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

to call or write or anything, just drop over.”
Shaking my head, I heeded Russell’s advice and didn’t look back. I slipped inside my father’s car, drove to the airport and my new beginning.


Chapter 23 Epilogue

The following September I learned of another tragedy. While I was on extended assignment for my new job – I broke free of the funeral industry in favor of firefighting – word came that Russell perished in a blaze. A pile of charred rubble was all that remained of Wally’s and the apartments above the variety store and lunch counter. I stared for hours at the newspaper photograph Diane mailed.
“I tried calling when it happened,” Diane told me over the phone. “But, I could only reach your voice mail.”
“Did he go quickly?”
“As far as anyone knows.”
“Where’d they bury him?”
“Fernwood,” Diane answered. “Listen James, I know you. I know how you feel about Russell. Don’t feel like you need to rush back. I’d rather you save your money and come back for the holidays.”
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. Three days later, I landed in Philadelphia. Driving through Beyford under the cover of darkness, I headed towards Indian Point, parking the rental car next to the railroad tracks where Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup.
I crossed the trestle, only this time instead of Shannie and Count at my sides, I carried a gallon of diesel and a shovel. Atop Indian Point I dismantled the bogus monument and set it ablaze.
The view from Indian Point that late summer night couldn’t compare to the view in front of me today. From atop Mount Sentinel, I peer over Missoula and the snow covered Bitterroots. Winter here is beautiful. I wish I could share it with Shannie. In a sense, that’s what I was about to do. In my hand I turn Shannie’s envelope round and round. With a sigh I opened the envelope marked: “Do not open prior to my thirtieth birthday!”

Shannie @ 30

We finally meet. The person I couldn’t wait to be. Are you as nervous looking back at me as I am imaging you? I guess I should tell you what I think you’re like, but I have so many questions for you. What’s your life like? Have you lived like I promised? Did you marry Just James? Ewwwwww! Okay, whatever, I still think he’s cute!
I think you’re a lawyer. I think you’ve written your first book. I don’t think you have any kids. You either still live in Beyford or you moved to Florida, you know all that fun in the sun. You didn’t make your first million yet, but you’re close. But most of all, I know you’re happy!

Answer honestly. Have you lived like I promised? Did you make a million dollars yet? Did you give it away? Remember that’s the deal! What’s it like to be an adult? Do you still think what father was like? Do you really think he’s dead? Are you in love? Are you married? Not to Just James? Ewwwwww! Do you give of yourself? Have you made the world a better place? Are you happy?

Shannie @ 15

I refolded the letter, placed it back in the envelope and stuffed the envelope back in my pocket. I marveled at Shannie’s self-expectations and couldn’t help drawing comparisons to my own. I glanced over the city in thought. Approaching my own thirtieth birthday, maybe it’s a good thing I’m not the man I’d thought I’d be. If I was, I know I wouldn’t be here. I’m happy here. Standing, taking a moment to enjoy the snow-covered beauty about me, I chuckled at the thought that maybe Diane’s pompous colleague was onto something; maybe it’s a good thing that in such a presumptuous world irony is alive and well.

The End


About the Author

John lives in Western Montana with his wife Tammy and their dog Shannie-Biscuit. John believes every man is entitled to one good dog and one good woman. He has both. Cemetery Street is his first E-book. His second, Shangri-La Trailer Park will be published in late 2011. Check out www.JohnZunski.com or look him up on Facebook.


Shangri-La Trailer Park
Chapter 1 Comes at Night

Eyes ablaze, a bear came at night. It lumbered into camp, earth shaking under claw. In the light of a crackling campfire its shadow flickered upon the trunks of conifers. Breath swirled about its snout before rising into the night. Fast asleep, Maistoinna (My-stween-a) Standing Bear was oblivious of the ursine’s presence - or maybe he wasn’t. Either way, he turned his back on the bear.
Maistoinna wasn’t concerned about a bear invading his camp. He was experienced camping in Bear Country and took precautions. The Blackfoot Indian was fond of saying: “If a bear’s crazy enough to slash his way into my tent, I’m crazy enough to have a nasty surprise waiting for him.” This night, Maistoinna didn’t pitch his tent, choosing instead to sleep under the stars.
The cinnamon bear nosed closer, firelight betraying a deep gash upon its shoulder. Around the wound dried blood matted its fur. A normal bear might pause to paw at this rock or that, maybe uncovering a tasty treat. This bear seemed different; slowly, deliberately, he moved toward Maistoinna. Hovering over the sleeping Blackfoot, the bear paused, studying his quarry as its steamy breath belched skyward.
When Maistoinna rolled onto his back, the bear pounced. With a primordial grunt, it nudged Maistoinna with a giant paw, startling him from sleep. Maistoinna screamed, the echoes of his bellow rolling over the treetops.
The bear pinned Maistoinna and lowered its snout. “Shut up!” the bear growled, engulfing Maistoinna with putrid breath. “Sweeny, Shut up! It’s me,” the bear shook Maistoinna’s shoulders.
Terror filled Maistoinna’s eyes as he struggled to free his arms, his breath rapid and shallow under the bear’s weight.
“Calm down, calm down, it’s me.”
Maistoinna squinted, recognition settling him.
“Sorry to scare you, my friend, but it’s the only way I can get your attention,” the bear said.
“It’s happening again,” it warned. “Do something about it. This time, do something. Don’t let another Eagle fall.”
Maistoinna awoke with a start, his heart pounding. Next to him, embers from the dying fire glowed weakly. “A dream, only a dream,” Maistoinna mumbled. Confused and weary, he sat motionless, scrutinizing the tree line. Far from his Browning, Montana, home, Maistoinna was camping along the Appalachian Trail in northeastern Pennsylvania, in the midst of a solo quest at conquering the two thousand-mile trail.
Shaken, Maistoinna snuggled into his sleeping bag. For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t feel at home in nature. He suddenly feared the dark and what lurked within; he wished to be in a motel room, in a comfortable bed, under a warm blanket, watching this week’s million-dollar movie.
Somewhere in the night an owl hooted. Maistoinna jumped. He gave up his attempt at sleep and climbed out of his bag. Sitting before the campfire, he watched morning light chase darkness across the sky. His mind grappled with the bear. What was he saying? The Eagle; the bear’s wound—what did they mean?
These things once would have been intelligible to Maistoinna, but lately—ever since his nephew’s accident —many things seemed incomprehensible. Maistoinna was frustrated that he didn’t understand the bear. He related to bears better than women. He knew bears—women, well… leave it at that.
As a boy, his grandfather told him that their clan was directly descended from the great bear. Even then Maistoinna admired the bear’s arrogant swagger. “They’re always smiling,” a young Maistoinna told his grandfather. Unknown to Maistoinna, his own smile resembled that insolent smirk.
Real-life encounters with bears didn’t shake him the way this dream had— not even the time a black bear caught Maistoinna with his pants down. The sun shined brilliantly upon the jagged Mission Mountains as Maistoinna answered nature’s call. He was squatting behind a stand of brush when he heard the bear lumber nearby. It swaggered across an opening in the trees, busily foraging, snout to the ground. Not until Maistoinna moved for his pepper spray - set upon a stump five feet away - did the bear notice him. With teeth clacking, the bear moved towards Maistoinna.
In his excitement, Maistoinna forgot to pull up his pants and fell over himself. He hit the ground with a thud—pepper spray out of reach. The bear closed, teeth clacking. It caught whiff of Maistoinna’s scat and lowered its snout. After investigating, the bear scampered away.
Maistoinna didn’t find the story funny, his screw ups were never the least bit humorous. That’s not to say that Maistoinna didn’t possess a blistering wit, he did, as long as others were the target.
As the sun rose above the Appalachian forest, Maistoinna dumped his remaining coffee on the fire and closed camp. He faced the long day ahead of him with a sigh. Hiking was a job in the mid-Atlantic summer time soup.

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Publication Date: 07-22-2011

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