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

have any problems getting Bear to agree, let me know. I’ll sweet talk him.”
“We can’t fuck around,” Shannie told my reflection in Diane’s vanity mirror as she applied my makeup. I loved being the center of her attention. Concentration oozed from her eyes as she finished touching up my makeup. “We have to be in and out of Lucas’s in ten minutes,” she said.
For her part, Shannie was bewitching: her usually unruly hair was brushed straight back and held captive in a tight French braid. Her face ashen, like a glazed over snow pack, disguised of any sign of life. Her eyebrows and eyelashes, heavy with mascara, entombed luminous green eyes - they seemed as out of place as a smiley face on a hearse.
The condition for borrowing the truck, Bear wanted a glimpse of his ‘rent-a-daughter’ decked out. I got a case of the willies walking past the tombstones. I couldn’t get my mind off the task at hand. I didn't want to touch a dead body.
“Don’t get your shorts in a knot,” Count told me as we drove to the funeral parlor. “It’s just like a slab of meat.”
“I’m not a butcher,” I said.
Shannie had Count park the truck around the corner from the funeral parlor. “I don’t want to draw Old Man Lucas’s attention,” Shannie explained to Count.
“The things we get away with at Halloween,” Shannie said as we walked to the funeral parlor. “Imagine if we tried this in April.”
As we turned the corner, we were met by the pacing figure of Steve Lucas. Janice managed a miracle - Steve looked suave in his pall bearer attire – prompting Shannie to comment that if desperate, she would consider parking her shoes under his bed.
“It’s about time you morons show up,” Steve said.
“Speak for yourself dipshit,” Count said feigning a shove. A group of early parade goers trudged by. The dim streetlight, immediately above us, cast a gloomy shadow over us. A toddler in the passing clan cried noticing four zombies bantering in front of a funeral parlor.
“You anus,” Count said to Steve. “You scared that little girl.” This time he gave Steve a hefty shove, sending him earthward. Shannie punched Count’s arm: “Where’s your head? He’s wearing a tux; it better not be stained.” Raising an open palm to Count Shannie warned: “I oughta crack you!”
Count looked down as if he were counting toes.
“Yeah well, I wish that was our only problem,” the funeral director’s son said gaining his feet. “My dad’s on another call,” he said brushing off his tux.
“That’s good - isn’t it?” Shannie asked.
“Fuck no, it sucks! It means that he’s going to be in the shop embalming another stiff. That means if we put a stiff on a gurney he’s going to notice it. Then the shit will hit the fan.”
“Geezus Pete!” Shannie stomped a foot.
“We’re fucked,” I mumbled.
“Not necessarily,” Steve said. “I think I have this figured out.”
“We are fucked!” Count interrupted. “We might as well go get your coffin Shannie.”
“Hear him out,” Shannie said.
“My old man isn’t that observant; he’s overwhelmed right now. I mean, he had to borrow a casket from Katzenmoyer and he hates that prick! Point being, if we leave a body lay on a gurney, how can he not miss it; but, if we take a casket, body and all, he’ll never notice that its gone.”
“You mean we have to carry a coffin with a real live stiff in it?” I uttered.
‘‘No, with a stiff stiff, Jack Ass!” Count chided.
“We could, but after five blocks, it’ll get too heavy, even if we take one with one of the kids from the accident,” Steve was referring to a family of five who were wiped out in an accident on the Expressway.
“What do you suggest?” Shannie asked.
“Yeah Einstein, I want to hear this one,” Count chimed in.
Shannie glowered at Count.
“We take a casket, doesn’t matter which one, preferably one in a corner, so the old man won’t notice. We load it on the truck, drive up to Fernwood, unload the body, store it in one of your garages,” Steve nodded at Count. “When the parade is over, we go back, load it up, bring it back here. By that time, my old man should be finished with the new stiff. We slide the whole works back in its place.”
As I was muddling over Steve’s idea Shannie said, “It works; lets do it!”
Oh God, I hope we don’t pick a coffin with one of the kids from the accident, I fretted. We snuck in the front door. We walked down the hallway adjacent to the viewing room. Steve stopped before double doors at the end of the hall, he turned to us and said: “It’ll be easier if we take it out the back door. We have to hurry. I don’t know when the old man will be back.” Slowly, he opened a door, allowing a sliver of light to cut across the darkened room and rest upon a coffin. My stomach quaked, goosebumps rose on my skin.
Steve walked nonchalantly into the room. I gained respect for the dork. The room exploded in florescent light, exposing a sterile looking room with eight caskets; each sitting atop a table, their cover’s closed. An empty gurney rested next to another set of double doors on the far side of the room. “Pick your poison kids,” Steve Lucas chirped pointing out the tags identifying each casket’s contents. “Would you prefer old Mrs. Johnson or would you like a younger model, such as Master Higgins, taken so suddenly from us.” Steve Lucas, enjoying his role as a macabre emcee, approached Shannie. “I don’t think you would like dealing with Mr. Higgins, fate handed the poor chap his head; If I’d pop the lid, you would see him holding it in his hands.”
“Have respect for the dead,” Count snapped.
“Ha,” Steve replied.
Shannie cut Steve Lucas with a vicious stare. I sniggered. "Count,” Shannie said. “Bring the truck up to the back door.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Steve Lucas protested, his voice suddenly serious. “What if the old man pulls in and sees us loading a coffin on your truck?”
“What if he sees us carrying it down the alleyway?” Shannie fired back. “It doesn’t make a difference. If we get caught we get caught.
“Respect for the dead?” Steve Lucas said after Count went for the pickup truck. “He sure doesn’t have a problem banging my sister next to the dead.”
“I think Mrs. Johnson will do. I can’t deal with a corpse younger than me,” Shannie said.
“Mrs. Johnson you want, Mrs. Johnson you get,” Steve Lucas said as he wheeled the gurney next to Mrs. Johnson’s casket. “Excellent choice, a small frail old woman, easy to handle.” With some effort the three of us managed to slide Mrs. Johnson’s coffin onto the gurney. “Don’t worry Luv,” Steve Lucas spoke to the coffin in an absurd English accent. “You’re going to have the ride of your afterlife.”
“That boy needs help,” Shannie told me later.
The four of us worked quickly, sliding Mrs. Johnson into the back of pickup truck. “Don’t you think we oughta secure it?” Shannie asked, standing to the side of the truck, eying the casket.
“We don’t have time, just get in the truck,” Steve Lucas cried - he was already inside.
“It should be okay,” Count said.
“Hurry up,” Steve Lucas whined. “I know how long it takes the old man to pick up a stiff from hospital - he’s already running late. He’ll be here any minute.” The four of us piled in the small cab, Steve Lucas sat between Count and me. Shannie sat on my lap.
We pulled away from the funeral home and turned down the one-way alley. “Go faster!” Steve Lucas ordered looking over her shoulder.
“Relax we’ve made it,” Count said. As we made a right onto Washington Avenue, I looked back to see headlights illuminate the alley. It was the elder Lucas’s hearse. “Yeah, by the hair on your ass,” Steve said.
Steve Lucas wasn’t the only anxiety ridden pallbearer. I was petrified. Mrs. Johnson had me freaked. To make matters worse, with Shannie on my lap, there was boner implications. No matter what image I had of Mrs. Johnson, or how I imagined her lifeless skin to feel, the mental image was not strong enough to overcome the rush of Shannie inspired hormones. Shannie’s fidgeting didn’t help matters. As we turned onto Cemetery Street, and the truck started up the hill, the casket slid in the truck bed and slammed against the tailgate; the loud thud gave the four of us a start. Steve Lucas farted, prompting Shannie to roll down the window and stick her head out. Steve snickered, “I shit myself every time I’m scared.”
Once the aftermath of our scare cleared, Shannie, peering back at the bed of the truck, said, “I knew we should have tied it down.”
“Will you sit still,” I told Shannie. “I’ve got a cramp.”
“Must be an awfully big cramp,” Shannie teased.
“You can sit on my lap,” Steve told Shannie.
“Not for all the Bananas in Bangladesh,” Shannie sneered.
In Fernwood, Count backed the truck up against the maintenance shed. Luckily for us, the shed was hidden from the converted chapel by a row of closely planted evergreens. Without a word, we slid the casket out of the truck into the shed, resting it upon sawhorses.
“Clear the workbench,” Count ordered. “Lucas,” he continued. “There’s a tarp in the corner. Go get it, spread it out on the workbench.”
I was so focused on replacing wrenches and pliers on the oil-splattered slat board, I didn’t noticed Count next to me doing the same. I jumped when he spoke; “That’s good enough.” As Count and Steve Lucas spread the tarp atop the workbench I noticed Shannie standing just inside the door, keeping watch. I was surprised by the professionalism exhibited by Count and Steve Lucas. They both demonstrated the ability, as my grandfather used to say: "to know when the chips were down."
Without a word, Count guided me out of their way. Steve Lucas opened the coffin. Within laid a pleasant faced grandmother with curly white hair. I’ve since heard a person’s face in death reflects their temperament in life; if that’s true, Mrs. Johnson was a pleasant person. Her lips were turned slightly upward, hinting an eternal smile. It was said that in her day, Mrs. Johnson was quite a looker, blessed with raining golden curls not unlike Shannie’s. “A free spirit to the end,” she was eulogized; I hoped she got a good laugh over this.
“When we lift her out of the box,” Steve Lucas instructed. “Grab the headrest from the coffin and put it on the workbench.” Mrs. Johnson was light enough that Count and Steve Lucas lifted her from her casket. I grabbed the headrest, which was a small pillow, and scampered around Count.
“Hurry up. I’m losing her,” Steve Lucas warned.
“I threw the headrest on the workbench.
“James, grab a leg!” Count told me.
Oh shit, I thought reaching for the ankle closet to me. I’ll never forget the revulsion. The cold, hardness of her skin radiated up my arm and through my body. The hair on the nape of my neck stood, my stomach turned. Involuntarily, my hand jerked away, causing Steve Lucas to bark, “Morrison don’t be such a patsy! The old bag won’t bite!”
‘Fuck you,” I cried.
“Girls,” Shannie said.
I rubbed my hands on my trouser legs and took a deep breath before again grabbing Mrs. Johnson’s ankle. “On three,” Count said. “Ready, One. Two. Three.” We lifted Mrs. Johnson and set her down on the high workbench. The cold, heavy feel of death