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

clung to my hands. The remainder of the night I rubbed my hands together. When I got home, I held them under hot water.
“At least I don’t have to worry about you being a necrophiliac,” Shannie teased.
I’m glad grandfather was cremated, I thought. I’m glad I never saw him dead – the sight would have robbed me of the image of the smiling old hippie making passes at stewardesses. Count draped the tarp over the smiling corpse. “We can’t leave her here,” I said as the others made their way to the door.
“For Christ’s sake!” Steve Lucas lamented.
“Geezus Pete!” Shannie cried.
“The hell we can’t!” Count bellowed.
“Really,” I pleaded. “It’s not right. How would you like it if that was Diane, or my grandfather?” I stared at my friends; my hands curled at my sides.
“It’s not, so it’s no big deal. We’re running late; let’s go,” Count said.
“You’re a Jackass!” Steve Lucas exclaimed.
“Let’s get the coffin loaded,” Shannie instructed. “It’s time to put a little fun in funeral.”
As Count was pulling out of Fernwood, Shannie asked if he remembered to lock the shed. “Shit. I forgot,” he answered.
“Who cares?” Steve Lucas said. “Who’s going to poke around a cemetery shed?”
“We should go back,” Shannie insisted.
“Shannie’s right,” I added.
With an evil smile – in which only a corner of his lips rose – Steve Lucas mocked, “What are you worried about? Your new girl friend being stolen?”
“Do me a favor,” Shannie said. “Tonight, when you go home, sometime after you’re finished brushing your teeth and before you get into bed.”
“Yes?” he asked.
“Drop dead!”
For all Shannie’s planning, the parade was anti-climatic. Except for near-stumble on Shannie’s part – she wasn’t used to Diane’s high heals –our act went off without a hitch. Shannie received the attention she was seeking: a first prize ribbon. A picture of Ms. Dead America 1986, waving to her ‘adoring fans’ graced the front page of Beyford’s weekly rag.
Controversy remains whether we were ratted out or if Steve Lucas underestimated his father’s power of observation. To this day, Steve Lucas claims Marcy finked, retaliation for Steve walking in on her while she was playing with her ‘toy.’ Shannie and I disagree. Mr. Lucas wasn’t the lamebrain Steve asserted. “It’s one thing missing a paperweight, it’s another missing a coffin,” Shannie commented.
“Shit! We’ve been had,” Shannie cried noticing a light on inside Fernwood’s maintenance shed.
“What are you talking about?” Count asked.
“I turned the light off.” She pounded the dashboard: “I knew we should have locked the door!”
“You left the light on,” Steve Lucas said.
“No! I didn’t! I shut it off,” Shannie said.
“Maybe you forgot,” I said. Shannie scowled.
You know I turned off the freaking light!” Shannie responded from my lap. Urgency filled the cab of the old powder fairy blue truck. We knew Shannie was right.
“Don’t panic,” Count said breaking the silence. “Let’s do what we have to do, and get the old lady back to the funeral parlor.”
Shannie bolted off my lap and raced to the shed’s door. “Geezus Pete! What one of you morons want to tell me we locked the door?” she held the locked padlock in her hand.
“Oh fuck,” Steve Lucas said before farting.
“Maybe it was just my old man,” Count started.
“Maybe he heard us and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“You better hope not,” Shannie cried. “You know he would notice Mrs. Johnson.”
“Who else could it be?” Count asked. Shannie and I shrugged; Steve Lucas farted again.
“You better call a plumber,” I said to the funeral director’s son.
Count opened the padlock. We almost fell over each other to see if Mrs. Johnson was left undisturbed. The tarp covered the workbench. Count tore at the tarp, pulling it open and exposing an empty workbench.
“Fuck,” Count mumbled.
“Where is she?” I asked.
Steve Lucas was panic stricken, “Oh my God! Her viewing is tomorrow! It’s an open casket; what the hell are we going to do? Jesus Fucking Christ! How do you explain a missing stiff?” Steve Lucas’s rambling was punctuated by more gas letting. My mother is suing the wrong funeral parlor, I thought. If there was ever a justified lawsuit, this was it! At least Krass brothers didn’t lose my grandfather!
“Who would take her? Who would know she was even here?” Shannie struggled to keep her composure.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged.
“Beats me,” Count said rubbing the top of his head.
“Rex Byrne and his Grease Monkeys?” Steve Lucas questioned.
“How the fuck would they know,” Count asked in an aggravated tone.
“I don’t know,” Steve Lucas answered with another shrug; avoiding eye contact with the rest of us.
“Beats the hell out of me?” I retorted.
“You dipshit!” Shannie bellowed - pointing an accusatorial finger at Steve Lucas. “You told them, didn’t you?”
“No. Why would I?” Steve answered.
“Don’t lie to me you little pud puller! I’ll crack you?” Shannie raised her hand. Steve Lucas turtled behind his forearms. “Okay, okay, I didn’t mean to,” he admitted. “But they made me. They cornered me on the way to school. They told me they’d break my arms if I didn’t tell them what we were up to.”
“Don’t those idiots ever learn,” Count said. “I’m getting tired of kicking their asses!”
“What did you tell them?” Shannie asked.
“That we’re borrowing a casket from the parlor,” Steve Lucas said.
“If those rat-bastards even thought of setting a foot on my cemetery I’d nuke the wrench wristed oil pan scum.” Strands of Count’s spittle flew across the shed.
“It’s not Byrne and his boys,” I said not looking up from the stones I was piling and unpiling with my feet. After my run ins with them the previous year, I developed an antenna for them. “They were hanging out in front of Wally’s.”
“You sure?” Shannie asked.
“Absolutely. I don’t have to look twice when it comes to those morons,” I said, my feet still playing with the stones. “They couldn’t have stolen the old lady, they were too busy mugging Main Street. Those idiots wouldn’t miss the chance to piss off half of Beyford. The Halloween parade is their Super Bowl.”
“Then who stole the stiff?” Count asked.
I shrugged, Shannie scowled, Count rubbed his head, and Steve Lucas farted again. “If you don’t knock it the fuck off,” Count threatened the gaseous zombie, “I’m gonna rip your thumb off and shove it up your ratty ass!”
“I’m not paying for stain removal,” Shannie said icy eyed.
A thick, uneasy silence hovered over us. “We can’t stand here all night scratching our nuts, we gotta do something,” Count said.
“What are we going to do? Call the cops? Yes. I would like to report a stolen corpse,” Shannie said into her outstretched pinky and thumb. “Yes, that’s right officer. No, officer. We borrowed her. We stowed her in a storage shed. We took really good care of her, we even wrapped her in a tarp. That’s right officer, but now a real body snatcher struck.”
Count’s, Steve Lucas’s, and my eyes counted stones. “Let’s get out of here,” Shannie cried. “We don’t have to worry about Mrs. Johnson wandering back here. ”Like beaten dogs, we scurried out of the shed, heads and butts hanging low.
“That Clam Slammer!” Steve Lucas cried after we piled into the truck.
“What did you call me?” Shannie bristled.
‘Not you. Janice!” Steve smacked his own forehead. “I’ve should have known! The bitch set us up!
“What?” Count asked.
“Huh?” I mumbled.
Shannie glared at the mortician’s son waiting for him to elaborate. “It was Janice’s idea! She’s the one who suggested stashing a stiff at Fernwood. Do you think I could think of something like that?”
“Why would Janice rip off a stiff?” Count asked. I shrugged.
“It’s rush week,” Steve said.
“What?” Count asked.
“Huh?” I repeated.
“She’s applying for sorority membership, ” Steve continued.
“So?” I asked curtly. Rush; sorority; it was Greek to me. What did this have to do with a missing corpse? I couldn’t make the connection. I was agitated, tired, hungry and wanted to go home.
“She wouldn’t do that,” Shannie spoke to Steve Lucas.
“The hell she wouldn’t! I live with the bitch; I know what she is capable of,” Steve said. It was decided that it was Janice’s problem to return the old lady in time for her viewing the next afternoon. “Let’s get the coffin back,” Steve Lucas said pushing out a loud belch. As Count pulled out of Fernwood our worries dissipated out the truck’s open windows like Steve Lucas’s gas.
For three blocks we enjoyed the cool air. Steve farted again as the red and blue lights of a police car snuck behind the casket toting pickup truck.
“Oh fuck, we’re toast!” Count mumbled pulling the truck to the side of Cemetery Street. The cab was suddenly awash in the police car’s spotlight. Its glare reflected off the side-view mirrors. “Let me do the talking,” Count said shielding his eyes.
Shannie grabbed my hand. Her pulse throbbed. The imposing officer’s shadow loomed over us and onto the parked cars as he strutted to the driver side window. The crackle of the police radio echoed across the night. Steve Lucas farted again, Shannie punched his arm. “Sorry,” Steve Lucas whispered. “ I can’t help it.” As I stuck my nose towards the open window, I noticed eyes peering around the curtained window of nearby house. Shannie fidgeted on my lap.
“May I see your driver’s license, registration card, and proof of insurance,” the cop said. I noticed the cop immediately. He was a monster of a man, the equal of Mr. Lightman, except he didn’t have the friendly demeanor of the Bear. I had the impression he would rather bludgeon someone with his nightstick than give directions to the seven-eleven.
“What’s the problem,” Count asked, adding after a brief pause, “Sir.” He handed the giant cop his particulars. The cop didn’t bother to checking them. I watched the giant shadow’s arm drape over the parked cars, it’s hand resting on the rear windshield of the car in front of us - dangling close to its holstered weapon.
“Cut the shit Junior,” the cop said. “Why don’t you tell me.”
“We’re returning the casket we borrowed from his dad,” Count nodded at Steve Lucas.
“Is that so?” the officer -whom Count once dubbed ‘Big Dick, Bradigan’- asked.
“Yes sir,” Steve Lucas said. “I have permission from my father…”
“Shut up Boy!” Big Dick Bradigan ordered. He leaned into the open window. “If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I would have farted. It seems your father,” the cop nodded at Steve Lucas - who cringed and farted yet again - “reported a missing corpse. Now, we wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would we?”
Upon my lap, Shannie stared at our nemesis; like a safety blanket, she draped an arm around my neck, her pulse tickling its nape. As long as I had Shannie, nothing bad would ever happen to me, I thought. I studied Shannie’s flaking face of death. Ms. Dead America - death can’t keep us apart, I thought.
“You know,” Shannie said later. “He didn’t meet my stare; he never looked at me!”
“If he was avoiding you, why didn’t you say something, you know, challenge him? I asked. “What could I have said?” Shannie shrugged. “He pretty much had our tits in a vise.”
Our hemming and hawing and Shannie’s scowl met big Dick Bradigan’s accusation. “Why don’t we check out the box?” the cop sneered. The four of us tumbled out of the small cab; Count, Steve Lucas, and I stood on Cemetery Street next to the looming officer, Shannie stood on the curb, arms folded across her chest, leering across the