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

waited some more. “This one’s for you,” I said aloud as I hopped out of my car. My breath floated skyward as I trudged over the trestle.
Standing in front of the tunnel’s entrance, I peered into oblivion. Unlike the last time, there wasn’t sunlight summoning me to the other side. I peered into an open grave. From deep inside the steady, unending drip of water beckoned, the clamorous chorus of rats taunted.
I don’t know how long I worked up my nerve. Goddamn it, I berated myself, Count’s in a war and I’m too big a pussy to walk through a dark tunnel. I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Rawness enveloped me. I was assailed by the moist rot, the decay - the smell of the grave. I should have turned around.
My foot searched for the next railroad tie. Despite the freezing temperature, sweat broke on my forehead. I imagined being in a minefield, the railroad ties, my passage out; the doink, doink, doink, of dripping water ricocheted past my ears like bullets. My heart pounded against my chest. To my left, a family of rats protested my presence. I whimpered. One tie at a time, I reminded myself as I plunged into the heart of darkness.
I heard a low rumble. I turned, expecting to see the glaring headlights of an eastbound freight. Nothing, just darkness, blessed darkness. I held my breath - concentrating, listening for a distant rumble. A quiet hum seeped through the darkness. “It’s just Cromby,” I reassured myself. Cromby was a nearby coal burning power plant, its burps and hiccups filled the night. “It’s just Cromby,” I repeated aloud; my voice reverberated off the tunnel walls. I increased my pace. I cursed myself for not bringing a flashlight.
With every step the rumble became steadier. Trying to ignore my fears, I quickened my pace, working deeper into the tunnel. Aside the track bed, the rat’s squeals became frenzied, overhead, bats swooshed by. Underneath my feet, the railroad bed rocked. I froze. That ain’t Cromby. I refused to look, convinced that if I didn’t, my menace would go away. The rumble grew into thunder, beneath me, the ground shook. “Fuck!” I screamed; my voice echoed off the walls. I glanced over my shoulder. An east bound’s headlights illuminated the curve in the track just over the trestle.
I sprinted deeper into the tunnel, futilely racing the freight to the far side. I kept my head down, looking at the railroad ties pass under feet. You can do it! You can beat it! Do it for Count! Wind rushed past my ears; my lungs filled with cold sooty air. The train’s lights pierced the tunnel. It chased me. Night became day. In front of me my shadow raced, at least it beat the freight to the other side. Horrified, I stopped. I wasn’t halfway through. The tunnel quivered. The train’s horn blared, its echoes repeating its demand for my surrender. I turned and faced the approaching banshee, staring into its blinding lights. I remembered Shannie on that June day. I wondered what she’d think about this. I wondered if she’d scream for me as I did for her. To his credit, the engineer didn’t break - what was the use? Calm overtook me as the freight charged. I pondered if the engineer was the same as that June day; I wondered what he thought – if he even cared. To him, I was another nut with a death wish.
I stood motionless as the banshee came closer - its horn screaming. With all my might, I jumped to my right. For a brief second, I felt suspended in mid air. Then my right leg and hip exploded with pain. I screamed; my cry swallowed by the freight’s fury. This is what’s it like to be freight trained, I thought, remembering the day Count creamed me in Fernwood – his hit seemed much worse. A chill washed over me. I reached down relieved to find my leg attached. I sighed realizing the train didn’t hit me. I had crashed into a freezing puddle lapping against the tunnel wall. The puddle didn’t save me from a nasty case of road rash, a souvenir from the track bed. My leg and hip still bear its scars.
I remembered Russell’s story and pictured him in the same position. Mere feet away, the freight’s clanking wheels were deafening. Russell was right, they sounded like chains. “The clanking chains of a banshee’s pall,” Russell’s gravelly voice replayed itself. I groaned and buried my head under my arms. Closing my eyes tight, I waited for the freight to pass, seconds seemed like hours. As I cowered, a weird sensation overtook the pain. Rats were crawling over my legs. One stood perched on my hip, wiggling its whiskers at me. I heard my scream over the freight’s metallic chorus – I leapt to my feet and ran against the train’s windblast.
When the train passed, I stopped running. I stood trembling, gasping for breath. Diesel fumes soaked the damp, frigid air. My phlegmy coughs bounced around the tunnel, drowning the bats banter. Watching the flashing red taillight disappear around the corner, I never imagined that Count was already on his way home.
I sprinted out of the tunnel. If anything happens to him, it’ll be my fucking fault! I jumped into my hooptie and cranked the heater. My teeth rattled in the heater’s blast. Nothing’s going to happen, it’s just a stupid legend!
At home, I took a long hot shower, shivering in the steam. I shivered my way under the blankets and shivered myself to sleep. When dreams came, I shivered myself awake as the rat squealed and wiggled its whiskers, condemning me for being reckless with my friend’s life. Bolting, I sat shivering at attention in my dark bedroom, drowning in a cold sweat, my head pounded to the echoes of the rushing freight.
I shivered as the pipe organ sprang to life, relieving me of the rat’s image. In front of the church, the reverend stepped away from the lectern and made his way across the altar. Someplace deep inside, something gave way; my jaw quivered, my sobs erupted.
My father’s whisper replaced the rat’s squeal, “Suck it up, bud. Hey, don’t cry.” Tears flooded over me, I buried my face into his shoulder. I bit my lower lip, hoping the pain would distract the tears. “Suck it up James,” dad ordered slapping my back. Around us the congregation burst into song.
Shannie wrapped her arm around my waist, snatching me away from my father. “Let it go Just James,” Shannie whispered into my ear. “Let it go, it’s okay.” Clinging to her, I trembled violently. I buried my head in her chest, my tears soaked her black dress. Through my sobs, my ears found her heart, its beat ever soothing, the softness of her breast caressed my cheek. Laying her head upon my shoulder, her breath danced on my neck. Her arms held me tight, reaffirming what her heartbeat told me – that she would always be there, she would never abandon me. I quivered with her touch. I needed her - I’ve always needed her - now more than ever!
A minute, maybe two, I don’t know how long we sat like this when I felt her lips atop of my head. “Just James,” she whispered, “I have to give the eulogy.” I squeezed her, begging her to stay at my side. Shannie leaving would be a constant in both our lives.
By shear force of will, Shannie rose, her grief shelved for the task at hand. A cough broke the silence as she glided to the lectern. She paused, taking in the sea of faces. Her untamed hair, strewn about by an imaginary gale, belied her composed face. Her ashen skin contrasted against her black dress. She fumbled for her glasses. Oval spectacles framed her bloodshot eyes. She sighed.
“Words usually don’t escape me,” Shannie began; her small voice booming over the church’s PA. “Today they’ve abandoned me. I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find them. I looked in the trees we climbed as little kids - but they weren’t there. I’ve looked up and down the sidewalks of Beyford - but I didn't find them there. I’ve searched through his possessions, even looking under the seat of his truck - I didn’t find them there. I searched his letters home, hoping to find words amidst the grains of sand from the Arabian desert - but they weren’t there either."
“If I found them, could they describe our feelings? Can words explain grief? Does sorrow come close to describing the feeling in our hearts? Does loneliness describe the emptiness that consumes us? Does shock explain our numbness? Does desperate describe the need to see his face, hear his voice? Does anger define the inferno raging in our stomachs?"
"If they did, so what? Despite all our hopes and prayers, words won’t bring him back. Maybe it’s better that the words stay lost, I think if I found them they’d be inadequate. How could words describe such a person. A single name couldn’t contain his spirit; some of us know him as Leroy, or Leroy, Jr. or Junior or whatever. Some of us know him as Count.” For a brief second, Shannie’s eyes locked on mine. “I’m sure he has knick-names none of us know. Just as names fail to describe his spirit, can we trust words to describe his persona? Can they serve Count as he served his family, friends, and country? I know him to be a hero, a protector, friend, critic, wise ass, stooge, aggravating, aloof, sometimes aggravatingly aloof, nosey, sometimes overly so, socially aware; he’s the closest I’ve ever had to a big brother.” Shannie paused, nodding her head, “he is my big brother. I only have to look out to see that he is a son, savior…”
The good minister winced on that account, apparently forgetting the circumstances. Shannie continued:
“…boyfriend, lover, friend, favorite son, and yet, some feared him.” Someone in the congregation coughed. “Obviously they deserved to see that side, for they were incapable of seeing what there is to love, admire, and emulate.
“Still, words are inadequate. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe neatly wrapping up a life in a few moments is unjust. Maybe their inadequacy allows Count to remain alive within and amongst us. I take consolation that words distinguish but do not define our feelings. Somehow finding those lost words would snatch from us the meaning he worked so hard to attain and for which he gave his life. Despite this, I still can’t help searching for the missing words.”
Shannie cast her head down, her eyes glancing at the aisle in front of Count’s casket. She smiled – it was a quiet smile, not loud enough to break the church’s silence. She stepped down, stopping to embrace Flossy and Bear before returning to our pew.

A breeze drifted across Fernwood. The season’s first warmth embraced Count’s mourners. The boisterous morning settled into a calm afternoon, nary a bird stirred; nature seemed to be watching. Looking past Count’s casket, I studied the budding trees standing between my house and the cemetery, half expecting to see myself sitting high in the limbs, watching, like I have so many times before. Through the bare limbs I caught glimpse of the sun reflecting off my bedroom window, peering at the canopied grave.
“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through the Lord Jesus Christ,” the good reverend crooned, “we commend to Almighty God our brother Leroy, and commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the Lord bless him and keep him…”
The voyeuristic sunbeam caught my attention again and I glanced towards my bedroom window, thankful for the distraction. Glaring at the reflection, I imagined an