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

In the distance, Duke Nuke ‘em barks chased Count. “We better get out of here,” Shannie said.
Shannie led me to the hole in the fence. I held it back as she slipped through. She returned the favor. Shannie slipped her hand into mine and led me up the hill and into the tree. If it wasn’t for Count, I’m convinced we would have made out.
“When I tell you to keep your mouth shut, keep it shut,” Count barked as he approached the tree. It’s advice I struggle with. If I listened, I would have saved many detentions, an occasion black eye, stitches, and public humiliation. Count’s advice would have made life with my mother easier. She was constantly irritable. When she bitched to an empty room, I felt obligated to advocate for the walls. My father didn’t argue, when she nagged, he hid. When it got really bad, he drove away. One Saturday afternoon, he left my mother haranguing the kitchen walls.
“I know why he’s miserable. You’re the only one who wants the baby,” I said.
“Who the hell asked you?”
“I did!”
“You know what? I am sick and tired of your opinion,” my mother barked.
“Yeah, so I’m tired of your whining. All you ever do is whine, whine, whine, whine.”
“You bastard! You’re just like your father. All you can think about is James, James, James.”
“Yeah I know." I waved my hand - I picked up the habit from Count. “It’s all about James.”
“Just once stop and consider what it would be like to be in my shoes?” she yelled.
“I have, they reek like a pig farm.”
Her right hand connected. I saw stars. The left side of my face went numb, my knees gave out and I tumbled to the floor. My eye swelled. I rubbed my face, blood covered my hand. Her wedding ring broke open my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I blubbered – guilt filled tears stinging the cut.
“Oh my God,” she cried standing over me. “James, you okay? My God, you’re bleeding. “Come.” She helped me up and led me to the bathroom.
I had trouble catching my breath between sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” I repeated.
“Shhh,” she said hugging me. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Her hands ran through my hair. She sat me down on the toilet and inspected my cut. “You’re going to need stitches,” she said.
“No!” I pleaded. “I’ll be all right.”
“James. Don’t argue, you’re going to need them,” she said.
“I’m scared. I don’t want anything to happen.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Her face told a different story. What she did was wrong, but if I kept my trap shut, she wouldn’t have hit me. I didn’t want her in trouble, especially with the baby on the way.
“I fell down the stairs and hit my face on the banister,” I said.
"No James. We can’t lie,” she whispered.
“I’m not lying, That’s what happened. I was running in the upstairs hall, you told me to stop. I got smart with you and God punished me – I fell down the steps.”
She placed her forehead to mine. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Despite applying pressure, she couldn’t stop the bleeding. “I have to call an ambulance,” she said. Leaving the bathroom she muttered: “I wish your father would get home.”
“NO!” I yelled following her from the bathroom. “Call Mrs. Ortolan. She’ll give us a ride.”
My mother shook her head. “No James, I can’t do that. I just can’t do that.”
“Please, please,” I pleaded.
Ignoring me she said, “Mr. Miller is home, I’ll ask him if he’ll give us a ride.” Within minutes we were on our way to the hospital.
I started to believe my lie. Aside from an Emergency room doctor no one doubted me - I convinced him after a brief interrogation - no one, except Shannie. “I don’t remember a set of brass knuckles being part of your banister’s decor,” she quipped. My father mumbled something about being careful near the stairs – “you’re lucky you didn’t break an arm.” When Count saw my black eye and stitches he said I looked tough enough to play football. Knowing she owed me, my mother signed off. I joined the Junior High team.
For the remainder of summer vacation, Count and I spent each morning playing catch and hurdling tombstones. Count was the starting pulling guard on offense and nose tackle on defense. Not only was he the biggest player on our team, he was the biggest player in the league. More frightening then his size was his speed. I was no slow poke and he could stay with me in the forty. After one of our races he informed me it was time to see if I could take a hit. “Forget it, I’m not going to be your tackling dummy.”
“I believe in a fair fight. I’ll give you a three second head start.”
“You’ll never catch me,” I boasted.
“We go until I get you or I can’t run anymore,” Count challenged.
“Deal,” I answered. I was about to learn the meaning of freight-trained.
We started at the front of Fernwood. After fifty yards I looked over my shoulder - Count lumbered along. I was lolled into a false sense of security, I never seen him run further than forty yards. Piece of cake, I thought taking the turn at the rear of the graveyard. I looked over my shoulder again. Pow, he nailed me. My head bounced off the ground, pain exploded through my skull. Count called it a rock headache. It probably was a concussion. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be my last head injury.
“Just what I figured,” Count cried as I held my head in my hands. “You’re panty-waist wide-out material. You can run like the wind as long as the wind blows towards the sidelines.”
After the season started, I realized he was easy on me. It was frightening how hard he hit people. I’m amazed no one died. When I asked our coach why he winced when Count clobbered someone, he said: “I hope it doesn’t hurt as bad as it looks.” Count wasted people with a smile. He’d destroy them, help them up - extending a word of encouragement, and waste them again. He only got mean when someone called him Cunt. There was one on every team – I learned that the world will never be in short supply of idiots.
Once, while playing defensive back, I was in on a tackle when the running back called him Cunt. "I’ll show you who’s a Cunt," Count snapped. The next play he broke the kid’s leg.
I’m glad I never pissed off Count. I knew there was one name I’d never call him. Shannie and I were walking down Main Street when I asked if she ever saw Count get mean.
“Never,” she said.
“Hell-low Butterfly,” an old gravel laden voice interrupted from across Main Street.
"Russell,” Shannie cried. “How are you?”
"Fine,” the gravely voice coughed. “Just fine thank you. You behaving yourself young lady?” Across the street, under a plume of cigar smoke, stood an aging black man wearing sunglasses and carrying a white cane. His gray hair matched day-old stubble. A sweat stained undershirt covered a healthy potbelly.
“But of course,” Shannie replied. She motioned for me to follow her across Main Street. “What kind of trouble can a girl get into in this town?”
“Loads if your gallivanting around town with a young fella,” Russell smirked.
"James isn’t trouble. It’s me James has to worry about,” Shannie said.
It was hard to tell if the old man’s chuckle was spiced with a cough or if his cough was spiced with a chuckle. “Nice to make your acquaintance James,” he shook my hand. “You must be of high standing to meet this lady’s standards.”
"Nice to meet you,” I mumbled withdrawing my hand from his cold, sweaty embrace.
“How was your trip?’ Shannie asked.
"Fine doll. But you know how I am. I couldn’t wait to get home. I missed my Butterfly.”
“I’m glad you’re home. I missed you,” Shannie said resting her cheek against Russell’s potbelly.
"What’s the story on him,” I asked after we parted company.
“Everybody knows Russell,” Shannie answered. I learned Russell haunted Main Street, at any given time he sat on the park bench across from the town hall or pushed a broom in front of Wally’s. Shannie scolded me when I asked how he could push a broom if he couldn’t see what he’s sweeping, “Just because he’s blind doesn’t mean he’s an invalid. He knows the sidewalks better than anyone.”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
"He’s a friend of the family. He was there when we needed a little help,” Shannie said.
“What kind of help?” I inquired.
"Let’s just say – when in doubt, seek Russell out,” Shannie said.
“What kind of doubt?” I persisted.
“That’s none of your business,’ Shannie responded.
I changed the subject “Wait a minute, if he’s blind how did he know we were on the other side of the street?”
“He probably heard my voice,” Shannie tugged an ear.
“I was doing most of the talking,” I claimed.
“If he didn’t hear me, he…” Shannie sniffed twice. “… smelled me.”

“James, phone,” my mother called. The smell of barbecued steak wafted through our backyard. It was Labor Day, my mother was in a good mood and my father emerged from his stupor. “Just James,” Shannie’s voice rang through the receiver. “Tomorrow’s the day.”
“For?” I asked.
She giggled. “Diane has classes all day and you start school on Wednesday, it’s tomorrow or never.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count,” Shannie said.
Oh that! I thought. “What time?” I stammered.
“You oughta think with your small head more often. You catch on quicker,” Shannie teased.
"Ha ha,” I said.
“Eleven. Come around to the back door.”
“Eleven it is.” I hung up and returned to the picnic table. I studied the steak’s rare middle as I chewed. The sight of it lying in a pool of its own juices cost my appetite, at least that was my excuse. I slipped from the table under the cover of my parent’s conversation.
The evening drug slower than Christmas Eve for a five year old. In my bedroom, I paced the floor. When I tired of that, I went to Count’s. “The boys are running an errand,” Flossy said. I made my way to the maple tree. I climbed and watched the holiday traffic. I wanted to talk with Shannie. Instead, I walked to Wally’s. With Shannie on my mind, I bought Pixie sticks, I hate Pixie sticks! Go figure. Back in my room, I paced.
I learned dealing with the opposite sex was nerve wracking; no wonder my parent’s were so screwed up, I thought. A light went on in Diane’s room. I shut mine off and raced to my perch. Shannie stood in Diane’s doorway, arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the door frame, her head tilted backwards. She spoke, I tried reading her lips. Diane appeared from the corner of her room and walked past Shannie into the hallway. Instead of following, Shannie walked towards the window and stared in my direction. After a moment she slipped from Diane’s room.
As evening turned to night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, my mind awash with images of what tomorrow would bring. When sleep came, it was shallow and filled with dreams. The images were random and disjointed. In one dream, Shannie and I were in her bedroom, but her bedroom was in the maple tree. We were about to kiss when a tornado roared up the hill from the junkyard. Suddenly, we were