaybe excited,ā€ my father snickered.
By afternoon the house was host to a flurry of activity. I escaped for a walk down Main Street and across the hallowed tracks. I spent the last day of the century much the way I did my first day with Shannie, eating candy while watching the river from atop the Main Street Bridge.
The wedding was elegant in its simplicity. The parlor which once saw Ms. Dead America laid out in her full splendor was again awash in candlelight. I stood next to my father as I watched Russell - himself dressed to the aces - escort Diane down the short hallway from her bedroom to the parlor. ā€œThis ole nigger never look so good,ā€ Russell chortled as we celebrated Diane and Josephā€™s marriage, the New Year, another decade, the turn of the century and a new millennium.
ā€œTo new beginnings,ā€ Diane toasted at midnight.
ā€œTo new beginnings,ā€ the small party replied amidst the chime of crystal.

New beginnings couldnā€™t start soon enough. With Diane and Dad departed for their honeymoon, I had to endure another full day of Beyford. I managed with the help of Russell. The two of us drank away New Yearā€™s Day in JDā€™s tavern. When we finally closed JDā€™s, I walked Russell home. Still dressed in his tux, the old man invited me to his apartment. ā€œCome on up boy, lets light one up for old timeā€™s sake.ā€
ā€œIā€™d love to old man but I got an early flight,ā€ I lied.
ā€œAh come on. I got some good shit.ā€
ā€œI canā€™t. I donā€™t want to miss my flight.ā€
ā€œI see says this blind man,ā€ Russell chuckled. ā€œWell you take care of yourself boy, you hear?ā€
ā€œYou too old man.ā€ I hugged him and watched him climb the stairs. He didnā€™t look back. ā€œI love you, you old shit,ā€ I whispered as Russell disappeared.

ā€œJesus H. Christ!ā€ Steve Lucas cried. ā€œMorrison how many times do I have to remind you about the first rule of working in a funeral home? Never! Ever! Never sneak up on the living, you never know who has a skull saw or an embalming needle in their hand.
ā€œI donā€™t work here anymore,ā€ I reminded my ex-employer.
ā€œShit, thatā€™s right. I never noticed you were gone,ā€ Steve smiled placing an embalming needle on the table before shaking my hand.
ā€œWell, Iā€™m out of here. Just wanted to say see ya and remind you that my offer still stands.ā€
ā€œIā€™d love to come and visit you and your slack-jaw yokel friends. Maybe I could spike their moonshine with a little formaldehyde. Itā€™s the only way Iā€™ll ever be the life of a party.ā€
ā€œWho says I have any friends?ā€
ā€œWhat was I thinking?ā€
ā€œIf I did theyā€™d hate your guts. Either way, come on out, I wouldnā€™t mind showing you around.ā€
A pregnant silence fell over us before I announced I had a flight to catch.
ā€œYo James,ā€ Steve called after me.
ā€œYeah?ā€
ā€œListen, you know, donā€™t feel like you have
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