Cemetery Street, John Zunski [read any book TXT] 📗

of the room.
“Hi James,” Shannie sang as I opened the kitchen door.
“Someone wants to meet you.” I motioned to the sink where Grandfather was drying dishes. “Shannie, this is my grandfather.” He turned around. “Wow! You’re more beautiful than James said. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said extending his hand.
Shannie blushed. “Nice to meet you Mr. Alison,” she said. I was surprised Shannie remembered his name; I mentioned it once. Grandfather told her she could call him Stan.
“It’s a pleasure to meet my grandson’s girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Shannie questioned with a surprised smile. “James! What have you been telling people?”
I blushed. “How many times do I have to tell you she’s not my girlfriend.”
“James. James. James,” he shook his head. “Look at her. Tell me that you wouldn’t want her to be your girlfriend.”
My face blazed.
“Tell me you wouldn’t want her for a girlfriend,” Grandfather goaded.
Sweat poured down my forehead. My temples throbbed, my lips quivered and my knees weakened. I never hated anyone in my life, not Rex Byrne or Ed Nugent, not even the Dallas Cowboys, like I hated Grandfather at that moment! Humiliated, I ran out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs; the house rattling with every step.
“JESUS CHRIST!” my mother screamed from her bedroom. “Take it easy! You’re going to break my water.”
I slammed my bedroom door and buried my head in a pillow. After a few agonizing moments, I decided to save face. I crept down the stairs. Shannie’s voice drifting upward. “My father was in the 101st,” It was the first time I ever heard Shannie mention her father. I sat on the landing and listened. “He was killed in Vietnam. I don’t think he ever knew he had a daughter.”
“I’m sorry dear,” my grandfather said.
“My mother never mentions him. It’s like I never had a father.” Shannie changed the subject and asked him about World War II. I smiled. Shannie was showing off.
“How does a thirteen year old girl know World War II battles?” Appreciation laced Grandfather’s voice.
“My mother is a Twentieth Century history professor. I think its how she stays in touch with my father.”
“I missed Normandy, I was in Holland and Bastonge. We were in for a long night of war stories. I slipped back into the kitchen. He was a good storyteller and these were great stories. I wouldn’t miss them for the world. It was after ten when grandfather called it a night.
“Punk,” Grandfather said. “You’re not going to let the young lady walk home alone, are you?”
“She lives next door. It’s no big deal.”
“Do I have to teach you manners?”
“No.”
“Good. Walk the young lady home.”
Grandfather kissed Shannie’s cheek and thanked her for an enjoyable evening. What a role model, too bad I was uncomfortable with the role.
Outside Shannie thanked me and told me she had a great time. “Thanks, he insisted on meeting you.”
“Really,” she smiled. It was the surprised smile from earlier in the evening. “Why’s that?”
“He’s heard a lot about you.” I wanted to hold her hand.
“How so?”
“Shannie,” I said ignoring her question.
“That’s the name.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“About tonight,” We were standing outside her front door. “I’m sorry. I acted like a kid.”
“Yes?” she bit her lower lip.
“I really, well, I really like you.”
“And…”
“Well, I like you.”
Her smile waned. “I like you to.” She slammed the door in my face.

“Your grandfather is a trip,” Count informed me on the way to school the day before Thanksgiving. “Jesus, can he tell stories.” Count had dark circles under his eyes but voice was full of vigor. “The codger kept us up most of the night and we still didn’t want him to leave. And you know how the old lady is about having anyone in the house. What a life. I hope I can live one half as interesting. What he has done and seen.”
“Yeah he has.”
“He won a Silver Star in the war. He shook Kennedy’s hand. He was at Woodstock, which is pretty cool since he must have seemed like an old fogy to the hippies. He wrote a book. He even had an end zone seat when Dwight Clarke made the catch.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell Count that my Grandfather’s greatest talent, besides being in the right place at the right time, was embellishment. Granted, he did win a Bronze Star and he did write an obscure book on The Battle of the Bulge. I’m not sure about his claims of shaking Kennedy’s hand. At Woodstock, Mom said he was a rent-a-cop. As far as Dwight Clarke’s catch, I was with him. We had end zone seats, except they weren’t at Candlestick Park. We were at a sport’s bar in San Francisco called The End Zone. “Did he mention he banged Marilyn Monroe?” I asked.
“He fucked Marilyn Monroe?” Count’s face lit up.
I smiled and nodded my head.
“No he didn’t.” Count studied my face. “He did, didn’t he?”
“After Joltin’ Joe and before Arthur Miller.”
“He fucked Marilyn Monroe - lucky bastard; I’d give my left nut, I’d give both my nuts. I’d mount my nuts on the mantel if I could pound a sex symbol. Jesus, I would have saved the rubber.”
“I think he did. I’m almost positive. Ask him about it.”
“No shit,” his voice full of admiration. “You think he’d show it to me.”
“If it ain’t dry rotted.”
“AWESOME,” Count put his arm around me. “Your Grandfather fucked Marilyn Monroe. What a heritage; Jesus, my grandfather couldn’t tag my grandmother and yours pounded the most famous sex symbol of all time.”
“What are you two queers up to?” Steve Lucas chimed in as we walked up the Junior High’s steps.
“His Grandfather banged Marilyn Monroe.”
“Say again,” Steve asked.
Ignoring Lucas, Count continued, “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us that last night.”
“He won’t in front of Flossy,” I added.
“What a gentleman.”
“Wait a second,” Steve interjected. “Your Grandfather swapped DNA with Marilyn Monroe?” Steve was occasionally slow.
“That’s the story,” I said.
“Shut up shit head. I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.” Count told Lucas as he held the door open.
“I know why he didn’t tell you,” Lucas said.
“Why?” Count asked.
“He caught the clap from her. It’s like you finally get to eat at Shay Whities’, you order lobster tail and end up getting salmon vanilla.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” Count asked, eyebrows scrunching together.
“Salmonella you moron,” I laughed.
“Whatever. Anyway, you get this great dish but you would have been better off with a happy meal from Mickey D’s.”
“Shut up Asshole,” Count replied. “That is the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“Don’t you think she can have the clap? No Lucas, not Marilyn Monroe, she was as pure as the driven snow,” Steve mocked Count with a high pitched whistle. “You think girls don’t shit? You should live with my sisters!”
Count shoved Steve against the lockers. A loud crunch exploded over the noisy hallway. “That’s enough out of you,” Count admonished. “You think he’ll tell us?” he asked me in a calm tone.
“Beats me,” I answered.
“Maybe he’s modest and wants to keep that gem to himself.”
“My Grandfather Modest? HAH.”
“Can you think of a better reason why he wouldn’t tell us?”
“Cause he didn’t,” I said.
“He didn’t what?” Count wrinkled his brow. “I’m totally confused.”
“He didn’t bang her, dumb ass. Jesus you’re gullible.” I took off, weaving my way through the crowded hallway.
“You suck Morrison,” Count yelled after me: “Paybacks are a bitch, asshole!” Frustrated, Count shoved Steve Lucas into the lockers again before heading to homeroom.

“James, wake up,” Grandfather’s voice invaded my dreams “James, wake up!” He said shaking me. “Come on James, Get up!”
He never called me James. I opened my eyes. Flashing red lights filled my darkened room. “The house on fire?” I asked bolting up. I heard my mother cry underneath the din of unfamiliar voices. The crackle of a police radio and the rattle of a diesel engine shook the windows. In the strobe-like effect of the emergency lights I saw fear painted on my grandfather’s face. Wrinkles etched his forehead, his eyes wide and alert. I tried to ask what was happening but words failed me.
“They have to take your mother to the hospital.”
“The baby? She’s having the baby?” My heart raced. I was exhilarated. I was going to have a baby brother. “I’m going to be a big brother,” I mumbled throwing on my clothes.
“Slow down James,” Grandfather told me. “Listen to me,” he placed his hands on my shoulders. “Your father is going with your mother in the ambulance. I don’t know the way to the hospital. Do you know how to get there?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Good,” there was hesitation in his voice.
Outside the ambulance pulled away. The dim glare of the street lights splintered the blackness. “I got to take a whiz,” I said.
“We don’t have time. Wait till we get to the hospital.”
“It’ll only take a second.”
“Hold it.”
“I’ll only be a second.”
“NO! DON”T YOU GO NEAR THE BATHROOM!” he bellowed. “THAT’S AN ORDER!” His yell shrill like mother’s.
I stepped backwards. He never raised his voice to me. His expression told me he would tackle me if need be. That’s when I realized something was wrong. “Wait till you get to the hospital. Okay,” his voice returned to normal.
“Okay,” I mumbled. I was scared.
The first hints of dawn peeked over the horizon as we pulled into the hospital’s parking lot. The ambulance that transported my mother was leaving. A bitter breeze slashed our faces as we crossed the parking lot. Inside, my father was sitting behind a window giving a nurse the necessary information.
“Wait here,” Grandfather motioned for me to take a seat. I paged through magazines that littered the waiting room. I stood, I paced, and I sat back down again. In my anxiety I forgot I had to piss. I gazed out the waiting room’s window at the stirring signs of life. An occasional car passed, their headlights knifing through the brooding morning. I remembered it was Thanksgiving. I was supposed to go to the Senior High game with Count and his old man. Great timing mom, I thought.
I was alone in the waiting room, no janitor or stray drunk to keep me company. I flopped into a chair and forced myself to sleep. As I dreamt I felt someone cover me with a blanket. Other voices now shared the waiting room, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“She’s stable,” my father’s voice said. “She’s going to have to have a D and C.”
“Do they say what happened?” grandfather questioned. He was sitting in the chair next to me.
“They’re thinking spontaneous abortion.”
That’s why he didn’t want me to go into the bathroom, she aborted my brother in there, I thought. That bitch, can’t she ever think of anyone else. I couldn’t feign sleep. I opened my eyes to find myself covered with Grandfather’s army jacket. “Did she lose the baby?” I asked knowing the answer.
My father looked to Grandfather and than back to me. “Yes.” I think my father breathed a sigh of relief.
A hollow feeling gnawed at my gut. If I wasn’t sitting I would have fell. “Bitch,” I mumbled.
The side of my face exploded with fire, the burning a stark contrast to the emptiness I felt. "What did you say?” Grandfather asked.
An old lady across the waiting room watched. I cowered into the chair raising my arms. “Why the… why did you do that?” I asked, bewildered.
“What did you call