Cemetery Street - John Zunski (good novels to read in english .txt) 📗

narrow bed of the truck.
“Open it up,” Bradigan said.
“Whatever,” Count sighed and opened the casket’s lid. I looked to Count, who looked to the funeral directors son, who looked downward and didn’t fart. “I think I was shitted out,” he later bemoaned.
“Are we missing something?” Bradigan jeered as he looked into the empty coffin.
I followed Steve Lucas’s lead and studied the asphalt street. Steve Lucas broke the uneasy silence: “It was that Cunt Janice, she stole the stiff…”
“We don’t need to use that language!” Bradigan barked.
“You don’t know my sister,” Steve Lucas answered. Big Dick Bradigan slammed the coffin lid down and was met with Shannie’s continuous stare. “We’re going to talk with Mr. Lucas. I’ll follow you.”

“No body, no crime,” 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 home’s 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. “I apologize; this was my idea and I accept responsibility.” 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.
“You should know better,” he scolded. Both Shannie and I cringed as he spoke - his voice screeched like the breaks of a freight train.
“Your right sir,” Shannie responded.
The funeral director diverted his gaze and scrutinized Shannie. “I’m not talking to you!”
“Sorry,” Shannie rose her chin. I stepped back.
“Janice set us up!” Steve cried.
“Oh?” Mr. Lucas responded. He sounded amused. “Is that so?”
“Damn straight,” Steve kept a safe distance from the ashen undertaker.
“Janice set you up,” Mr. Lucas chided. “There you go again, blaming your sisters. What do I have to do for you understand accountability?”
Years later, Steve Lucas admitted to Shannie and I what his father had in mind. Shannie and I were enjoying cocktails at Dino and Luigi’s when Steve Lucas stumbled in. We invited him to join us and after a few drinks the conversation came around to our Halloween stunt. “You 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. “I’m putting you in charge of security,” he’d tell me. “I don’t want any more corpses walking away. I hope he rots in hell!” Steve Lucas sermonized.
“That’s disgusting!” the tipsy Shannie cried.
The elder Lucas made my mother seem like Mother Theresa. The Funeral Director’s idea of retribution for Shannie, Count, and I was much more subtle. He sent us on our way - with the warning: “If the deceased doesn’t turn up by 8:00 A.M., I will have the three of you arrested!”
“He’s bluffing,” Shannie said. “He has Mrs. Johnson. If he didn’t, he’d be having a conniption.”
“You’re wrong,” Count told her. “My old man deals with that bastard - the prick is half-stiff. He doesn’t get excited over anything. He’s as cool as a cucumber!”
“Count’s right,” I said.
“Whatever. I’m not spending all night on a wild goose chase. Drop me off at home. I’m getting a good night’s sleep. Do the same.”
“But, what if Lucas doesn’t have her?”
“Then you better get a good night’s sleep because you’re going to need it,” Shannie said.
“I 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.”
“Suit yourself,” Shannie climbed out of the powder fairy blue cab. “I’m going to bed.” When she reached the front door she turned and thanked us for being in her court.
“The way I figure it, the old lady can be in one of two spots: Somewhere behind Fernwood or at Ursinus college,” Count reasoned.
“Or in Lucas’s funeral parlor,” I added. I was tired and didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 mother’s or father’s. 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. Lucas’s 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 Lucas’s 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. It’s not like the cops would arrest me at 8:20, not even Beyford’s - who’s most pressing issue of the morning is the choice between Boston Cream and French Crullers. I was certain they’d get me early afternoon, late morning at the earliest!
Understand the horror I felt during Mr. Link’s third period Civics class. A police car crept up Cemetery Street. “Who 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?”
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 didn’t pay attention to his monologues. He was deadly accurate – 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.
“Mr. Morrison, would you care to answer the question for the class?
“Donald Trump,” I coughed, gagging on the chalk dust. My classmates erupted with laughter. I couldn’t help but look out the window again. The police car had stopped in the middle of the street.
“Silence!” Mr. Link decreed with an evil stare and raised hand. My classmates capitulated. “Mr. Morrison look here!” Like my classmates, I complied. “What’s so fascinating?” the teacher sighed.
I blurted: “Big Dick Bradigan!” 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.
“See here,” Mr. Link commanded, snapping his fingers.
Across the room a classmate shouted: “Silly faggot, dicks are for chicks.” 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 suppresser’s, the missiles missed their target.
“SILENCE!” Mr. Link bellowed retreating to the blackboard. “Who wants to try me?” He challenged holding up an eraser. “Everyone, take your seat! We will have none of this nonsense! Do we understand?” His voiced boomed. After a moment of uneasy silence, he barked: “Very good.” Turning his attention to me, Mr. Link continued, “You can tell Mr. Hillman what is fascinating about a Big Dick - Bradigan.” My classmates sniggered. He banished me to the principle’s 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 O’Neil, 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 – 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.
“Hey Bug!” I cried.
“What the are you doing up there?” Shannie asked.
“I got lost,” I answered.
Since that afternoon, I have tried to sneak up on Shannie on occasion. I never had any luck. “How do you know?“ I asked. Beats me, she shrugged. That New Year’s Eve the opportunity to test her ability presented itself.
Diane was a big shot with Laurel Hill Cemetery – a Victorian boneyard on the banks of the Schuylkill River in the East Falls section of Philadelphia. "The cemetery has a hundred thousand ‘residents.” Diane said. “It’s the Main Line of the dead.”
New Year’s Eve was the birthday Diane’s favorite resident: Civil War General George Gordon Meade – Diane and rest of the Friend’s 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.