Cemetery Street by John Zunski (free ebook reader for ipad .txt) 📕

“His nickname on campus is Rupunzel. He’s brilliant, but take him off campus, away from his ivory tower, and he wouldn’t have the faintest idea of what life is about.”
Diane politely dismissed her colleague’s comment. I couldn’t. Out of respect for Diane, I said nothing. Instead I waited, biding my time glaring in his direction. I waited for an opportunity to have a private word with Rupunzel. I figured it was time the fair professor had a lesson in real life. My chance came as he meandered to the buffet table in the small kitchen aside the main gathering. I stepped behind him as he refilled his plate. As he turned, I threw an elbow, knocking his overloaded plate into his chest.
“Watch where you’re walking,” Rupunzel snapped, attempting to wipe pasta sauce from his jacket. The buffoon didn’t realize that I’d purposely elbowed him.
“Sorry,” I reached for a napkin. “Let me help,” I said patting his chest.
“You’ve done enough.” He swatted at my hand like a Victorian woman.
I shoved him against the kitchen cabinets. “Where do you get off insulting Mrs. Ortolan like that? You fat tub of shit, she just buried her daughter.” I raised a fist. “I think you owe Mrs. Ortolan an apology. Don’t you agree?” Fear filled his eyes. “Don’t you agree?” I repeated.
Rupunzel nodded yes.
“I’m glad you understand.” I slapped Rupunzel’s face. He watched me as I ran a dishtowel under cold water. “Clean up your mess.” I threw the towel at him and walked out of the room without looking back.

Somehow Diane, my father and myself survived the torment of Christmas. During lighter moments, we would go through old picture albums and other memorabilia. On Christmas night Diane handed me the page from Shannie’s journal written in the Maryland motel room. A tear welled reading her simple description of her complex emotions. After reading it, I knew it was right to leave Beyford. I couldn’t live with the constant, concretized reminders of the past and of my emotional cowardice. If I’d only spoken up! Life would’ve been so different. I’m sure of it.

“I wish you would have returned my calls,” Krista said. Her bracelets dangled from her wrists. It was December twenty-ninth, Shannie’s birthday.
“I had a lot on my mind, I wanted to be alone, I needed to think.”
“I understand, but you can’t shoulder…”
“You know what?” I interrupted. “Home is overrated. Home is horrible. I am sick and tired of home! Home is a place where you’re locked into the past. Home is where people argue for your limitations. You can’t grow at home. If I stay, I’ll always be just James. I’m tired of that! I’m tired of being brain injured James. I’ll always be brain injured James. James can’t hold a real job because of his condition. James gets angry because of his condition, not because something just pisses James off. It’s always because of my condition. I’m telling you I’m a prisoner of my own identity. I’ll always be brain injured James! Maybe my mother was right; she knew a sinking ship when she saw one. She knew that home life sucked. She knew to get out.”
“Your mother sunk her own ship James. Don’t repeat her mistake. What about Shannie? Do you…”
“Shannie’s dead!” I snapped.
“Do you think Diane, your father, yourself, or even Shannie argued for Shannie’s limitations?”
“Shannie had no limitations! She did anything she damned well pleased anytime she damned well pleased. She didn’t let anyone stop her! I’m not going to let anyone stop me. Not Diane, not my father, not you, no one. No one is going to stop me!”
“What are we stopping you from James?”
“From leaving.”
“I can’t stop you James. Diane can’t stop you. Your father can’t stop you. The law can’t. Only you can James. Only you.”
“That’s right!” I said full of bravado. “I wanna see anyone get in my way. I’ll stomp on ‘em; I’ll roll right over ‘em. No one’s going to keep me from what I want!”
Krista sat back in her chair. A hush fell over her office, punctuated by the hypnotic tick of her office clock.

As the New Year approached I went about the business of leaving home. I shuddered under the burden of freedom and anonymity which loomed over my shoulder like a silent predator. As fearful as I was, I emptied my plate. My final chore was penning a note to Diane and my father.
Diane and Dad:

I’m hoping that it won’t come as a big surprise that I’ve decided to move on. With all that has happened I can’t go on living in this town, this state, this part of the country. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I know I’m headed out west. I’ll contact you when I get where I’m going. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I’m in good hands with Ellie. Dad, all things considered, you’re as good a father as they come. Diane, I love you like a mother.

Talk soon,
James

Without ado, on the morning after New Year’s Day, after sliding the note under Diane and my father’s front door, I loaded Ellie and my worldly possessions in my hooptie. With a tail of swirling exhaust trailing my faithful old beater and Ellie perched proudly beside me, we escaped from the dead end known as Cemetery Street.


Chapter 22 Things Bittersweet

It would be a year before Beyford witnessed my shadow. I wasn’t keen on spending New Year’s in the prison I finally escaped. I hadn’t a choice, I couldn’t not attend my father’s and Diane’s wedding. I glanced out the plane’s window as it descended into Philadelphia. A shiver ran through me as I caught sight of the Limerick Nuclear Plant’s cooling towers. It’s hard for me to believe that all which haunts me has its genesis in the innocuous landscape below, even as Philadelphia came into view, it appeared benign in its lighted splendor. Its toxicity non-evident until my flight reached its gate, when even the most well-adjusted of my fellow passengers bounded out of their seats in a race to stand in the aisle.
While waiting for the last of the passengers to exit, I reread Diane’s letter.

Dear James:

Considering the difficult circumstances and what may seem to be callous timing of our wedding, I beg of you to come home and share with us our joy. I know the difficulty the timing presents; believe me, who realizes this more than me? But, it also affords us an opportunity like no other to make a fresh start, to put our pain behind us - at least momentarily - and celebrate what we have.
James, I hope you realize the importance of your presence; in it, both your father and I share the opportunity of being graced by both our children. In your absence, we miss out on that wonderful gift. If you chose to come home, not only do I experience the joy of being with you again; I also will be able to see the reflection of Shannie in your eyes.
I hope to see you over New Year’s, if not before.
Love,
Diane

I refolded the letter and shoved it into my pocket, grabbed my backpack and sauntered up the jetway. I could hear Russell’s crusty old voice: “ Coming home ain’t ice cream, but it sure ain’t liver either.”
I smiled seeing Diane and my father awaiting arm-in-arm. Despite their smiles they wore the past year on their faces. The crow’s feet edging Diane’s eyes sharpened, the lines in her forehead etched themselves deeper. Her long coat hid a still well cared for body. Her blonde hair still cascaded over her shoulders like a college student’s. I’d feared she’d chop such artwork for the sake of her assistant dean-ship. “Welcome home James,” she said with a hug and kiss.
“Thanks Mom,” I held Diane tight. “It’s good to be home,” I punctuated our fuzzies with a white lie.
“Mom?” She engulfed me with another hug. “Did you hear that Joe?”
“Sure did,” my father smiled. “Welcome home son.” He extended a hand. Gray hair had grown across his mane like wild sage. His slender frame gave the first hint of a potbelly.
“Take that stick out of your ass and give me a hug.” I wrapped my arms around my father. Squirming uncomfortably, he met my hug with a lame pat on the back. “How you been?” I asked my father.
“Fine. Fine,’ he answered, axiomatic. “How are you?”
“Good. Good, couldn’t be better.” I stepped back and turned my gaze to Diane. “Lets get my bags and get out of here.”
I was thankful my father chose the Blue-Route over the Schuylkill Expressway, avoiding the uncomfortable silence bound to befall us as we passed Laurel Hill. Shannie’s ghost already hung heavily about us, it needed no more inspiration.
“We rented out the old house,” my father reminded me. “We have good tenets.”
“That’s good,” I answered.
“You can sleep in Shannie’s old room,” Diane paused, adding matter-of-factly, as if her daughter was simply out of town, “or on the couch. Whatever you choose.”
My heart raced atop Beyford’s exit ramp. Cold sweat sprung from my palms as we drove past Fernwood. Dim lights glowed inside the old chapel. It reminded me of a weather-beaten schooner, pitching and yawing over endless waves of tombstones as it sailed across the sea of eternity.
“How’s Flossy?” I asked.
“No one sees her. She keeps to herself. It’s really a shame,” Diane answered.
My father and I nodded in tacit agreement.
“And Bear. How’s he?”
“He does his best,” Diane said.
The glow of the street light at the end of Cemetery Street greeted us as we turned off Bainbridge onto the dead end. Like it or not, I was home again. Despite my attempts at creating a new life there is no denying the power of a lifetime of memories.

“Missoula, Montana?” Steve Lucas asked. “What the hell is in Missoula, Montana?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” I smiled.
“I think your brain injury got the best of you. You can’t stand the cold. I figured you’d end up in LA, Florida, somewhere, anywhere warm, but Missoula, Montana?” Steve shook his head. “I dying to know what possessed you.”
“Nothing,” I chuckled.
“Bullshit!” Steve cried.
“Okay, if you need to know.” I leaned over my beer as if guarding a secret. Steve and I were warming two stools in JD’s Tavern. Copying me, Steve leaned over his beer expecting to have his philosophy confirmed - that man couldn’t move his bowels let alone mountains unless pussy was involved. “I figured that I’d go to San Francisco, tool around a bit, but I never got there.”
“No shit!”
“I pulled into Denver, looked around and decided to make a right turn. Before I knew it I was in Missoula. The rest is history.” I leaned against the back of my stool, finished my beer and sat my mug atop the bar with a self-congratulatory thud.
The remainder of the night, Steve tried tricking me to admit being roped into my newfound home by a deranged cowgirl. “Don’t I wish, I still live a priestly life,” I said.
After closing the bar, Steve dropped me off at the end of Cemetery Street. “Even though you’re a lying sack of shit, it’s nice to see you in one piece,” Steve waxed as only a drunk could.
Slapping his shoulder I told my friend: “I wish I could say it’s great to be back.” I stumbled out of his car and towards my house.
“Yo Asshole,” Steve called. “You don’t live there anymore. That one.” He pointed at the Ortolan’s.
“I knew that.” I watched Steve’s taillight’s disappear down Cemetery Street. I fumbled