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

another. You know, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”
“…It’s a poodle,” I interjected.
Shannie rolled her eyes. Silence settled between us. I watched her as she drove. From somewhere I snatched courage. “Admit it, you’re madly in love with me,” my voice full of conviction. I caught her shocked glance before she quickly turned her attention back to the road. “Why are you blushing?” I asked.
“I am not.”
“You are too,” I countered.
“No I’m not.”
“Are too.”
We were like two kids - it reminded me of our arguments on Shannie’s long gone swing set.
“Whatever,” Shannie said.
I lost my courage as quickly as I found it. I returned to studying my boots. This time the radio had the good sense to play, until Shannie –with a sigh - shut it off. Eddie Veter crooned about finding a better man.
I turned the radio back on. “Leave it on, That’s a great tune.”
“She drives me crazy,” I complained to Krista during our next session. “I mean she writes me, like this love poem and wouldn’t admit she’s in love with me. I mean, ahhh, I don’t know what I mean.”
“What do you feel?” Krista asked.
“Ain’t it obvious?”
“I don’t know, you tell me,” Krista persisted.
“Oy Vey.” I through my hands up.
“Why you think about that I’ve got some great news for you. I’m recommending that you be instated into the driver’s ed program.”
“Oh joy,” The driver’s ed program was a contentious topic. I was pissed because the State of Pennsylvania considered me incompetent. It’s their view that I be barred from driving until I pass the driver’s test. “It’s nothing personal James, it’s the law,” Krista reminded me.
“The law sucks Donkey Dong,” I protested.
“It’s still the law. You’ll do fine. Just stay focused. Now back to your other question.”
“What other question?” I asked.
“Shannie driving you crazy,” Krista reminded me.
“Yeah, that. I’m telling you, I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t want to know what you think - I want to know what you feel,” Krista said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Tell me how you feel about her.”
“I’m pissed she won’t tell me how she feels,” I complained.
Krista leaned back in her chair. “You’re doing the same thing.”
“Huh?”
“You’re doing the same thing to me that you’re angry with Shannie about.”
I stared at the bracelet dangling from Krista’s wrist. “I’m not in love with you. I mean, why would I be in love with you? I mean, you’re a great lady and everything, and, yeah, and a good-looking lady. I mean I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers, but, I mean, you’re married. You have kids. Wait a minute, are you making a pass?”
Krista laughed. “You’re in love with her. Tell her.”
I dropped back into my chair,
“Okay, ask her how she feels.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I can’t means I won’t.”
My face burned, I sunk deeper into the chair. I studied the carpet in front of Krista’s desk. “What if I don’t want to ask her?”
Krista leaned forward: “Then you’ll never know.”
“What if she isn’t honest?” I reasoned.
“Shannie seems like a straight shooter,” Krista commented.
“Yeah, about as straight as a rainbow,” I retorted.
“I see,” Krista paused. “Enough about how Shannie feels James? How does James feel about Shannie?”
“Pht,” I brushed the hair from my eyes. Staring at the ring on Krista’s finger I mumbled, “Ain’t it obvious?”

I passed the driver’s test that summer. From climbing behind the wheel of the driver’s ed car until parallel parking during my test I was never so determined. “You’re getting into the wrong profession,” I told Shannie after passing my driver’s test. “You oughta be teaching us short-bus kids. You did a great job.” She taught me to drive stick without losing her patience. I was as proud of her as she was of me.
My confidence evaporated with the prospect of assimilating into the real world. Shannie entertained her entrance into law school with the confidence of an athlete preparing for a meaningless game. By our appearance, one would think that I was on the brink of law school and Shannie faced nothing more challenging than a day of whacking weeds.
Krista assured me my anxieties were natural, reminding me: “a brain injury exacerbates personality traits.”
“What if I was paranoid before the accident?” I asked my shrink.
“You’d be impossible to live with,” Krista retorted.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” I complained.
“She was joking,” Shannie assured me as we drove to pick up my new car. I found a great old used primer colored Pontiac. It was almost as classless as my old hooptie - it was love at first sight.
“A Pontiac?” Shannie laughed when she saw the car. “You know what Pontiac means don’t you? Poor old Neurotic thinks it’s a Cadillac,” Shannie quipped.
“I’d feel right at home driving in your old girlfriend’s neighborhood.” I blushed. Shannie missed the hint that Genise had recently called.
“Why should I help you?” I interrogated Genise. “Why should I even talk to you? I hate your guts. Your misery is my pleasure. The happiest day of my life was when Shannie walked out on your Comanche ass.”
“Don’t hang up,” the voice pleaded very un-Genise like.
“Stop me.”
“I’ll just call back. I’ll keep calling until you talk.”
“Try me.” I hung up.
The phone rang. “I told you I’d call right back,” Genise said.
I slammed the phone down again. Once again it rang. “What the fuck do you want?” I cried.
“Do you always answer the phone so rudely young man?” a vaguely familiar voice asked.
“Who the hell is this?” I asked.
“Father Jones from Sacred Heart Parish. Is this the Morrison residence?”
“Wrong number.” I hung up again. If I didn’t have a brain injury, I would have figured out I could have left the phone off the hook.
“James, don’t hang up,” Genise pleaded. “Please.”
I asked my sexy nemesis: “What makes you think I want to help you?”
“I know, I know. Despite what went down between us, I always respected you James.”
“Bullshit,” I cried.
“I’m serious,” she pleaded.
“I’m going now.” I enjoyed her distress.
“No don’t! I’ll do anything, I need your help,” Genise said.
“Anything?” I questioned.
“Anything,” Genise replied.

On a September afternoon when Shannie was embroiled in the intricacies of law and Fernwood hadn’t a grave to open, I took a road trip. With an arm out the window, and the wind tussling my hair, I drove towards Atlantic City.
Nagging thoughts of getting lost cast their shadows across the sunny day. Despite tracing and retracing the way upon the map, I still doubted my ability to find the way. I wasn’t quite a year removed from my accident and eight months from the horrible day I got lost wandering the streets of Beyford. A greater fear was driving in traffic. Just stay in the right lane and take your time, pay attention, read all the signs; don’t zone out; don’t go too fast; don’t go too slow; ignore the assholes. I coached myself, repeating the mantra over and over.
Three hours and a couple of near misses later, I arrived in Atlantic City. The salt air never smelled as good as it did that afternoon. As the hooptie made its way into Lower Chelsea a smile washed over my face. “I did it!” I said aloud. Driving onto Genise’s street I reminded myself no matter what happened with the crazy Shoshone, this trip was already a success.
I parked the car, took a deep breath, and climbed the steps to the beast’s apartment. The afternoon sun radiated off apartment building’s tan bricks as I knocked on the side door. When Genise didn’t answer I rapped again - no answer. I gazed through a partially open window; her apartment was dark and silent. Shit, I thought. Images of fighting rush hour traffic flooded my imagination as I watched the sinking sun. I strode across the street, stood upon the sea wall, and watched the tide. There wasn’t a single boat as far as the eye could see. The entire neighborhood seemed asleep, so unlike what I remembered. I may as well been standing at the end of Cemetery Street.
“You surprised me, I didn’t think you were coming,” Genise said from the sidewalk.
“Jesus Christ!” I jumped.
“Sorry,” Genise giggled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” Genise was dressed almost Shannie-like, Khaki shorts, a lose blouse and her hair pulled under a UNC baseball cap.
“No problem,” I mumbled, not sure if I liked her new look. She was much more attractive dressed like a slut. She seemed, well, too ordinary, not anything like the plaything I was hoping for. “I didn’t think you were home.”
“Nope. I’m always here. I was in the playground reading,” Genise said. In her hand I noticed a well-worn paperback copy of Great Expectations.
“Dickens. Great Expectations,” Genise mouthed.
“Never read it,” I quipped.
“You’ve never read Great Expectations?” Genise asked.
“Nope,” I looked down at my old adversary.
“Wow, It’s one of her favorites. She never made you read it?”
“Who?”
“Shannie, you goofball.”
“Why would Shannie make me read it?”
Genise wrinkled her brow. “She never insisted that you read Dickens?”
“Nope,” I chirped.
“Hell, she brow beat me. I would have never read ‘em if it wasn’t for her. Now I’m hooked. Too bad for you, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I guess not,” I answered. The old envy flared.
“To think that reading the stupid book was almost a condition of being in a relationship.”
Our gazes interlocked. I saw the Genise that I knew lurking under the shadow of her baseball cap.
“You hungry?” Genise asked.
“Sure.”
“Cool, let’s get something to eat. Anyway, I’m tired of looking up at you. Get your ass down here where we can see eye to eye.”
Despite a warm breeze off the bay, the air inside Genise’s apartment seemed cool. Being in Genise’s apartment without Shannie was reminiscent of trudging through Fernwood after Count’s death. Christ, what’s it been -almost five years since Count died. I thought of our days playing football in Fernwood, when death was nothing more than a three-foot hurdle. Christ, it seems like yesterday, where did time go?
“You okay,” Genise’s voice called from afar. I felt her warm grasp on my arm. “James, you okay?” she repeated.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You look like you just seen a ghost or something.”
“I kinda did. I was thinking about Count. That it’s been so long since he was killed.”
“Yeah, time flies,” Genise looked at me warily. “Listen, why don’t you make yourself comfortable.” She pulled a chair from under her table.
As Genise went about whipping up stir-fry, I fell under the spell of her photo albums. I occasionally glanced upwards for a glimpse of her ass. Her photography was always compelling, but the photos in front of me were riveting. Faces, ordinary faces, of all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds, beautiful and ugly, distinguished and nondescript, all caught on the boardwalk, all unaware of the camera’s eye. The transitory captured in eternity. I could have spent hours creating stories about those faces.
One series of photos I found bewitching. In the first photo an angry woman, her face red and her fists clenched at her side, scowled at an old man sitting on a bench. The man sat passively, almost relaxed, his folded hands resting atop crossed legs, his back resting against the bench. He was smirking at her.
In the second, a wad of spit hung in spiraling flight. Pupils dilated, the man’s expression registered surprise.
In the third, the missile impacted upon the man’s cheek, which he managed to turn towards the assault.