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

come out sucking his thumb.”
“Like you ever seen them,” I complained.
“Let me tell you something my boy,” Count wrapped his arm around me. “I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I had Marcy in the coffin show room. She’s a kinky girl. She wanted me to nail her in a coffin.”
“You’re so full of shit!” I cried.
“How could I refuse?” he continued.
“Bull – Shit!” I insisted.
“Don’t believe me, see if I care. But, next time you see that little turd Lucas, ask him how Marcy got that little scar on the side of her head.”
“What scar?”
“You’re not paying close enough attention,” Count chided.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Steve Lucas admitted. “She cut her head on a coffin latch banging Count. Got herself a nasty little gash on the side of her head, bled like the pig she is - got blood all over the satin lining. Jesus was my dad pissed; he had to reline the box. I got grounded for two weeks over that one.”
“Why did you get grounded?” I asked.
“I took the fall. The old man would kill Marcy if he found out about her little fetish. I always say; it’s better to get laid in a coffin instead of being laid out in one. Yeah, she begged me to tell the old man we were wrestling, that I smacked her head against the latch. I told her it would cost her. When the old man asked me if Marcy’s story was true and I said, “Yes sir, it is.”
“What a noble gesture,” Shannie said when I told her.
“Getting grounded didn’t bother me,” Steve continued. “I don’t go anywhere after school. Plus I ended up getting a good look at the best pair of tits in town.”
“That’s disgusting!” Shannie exclaimed.
“That’s Steve Lucas,” I said.

“I can’t wait for school,” Shannie said during a late August afternoon spent in the maple tree. The oppressive heat hung over the junkyard and neighboring Squaw Valley, building thunderheads threatened the hazy sunshine.
“F school. I’d rather sit at home and read.”
After a minute of watching the darkening sky, Shannie said: “That’s the difference between you and me Just James. The heat, the humidity, they’re like complacency; at its core complacency is oppressive, it saps us, makes us lazy. A thunderstorm, that’s action, change in progress – liberation. I love thunderstorms, they’re exciting – they’re escape from the same old same old. You see the heat and humidity as what is, to your credit you tolerate it – yeah man, if it isn’t broke don’t fix it.” She playfully punched my arm. “Clouds on the horizon, bad news, you don’t like their noise and excitement. Lightning starts fires, wind blows over houses.”
The first gusts of wind overtook us, the limbs of the giant tree swayed. Like when Shannie challenged the train, she closed her eyes and tilted her head; raising her face sensuously to the wind, her features contrasting the darkening sky.
I wonder how she would have reacted if I didn’t fight my impulses. I waned to feel her next to me, to feel her breasts against my chest, her breath upon my neck.
A bolt of lightning crashed nearby breaking her spell. Without a word, accompanied by an enormous clap of thunder, we jumped out of the giant tree and headed towards Fernwood. The rain came fast and furious as we walked through rows of Beyford’s past, wondering about the future. I glanced at Shannie, who stared ahead, her long hair matted against the back of her drenched shirt. I turned away noticing the effect the cold rain was having on her. I wished I told her how much I loved her! How much I wished she was mine!
We crossed under the trees between Fernwood and Shannie’s back yard. At the foot of the deck our eyes met. We stood looking into each other’s eyes. Without a word, accompanied by another clap of thunder, Shannie climbed the steps and slipped inside. I stood in the deluge, feeling the emptiness where Shannie stood. Oh God, if I could just relive that day! What I would change!

Our shadows grew longer in the early autumn sunset. A balmy breeze rustled the changing leaves. The school year was a few weeks old and Shannie made habit of visiting football practice.
“I’m so tired of double standards,” Shannie complained. “I swear the next one I hear, I’m going to beat the person with a stick.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“Why is it that when a guy asks a girl out everything’s cool, but if a girl asks a guy out, it like causes a controversy?”
“I don’t think it’s weird; I’d love it if some chick would ask me out. It takes the pressure off.”
“That’s because you’re you. And I’ve had a little time to set you straight.”
“Who you planning on asking out?” I crossed my fingers that Shannie was going to ask me to the Chester School’s dance.
“Same thing with opening a door,” Shannie paused waiting for traffic to pass on Bainbridge Street. “If a guy opened a car door for a gal, people would say he’s a gentleman. But what would people call him if she opened that same door for him?”
“LOSER!” Count screamed from a passing car.
“Remind me to beat Count with a stick,” Shannie sighed as we waited to cross Bainbridge Street.
“What would you say if I asked you to ask me something?”
“Excellent Eggs,” Shannie said, her eyes brightening up. “Actually I was going to ask you something.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Would you like to be one of my pallbearers?”
“Not that again!” We ran through a gap in the traffic.
“A dead girl needs helpers too,” Shannie answered.
“Planning on killing yourself?”
“Yup.”
I stopped and turned to her. “You’re serious.”
“As serious as a heart attack.”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“Sort of.” Shannie rubbed a temple. “It’s just the pressure; I can’t handle the pressure anymore.”
“I can get help. I’ll talk to the guidance counselor tomorrow,” I said.
“No don’t! He won’t be able to do anything. I need your help, not the psycho-babble of some smuck.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Come with me, help me pick a tuxedo for you. I want you to look perfect.”
“Shannie,” I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a quick shake. “You’re talking gibberish. Listen to me, don’t do anything stupid! We can get help!”
“I’ll get help, but…” she fell into my grasp. “…for now. Just hold me; please hold me.” We stood on the sidewalk embracing. My mind spun. After a moment of silence, framed by the desperate, late season cries of crickets and the passing traffic I whispered: “Did you talk to Diane?”
“Of course I did!” She looked into my eyes.
“And?”
“She supports me,” Shannie answered.
“Has she flipped her lid?”
“Oh Just James, that’s why I love you! You care so much it’s flattering. But don’t you see? I have to kill myself! Well, sort of. How else can I enter the Halloween parade as Ms. Dead America? Wouldn’t a living Ms. Dead America poses a credibility problem?”
“Fuck you Shannie!” I cried. Shannie laughed.
That’s how Shannie Ortolan snookered me into her project for Beyford’s Halloween parade. She reintroduced me to the drawing she completed the previous spring. “That’s why I asked you about that little putz,” she was referring to Steve Lucas. “At the time I thought he was my only in for getting a real coffin. We could use our wooden piece of crap, but it’ll cost us first place. I talked to Marcy at school. She say’s it shouldn’t be a problem to borrow one, as long as we return it the same night.”
“Where are we going to get the money to rent tuxes?”
“There’s a costume shop in Squaw Valley. They have the style I’m looking for. Twenty bucks a pop. Diane and I will jew them down.” It was just like Shannie to have everything handled. As the Halloween parade approached a crisis arose when one of the pallbearers dropped out. “What’s his excuse?” I asked.
“What does it matter? I don’t have time for excuses, we need another pallbearer or we’re history!”
“Count,” I said. Shannie had resisted asking Count because of his height. In being true to her competitive edge, she felt Count would hinder our chances. “The coffin has to be shoulder-borne. He’s a foot taller than everyone else. It won’t work,” she complained.
“You’re too anal,” I said. “Do you really think anyone else put as much thought into this? We’re competing against kids in Smurf costumes. If we don’t drop the coffin we’re a cinch. Ask Count, you’ll have your six.”
For one of the few times, she capitulated to my argument. “Okay, you win. Count is in. But only because we’re running out of time.”
To stir the pot I called Shannie the night before the parade. “Bad news Bug.”
“What now?” she asked with an edge in her voice.
“Count copped an attitude about you waiting to the last minute, he backed out.”
“That prick! ” She screamed into the phone.
“He feels insulted.” I covered the phone’s mouthpiece. I was trying not to laugh.
“I’ll call you back!” Shannie hung up.
Oh shit, I thought, imagining her burning up the Lightman’s phone line. Less than a minute later the phone rang. “Fuck you Just James! You really suck!” she slammed down her phone.
I retired to my perch, hoping to catch Diane in some state of undress, I had no idea a bigger problem awaited.

I should have known by Steve Lucas’s behavior that something was up. He avoided me all day. I thought I was lucky - he wasn’t annoying me. Spared from his aggravation, I spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Shannie. I planned on skipping football practice and meeting her after school to complete last minute details.
It was impossible to miss Shannie as I pranced down the front steps of the Junior High. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, she stood on an island of personality. “Hey Bug,” I said.
“We have a problem!” Shannie uttered.
“Marcy ditch us?” I asked. Shannie in her pervasive manner, talked Marcy into having Janice, a creative art’s student, do the make-up for the pallbearers. Once Janice agreed, filling the remaining pallbearer spots was a snap. “Don’t even think of it,” Shannie told me when I wondered aloud about being so close to those breasts, “I’m doing your makeup.”
“Worse!” Shannie replied.
“What could be worse than that?” I asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” Shannie led me towards Lucas’s Funeral Parlor. “The Lucas’s ran out of caskets.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Shannie said. “According to Marcy, there’s a casket crunch - their main supplier is on strike and with the accident on the Expressway last week, they’ve been left casketless. If they were a hotel, the no-vacancy light would be on.”
“Here’s the ticket,” Marcy said in front of the funeral parlor. “We can still use a box; the catch is, we have to take the stiff out and put him back when we’re done.”
“Fuck that!” I cried. “We can use yours Shannie!”
I didn’t like the look in Shannie’s eyes.
“It’s not a big deal,” Marcy said. “Wait till dark and sneak the coffin out. When your done bring it back and slide the body back in. Nobody will ever know. No harm, no foul,” she sounded like her brother.
“A change of plans,” Shannie told Diane. “We can’t get the coffin until six-thirty; have my court meet us at 6:45 in the parade’s marshalling area. Count, James, and I have to meet Steve at the funeral home.” Shannie then called Count and harangued him into borrowing the powder fairy blue pickup truck. “If you