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

come, they’ll come at night. It’ll be our advantage.

0830 Nothing! A squadron of Apaches flew over our position ‘bouts an hour ago. What a sweet racket, you could feel everyone’s spirits rise. Turning in, need to get a few hours shuteye.

1945 Back from a patrol up the wadi. We ran into a few Syrians a few clicks up the wadi. They seemed surprised to hear anything about an Iraqi attack. They claimed to know nothing. I wish I believed ‘em. I don’t trust the look of those bastards. I did manage to trade off my desert hat for one of their berets. If I’d known someone in logistics, I could have made us a fortune selling the Syrians our kevlars. I asked ‘em why they want our helmets so bad. While pointing to his head and saying bang, a Syrian says in broken English that it is best stopping bullet. It’s kinda nice to know that others want what you have.

2200 We’re digging again. This time more artillery. Brigade feels that tomorrow morning it is. A buddy of mine at HQ says they’re as sure as shit. Tension is thick. There’s been a few cases of guys breaking. Seems my trick of visiting everyone’s holes is paying off. Mitchell the only one who’s acting different. But who’s complaining, it’s a treat not to hear his whiny voice. He’s pulling more than his share.

Jan 17th, 1991
0300 Something’s up! For the last ten or so minutes fighters have been screaming northward. Explosions in the distance! Occasional flashes on the horizon. The air force is delivering ordinance, but on what side of the border?

0315 The war has started - it’s our doing. Air force is bombing into Iraq and Kuwait. We’re on alert, expecting spoiling attack.


Chapter 13 A Banshee’s Cry

(March, 1991) Atop the brownstone church, a bell tolled. Birdsong overtook the bell’s keen. Its mournful plea ignored, the bell soldiered on, beseeching nature to suspend its joyous song. Sensing its duty’s futility, the seasoned bell gave way to the roar of the pipe organ. Inside the church bird song was silenced. The mighty organ paused, as if catching its breath. Shannie’s sobs pierced the organ’s echo. Sunlight burst through the stained glass windows and danced in pools across the gray floor. An errant bit of sun reflected off the medal pinned atop the flag draped casket. In the first pew, the Lightman’s sat stoically, a lesson learned from the tombstones that lined Fernwood. Flossy was sedated into a stupor. Leroy Sr., the knowing soldier, the incredulous parent, still was in shock; a soldierly shock – determined and marching.
Behind the Lightman’s sat the Ortolans. Diane, an arm draped around her daughter, whispered into Shannie’s ear. Sobbing, Shannie rested her head upon her mother’s shoulder. Diane stroked Shannie’s hair which poured like tears over her black dress.
My father and I shared the second pew with the Ortolans. I trembled in the organ’s embrace, hoping its grasp would spring my tears. Like my mother, my tears vanished. Next to me, my father stared at the simple white cross that served as the altarpiece, his hands resting in his lap, his upper lip stiff. Through arid eyes, I gazed at Shannie, the small space between us a gulf of empty pine.
In the pew behind us was the Lucas family. Marcy sat next to Count’s casket. Janice held an arm around her younger sister. The pipe organ receded - reloading for another barrage. The clickty-clack of Russell’s cane tap-danced around the scattered coughs and whispers of the congregation. I wished to be with Russell, I wanted to feel his strength. I’m sure he saw through the folly! I’m sure that’s why he arrived late! He saw how everyone needed to be part of Count’s funeral, Count’s story, Count’s posthumous fifteen minutes of fame. I’m sure Russell saw through it all. He knew that most of the people who filled the church didn’t care a rat’s ass about Count before his death. He was just that redneck gravedigger’s son. Hypocrites!
The pipe organ again sprung to life, announcing the beginning of the service, beckoning the congregation to sing the hymn. The congregation accepted, in unison they stood - stood all around me – and sang their hearts out. They sang for Leroy Lightman Jr.; they sang for Count. Despite their best intentions, they sounded like a gaggle of geese. And Mr. Lucas - the greatest offender of them all - that prick! That hypocrite! His croon - the cadence of an artillery shell, - rose above the others. I winced as the undertaker’s wail bounced about my bitter, empty heart. With Shannie, I agreed we lost a brother. Unlike Shannie, I didn’t sing for Leroy Lightman Jr. I didn’t have to sing for Count. He wouldn’t have wanted me to; he would have told me to: “shut up the hell up dumbass! You can’t carry a football, what makes you think you could carry a goddamned tune.”
My eyes waded through the sea of mourners. Across the center aisle, a few pews back I discovered Jenny Wade glaring at me. “What do you see in that little bitch?” she once asked. Her glower repeated the question. “She’s a dead end. Can’t you see that? She’s going to break your heart.”
You happy now? I scolded Jenny with arid eyes. Are we even? Do you like seeing my heart broke? I continued in a tearless stare. Shannie didn’t break my heart, Count did! Jenny’s glare intensified with the organ. Up yours Jenny, I said my weakening stare. Quit staring at me! It pleaded. You jealous bitch, stop it! Quit Staring! I turned away. I wished this was her funeral.
“At least she’s honest,” Count reminded me from somewhere within my heart. “You got to give her that much.” One always knew where they stood with Jenny Wade.
The organ lost its bluster, its lingering notes faded into the brownstones. In near unison the congregation sat with a thump. A nervous cough escorted the heavy jowled minister past the altar. From the pulpit he looked approvingly over the packed church.
“I swear he wanted to smile,” Shannie said after the service. “He probably never saw his church so crowded. Probably praying for residual memberships - probably wished he passed the plate.” When I told her Catholics pass the plate she answered, “Whatever!”
The good reverend began his reading, something from the book of lamentations. His voice boomed, thick and powerful, full of conviction. A short strand of hair dangled from his dying widow’s peak, leaning over his high forehead like a broken tree over a cliff. I stared at the reverend, trying to listen. I lacked his conviction. His voice faded, his enunciated words muddled – a victim of my numbness. For all I know the reverend could have been reading from the phone book. I was too busy treading a sea of disbelieve. Count couldn’t be dead!
“Count’s not dead, is he?” I questioned God. “It’s a big joke, right? How about a trade. I’ll take Count back and you can have Steve Lucas, Jenny Wade, hell, take my mother too; a three for one deal!” I glanced about, unsure if anyone heard my thoughts.
When I was confident no one heard me, I raised my head. I looked at Count, the sun danced atop his casket. Like the rest of the country it seemed to be celebrating. A war may have been won, I told the dancing sun, but Shannie and I feel vanquished. Shannie glanced up, her bloodshot eyes meeting mine.
In her last letter before the start of the war, Shannie wrote Count telling him that she’d give up her car; drive it off Indian Point, if it meant he would return home safely. She never had a chance to make good on her promise. Count was dead before he received it. The army returned the letter unopened.
Don’t be a hero, Shannie wrote. I want you alive. I need a friend, not a martyr for Texaco. In a previous letter, she warned, my mudpie making days are over you rat bastard! I think she knew his fate. She knew in her heart that Count wouldn’t survive the war. She saw it coming and couldn’t do anything about it!
As the inevitability of war became apparent, so did the desperation of her pleas. In one letter, she tried coaxing him into going AWOL. She said she’d meet him in Israel. She knew Count would turn her down, there wasn’t another place on earth he’d rather be. The horror Shannie felt.
In the days from the outbreak of hostilities till learning of Count’s death, Shannie was glued to CNN. After learning of Count’s demise, she continued watching the war - it engulfed her life. The roar of jet engines was a fixture in the Ortolan’s television room. When I called her to task, Shannie returned her stare to the television.
Shannie’s head returned to Diane’s breast. Somewhere far away, like a distant helicopter, the good minister droned. From behind, Jenny’s stare clawed my back. I felt myself falling into oblivion – my guilt ridden conscience easier to deal with than the horrors of the outside world.
“It’s going to start today,” Shannie warned me. The date was January 16th, 1991.
“What is?” I asked.
“The war! Geezus Pete!” Shannie snapped.
Around seven o’clock Shannie called. “It started. Get over here.” We spent the night watching John Holleman, Peter Arnet, and Bernard Shaw’s up to the minute coverage of the fireworks over Baghdad. When Charles Jaco’s report from Riyadh was interrupted by air raid sirens and the screen suddenly filled with snow, we were sure the Iraqi’s unleashed their arsenal of mass destruction - we were positive that our best friend was dead. We didn’t know how right we were – we were wrong about the circumstances. Shannie pulled her legs to her chest and rested her head on top her knees. She spent most of the war in that position. I’ll never forget that; I doomed to remember! Just like I’m doomed to remember what I did after escaping the Ortolan’s that night.
If I wasn’t so caught up in the hysteria, I would have remembered Count wasn’t anywhere near Riyadh. If we would have taken the time to reread Count’s letters, we would have figured out that he was supposed to be at An Nuriya – Bastonge. Although, later we learned this wasn’t true, he was at a place called Wadi Al Batin. The rational mother and daughter fell to pieces, their sanity grains of sand blown about by a desert storm. My sanity wasn’t too far behind. We tasted helplessness. Unlike the Ortolans, I wasn’t content to watch events unfold on television - I needed to do something, I reverted to superstition.
I evoked an old legend. I needed to feel power. I wish I visited Russell, he’d talk some sense into me. But I didn’t. I needed peace of mine, so I decided to roll the bones. A safe bet; a sure thing - I knew the train schedule. If I could run the tunnel, Count would make it home. I slipped into my hooptie and headed for Black Rock Tunnel.
On the radio, a self-congratulating politician filled the airwaves. “We decided to go in tonight,” he crooned. “We’re going to get the job done.” The gall of the bastard! Like his ass was on the line! I remembered the smug prick; I helped vote him out.
Disgusted, I turned off the radio. The hum of worn tires seemed more intelligent.
I parked along the railroad siding - the same place Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup. I waited until a westbound freight roared out of the tunnel and rolled across the trestle. I waited until the flashing red taillight disappeared from sight. Then I