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

I whispered.
“You sure it was him?”
“You bet.”
“Yeah, but it was dark. You could be wrong.”
I almost said it was dark that night I saw Ms. Horne; I swallowed the thought. “I’m not wrong. I saw him there last night.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible.”
“I was home last night and I didn’t hear a thing. I was awake.”
“Whatever. All I’m saying is he was in your house last night.”
“Saw whom?” my mother asked as she walked into kitchen.
Shannie asked. “Did Mary the terrible walk in?” I tilted the mouthpiece away from my head so Shannie could have a better listen.
“Why are you whispering? There are no secrets in our house.”
“I’m not whispering,” I protested.
“Yes you are and who did you see?” mother persisted.
“No one.”
“Tell her. I want to hear her tits in a flutter,” Shannie cried.
“Stan,” I blurted.
“Oh my God, you’re going to tie her panties in a knot,” Shannie laughed.
“Stan? Stan who?” mother asked.
“Geezus Pete, what a maroon,” Shannie’s voice filled the receiver. I covered my other ear in an attempt to keep Shannie’s voice from echoing into the kitchen.
I pointed to the living room where grandfather, sitting roughly in the same spot as Manson the night of his persuasion, was watching Jeopardy. “That Stan, Granddad.”
“Damn it James, I wish you show him some respect.”
“I show him a lot of respect. He doesn’t want to be called something gay so I call him by his name. What’s wrong with that?”
“You go boy. Give her hell,” Shannie cheered.
“Don’t get smart with me. I’m asking you to show a little respect. Is that too much to ask for?
I burst out laughing as Shannie sung out R-E-S-P-E-C-T. That’s all the old bag needs.”
“What’s so funny? Who are you talking to?”
“Count.”
“Are you sure you’re not talking to that little tramp.”
“That bitch,” Shannie started. “Where does she get off calling me a tramp? That cunt!”
“Why do you always have to slam Shannie,” I yelled, hoping to grab Grandfather’s attention.
“Don’t you raise your voice to me.” She came towards me gesturing for the phone. “Give me the phone.”
“NO. I’m talking.”
“Hang up the phone,” mother ordered. “Hang up the phone or I swear I’ll return every last present.”
“What a bitch. Don’t you dare hang up the phone; stick to your guns.”
“Leave me alone, I wasn’t bothering you,” I complained.
“Shannie who are you calling a bitch?” Diane’s voice leaked through the phone.
“I’m warning you James; I’m not kidding.”
“Merry old maid Morrison,” Shannie answered Diane.
“Take ‘em back. Take ‘em all back. See what I care. You’re not getting me anything I want anyway.” My mother’s face turned purple and her eyes filled with insanity. With the return of her scowl, I knew she had recovered from the miscarriage.
“I can think of worse things to call her,” Diane quipped.
“Damn it Mary,” Grandfather bellowed over my shoulder. “Leave the boy alone?”
“If you didn’t let my son get away with murder maybe he won’t be such a smart ass.”
“I better go,” I told Shannie. “It’s going to hit the fan.”
The argument turned vicious. It was louder than my parents. It ended with a lot of tears and grandfather calling the airline and booking a return flight back to California the day after Christmas.
“James,” he told me as he tucked me into bed that night. “If it wasn’t for you I’d be on the way home tonight.”
“Stan.” He was about to shut my bedroom door. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said. The hall light outlined his body as he sat on the edge of my bed.
“Were you talking to Diane the other night?”
He took a deep breath and looked out my window. “How could I? I was at JD’s tipping a few with Russell.” It was the only time I knew he lied to me.
“I didn’t think it was you,” I smiled.

Christmas came and went and I got my Nintendo, thanks to my grandfather. Truth be told, I wish my mother would have made good with her threats and returned the gifts she got for me. Even though mother and grandfather tried to be pleasant, the air was tense. I wish we could do it over again - it was the last Christmas we had together. The next day, I savored the sight of grandfather walking down the jetway; it was the last time I saw him alive.


Chapter 7 A Beetle and a Cop

“Would you like to be a pallbearer,” Shannie asked, her right hand twisting her hair while her left danced over her sketchpad. The April sun chased the last chill from the air. The trees standing sentry between the Ortolan’s backyard and Fernwood were threatening bloom. Singing their song, birds dipped and weaved across the cobalt sky. I watched a robin land on the Ortolan’s lawn, make short thrift of a worm and fly off. Only the sandstone and granite monuments in Fernwood didn’t sense the change of season, for them it’s always winter.
“For whom?” I asked, distracted by the monotonous cadence of a pair of doves. I thought of last summer when Count and I took turns using doves as targets for his B.B. gun. I wasn’t a threat to the love birds, I didn’t come close to hitting the nearest telephone pole. Count was fatal, killing both with a single shot. “How did you do that?” I cried. ”It’s all in the touch,” he blew his fingertips.
“For me,” she chirped. She looked up from her sketch pad.
“Plan on croaking?” I asked.
“Sure am. You want to help?”
“Whatever,” I returned to the book I was struggling to read. English assignments suck.
“You know the kid whose family owns the funeral home?” she asked.
“Steve Lucas,” I sighed trying to concentrate on reading. “What about him?”
“I think he’s cute. Think you could tell him I like him?”
Steve Lucas! I wanted to scream! What a dork! Stained teeth and pale skin, banner combination. Count said the only way someone could be that pale and not be dead was to ingest formaldehyde. If it wasn’t for his discolored teeth it would be impossible to tell where his face ended and his mouth began. Beady brown eyes shifted under his out-of-date Beatles haircut.
“Are you feeling okay?” I dropped the book onto my lap.
“Better than yesterday, not as good as tomorrow,” she answered not taking her eyes off her sketch. My Bug - the optimist.
“What do you see in him?”
“I don’t know,” Shannie stopped sketching and looked into Fernwood. “He seems sweet,” she returned her gaze to me.
“As sweet as a pile of dog shit, about as popular to.”
Shannie laughed. I didn’t.
“You’re jealous,” Shannie chided.
“Jealous. Not!” I lied. “Worried? You bet!”
“Worried? Do tell.”
“I think your brains fell out. First you tell me you want me to be your pallbearer and now you like Steve Lucas. Oy Vey!”
“Yeah, so?” she asked.
“If I had a thing for Steve Lucas I’d need a pallbearer too, because I’d jump out a window.”
“Is that so?” Shannie put her pencil down.
“That’s so,” I answered watching Shannie stand and stretch. I admired her breast development. Thank God for warm weather and T-shirts, I thought. She walked past me. She busted me checking her out in the sliding door’s reflection. “Would you like anything? - to drink!”
“I’m fine,” I blushed as she disappeared into the house. I peeked at her sketch. An ornate casket rested on the shoulders of the pallbearers who were dressed in black tuxedos, their faces somber and colorless, their hair slicked back.
“What’s up with the doom and gloom?” I asked when she returned to the deck.
“Wait and see.”

“Your Grandfather has flipped,” mother complained. “He insists on calling late every Sunday night. Doesn’t he realize people work Mondays?”
“You don’t work,” I reminded her.
“What do you call looking after slobs. It ain’t a vacation.” In her convoluted way, bitching was a compliment. She was ecstatic they we’re on speaking terms again. Plans were in the works for her to fly to California when the phone rang earlier than normal one Sunday.
I rushed to answer the phone. “Mrs. Morrison. Mary Morrison please,” an indifferent voice droned.
“Mom it’s for you,” I was hoping it was grandfather.
“Who is it?” she took the phone from me.
“A salesman.” I shrugged my shoulders.
I was about to sit and watch TV when I heard a loud thump. The noise woke my father who napped on the couch. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
“Mom?” I called.
She didn’t answer.
“Mom,” I yelled running into the kitchen. “Mrs. Morrison, are you okay? Can you hear me?’ the salesman’s voice called from the phone. “Oh Jesus, Mary get up,” my father bemoaned as he shuffled into the kitchen.
“I think she passed out,” I said into the phone.
“Is this Mrs. Morrison’s daughter?” the voice asked.
“No!” I snapped. “It’s her son!”
“Sorry. Listen, is your mother breathing?” the salesman asked. My father emptied a glass of water on mother’s face.
Her eyes flew open, infected with rage. “She is now,” I reported, “My dad just threw water on her.”
“Good. Is she able to talk?” the salesman asked.
“Who wants to know?” The salesman was a busybody.
“My name is officer Dukowski. I’m with the Alameda County, California Sheriff’s department…”
“He’s dead!” my mother shrieked from the floor. “He’s dead! He’s dead!” she repeated over and over.
“… I regret to inform you of the passing of a Mr. Stanley Alison,” the voice droned.
“Give me the phone,” my father yanked it from my grip. A tingle erupted in my temples and flowed like lava down my neck and back. The kitchen darkened around me, a warm trickle flowed down my leg. In another world I heard my father tell my mother to calm down, “I can’t hear over your wailing.”

Gazing out the airplane’s window at the darkened country below, I worried how to stop my mother from doing ‘the proper thing.’ I turned my gaze to my sleeping mother. She looked innocent in her sleep. I couldn’t understand how she could create such drama. Why couldn’t she let Grandfather be? I looked back into the night, wishing I could keep her sedated.
My father, he’s useless. “What can I do? It’s her father,” he said. Somewhere over the Rockies exhaustion overpowered my anxieties. I fell into a dreamless sleep. I woke as the plane touched down. Shuddering with the fuselage, I grabbed the armrests, white knuckling them until the plane came to a stop.
As we disembarked, through luggage claim and renting a car, I studied my mother’s swollen eyes and puffy face. How could this woman threaten grandfather’s wishes? Diane’s words filled my head, “Don’t worry about a thing. If you need anything, call.” Hugging me she whispered, “we’re family.”
We met the minister of the Shepherd of the Hills Non Denominational Church in his office. Floyd, as he insisted on being called, was a short, muscular man in his mid-thirties with a rapidly balding head and a big, toothy smile. He had a reputation for not mincing words, it attracted grandfather to Floyd’s flock. “He’s a feisty little fucker,” my grandfather had said.
“I understand how you feel,” Floyd leaned back in his chair. “You should reconsider viewing his remains. It would be a mistake – a terrible one.”
“Thank you for your concern Reverend…”
“Floyd,” he corrected with a smile.
“… Floyd,” mother said. “You need to understand I want a final look.”
“Suit yourself,” he said over his squeaking chair. Glancing over the steeple he formed with his stubby fingers he