Cemetery Street
by
John Zunski

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:
John Zunski on Smashwords

Cemetery Street
Copyright © 2011 by John Zunski

Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.


Table of Contents

Chapter 1 On the Cusp
Chapter 2 Cemetery Street
Chapter 3 Secrets
Chapter 4 Paybacks
Chapter 5 Revelations
Chapter 6 An Eagle
Chapter 7 A Beetle and A Cop
Chapter 8 Ms. Dead America
Chapter 9 Bumperstickers
Chapter 10 A Decades End; Another’s Beginning
Chapter 11 Letters
Chapter 12 Count’s Log
Chapter 13 A Banshee’s Cry
Chapter 14 What Happened
Chapter 15 Sisters of Fate
Chapter 16 Moving On
Chapter 17 Coming Home
Chapter 18 Promises
Chapter 19 Scandals
Chapter 20 Shannie’s Burble
Chapter 21 Good Byes
Chapter 22 Things Bittersweet
Chapter23Epilogue
About the Author
Bonus Material


Chapter 1 On the Cusp

“Get up!” she cried. “Run!” she smiled over her shoulder. The earth shook beneath our feet. “Faster! Faster!” Her voice swirled in the wind. “Feel it?” she shrieked, her hair dancing behind her. “Feels great. Just great!” Her laugh pierced the freight’s roar. Swimming through the train’s blast, she reminded me of a salmon - always heading upstream.
Moments earlier, she danced across a warped balance beam forty feet above the river. “If I lose my balance, even for a second - a second - I could die!” Ignoring our pleas, her forehead etched with concentration, she continued. “For what? Like there has to be a what! Would you say I died in vain, died for the thrill?” Her arms flailed. “Yes,” she answered. “Died of stupidity! Died for nothing, what a way to die! I like that. There isn’t pressure in nothing.”
Me, I’ve always felt pressure - even in nothing, even today. So I watch, I’ve always watched! Even today - I watch a snowflake slide down the front of her headstone and crash to the ground. I watch countless others stick atop her headstone. When I grow tired of watching, I run my hand over the smooth granite wiping away heaven’s frozen tears.
A breeze rustled the trees, their bare limbs swaying to the sound of her voice. I turned praying she would be sitting on the sandstone bench like she was thirteen years ago - Indian style, her wild mane speckled with snow flakes. I imagine her gaze staring across the dozing river, past the distant rushing traffic, into eternity. My gaze was met by a dusting of snow atop the bench. Disappointment consumed me. “People who do nothing but watch, feel nothing but disappointment,” she once scolded.
Today would have been her twenty-seventh birthday. Ten days ago was the first anniversary of her death. Two days from now the world will be standing on the cusp of a new millennium - without her; it will be so empty, it will be dawn without the sun.
“Happy Birthday Bug,” I whispered. “I have a surprise. It’s your favorite.” Careful not to spill a drop, I poured the steaming coffee on the ground in front of her stone. “How did you guess?” I watched the snow evaporate. “Yes, you’re right. Of course, I remembered. How could I forget? ” I tell her.
“If eyes are the gateway to the soul,” she wrote prior to her accident. “Our memories are its gatekeepers.” Like a dutiful gatekeeper, I guard our memories. “Out of memory comes ritual,” she said, hiding in the breeze. “Out of ritual - meaning, out of meaning - warmth, out of warmth - love, out of love...”
“Us,” I whispered to the wind. “Beyond anyone, I remember you!”
“I didn’t forget,” I stroked the polished granite’s face. “It’s your recipe,” I confided as I placed the pie pan atop the coffee soaked soil. I retreated to the bench and cast my gaze over the sleepy river and past the rushing traffic, listening for echoes of her laughter on the wind.


Chapter 2 Cemetery Street

(June 1985) I think I’m in love. The moving truck had barely pulled away when there was a knock on the front door. Scrambling over scattered boxes and furniture I rushed to greet our first visitor.
“Hi, my name is Shannie (Shane-ie),” she said from under a mass of billowing blonde hair. Her flaxen strands tumbled like clouds on a blustery day.
“Hi,” I said looking into her perky face. Deep set eyes contrasted slightly with a thin, sharp nose and high, wide cheeks.
“I heard that there was a new kid moving in today and I wanted to introduce myself.” She smiled, “What’s your name?”
“Ugh, James,” I said.
“Nice to meet you Ugh James.” Her green eyes sparkled.
“No, it’s just James.”
“Okay, that’s different. Hi Just James, you want to come out? I can give you a tour of the neighborhood.”
“Let me ask,” I said. Still staring at her, I yelled, “Dad can I go outside?” Shannie held my gaze.
“Have you finished your room?” he asked.
“Ah, yeah I guess,” I said.
“What do you mean you guess?”
“It looks like you’re busy. Anywho, I’m your neighbor.” She motioned to the only house between the graveyard and ours. “I’ll try back later.”
“Get upstairs and finish your room. NOW!” father yelled.
“Nice meeting you Just James, talk to you later.” she smiled, turned a around and skipped towards her house.
“It’s James,” I called after her: “just James.”
“You’re ridiculous Just James,” she laughed. As she ran a comb fell out of her back pocket. I ran up the stairs and looked out the side room window in time to watch her float through the single row of trees that separated her backyard from the cemetery.
“Mom!” I yelled. “I changed my mind, I want the side room.”
My parents were too tired to care. My sudden change of heart was surprising because the view from the side room was dominated by a graveyard. It was the genesis of my protests. I was worried sick about having more dead neighbors than living.
Our new house was a hundred-year-old brick elephant with high ceilings and a gabled roof. My father called it a Dutch Colonial. Its floors were old and cranky, whining whenever someone walked across them. There were four rooms on each of the two floors. The first floor held an eat-in kitchen, dining room, and two sitting rooms. The four oversized rooms divided the floor into quadrants, each room opening into the next room. On rainy days the first floor made a great indoor track - I won many imaginary gold medals circling that oval. Upstairs was a master and two small bedrooms plus a bathroom.
Two dormers jutted out from the steep sloped roof of my bedroom, over the years, I would make a habit of sitting in them watching neighborhood comings and goings. It also had a great little cubby hole that in later years was great for stashing pirated Playboys.
After unpacking, Dad and I picked up a pizza. “Why the change of heart?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.
“I bet I do,” he teased.
“Well I was thinking that maybe I was acting too much like a little kid about the cemetery thing.”
“Oh really? It wouldn’t have anything to do with your visitor?”
“No way,” I said. “It’s just that I was thinking about the boneyard and everything - I think I watched too many horror movies. Like Granddad said, it’s the live ones you have to worry about.”
“Exactly,” Dad said.
When we got home my parents had another surprise for me, as if moving across country wasn’t enough excitement. “You’re going to have a baby brother or sister,” my mother said.
I almost choked on the strand of cheese I was sucking off my pizza. “Really, that’s great,” I lied.
“It’ll be here just in time for Christmas,” she chirped.
“There goes my Nintendo,” I said.
“JAMES, I don’t believe you,” she screeched.
“I know you don’t, nobody does, why would you now?” I licked the grease from my fingers.
“Don’t get wise with me young man. And stop licking your fingers. Any normal kid would be delighted to have a little brother or sister.”
“May I be excused?” I interrupted.
“Don’t interrupt your mother!” my father barked.
“All you ever think about is James, James, James! It’s all about James! Nobody else matters!”
“I didn’t ask for another baby.”
“Joe, you’ve created a monster!” Her face turned red as blood.
“I’ve created a monster? What about you? Don’t go pointing your finger at me?”
“You son of a bitch,” my mother started. Without a word I took another slice of pizza and slipped into the relative quiet of my bedroom.
A present rested on my bed. I ripped off the wrapping. Inside was a wooden cross. “In case we’re wrong about the cemetery.” The writing was my grandfather’s. Holding the cross against my chest I flopped onto the bed. I already missed him. I closed my eyes and wished he moved with us.
As my parent’s yelling waned I looked into the night. Light from Shannie’s house beckoned like a lighthouse.
The next morning, Sunday, my mother drug my father and I out of bed, dressed us in our finest, and led us to Mass. My heart sunk as she grabbed my arm and gave my face a once over with a spittle-laden finger. Readied for our grand entrance, mom straightened her slouched shoulders and led us into the church.
In the vestibule, she grabbed my arm and swung me in front of them: “As close to the front as we can get,” she commanded.
Head hung low, I led my parents to an empty pew; the echo of my mother’s heels introduced us to the congregation. Mass couldn’t end fast enough. When the Priest concluded “Mass is ended, go in peace,” I mumbled “Thank God,” earning a dirty glance from the old lady sitting next to me.
If High Mass wasn’t bad enough, I endured my mother’s smooze session with the priest. Her redeeming qualities shined as we became official members of what my father called the parish of the perpetually miserable.
Dad was an introverted man who would rather use a slide rule than attend a cocktail party. Considering his job he had the opportunity for both. He was a nuclear engineer for Bechtel Corporation. Bechtel was contracted to build the Limerick Nuclear Generating Station, the purpose for us relocating from California to suburban Philadelphia.
My mother was an extrovert who would rather go to a cocktail party than read a book. She probably didn’t know what a slide rule was. Except for the fact that my father was invited to many cocktail parties I never understood why they got married.
“Isn’t this sweet,” my mother crooned when we got home. A freshly baked pie sat on the front porch. “Bless their hearts. If all neighbors were like this, the world would be a better place. Joe,” she said, her voice full of syrup. “I told you I had a good feeling about this neighborhood.”
I had no time for such business, Shannie was on my mind. I ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. My heart raced as I changed my clothes. I looked out into the sun-drenched afternoon before bolting down the steps and out the front door.
My mother screamed - the earth shattering variety that could wake the dead - a dangerous proposition in this neighborhood. I snuck back into the kitchen. “Jesus Christ, I’ve been poisoned. Call the ambulance! Joe, do something!” My mother leaned over the sink and spat up black goo.
My father put a finger into the pie and brought it to his nose. He tasted a small sample: “It’s mud. One of our warm-hearted-the-world-is-a-better-place-neighbors left you a mud pie.”
“Call the police!”
“You should be arrested for not knowing the difference between chocolate mousse and mud,” he gloated.
“I’m choking and you’re insulting me! You probably had it delivered!”
Their yelling faded as I made my way to Shannie’s front door. I was about to knock when I heard a loud whistle. “Hey Just James, over here,” Shannie’s voice teased.
I looked in the direction of her voice. A scattering of trees stood in her yard. I walked towards them.
“You’re getting warm.”
At the edge of the house I stopped and looked around the corner.
“Colder.” I continued towards the first tree. “You’re hot, absolutely scalding.” I looked up. Shannie sat perched in the branches. “You’re parents always this entertaining?”
“My mom is on the excitable side,” I answered.
“Twice in a day. Wow.”
“Someone left her a mud pie. She took a bite out of it and thought someone poisoned her.”
Shannie laughed. “I should have put Ex-lax in it.”
“You did that?”
“Is the pope Catholic?” Shannie asked. I chuckled. “It was one of my better ones. I usually don’t use sprinkles and M & M’s.”
I laughed.
“I like to make friends with the neighbors. Most of them move in with no intention of moving out, it’s only proper.” She climbed down and jumped from the lowest limb. She landed a little heavy and fell to her knees. Getting up she brushed the dirt from her pants. “We have a long day ahead of us Just James. I have things to show you.”
“This is yours,” I handed her the comb. Shannie smiled. I melted.
Shannie Ortolan was thirteen going on thirty-four. Shannie was cultured. “If your mother was a history and a political science professor, you would be up on things,” she said.
We walked Beyford’s tree lined streets. Shannie asked endless questions. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. I learned that she was a good listener and found myself wishing my parents paid as much attention.
“Here it is,” she said, nodding at the huge stone building guarding the corner of fourth and Main. “The most important place in town. If Wally’s doesn’t have it, it doesn’t exist.” I followed her up the three steps. Peeling paint bespeckled the old wooden doors. A bell jingled as we stepped inside. “Hi Helen,” Shannie said to the old lady behind the counter. “I brought you a new customer. This is James, he just moved to town. He’s from California.”
“Hello James, nice to meet you,” The old lady crooned. I thought she said: “Hlwoe Chames Nigch ta meetch ya.”
“James, this is Helen.”
“Hi,” I said shyly.
“Got to go, have to show James the goods.”
Out of Helen’s earshot, I asked Shannie what was wrong with the old lady’s voice.
Shannie thought for a second: “She’s Pennsylvania Dutch.”
Shannie was right, Wally’s was a wonderland. It had everything. Over the years, I spent hours haunting the aisles, doing my share to wear out those old oiled hardwood floors. It even had a lunch counter where the town’s old cronies parked themselves. The day Wally’s burnt down Beyford mourned.
“Ah, here we are, the important aisle,” Shannie said.
My eyes lit up, I never saw such a candy selection. “Jesus,” I mumbled.
“What’s your poison?” she asked. “Me, I love Pixie sticks! I’m the Pixie stick monster! Me want Pixie!” Shannie growled. After filling two paper bags with enough candy to make our dentists cringe and their accountants smile, Shannie continued the tour.
At the bottom of Main Street, the hill that is Beyford leveled out at the railroad tracks into flat ground that ran towards the Schuylkill River. As we approached the tracks the crossing lights came alive and the gates began to lower. “Let’s go Just James,” Shannie ran.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on, follow me. Run.” Shannie ducked under the dropping gate. The train’s horn cried. “Come on Just James.” She stood in the center of the crossing.
I froze. “Run James!” she shouted. I ducked under the gate and ran onto the tracks. The train’s horn screamed. I looked to the right and saw the huge blue engine bearing upon us, its headlights glaring in the sunlight. I ran past Shannie.
“SHANNIE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I yelled from the far side. She stood on the tracks, staring down the train.
She smiled at me before refocusing her attention. “SHANNIE, GET OFF THE TRACKS!”
Shannie screamed as I moved for her. “STAY THERE!” The train’s horn bellowed. I jumped up and down in terror. I wanted to pull her off the tracks but I knew it was too late. “SHANNIE!” I screamed.
“FIVE, FOUR, THREE,” she counted before stepping off the track and standing next to me.
“Two. One.” The blue Conrail engine roared through the crossing. The engineer shouted something; Shannie waved her middle finger.
“Are you crazy?” I shrieked.
Shannie didn’t answer, but stood with her eyes closed and her head tilted back, her long hair dancing in the wind. When the last car rushed past, she opened her eyes and smiled. “Thanks Just James,” she said.
“For what?”
“Trusting me,” she answered.

We stood on the Schuylkill River Bridge trading candy and watching fisherman below. The afternoon sun smiled upon us. Tree’s shadows swam in the river. An occasional car passed over the bridge unnoticed.
“No,” she said.
“No what?” I asked.
“I’m not crazy,” she looked into my eyes.
“Okay,” I switched my gaze back to the fisherman.
“Why don’t you like being called Jim?”
“Would you want through life as Jim Morrison?”
She shrugged, “Why not?”
“It’s overrated.” I hung over the bridge rail and spit. I watched my loogie tumble before splashing in the river. “Hey look its Jim Morrison, it’s the American Poet, live and in person, back from the grave. It gets old fast.”
“Yeah but you’d look cute in leather pants,” Shannie chided.
I blushed.
“At least you don’t look like a blonde Medusa,” she tossed her hair with a free hand. I smiled at the river.
That night, I sat in my room gazing at Shannie’s house. A naked woman walked across the room, her breasts leading the way. Wet lanky hair kissed the small of her back. As fast as the show started, it ended. She turned off the light and disappeared into darkness. The woman was Shannie’s mom.
When I met her I blushed. So much for tweed jackets and elbow patches, I thought. She bucked my idea of a college professor’s wardrobe. She wore a pair of cutoffs and a small top buttoned at her cleavage. That my eyes were at her chest level made for a great summer of viewing - I was never accused of staring.
Besides the skin show, she was the coolest mother ever. She took Shannie and me on adventures. Day trips to the Jersey Shore, hiking on the Appalachian Trail, overnight camping trips, she even took us to Live-Aid. Shannie’s mom insisted on being called Diane. When I called her Mrs. Ortolan she said: “That’s my mother’s name.” Even Shannie called her Diane.
The Ortolan’s house was like the library of congress - books were everywhere. Each room hosted at least one bookshelf, even the kitchen. The only room that didn’t have one was the bathroom. “I hope you put the seat back down, we’re not used to having a man in the house,” Diane said, delighting in seeing my face turn red as I scampered back to the bathroom.
Because of my blushing problem, Diane tormented me. I would have died if she ever learned why I blushed so much in her presence.
Unlike me, Shannie was nearly impossible to embarrass - she got flustered when anyone paid her a compliment. This would be a valuable tool for me.
Around Shannie my mother was pleasant but wary, on guard that the daughter of that wanton women would corrupt her son. She disliked Shannie; she despised Diane Ortolan.
My father adored Shannie - that they held conversations drove my mother bat shit. It infuriated her that a thirteen-year-old could hold my father’s attention, especially since she couldn’t.
My mother’s feelings manifested themselves when she tried her hand at gardening. Her idea was to plant a seed, water it once, and expect the hanging gardens of Beyford. She didn’t realize the work involved and became good at raising weeds. Diane, on the other hand, possessed a green thumb, and won numerous local gardening events. Her yard was so colorful it made the rest of Cemetery Street seem black and white. She boasted having over a hundred varieties of flowers in her beds. “Something is always blooming,” she crowed. My mother once said Diane was trying to lure a hundred varieties of men into her bed.
One evening I was walking through the kitchen when I heard my mother groan. “Look at that, disgusting!” She was spying Diane pruning her flower beds. Diane was forever in a pair of cutoffs and a skimpy top.
“Mom, where do babies come from?” I asked.
“A woman’s body,” she answered her attention still upon Diane.
“How does it get there?
The color drained from her face. “A pill,” she stammered.
“How come when I asked you for a little brother you never took a pill?”
“Because your father and I didn’t want to have another baby.”
“But you do now?“
“Yes, we do.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because we’ve changed our minds.”
“Why?” I repeated.
“We’re ready for one now.”
“How come?”
“Because we are.”
“Because why?”
“Jesus James,” my mother snapped. “Because we want this one.”
“Oh, like I guess you didn’t want me.”
“Of course we wanted you.”
“Really. Because I know you had to get married because of me.”
“Yes. This is true. But if I had to take a pill to get pregnant wouldn’t I have wanted you?” she asked.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I scrambled out the door, satisfied with her explanation.
I found Shannie in her backyard, sitting facing the tree line. “Hey. What’re you doing?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I watched her sift dirt. “Earth to Shannie, Earth to Shannie, come in please.”
She noticed me when she sat down the sifting box. “Hi Just James.”
“What’re you doing?” I repeated.
“Making a present for our new neighbor.”
“What’s the present?”
“A mud pie.”
I laughed. “Who’s the new neighbor?”
Shannie shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Who’s moving out?” I asked.
“No one. The new one is moving in tomorrow morning.”
“No one is moving out but someone is moving in?”
“Yep.”
"I’m confused.”
“There’s nothing to be confused about,” she added water to the ingredients.
“Is someone moving in with you and Diane?”
“Nope,” She quipped.
Scratching my head I asked: “What gives?”
“Count told me there’s a funeral in the morning.”
“Who’s Count?”
“He lives in the cemetery. I’ll introduce you. Anywho, don’t you think it’s proper to leave a gift?”
“So you leave the stiff a mud pie?”
Shannie scowled at me. “Yep”
“You’re weird Shannie.”
“Remember when you told Diane and me you were afraid to move next to a cemetery. Thinking zombies were going to get you. That’s weird! I’m just giving a grave-warming present.”
“You’re still weird.”
“Whatever.”
“Sounds like bribery,” I gloated.
“When I’m dead and gone, I hope someone cares enough to think of me,” she said.
I shrugged. “Lets go to Wally’s.”

The next morning I waited for Shannie’s call. The night before she had said: “don’t call me, I’ll call you.” As time passed curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to watch Shannie leave her grave-warming gift. I climbed one of the elm trees edging Fernwood cemetery.
The last of the mourners were leaving as I settled high in the tree. Moments later three men emerged from a building on the far side of Fernwood. One of them hopped into a backhoe while the other two walked to the open grave. Dressed in green work clothes, they reminded me of soldiers. The leader was a great bear of a man with a wide, kind face and short cropped black hair. His helper was fifteen or sixteen with features like the bear.
When they reached the grave they lowered the coffin before strapping a slab of concrete to the front-end loader and lowering it into the grave. When the bear was satisfied they undid the straps and the backhoe filled the grave. Over the years I became an expert at burial - I buried one of those I watched.
When they retired to the building, Shannie emerged from the trees. She carried the mud pie with an upturned hand. She sat the pie on the grave, said a few words and returned home. I was disappointed, I imagined her in a black dress, complete with a widow’s veil, walking at some mourning pace. At the grave I imagined her leading an elaborate one woman ceremony to coax the deceased to leave us mortal kids alone.
Watching Shannie taught me despite how often I think it should, the world doesn’t conform to my expectations. It’s an idea I still struggle with.
An hour later, Shannie and I walked across Fernwood. “Really? You’ve never stepped foot in a bone yard?” We climbed the side steps of a converted chapel.
“Nope.” Inside the TV babbled. Shannie banged on the screen door. The bear sat at the kitchen table eating a hoagie.
“Hi Doll. Who’s your friend?” His voice was deep and scratchy.
“This is James, he’s our new neighbor,” Shannie led me into the kitchen. The linoleum floor sported stains, rips and tears. The cabinets were peeling and in desperate need of a paint job. Dirty dishes littered the sink. “He lives in the old Manson house.”
I jumped as the door slammed shut. “Jesus boy, don’t piss on the floor,” Bear said. The metal frame chair strained under his weight.
“James’s creeped out. He’s never been in a graveyard before.”
“No need to be boy, I never had me better neighbors than them dead ones, excluding present company of course.”
“James meet Mr. Lightman. He’s the caretaker.”
My head tilted upwards. He wiped his hand on his work clothes before extending his paw. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” His hand swallowed mine.
“Where you from boy?”
“California, sir”
“Don’t call me sir, I work for a living. Mr. Lightman will do. What part of California?”
“Pleasanton, near San Francisco.”
“I know where it is, son. I spent time at Oakland army base - a long time ago.” He sat back down and gnawed at the hoagie. “What brings you to dodge?”
“My father was transferred.”
“Who’s he work for?”
“Bechtel.”
“We got ourselves a nuke.” He threw his hands in the air. “Next thing you know the tombstones will glow.”
“They’ll hum too!” Shannie added.
“I’ll never get a good night’s sleep. I don’t know what would be worse, the humming or my son’s goddamned stereo” He took another bite. “I shouldn’t complain, your old man could keep me in business for a long time.”
The bear pounded the table with his right paw, rolled his immense butt off the seat and let go of the loudest, longest fart ever. “Sheesh, I told them not to use so much oregano,” he said.
“Jesus Leroy,” a lady’s voice cried from another room. “That’s out of bounds.”
Laughing, I pulled my shirt over my nose.
“Check your pants - better have not ruined another pair.”
“Hush now Flossy, that’s no way to speak when we have company.”
The bear turned his attention to the hoagie.
“When you going to learn yourself some manners?” the voice echoed.
“I ain’t doing what no one else doesn’t.”
“Hi there doll,” the voice said as its owner walked into the room. “Oh Jesus That’s foul.” She fanned her nose.
Shannie had her shirt over her nose, partially hiding her red face and tearing eyes. She was trying not to laugh. “In front of company. You should be ashamed of yourself,” Flossy said. My eyes teared; my face burned. The little lady playfully slapped the bear across the back of his head. Standing, she was as tall as the seated giant.
“Like you never farted Flossy.”
“I don’t do those sorts of things.”
“She can play the wind chimes, if you know what I mean.”
Shannie’s face turned purple.
“Pish-Posh you old fool.” She waved her hand.
The bear wiped his face. “I got holes to dig and stiffs to plant. Nice meeting you James.” He winked at Shannie: “See ya around Doll.” Shannie’s eyes followed the bear out the door. He climbed into a ratty faded blue pickup truck - Shannie called it powder fairy blue. With a cough the truck started and backed out of view.
The Lightmans lived in a converted church. After Bear left the army – he spent two tours in Vietnam – he bought the cemetery, converted the church and settled into civilian life. As Flossy rattled on, one of Bear’s helpers clomped into the kitchen. “Hey Shannie,” he said.
“Hi Count,” she replied.
The helper opened the fridge and waited for food to jump out at him.
“Damn it boy. Pick you poison or shut the door. Don’t you roll your eyes at me!” Flossy barked. The helper was the Lightman’s son. Shannie called him Count – Count as in Count Dracula, it was the price he paid for living in a cemetery.
I watched in awe as he took a long swig from the carton of orange juice. I never would have done that in front of my folks. The kid had balls.
“I oughta beat you with a stick,” Flossy said.
Count turned to his mother and belched.
“Boy, stop acting like you were raised by a pack of wolves.”
“Yes Ma’am,” Count smirked.
“Wipe that smirk off your face. I don’t care how big you are. I’ll dig you a hole and shove you in.” Count winked at Shannie before retreating into his room. Too cool, I thought.
That evening, something else was on my mind. Something my mother said didn’t feel right, so I asked Shannie: “Where do babies come from?” We were in her back yard. “You don’t know?” she laughed.
“A woman’s body,” I said red-faced.
“No shit Sherlock.”
“Forget it.”
“No way, you brought it up.”
“Shut up, just drop it.”
“Why you blushing Just James?”
“Am not.”
“Are to”
“Am not”
“Jesus, are you always so uptight.”
“I’m not uptight.”
“Are to.”
“Just drop it! Okay.”
I thought she dropped it. Then she asked. “Who you planning on getting pregnant?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh brother, are you really that naïve?”
My heart snapped. I think she heard it because she grabbed my hand and turned me towards her. “Sorry Just James. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But you’re so Catholic. I thought everybody knew how to put a bun in the oven.”
“My mom says it from by taking a pill.”
“I knew I should have put Ex-lax in that pie. She is so full of shit,” Shannie howled.
“What do you mean?”
Shannie reached out and felt my forehead. “Wanted to check if you are feverish.” She stared at my crimson face. “Let me get this straight, you asked your mother where babies come from and she told you from taking a pill. You are twelve years old, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“Does she have you believing in the Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny?”
“No.”
“The tooth fairy?”
“No.”
“That’s a start,” she sighed. “Geezus Pete, no wonder you’re a walking bowl of spaghetti.” At the tree line between her yard and the cemetery Shannie put an arm around me. My knees weakened. “Did you ask your dad?”
“No,” I lied.
“Why not?”
“I’m too embarrassed,” I blushed.
“You’re too embarrassed to ask your own father?”
“I don’t know,” I answered miserably.
"Why don’t you try asking him?”
“Why are you such a pest?”
“Hey, you brought it up,” she said.
“Just drop it,” I mumbled.
“What do you think he would say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do,” Shannie insisted.
“No I don’t.”
“YES YOU DO!”
“He’d told me to go ask your mother,” I blurted out.
“My mother? What does my mother have to do with it?”
“No. Not your mother, my mother. Like he told me to ask your mother, meaning my mother, you see what I mean.”
“Your folks are royally screwed.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Why don’t you bug him?” she asked.
“Like you bug me?”
“Yeah. Like I bug you,” Shannie said.
“Shannie Bug, Shannie Bug, drag your ass across a rug,” I chided.
“Anywho,” she said hopping onto a swing. “You did ask. And what Just James wants, Just James gets.” I hopped on the swing next to her and as I pumped my legs to catch up, Shannie told me about the birds and the bees.
There were times when Shannie spoke that I had no idea what she was talking about. I would tune out and listen to the rhythm of her voice. It was soothing, almost maternal, more so than my mother’s voice - which was petty, trite, and aggravating. This was one of those occasions I listened to the rhythm, until she mentioned an erection.
“… which leads to a reptile dysfunction.”
“What? What’s a reptile dysfunction have to do with anything?” I asked.
“Silly James,” she laughed. “Erectile dysfunction.”
“What’s an erectile dysfunction,” I asked.
“You never had one?”
I stopped pumping my legs and let the swing slow. “How would I know I never had one if I don’t know what it is?”
“As much as you walk around with a hard-on, I’m surprised that you don’t know.”
“Like when have you seen me walk around with a hard-on?”
“Last week when Diane and I took you camping.”
“I wasn’t walking around with one,” I blushed.
“Oh James - loosen up. Only you would be embarrassed by something so natural.”
“Well pervert, what if I looked at you while you slept.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Shannie said.
“I mean really looked at you.”
“What’s the big deal?
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. We’re so different, I thought as my swing ground to a halt.
From above me, her swing reached new heights. “Damn it, I wish Diane wasn’t home. I’d show you there is nothing to be ashamed about.”
The rest of that night I was on edge. My mother even noticed: “What’s wrong,” she asked.
“Nothing,” I lied. “I don’t feel good.”
Later, lying awake in bed after another Diane inspired dysfunction, Shannie’s words echoed. With horror and excitement I wondered what would happen the next time Shannie and I were alone.
She made a game of teasing me. She understood how uneasy it made me.
The next day I asked my mother, “Why did you tell me you got pregnant from a pill? A pill doesn’t make you pregnant, it prevents it.” Her face turned red. Fury burned in her eyes. The glass she was drying was suddenly airborne. “ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR? You unappreciative little bastard, I gave up my life for you and you show your thanks by calling me a liar?”
I ducked. The glass whizzed by and smashed against the wall. “Jesus! You’re whacked!”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” she screamed. She moved closer, threatening me with the dishtowel pulled taught in her hands. “You call me a liar and have the audacity to use the lord’s name in vain?” Veins bulged in her forehead. “And you call me crazy?”
I ran out the door. “GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!” She yelled after me. I sprinted down Cemetery Street, past the old piano factory and the Junior High. My lungs burned as I raced down the tree lined street. Just past the Lucas funeral parlor, I braved a glance behind. I was relieved she wasn’t following. At the bottom of Cemetery Street, I cut across a backyard, crossed the railroad tracks and the vacant lots. On the bank of the Schuylkill River, I found a secluded spot and sat against an uprooted tree. Panting as I caught my breath, I pulled my knees to my chest and cried.
The slow, steady current of the river eased my emotions. I worried about my family. Back in California, we seemed to get along. We had our upsets, but nothing like this. Since moving to Beyford, my mother seemed increasingly on edge. “It’s hormones,” my father said. “Pregnancy,” as an afterthought, he added: “the move was hard on her.”
“I thought she wanted to leave California?” I asked.
“Pennsylvania is different than she expected. She’s having trouble making friends,” my father answered.
Go figure, I thought, she couldn’t get along with Diane, and she is the coolest grown-up I ever met.
Despite being critical of my mother and never passing up an opportunity to rake her across the coals, Shannie was fair and would give me her honest opinion. That evening I asked.
“She hates her life. Imagine sitting on an unwanted egg, passing time till it hatches. The only thing she has to look forward to is making another person miserable,” Shannie answered.
I winced.
“If you want a high opinion of a dog, don’t ask a cat,” she scoffed.
“I thought I asked a bug.”
“A lightning bug mind you, I will illuminate you with my brilliance.”
“Okay brilliant Bug, what makes you think she doesn’t want the baby? She told me she wants it.”
“Geezus Pete. You believe everything she says? She did tell you she got pregnant by taking a pill,” she paused, measuring her words. “Do you think anyone would wait twelve years before having another wanted hatchling? I’m thinking about this time the rooster would be having his pecker snipped.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea of what Shannie was talking about; I was wrapped up in her style. Comparing speaking skills, mine was pencil marks on scrap paper, Shannie was oil on canvas, she was all about color, theme, and texture.
When I walked into my kitchen. my parents were having a civil conversation. Other then a frown from my mother our spat wasn’t mentioned.
That night I realized Shannie was right. My parent’s were getting too old to have a wanted baby. They waited ten years after packing away the last of my diapers. My father was forty-five, my mother was turning forty next month. Maybe they’re trying to save their marriage, I thought as a freight train’s horn echoed in the distance.


Chapter 3 Secrets

Shannie led me to a secret place. We slipped through Fernwood and under shade trees that dotted the ridgeline. To our left, traffic raced along the Expressway. We followed the ridge until we came upon a huge maple tree, its base so thick that each of its four limbs could have been a separate tree. Leading the way, Shannie climbed atop the base. I stopped myself from reaching up and boosting her butt. Instead I eyed it. Since, it is what I measure all others against.
“Take a look down there. That’s where we’re headed.”
“A junkyard?” Behind a hedgerow were piles of old refrigerators and stoves, washers and dryers. Beyond was an auto graveyard. Shannie called the place gi-normus. “It’s more than a junkyard - it’s a treasure chest. You never know what you might find. And we, my friend, have the keys - sort of.” Mischief fell over Shannie’s face. “Count and I can get in and out whenever we want. No one else knows.”
“Let’s go.”
“Hold your horses. We’re meeting Count. He kind of has tickets,” Shannie said.
“Tickets? Why do you need tickets? I thought you get in whenever you felt like it.”
“We can. But, it takes a bribe.” Shannie curled her brow. “I’d hate to see the dog have you for lunch. It knows me and Count. You’re new blood.”
“Bribe him? With what? A can of Alpo?” I asked.
“We’re not. You are Just James.” Shannie patted my back.
I leaned against a limb. “With what?”
“A steak. Count’s getting one at Friedman’s market.”
Oh shit, I thought. “What kind of dog?”
“A big, mean one,” Shannie teased.
“Great.”
“A word to the wise, don’t come here alone. He know us. You have to grow on him. Kind of like a fungus.”
“What kind of dog?” I repeated.
“Rottweiler ”
“Shit,” I mumbled studying the heaps of junk.
“A big mean one. A big mean hungry one,” Shannie continued. “A big mean hungry one with a taste for flesh.”
“Fucking Friedman’s,” Count rumbled as he approached. “I had to dumpster dive to get a decent piece. You’d think with the business we give them they would save us decent scraps. Damn Jews.”
“They’re German,” Shannie said.
“Jews, Krauts.” Count waved his hand. “They’re all the same.”
“You’re such a redneck,” Shannie said.
“At least I’m not a Commie-Pinko.”
“At least I’m not a close minded hick,” Shannie retorted.
“At least I’m not so open minded my brain falls out.”
“Yours already did,” Count said.
My head bounced back and forth to their banter. “We going to exchange pleasantries all day?” Shannie said jumping from the tree. She led the way towards the junkyard.
“Here, this is for you,” Count handed off the bag of steaks like a football. The bag slammed into my gut. “Dog is a mean mother. You should’ve seen what he did to the last kid. He took a chunk out of the poor bastard’s arm. Kid bled like a pig.”
“What happened?”
“The dog went after him,” Count answered.
“No shit,” I said. “What happened to his arm.”
“He got gonorrhea, chlamydia, gangrene something like that. They had to chop it off,” Count smiled.
“You’re full of shit,” I protested.
“Honest to God. After they chopped his arm off, the owner of the junkyard, damn it, what’s his name Shannie?’
“Gus,” Shannie said weaving down the hill.
“Yeah, Gus the Russian Jew was so pissed he told the kid’s parents he would press charges for trespassing unless they gave him the arm. He wanted to feed it to the dog.”
“You’re full of it,” I hoped he was lying. “Why didn’t the kid rat you out?”
Count laughed, “I told the pecker head I’d tear off his other arm and shove it up his ass, then he would walk around with a tail looking like the rat bastard he is.”
“Bullshit!” I cried.
“It ain’t bullshit. It happened,” Shannie said.
“Why did the dog go after him?” I worried aloud.
“Who knows what goes through the mind of a mongrel? Come to think of it, that was the only other time I dumpster dove. I think the mutt was pissed he didn’t get a fresh cut. Probably wanted a porterhouse or something.”
We slipped behind the hedgerow and stared at the chain link fence. As I stood between my friends I eyed the barbed wire draped along the top. “Ever climb over barbed wire?” Count asked.
“Nope,” I gawked at the stacks of wrecked and rusting hulks of dead Ford’s and Chevy’s.
“There’s a first time for everything. Listen up, you got to be absolutely quiet, you can’t even fart. You don’t want Duke Nuke ‘em hearing ya.”
“Who’s Duke Nuke ‘em?” I asked.
‘The dog, dumb ass,” Count hovered over me. He poked my chest to emphasize his point. “Believe me when I say he ain’t a happy camper. Especially if you wake him from his siesta.”
“Mum’s the word,” I whispered.
“Good,” Count patted my back and took the bag from me. “Listen up, when you climb over the top be careful. Cut your hand on a barb and you’ll bleed like a pig. Duke Nuke ‘em’s like a shark. He can smell blood a mile away. Don’t rush. Understand?”
“Don’t rush,” I repeated.
“Whatever happens don’t panic. And remember, keep your goddamn trap shut. You want to find Duke in a good mood.”
“You sure you done this before?” I looked at Shannie for reassurance.
“Of course knucklehead,” Shannie smiled.
“What about the steak?” I asked.
“We’ll worry about that,” Count nodded at Shannie. “Keep a clear head and remember if anything happens - we don’t know you. If you rat us out you’ll be wearing an arm as a tail. Just keep your trap shut.”
The blood drained from my face.
“Get going, we’re right behind ya.”
“It’s a piece of cake James. You can do it,” Shannie gleamed.
“You waiting for the leaves to change? Get your ass over that fence!” Count barked.
I scrambled up the fence. As I climbed over the barbed wire, I thought how enjoyable it would be to watch Count’s fat ass struggle. I made it past the barbs without a scratch. When I got to the ground Shannie and Count were gone - and they took the steak with them. “Hey! You pricks, where did you go?” I yelled. My voice bounced off the hill and rained over the junkyard. Duke’s dark baritone drowned my echoes. I froze. “This ain’t funny, you bastards! ” I yelled: “Paybacks are a bitch!”
I was launched forward, landing on my hands and knees. I looked up. Count hovered over me. “I told you to keep your mouth shut!”
“How did you get in?”
Shannie laughed. “Through the hole in the fence.”
Duke Nuke ‘em’s barks closed in on us.
“Douche bag, I told you to keep your trap shut.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“We can’t, Duke Nuke ‘em will chase us,” Shannie said.
“Get in one of the cars,” Count ordered. I hesitated. “Run!” he yelled. I ran for a rusted old pickup. I jumped inside the cab. The Rottweiler barreled around a corner. It stopped. Standing its ground it snarled and barked at my friends. Count took a steak from the bag. “Here you go buddy.” The dog sat. It drooled eying the meat. Count held out the steak. Duke Nuke ‘em ripped it from Count’s hand.
“You little son’s a bitches, I see yee these time. I catch you and beat you asses.” An old man waved his cane as he waddled along the outside of the fence, his face flush.
“Shit, It’s Gus the Russian Jew,” Count said. Shannie and Count took off.
“You little bastards, I see you. Duke sic.”
Ignoring his master, the dog worked on the steak. The old man’s curses trailed off as he hobbled along the outside of the fence. When the dog finished, he scavenged for leftovers. “Want company?” Shannie asked?
I jumped, banging my head on the roof. “Owe, fuck,” I muttered rubbing my head.
“A little jumpy?” She chuckled climbing into the truck. Count’s voice bounced through the junk yard. Duke looked up. Duff and drool hung from his jowls. He barked and trotted after Count’s voice. “What’s Count doing?”
“He’s running screen. We’ll meet him at the tree.”
I looked into Shannie’s eyes. She smiled. I closed my eyes and leaned towards her. In the distance, Duke Nuke ‘em barks chased Count. “We better get out of here,” Shannie said.
Shannie led me to the hole in the fence. I held it back as she slipped through. She returned the favor. Shannie slipped her hand into mine and led me up the hill and into the tree. If it wasn’t for Count, I’m convinced we would have made out.
“When I tell you to keep your mouth shut, keep it shut,” Count barked as he approached the tree. It’s advice I struggle with. If I listened, I would have saved many detentions, an occasion black eye, stitches, and public humiliation. Count’s advice would have made life with my mother easier. She was constantly irritable. When she bitched to an empty room, I felt obligated to advocate for the walls. My father didn’t argue, when she nagged, he hid. When it got really bad, he drove away. One Saturday afternoon, he left my mother haranguing the kitchen walls.
“I know why he’s miserable. You’re the only one who wants the baby,” I said.
“Who the hell asked you?”
“I did!”
“You know what? I am sick and tired of your opinion,” my mother barked.
“Yeah, so I’m tired of your whining. All you ever do is whine, whine, whine, whine.”
“You bastard! You’re just like your father. All you can think about is James, James, James.”
“Yeah I know." I waved my hand - I picked up the habit from Count. “It’s all about James.”
“Just once stop and consider what it would be like to be in my shoes?” she yelled.
“I have, they reek like a pig farm.”
Her right hand connected. I saw stars. The left side of my face went numb, my knees gave out and I tumbled to the floor. My eye swelled. I rubbed my face, blood covered my hand. Her wedding ring broke open my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I blubbered – guilt filled tears stinging the cut.
“Oh my God,” she cried standing over me. “James, you okay? My God, you’re bleeding. “Come.” She helped me up and led me to the bathroom.
I had trouble catching my breath between sobs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it,” I repeated.
“Shhh,” she said hugging me. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Her hands ran through my hair. She sat me down on the toilet and inspected my cut. “You’re going to need stitches,” she said.
“No!” I pleaded. “I’ll be all right.”
“James. Don’t argue, you’re going to need them,” she said.
“I’m scared. I don’t want anything to happen.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Her face told a different story. What she did was wrong, but if I kept my trap shut, she wouldn’t have hit me. I didn’t want her in trouble, especially with the baby on the way.
“I fell down the stairs and hit my face on the banister,” I said.
"No James. We can’t lie,” she whispered.
“I’m not lying, That’s what happened. I was running in the upstairs hall, you told me to stop. I got smart with you and God punished me – I fell down the steps.”
She placed her forehead to mine. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Despite applying pressure, she couldn’t stop the bleeding. “I have to call an ambulance,” she said. Leaving the bathroom she muttered: “I wish your father would get home.”
“NO!” I yelled following her from the bathroom. “Call Mrs. Ortolan. She’ll give us a ride.”
My mother shook her head. “No James, I can’t do that. I just can’t do that.”
“Please, please,” I pleaded.
Ignoring me she said, “Mr. Miller is home, I’ll ask him if he’ll give us a ride.” Within minutes we were on our way to the hospital.
I started to believe my lie. Aside from an Emergency room doctor no one doubted me - I convinced him after a brief interrogation - no one, except Shannie. “I don’t remember a set of brass knuckles being part of your banister’s decor,” she quipped. My father mumbled something about being careful near the stairs – “you’re lucky you didn’t break an arm.” When Count saw my black eye and stitches he said I looked tough enough to play football. Knowing she owed me, my mother signed off. I joined the Junior High team.
For the remainder of summer vacation, Count and I spent each morning playing catch and hurdling tombstones. Count was the starting pulling guard on offense and nose tackle on defense. Not only was he the biggest player on our team, he was the biggest player in the league. More frightening then his size was his speed. I was no slow poke and he could stay with me in the forty. After one of our races he informed me it was time to see if I could take a hit. “Forget it, I’m not going to be your tackling dummy.”
“I believe in a fair fight. I’ll give you a three second head start.”
“You’ll never catch me,” I boasted.
“We go until I get you or I can’t run anymore,” Count challenged.
“Deal,” I answered. I was about to learn the meaning of freight-trained.
We started at the front of Fernwood. After fifty yards I looked over my shoulder - Count lumbered along. I was lolled into a false sense of security, I never seen him run further than forty yards. Piece of cake, I thought taking the turn at the rear of the graveyard. I looked over my shoulder again. Pow, he nailed me. My head bounced off the ground, pain exploded through my skull. Count called it a rock headache. It probably was a concussion. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be my last head injury.
“Just what I figured,” Count cried as I held my head in my hands. “You’re panty-waist wide-out material. You can run like the wind as long as the wind blows towards the sidelines.”
After the season started, I realized he was easy on me. It was frightening how hard he hit people. I’m amazed no one died. When I asked our coach why he winced when Count clobbered someone, he said: “I hope it doesn’t hurt as bad as it looks.” Count wasted people with a smile. He’d destroy them, help them up - extending a word of encouragement, and waste them again. He only got mean when someone called him Cunt. There was one on every team – I learned that the world will never be in short supply of idiots.
Once, while playing defensive back, I was in on a tackle when the running back called him Cunt. "I’ll show you who’s a Cunt," Count snapped. The next play he broke the kid’s leg.
I’m glad I never pissed off Count. I knew there was one name I’d never call him. Shannie and I were walking down Main Street when I asked if she ever saw Count get mean.
“Never,” she said.
“Hell-low Butterfly,” an old gravel laden voice interrupted from across Main Street.
"Russell,” Shannie cried. “How are you?”
"Fine,” the gravely voice coughed. “Just fine thank you. You behaving yourself young lady?” Across the street, under a plume of cigar smoke, stood an aging black man wearing sunglasses and carrying a white cane. His gray hair matched day-old stubble. A sweat stained undershirt covered a healthy potbelly.
“But of course,” Shannie replied. She motioned for me to follow her across Main Street. “What kind of trouble can a girl get into in this town?”
“Loads if your gallivanting around town with a young fella,” Russell smirked.
"James isn’t trouble. It’s me James has to worry about,” Shannie said.
It was hard to tell if the old man’s chuckle was spiced with a cough or if his cough was spiced with a chuckle. “Nice to make your acquaintance James,” he shook my hand. “You must be of high standing to meet this lady’s standards.”
"Nice to meet you,” I mumbled withdrawing my hand from his cold, sweaty embrace.
“How was your trip?’ Shannie asked.
"Fine doll. But you know how I am. I couldn’t wait to get home. I missed my Butterfly.”
“I’m glad you’re home. I missed you,” Shannie said resting her cheek against Russell’s potbelly.
"What’s the story on him,” I asked after we parted company.
“Everybody knows Russell,” Shannie answered. I learned Russell haunted Main Street, at any given time he sat on the park bench across from the town hall or pushed a broom in front of Wally’s. Shannie scolded me when I asked how he could push a broom if he couldn’t see what he’s sweeping, “Just because he’s blind doesn’t mean he’s an invalid. He knows the sidewalks better than anyone.”
“How do you know him?” I asked.
"He’s a friend of the family. He was there when we needed a little help,” Shannie said.
“What kind of help?” I inquired.
"Let’s just say – when in doubt, seek Russell out,” Shannie said.
“What kind of doubt?” I persisted.
“That’s none of your business,’ Shannie responded.
I changed the subject “Wait a minute, if he’s blind how did he know we were on the other side of the street?”
“He probably heard my voice,” Shannie tugged an ear.
“I was doing most of the talking,” I claimed.
“If he didn’t hear me, he…” Shannie sniffed twice. “… smelled me.”

“James, phone,” my mother called. The smell of barbecued steak wafted through our backyard. It was Labor Day, my mother was in a good mood and my father emerged from his stupor. “Just James,” Shannie’s voice rang through the receiver. “Tomorrow’s the day.”
“For?” I asked.
She giggled. “Diane has classes all day and you start school on Wednesday, it’s tomorrow or never.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count,” Shannie said.
Oh that! I thought. “What time?” I stammered.
“You oughta think with your small head more often. You catch on quicker,” Shannie teased.
"Ha ha,” I said.
“Eleven. Come around to the back door.”
“Eleven it is.” I hung up and returned to the picnic table. I studied the steak’s rare middle as I chewed. The sight of it lying in a pool of its own juices cost my appetite, at least that was my excuse. I slipped from the table under the cover of my parent’s conversation.
The evening drug slower than Christmas Eve for a five year old. In my bedroom, I paced the floor. When I tired of that, I went to Count’s. “The boys are running an errand,” Flossy said. I made my way to the maple tree. I climbed and watched the holiday traffic. I wanted to talk with Shannie. Instead, I walked to Wally’s. With Shannie on my mind, I bought Pixie sticks, I hate Pixie sticks! Go figure. Back in my room, I paced.
I learned dealing with the opposite sex was nerve wracking; no wonder my parent’s were so screwed up, I thought. A light went on in Diane’s room. I shut mine off and raced to my perch. Shannie stood in Diane’s doorway, arms folded across her chest as she leaned against the door frame, her head tilted backwards. She spoke, I tried reading her lips. Diane appeared from the corner of her room and walked past Shannie into the hallway. Instead of following, Shannie walked towards the window and stared in my direction. After a moment she slipped from Diane’s room.
As evening turned to night, sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned, my mind awash with images of what tomorrow would bring. When sleep came, it was shallow and filled with dreams. The images were random and disjointed. In one dream, Shannie and I were in her bedroom, but her bedroom was in the maple tree. We were about to kiss when a tornado roared up the hill from the junkyard. Suddenly, we were running hand in hand inside a cave. Water trickled from the cave's wall’s. Rats squealed as we ran past. Suddenly, the walls trembled. A rumbling light chased us.
In another, the kitchen door slammed. My mother’s voice raced up the stairs. The bedroom door muffled her words. Her voice and footfalls climbed the stairs. I don’t want to deal with this, I thought pulling the blankets over my head. “Go away, go away,” I pleaded to my blankets. The door to my bedroom was thrown open and her eyes sliced through my blanket. Fire truck sirens drowned her shouts.
Fire trucks did wake me. I sat up trying to sort dream from reality. The reflections of flashing red lights filled my room. Sirens raced up Main Street past Fernwood. I bolted from bed and glimpsed a fire truck racing by. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

I stood at the bottom of the Ortolan’s back steps, surprised how high their deck seemed. One by one I took the steps, my heart raced. I knocked on the sliding door. “It’s open,” Shannie’s voice rang.
“Hey Bug,” I cried.
“Bring your birthday suit?” she called from her bedroom.
I was at a loss for words.
"Cat got your tongue?” she asked emerging from her bedroom.
“Something like that,” I said. I was disappointed, I was hoping she’d be wearing her bikini. I didn’t expect to see her in painter’s pants and a T-shirt. “You sure you want to do this?” I asked.
“But of course. I promise I won’t bite. Want something to drink?”
“Coke,” I answered.
“We can do this one of two ways,” Shannie opened the refrigerator door. She stuck her head inside, exaggerating her pose. She popped open the can and sat in front of me. “We can play strip poker or spin the bottle.”
“Spin the bottle.” I didn’t know how to play poker.
“Drink up,” she said sitting across from me, eying me as I drank.
I took my time. Sitting with her legs crossed, chin resting in her palm, Shannie stared into my eyes.
"Let me help you.” Shannie chugged the rest of my soda. As she tossed the can she left out a world-class belch.
“Good push,” I said.
“Excuse me,” she laughed. At her bedroom door, she turned and said, “Just James. Whatever happens today, I mean, when you go to school and start meeting other girls, and find a girlfriend, which you will, don’t think that I will be pissed. We’re friends James, best of friends. I don’t want you to think you can’t be interested in anybody else.”
My face throbbed worse than when my mother socked me. “I wouldn’t think of being interested in anyone else."
"You haven’t met anyone else,” she said.
“That’s not true.”
"Name one,” she challenged.
“I thought that… well, never-mind,” I stammered.
“Thought what Just James?” Shannie grinned.
“That, ugh… forget it,” I mumbled.
Shannie leaned into me. Taking my hand into hers, she said: “A girlfriend would never do what I would do for you.” She led me into her bedroom. We sat across from each other on the hardwood floor. The white walls were awash with sunlight. “Boxers or briefs?’ Shannie teased.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” I answered.
“What if you’re commando?” she quipped.
“Commando?” I questioned.
"You know, bare-ass,” she said.
“I’m regular forces.”
"Excellent Eggs. Okay, what are the rules? Like, what are we going to start with,” she inquired.
I shrugged my shoulders. Rules? Where there are women there are rules, I thought.
“Geezus Pete, are you always this anal?”
“For once and for all - I’m not anal!”
“Are too,” Shannie insisted.
“No I’m not,” I protested.
“I guess we’ll see,” Shannie winked.
“I guess we will,” I mumbled.
“Anywho, I think we should start with sneakers, socks, shirt, pants, underwear. Except in my case, it should be sneakers, socks, pants, shirt, underwear.”
“Why should we have a different order?”
Shannie flashed me a toothy smile. “Do I have to explain everything?”
“No. I just don’t think….”
“I’ve already seen your charming chest and unless you’ve been peeking in my window you haven’t seen mine.”
I tried not to blush. “Whatever,” I said.
She gave me the look - the one that still haunts me. She lowered her chin and met my gaze with raised eyes, hair framing her face. “Lets do this,” she smiled.
“What do we do when one of us loses?”
“The other one wins.” It wasn’t till afterwards I fully comprehended what she meant. “I’ll spin first,” Shannie said.
“Say’s who?” I protested.
“Geezus Pete!” Shannie sighed. “Okay you spin first.”
“No. I don’t mean that,” I stalled. “I think we should flip a coin or something.”
Shannie jumped to her feet and fetched a quarter from her dresser. “Call it in the air.”
“Heads,” I called.
“Tails it is,” she showed me the captured coin on the back of her hand.
My heart pounded as she placed her hand on the bottle between us. “Does the bottle have to point directly at you or your half of the room?”
“Directly at you,” I said.
“You’re quite the tease,” she winked. “You ready?”
“Ready,” I answered.
Shannie spun the bottle. I was focused on its neck as it went round and round. My heart leaped into my throat as it pointed at me.
"Just James minus a shoe,” Shannie said with delight. “Hope he’s wearing his odor eaters sport’s fans.”
“Ha Ha,” I said.
I was minus my other sneaker and a sock before the wheel of fortune finally turned. “Well lookie here,” Shannie babbled. “It looks like James is going to see the bottom of my sock.” Shannie proved that untying a shoelace could be seductive. She smiled as she slid her foot from her Chuck.
As luck would have it, I won the next spin and Shannie repeated her show. It was my turn to spin, and mine was the first to miss a target. “You lose a turn,” Shannie said.
I was minus my shirt when Shannie lost her second sock. Shannie nailed me on her next spin costing me my shorts. I felt the beginning of a boner. I thought of my dead grandmother to stop it. I stood and turned away from Shannie, unsnapped my cutoffs and pulled them over my ankles. I felt my face burn as she whistled and clapped. I turned and dropped to my butt. “Tighty whities, really,” she laughed.
My next spin I missed again. “I’m screwed,” I mumbled.
“Don’t count on it,” Shannie answered.
Dead Eye Shannie’s next spin backfired and for the first time pointed at her. She leapt to her feet, caught my gaze with her eyes and directed it to her button. With a quick flick she undid it and let her shorts slide down her legs before stepping out of them. “It’s your spin,” she said interrupting my stare.
“Oh. Yeah.” I placed my trembling hand on the bottle and spun it. The tension built as it slowed. I felt lightheaded. The bottle crawled past me and pointed at Shannie. She smiled and pulled her shirt over her belly. She paused a second before exposing her breasts. I studied Shannie as she pulled her shirt over her head. Thoughts of my grandmother faded.
“You win,” Shannie said. She stood and slid off her panties. “Would you like to touch them,” she whispered.
“Sure.” I managed.
“Come here,” Shannie smiled as she retreated to her bed. I watched her lay on her side. I slid into her bed. Her softness surprised me, her sparkling eyes captured me, but it was the soft gasp escaping her lips that I have always cherished.


Chapter 4 Paybacks

It was the first day of school and the gray sky watched Count and I trudge the three blocks to Beyford Junior High. “Do you always have this much bounce in the morning?” Count bemoaned.
“Excited,” I answered.
“Good for you,” he mumbled.
“Count?”
“That’s the name.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“No, you won’t get your ass kicked. I got you covered. Yes, the chicks will love you. You’re from California, they’re dumb enough to think you’re from Hollywood. Play it up, tell them you’re related to Tom Cruise.”
“That’s not it,” I said stepping onto Bainbridge Street.
He grabbed me and yanked me back onto the curb. The world was filled with the squeal of breaks and the smell of burnt rubber. Over the blare of a car horn Count barked, “Dumb ass, trying to get yourself killed?”
“Asshole,” I roared. The driver flipped me off and yelled something about watching were I was going.
“You’re the asshole,” Count barked.
“F you, we’ve got the right away.”
“How do you figure?”
“Pedestrians always have the right away.”
“Maybe in Hollywood Golden Boy, do that here, you’ll end up six feet under.”
‘That’s screwed up,” I bitched.
“Welcome to the real world,” Count said. It wouldn’t be the last time Count saved my bacon.

That night while my mother and I ate and father’s food cooled – he was working late again – she asked. “What do you know about that blind black man?”
“Who?” I pretended not to know Russell.
“You know the black man that sweeps the sidewalks. He smells like rotten eggs and cigars. I walked past him when he was sitting on the bench across from town hall. He was drinking out of paper bag. Like he was fooling anyone, the drunk. Anyway, today when Shannie was…” She pronounced Shannie’s name Shan-knee.
“Shay-knee.” I corrected.
“Yeah, her… she was dropped off by a van this afternoon and not five minutes later the black man let himself in their house. I can imagine what happens behind their walls.”
That’s where Russell was going, I thought. During sixth period - Social Studies - I looked out the window and saw him walking up Cemetery Street, his white cane swinging back in forth in front of him.
“You know whom I talking about?” she asked.
“Russell. Shannie introduced us. He’s kind of a fixture in town.”
“Fixture? Hah, I’ve never seen him before last week.”
“He was away.”
“Where?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Probably prison.” She paused. “How does she know him?”
“He’s a friend of the family.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had trouble with Byrne?” Count asked me walking home from football practice. It was the end of September and for the first three weeks of school I didn’t have a problem with anybody - not counting the unwanted affection of Jenny Wade - until I stumbled upon Rex Byrne in the third floor boy’s room. Rex and his grease monkeys where catching a smoke between classes.
“Well what do we have here?” Rex said from behind his cigarette. He was leaning against the window ledge, his legs and arms crossed in front of him.
“If it ain’t Hollywood,” a second monkey added.
I didn’t know walking into that bathroom was breaking an unwritten rule. Hollywood’s learning curve was going to cost him. It was Byrne’s gang’s territory, and they guarded it jealously.
“Ain't this the douche bag that hangs out with that weird chick? You know, the one that lives next to the boneyard?” asked monkey number three, I later learned his name was Ed Nugent.
“That’s the faggot,” a redheaded greaser chimed in.
“Sorry, I didn’t think the sign said assholes only,” I said.
“You’re dead moron,” Nugent said.
“The sign on the door says no faggots. Looks like you need a reading lesson,” Rex Byrne said.
The bell rang. “I’m out of here,” I said.
“You ain’t going nowhere,” Byrne said.
I dropped my books and swung at Nugent. I caught the side of his face. He dropped to the floor. I faced the others. Byrne’s steel tipped boot found my gut. My wind escaped me. On the floor, I curled into a ball.
“Isn’t this sweet,” Rex said picking up a textbook. “He has his little bitch’s name written all over it.” I felt the rush of air from the textbook before it smacked the top of my head. My head exploded with pain. “That little cunt ain’t nothing but a headache,” Rex laughed as he tore the paper cover off the textbook and held his lighter under it. I lay helpless as Shannie’s name burned.
“Faggot, do yourself a favor.” Nugent groaned regaining his feet. “Grow eyes in back of your head. You’re going to need them - I’m going to kill ya.” Standing over me, he spit on my face before he planted a boot in my crotch.
“New assholes, they think their shit doesn’t stink,” Rex said leading the gang out of the boy’s room.
“How did you find out?” I asked Count.
“The word is out.”
“I got myself into this, I’ll get myself out.”
“Don’t play hero. You’re messing with mean mothers.”
“I can fight my battles.”
“As I see it, that asshole Byrne didn’t fight his own battle. By the way,” Count asked before I walked in my front door. “Was there a zit-faced red head, about your size, maybe an inch or two taller with them?”
“Yeah. What about him?”
Count poked my chest. "You ain’t fighting this one alone. I have a score to settle.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s a Shannie thing.”
The next morning on the way to school, Count said. “I gave our situation some thought. Be patient. You might have to take a couple for the team. Short of you getting your ass kicked, I’m gonna bide my time. Remember, I’m watching. I’m going to pound every one of those fuckers into the ground. Until I do, just keep your head on a swivel.”
The next two weeks I had my share of problems with Byrne and his boys, but nothing too bad. Little things like sneaking up behind me and dumping my books, a smack across the back of my head, or an occasional body check into lockers. The scariest shit happened in the second floor boy’s room, I was taking a piss in the middle of three urinals when Byrne and Mike Manson walked in and stood at the urinals on each side of me. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t lay a hand on me. They laughed as I ran out.
“Hang in there,” Count encouraged me.
One morning Count asked if I was willing to take a few demerits. “You’re gonna miss homeroom.” I followed him behind the Junior High. After the first period bell rang we slipped through the back door. “Bingo,” Count said looking through the window. “Stay here. Just watch. Whatever happens don’t show your face. When the shit hits the fan, get your ass to class.” Ed Nugent knelt in front of his locker. No one else was in the hall. Count strolled through the door and down the hall. Nugent didn’t look up. Without a word Count kicked Nugent’s head. It flew into the open locker. His head was stuck. Nugent managed to get to his feet. He pushed against the lockers. He couldn’t free his head. Panicking, Nugent pushed harder against the lockers. His cries grew to screams. High pitched wails danced up and down the halls. Count turned the corner before the first teacher appeared. I laughed all the way to first period.
A P.A. announcement instructed everyone to remain in first period until further notice. I snickered when a fire truck pulled into the parking lot. It took the jaws of life to free Nugent’s head. Later that day, I felt joy walking past his mangled locker.
After the Nugent affair, my tormentors forgot about me. They were busy looking over their own shoulders. “Round two,” Count informed me a week later. We were on our way to the weight room and Count was munching Ex-lax.
“One stuck in the chamber?” I snickered.
“Something like that.”
We walked most of the way to school without a word, our silence broken by an occasional fart. “I love sausage but sausage hates me,” he said. During our workout, he told me he wasn’t feeling good and he was going to the shitter. “Work your Pec’s and Delt’s, I’ll be right back.”
Count never made it back to the weight room, he wasn’t at football practice either. Officially he never made it to school that day. Dozens of stories spread through school. Each one claimed to be the definitive version of what happened to Rex Byrne in the first floor boy’s room. Details were sketchy, some rumors said he was beat up by the Jamaican Posse. Other’s said the Junior Mafia, but according to Ms. Horne - our section’s algebra teacher - this is what happened. “Rex walked into the restroom when someone jumped him, slammed him through the stall’s door and dunked his head into the toilet.”
The class broke out into a chorus of moans and groans.
“I always knew he was a shit head,” quipped Jenny Wade.
“Jenny, I didn’t hear that,” laughed Ms. Horne.
After practice, I raced up Cemetery Street, through my yard and across Fernwood.
“Hi Flossy, Count home?” I asked winded.
“He’s sick as a dog. The boy got himself a good case of the shits.”
“Too bad.”
“That’s what the dumb ass gets confusing Ex-lax for a Hershey Bar.”
“Can I talk to him.”
Better not, he’s sleeping. He had himself a rough day.”
“Okay. Tell him to give me a call. Thanks.”
“Can do. Hey, James, what happened at that damned school today?”
“I dunno,” I shrugged.
“That goddamned principle called here asking if Junior was around. He said something about somebody getting beat up and he wanted to ask Junior about it. I told him Junior was so sick he couldn’t beat himself today. Then the good-for-nothing asks me if I’m sure. Imagine that. Those bastards don’t even trust a mother. Did I give them a piece of my mind.”
Count didn’t call that night. I had to wait until morning to hear his story. “That bonehead is a creature of habit, once I learned his routine, everything clicked. When he has shop first period, he always takes a smoke break.”
“Awesome.”
“I’m sure he saw the out-of-order sign on the door.”
“Did you put it there?”
“Does Rock Hudson have AIDS? Anyway, I did my best to fill the bowl. Of Course, I didn’t flush.”
“Of course.”
“Then I sat and waited. I grabbed him by the back of his neck, slammed his head against the stall door a couple of times, you know those things just don’t open as easily as they should. When I got it opened, I used his head as a toilet brush. Flossy always told me to clean up after myself.”
I laughed. I actually felt sorry for Byrne.
“I made sure I did a good job cleaning the bowl. The bitch was, I never used a breathing toilet brush. It was hard remembering to bring it up for air. Should of seen his face,” Count snickered.
All was quiet until Halloween. As the day approached, I had other things on my mind. The Ortolans involved me with their Halloween obsession. They put more effort into Halloween than my parents did Christmas. They were the first people I met that went crazy decorating for the holiday.
“Want to help us?” Diane asked as we sipped spiced cider in the Ortolan’s kitchen. It was the Sunday before Halloween.
“Sure, what are you doing?” I asked.
“Turning the living room into an unliving room.”
“Changing the parlor into a funeral parlor,” Shannie added.
“Putting the fun in funeral,” Diane said.
“How are you going to do that?” I asked.
“You’ll see. On Wednesday, we need you to help Count bring our coffin over from Fernwood,” Diane smiled.
“Your coffin?”
“You know, a box that you stuff stiffs in,” Shannie winked.
I blushed.
Wednesday night the moon played hide and seek with the tombstones. When it wasn’t hiding behind the clouds, it cast shadows of gravestones across Fernwood. Count and I carried the coffin through the shadows. A breeze rustled the trees. “You ever get weirded out living in a graveyard?” I asked.
“No.”
“I’m freaked.”
“Ain’t no big deal.” A minute later, Count paused. “Shhh, you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what?”
“Christ, I hope it ain’t that damned graveyard dog again.”
We held the white casket between us. “Graveyard dog? what the hell is a graveyard dog?”
“Shhh. There it is again.”
“I don’t hear anything!”
“That.”
“What?” I strained my ears.
“That.”
“That’s the wind.” I tapped my foot.
“Dumb ass I know what wind sounds like, that’s not wind.”
“You’re hearing things,” I complained. “Lets go.”
“There it is again. It’s not the dog. It’s a voice. I can’t believe you’re that deaf.”
“I guess I am. Come on, let’s go.”
“Look!” He said pointing to the dirt beneath my fidgeting feet. “It’s coming from there.” I was standing on a fresh grave.
“Me not even dead a week,” a voice moaned. “ya bas-teds already be walking on me grave.”
“Jesus Christ!” I jumped from the fresh dirt, dropping my end of the coffin to the ground.
Count laughed. Shannie materialized from behind the tombstone. “A little jumpy Just James?” Shannie teased.
“You knuckle fucks,” I barked. “Someday, I’m going to piss on your graves.”
My friends hooted.
The next night was Halloween, the scene hella cool. The coffin sat on a pyre in the middle of the parlor. Inside, Shannie played the part of a dead princess. Dressed in black and painted the color of driven snow, her golden hair rested upon her chest. Four candelabras stood guard behind the casket. The light of their candles flickered through the fog. Spider webs entombed the giant bookcase, obstructing the view Poe, Hawthorne, and King enjoyed from Diane’s shelves. Three cauldrons rested at the foot of the pyre beckoning trick-or-treaters.
Along the front wall of the parlor Diane sat at the organ. Two candelabras rested atop the organ, their light illuminating blonde hair dancing over a black cape. When the doorbell rang she belted out her rendition of The Fugue.
Dressed in a black tuxedo, his face painted gray, Count played Lurch. While hiding in fog, he opened the front door. As our visitors gained the threshold, he would jump at them, terrorizing the unsuspecting. Mounting the stairs, he would turn and gesture with an extended arm. “Follow me.” In the living room he motioned for the Trick or Treaters to approach the pyre.
Everyone focused on Shannie in her coffin, maybe waiting for her to lunge, or maybe just captivated by her appearance. I waited under the pyre. As ‘mourners’ viewed the coffin, Count gestured to the cauldrons directing them to select their treat. Whatever their reason, no one expected my ambush as they reached for their treat. Some screamed, some retreated, some laughed. One kid had an accident.
Between visitors we compared notes and sipped warm cider. When the doorbell rang, we rushed to our spots. All except Shannie, she never left the coffin.
My heart raced as Diane played the first cords. Waiting for my cue, I savored being close to Shannie. I felt the table shake as she shifted in the coffin. The light fragrance of her perfume waltzed with the candle’s aroma. It was exotic.
I dreamt about a future with Shannie. What it would be like to be unencumbered by parents or school. I pictured us holding hands, making out, making love. I imagined her grown up and how beautiful she would be, even more beautiful than Diane. I imagined our special day, Shannie in her wedding dress, flowers in her hair. We were dancing, her eyes reflecting my smile.
“You’ve never looked so beautiful Shannie,” a familiar voice said.
The music stopped. I was brought back to the present.
Diane’s voice acquired the edge of a knife. “If you ever set foot in this house again it’ll be the sorriest day of your life!”
I scrambled from beneath the table in time to see the owner of the voice in Count’s headlock being drug down the stairs and out the door. Diane yelled as she ran down the steps after them, “Don’t hurt him, too bad.” I stood over Shannie who laid still in the coffin. Despite closed eyes, a tear sliced her makeup.


Chapter 5 Revelations

“Shannie, you’ve never looked so beautiful,” I heard him say over and over. The cadence of his voice resonated like a song whose title I couldn’t recall. Where have I heard that voice, I thought staring at the moonlit cemetery. A scantily clad Diane couldn’t stop me from obsessing. Why would Count beat the piss out of someone who complimented Shannie. Why was Shannie crying? They wouldn’t tell me. Whatever the reason, it ended our night.
“Don’t ask,” Count said the next morning. We didn’t speak all the way to school. At the front door he said, “I’ll talk to you later.”
After school, I ventured downtown in search of Russell.
"Sorry James,” Helen said from behind Wally’s counter. “Only two students at a time, you’ll have to wait your turn.”
“No worries, just looking for Russell.”
“Was here for lunch.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.”
“What for?”
“Nothing important,” I said pushing open the door. Nosy old hen, I thought leaping Wally’s steps to the sidewalk. I passed the empty park bench and stood in front of a sleazy looking taproom named Giorgio’s. A block glass window and steel door anchored a nondescript brick façade. On the door, a crud caked window rested above my eye level. I stood on my toes and peered inside. The blue glare of a TV illuminated the bar patrons. I let myself in, heads turned. Three customers nursed afternoon beers. An aging bartender with a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth glared at me as he ran a towel over empty glasses.
“Ain’t you a little young to be in here?” he asked. Over his shoulder a stuffed raccoon hung from a noose.
“Looking for Russell,” I said. My gaze fixed on the noose.
“We don’t serve his kind here.”
The patrons went back to watching TV.
I eyed the empty tables along the wall. To my left, the jukebox flashed for attention. A tired pool table stood between the jukebox and the bar. “What kind do you serve?”
He set the glass down. “I don’t serve little piss ants. Get out of here before I throw you ass first onto the street.”
“Have to catch me first you old fuck.”
The patron’s attention was back to me and the bartender. “Better watch it boy,” the nearest customer warned. “Ole Luther here,” he nodded at the bartender, “likes your type. You might make an old man happy.” The customers laughed.
“I never forget a face,” the bartender said hobbling towards me.
“Faggots!” I yelled. Laughter erupted behind me as I ran out of Giorgio’s. I continued down Main Street until I came to JD’s Tavern.
I walked in. Russell sat at the end of the horseshoe shaped bar. The bartender was busy making time with a barfly. “Hey Russell,” I said.
Turning on his stool he appeared to look me over from behind his sunglasses. He removed the cigar from his mouth and blew a plume of smoke into stale air, “Do I know you?” he asked, his voice sandpaper.
“I’m James. I’m…”
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” he said slapping a knee. “I remember now. You’re Butterfly’s little friend. What can I do for you?” He inhaled his Dutch Master.
“I was wondering if you could help me?”
“What could a broken feller like me do for you?” He laughed, bringing on a fit of phlegmy coughs. He reached for the shot glass next to his beer mug. He belted it down. He pounded his fist against his chest. “Stuff is good for what ails ya.”
The bartender wandered over and refilled Russell’s shot glass. “He’s got to go.”
“Get the boy a Coke,” Russell said. “We’re going to take a seat at a table.”
The bartender sighed and followed Russell’s instructions. “Here boy, help an old man and carry his beer.”
“What are you doing?” The bartender called. “If the L.C.B. walks in they’ll close me down.”
“I don’t see no L.C.B. man,” Russell said.
“Boy put that back on the bar,” the bartender instructed. “Russell! You blind fool, your more trouble than your worth.”
“Then you bring me my beer,” he told the bartender.
Russell covered the distance between his stool and the table without his cane. Mom was right, he does smell like rotten eggs, I thought as Russell sat across from me.
“Now where were we?” he asked.
“I need to ask you something.”
“About?”
The bartender arrived with our drinks, slamming them down on the table before retreating behind the bar. I told him what happened last night.
“Son,” he pushed ashes around the ashtray with the tip of his stogy. “This is an interesting story, but what is it you want to know?”
“What’s going on?
“Ask your friends?”
“They won’t tell me.”
The old man shrugged. “They’ll tell you if they see fit.”

“Byrne’s gang got hit again,” Steve Lucas told me in homeroom Monday morning.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Have you seen Mike Manson? Dude. He looks like he ran the one hundred-yard dash in a fifty-yard gym. Somebody rearranged his face.”
“Who?”
“Whoever got the other two. But I don’t think so,” Steve said.
“Why not?”
“My old man says the Manson’s are fucked up. Manson’s old man is a mean drunk who’s uses his family as punching bags.”
Bingo, that voice, it was Manson. That’s who Count pounded at Shannie’s house. Why would Manson show up at the Ortolans? Why would his appearance cause such a ruckus? He had to have known Count would have been there. He had balls or he’s stupid.
The optimism my class felt when Nugent’s head bionked his locker transformed into joy with Mike Manson’s facial rearrangement. It was great watching the self-proclaimed Ayatollahs of the Junior Higha go down one by one. Many people breathed a sigh of relief.
When I got home the good news continued - my mother told me Granddad was coming to visit.
“No Shit!”
“James. I never heard such language from you.”
“I’m sorry. Great. When’s he coming?”
“The Monday before Thanksgiving.”
“Yes! For how long?”
“Until the baby is born.”
“Holy shit!”
“James!” My mother shook her head.
“He’ll be here for Christmas. I don’t believe it. Fucking A!”
“James. I know you’re excited. But please watch your language. You aren’t the same boy he’ll be expecting. Your new vocabulary will shock him!”
“ I’m sorry. This is fu- f-in insane,” Jumping up and down, I hugged my mother.

Over the following weeks I was as miserable as ever. Shannie had gone on a trip with her school. Football season ended. Jenny Wade still did not get the hint – in Shannie’s absence she wasn’t as annoying. I was bored with schoolwork, but mostly, I was impatient about my grandfather’s arrival. My only escape was early morning workouts in the weight room.
A week before Thanksgiving, Beyford was threatened by a freak early season snowfall. The buzz at school said five inches. Electricity filled the air; excitement owned me. I had never experienced a snow storm. Judging by the way people acted in the grocery store, I got the impression snow was akin to nuclear war.
“It’s always like this,” the checkout lady told my mother. “People are insane. They hear snow and they stampede the grocery store. You’d think the Russian’s were coming.”
By nightfall, the snow hadn’t begun. I retired to my bedroom. Bored, I flipped through an old Sport’s Illustrated Swim Suit Issue before taking another look. I shut my lights off and sat on my perch. In the glow of the streetlights in front of Fernwood, a light snow fell. I was transfixed. Diane’s bedroom light broke my spell.
My eyes darted towards the light. Diane studied her reflection in the mirror before lighting candles. Laughing, she looked towards the bedroom door. She disappeared into her walk-in closet. She reemerged in lingerie. Holy shit, I thought. Again she stood in front of her mirror and brushed her golden hair. She sat the brush down, swayed to the doorway and shut off the light. Reflections of candlelight flickered upon the walls. My heart raced. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Lucky fucker, I thought.
I ran through the Rolodex in my mind, trying to figure out who I should be envying. I knew Diane dated, though I never met anyone. Shannie said Diane dated mostly stuffed shirts – she never brings anyone home. The suspense was better than the Super Bowl. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.
Diane appeared in the doorway, hand in hand with her lover. “What the…?” I said aloud. My focus struggled against the snow and candlelight. At the foot of her bed Diane embraced her lover; they kissed before Diane led Ms. Horne, my algebra teacher, onto her bed.
“Holy shit,” I yelled.
“What’s the matter?” my mother asked from downstairs.
“You should see her, it snowing. It’s a blizzard.”
“That’s nice,” she said - uninterested.
Unfucking-believable; wait till everyone hears about this. I ran downstairs and called Count.
“Hi Flossy, is Count home?” I asked.
“Him and the old man are busy hooking up the plow.”
“Can you have him call me when they’re done?”
“They’ll be out just about all night. Once they get it hooked up they’re planning on plowing. They’ll be done in the morning.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Get some rest,” my dad ordered after I hung up. “You’ve got some shoveling to do tomorrow.”
I closed my bedroom door and rushed to the window. The candlelight provoked my imagination. I fell asleep sitting in my perch, dreaming of happenings beyond eyeshot. Then the strangest thing happened, or maybe it didn’t – maybe it was a dream: my father woke me and told me to crawl into bed. Tucking me in he kissed my forehead: “I love you son.”
The next morning, I got into a snowball fight with my dad. After digging out his car and watching it slip and slide down Cemetery Street, my excitement waned. The cold air stung my face as I struggled with the heavy snow. I stopped, taking a quick break. Diane stared at me from behind her front storm door. Guilt rushed over me. When she saw that I noticed her, she opened the door and asked if I would shovel her driveway and front walk.
“Sure,” I said.
“Stop in when you’re finished.”
Sitting at Diane’s kitchen table, her teapot screaming on the stove, I agonized that she knew I saw Ms. Horne. “The last time I saw your face so red, I asked if you remembered to put down the toilet seat,” Diane teased. I blushed again. “James,” she said placing a boiling cup of hot chocolate in front of me. “I owe you an explanation.”
“About?” My heart skipped a beat, I pictured last night. I thought of Ms. Horne - how was I going to look her in the eye?
“About Halloween night,” she answered. She blew into her hot chocolate as she sat down.
“The Manson thing?”
“The Manson thing. You should know why we acted the way we did. I despise violence,” she sighed. “But I felt vindicated when Leroy,” she paused again; searching for the right words. “Well, when he kicked Manson’s ass. I would have loved to do it myself.” Diane took another sip. “James promise me that you will never talk about this with Shannie.” She stared at me, crow’s feet punctuated the corner of her eyes.
“Promise,” I said.
“You also have to promise that you will stop asking around town about what happened.”
“I’ve only asked Russell.”
“Please don’t ask anyone anything. Promise?”
“But I…”
“James. Promise!” It was an order.
“Promise,” I answered.
“I’ve heard that you’ve had some trouble in school with Michael Manson and his cadres. I don’t think it’s a coincidence since you live in Manson’s Uncle’s old house.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re a friend of Shannie and Leroy,” Diane said.
“So? I had trouble with them. I stumbled in where I wasn’t supposed to be.”
Diane sat her cup down and gazed at me over her glasses. “Do you really believe that?”
“I guess,” I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I mumbled as her icy eyes melted my resolve.
“Michael Manson used to be a friend. Michael had a lot of problems with his father and used to stay with his uncle. Michael’s uncle was an evil man. He used Michael to lure Shannie into his house. He molested her.” Diane said after drawing a deep breath, “If Michael can be believed, he forced Michael to molest her.”
I was shocked into silence.
“Shannie didn’t tell me immediately. She was ashamed. Eventually she told Russell who was afraid to tell me or go to the police.”
“Why would he be afraid?”
“That’s another story. Russell was afraid I would have him arrested. So he called the only person he knew he could trust: Mr. Lightman. That night Mr. Lightman came over and told me what happened and together we decided what to do.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Sort of. Mr. Lightman has a friend who’s a cop. He told him what happened and said he would like to take matters into his own hands. Mr. Lightman, Leroy Jr., and the unnamed officer paid a visit to Manson’s house the next night and persuaded him to leave Pennsylvania or else.”
“Or else what?”
“Use your imagination.”

“Hello,” Counts tired voice answered the phone.
“I know what happened to Shannie in Manson’s house.”
“Oh good for you,” he droned.
“Inquiring minds want to know, how did you persuade Manson to leave?”
“Listen dip shit, I’ve just got to sleep an hour ago, I’ve been plowing while you’ve been playing Sherlock Holmes. If you don’t hang up and let me get back to sleep, I’m going to persuade you to leave town.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“Up yours,” Count snapped.
Three years later, before leaving for basic training, Count told me what happened. We were standing in the base of the giant maple tree drinking beers and watching traffic on the Expressway. The late summer sun was losing its grip, afternoon shadows faded to evening dusk. “I have something to tell you,” he said as he finished a beer and sent the bottle in a towering arc into the junkyard. As the bottle shattered among the rusting carcasses, old Duke erupted in a chorus of angry barks.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“We damn near killed him.”
“Killed who?” The subject had long stopped being an obsession of mine.
“Manson, you knucklehead.”
I handed him another beer.
A look of sadness overtook him as he looked into the sun streaked sky. Count told his story: “Russell had come to my old man with a matter of extreme importance. He made small talk with my folks a bit before my old man asked him what was so important.”
“Well sir. If you would beg my pardon, I’d prefer not to talk about this, this situation, around the child.’”
“Fair enough,’ the old man says. ‘Boy, you’re excused.”
“But,’ I protested.”
“No buts boy, we have to talk business. You’re excused - skedaddle!’”
“I stormed off to my bedroom. I tried listening; what could be so important? ‘Boy, Shut your door.’ the old man yelled. With my ear against the bedroom door I struggled to make out Russell’s nervous jabber. I did hear him mention Shannie; I heard him mention Manson. When I heard the old man mention the police, I opened my door.”
“Sir, we’s can’t call the police,’ Russell said.”
“Why the hell not?’ the old man roared.”
"Seeing that this here is a white town and I’m a blind black man, peoples be calling for my lynching.”
“That’s nonsense, you didn’t do anything.’”
“That don’t matter. I’d be automatically guilty. Like I said I’m a black man and she’s a little white girl. Begging your pardon, I don’t want to repeat history.’”
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do?’”
“I don’t know,’ Russell answered. ‘That’s why I came to you. You’re the only people I can trust.’”
“BOY! SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED DOOR. TURN UP YOUR GODDAMNED STEREO!’”
“Later I watched Russell and the old man cross the cemetery towards Shannie’s.”
“The next day the old man came into my room. ‘It’s about time you learn how the world works.’ The old man was agitated. ‘That Cretan Manson had his way with Shannie. We agree we ain’t telling the cops.’ He ran his hand over his head, ‘It’s all the better, if the paper finds out, it won’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Shannie was …. Well, then the poor little girl will have to deal with a ton of bullshit. You see Son, it’s time to take matters into our own hands.’”
“What are we going to do?’ I asked.”
“We’re going to persuade that bastard to never set foot in town again.’”
“We ought to kill the bastard.’”
“We oughta,’ the old man said. ‘But then, we’d be the criminals.’”
“Listen to me. I’m going to talk to a friend about this. If everything goes right, tomorrow night Manson gets a lesson he’ll never forget. I don’t want you going nowhere. Hang around the house. You understand?’”
“Yeah,’ I told the old man.”
“Good,’ he patted my back. ‘It’s your duty to help someone when they can’t help themselves. Listen to me boy, and you’ll make me proud.’”
“James, I understood what was going to happen. That night, a friend of the old man, who happens to be one of Beyford’s finest, paid us a visit. In the kitchen, the old man and his friend, I’ll call him Mr. Smith, told me to sit down.”
“Mrs. Ortolan took Shannie out of town for a few days. By the time they come home, that bastard will be gone. The way I figure it, tomorrow night the three of us will pay Manson a visit. I don’t know if he locks his doors our keeps a gun in the house. That’s were you come in,’ he said to Smith.”
“I know a way in,’ I spoke up.” The old man raised an eyebrow. ‘I can get in without ever being found out,’ I said.”
Count interrupted his story, “James, you know what I’m talking about don’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah. Under the front porch, lift the lattice, slide under the porch, slide the plywood from the window and you’re in the room with the oil tank. From there, it’s into the basement.”
“Very good James,” he said before returning to his story.
“If we can get to him while he’s on the first floor we won’t have to worry about a gun. I doubt if he carries in his own house. It’s where he feels safest. He’ll be unsuspecting. But, if he is, we get our asses out of there. How well do you know his house Junior?’”
“Like the back of my hand.”
“Good. If he locks his door, we won’t have to jimmy the lock. Junior sneaks in and opens it from the inside. One other thing,’ Mr. Smith said as he reached into his wallet. He produced tickets for the next night’s Flyer’s game. “If he should sing, it’s his word against ours. As far as anybody is concerned, we are at a hockey game. Junior, tomorrow in school, let it be known that you have tickets for the game. Understand?’”
“I nodded.”
“The next night couldn’t come quick enough. I labored through school bragging I was going to the Flyer’s game. That night, I sat in my room staring at Manson’s house. At eight o’clock Mr. Smith showed up. Ten minutes later we walked across the graveyard. The lights on the first floor were on. We snuck across the yard. Manson was sitting in the living room watching television. We climbed the back steps. The outside door was open. We crept into the mudroom behind the kitchen. There was another door. I looked to the old man before trying the doorknob. He shook his head and I tired the door. It was locked. I remember being scared shitless. I had to climb under the front porch and make my way up the basement stairs and into to kitchen without being heard. Success was up to me, I was the only one who could fit through the old window under the porch.”
Count had given away the identity of ‘Mr. Smith.’
Count continued: “What’s it, like fifteen, twenty feet from the basement door to the mudroom? The idea of being in the house with Manson scared the fuck out of me. As I made my way out of the mudroom the old man patted me on the back and Mr. Smith gave me the thumbs up.”
“I made my way around the side of the house. I lifted the lattice and crawled under the porch. Once I was settled under the porch I slid the plywood from old window and climbed into the basement. If I made a sound, Manson would hear. I couldn’t be more than a couple feet below him. I reached for the drawstring and turned on the light. As I snuck across the basement I heard rats. I almost shit my pants. It felt unreal.”
“I took my time climbing the steps. When I reached the top I was face to face with the kitchen door. I placed my ear against the door. I only heard the television. I turned the knob, the latch disengaged. I was about to open the door when I heard the floor creak. Manson heard me, I thought. I fought the impulse to open the door and make a quick dash. Manson walked past the other side of door into the kitchen. The refrigerator door closed. He walked past me. When I thought he sat back down I started counting to one hundred. When I reached fifty, I opened the door.”
“I stepped into the kitchen and crept to the door. I unlocked the deadbolt. What a relief it was to see my old man and Mr. Smith. They stormed by me. When I got to the living room Manson was already bleeding. The old man and Mr. Smith drug Manson down into the basement. When Manson tired to yell, the old man stuck a glove in his mouth and smacked him across the head. Towards the bottom the old man dropped Manson letting his head walk the steps. James, I’ll never forget the look on Manson’s face. He was terrified. The old man motioned for me to grab Manson’s arm. I had a hold of his right arm and Mr. Smith his left when the old man pounded Manson’s gut. Manson’s knees gave way. Mr. Smith and I held him up.”
“Listen and listen good,’ the old man said ‘You have forty-eight hours to get the fuck out of town and forget that you ever lived here. If you don’t, I promise you, this will seem like a house warming.’ To drive home his point he busted open Manson’s mouth with an upper cut. ‘I’ll dig a hole and plant you!’”
“W- w- hat are you t tal king about?’ Manson struggled.”
“You have balls.’ The old man kicked Manson in the balls. ‘If you want to rape little girls, you got two choices, take your lumps and leave town or we’ll drop a dime on you,’ Mr. Smith said. “Cons hate cho-mos. Forty-eight hours or you get your date with Bubba!’ Mr. Smith and the old man landed a couple of kicks. ‘If you go to the cops, explain why you rape little girls. Understand?’”
Manson nodded.
“Forty-eight hours,’ the old man said. ‘Forty-eight hours.’”
Count finished his bottle and again whipped it in a high arc. It shattered somewhere in the junkyard. Duke again barked. “You know what’s funny?” Count asked.
“No?” I asked climbing out of the tree.
“If it wasn’t for Manson doing what he did, I wouldn’t be going into the Army.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well,” Count said as he reached the ground. “Manson raped Shannie, we persuade Manson to leave town. You moved into Manson’s house, and because you moved in I met your Grandfather. If I hadn’t met your Grandfather, I wouldn’t be going into the Army. Go figure.”
“Go figure.”


Chapter 6 An Eagle

“WHY DO YOU ALWAYS DO THIS?” my mother screamed, jarring me from sleep. “Not again,” I mumbled into my pillow. Her voice sent shivers down my spine. Between my mother’s shouts, I couldn’t hear my father’s composed voice.
“EVERY TIME JOE! EVERY TIME YOU DO THIS! WHY? WHY? CAN’T YOU TELL ME WHY?”
I strained to hear his reply.
“DON’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME! GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT!
My father climbed the steps. “YOU BASTARD! YOU INSENSITIVE PRICK!” she yelled after him. He knocked on my door. “James. Get up. If you want to go to the airport, you have ten minutes.” I was ready in five.
“Why do you and mom always fight?” I asked as we battled traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway.
“We don’t fight. I refuse to,” he answered.
“What do you call this morning?”
“Your mother had a tantrum.”
“You had to do something to piss her off.” He starred at the traffic. “When she throws a seven at me, I’ve pissed her off.”
“If anybody should be pissed off, it’s me,” he sighed.
I pictured him floating in a lifeboat across the Sea of Mary; exhausted, lying on his back; hands dragging in shark infested waters. I changed the subject: “What time is his flight coming in?”
His mood lightened as we made our way to the terminal. Philadelphia International Airport, despite perpetual construction seemed ghetto. When I mentioned this to Shannie, she said I sound like a true Negadelphian. “Whatever, that airport still sucks,” I replied.
We watched incoming flights and bet on which was his. We were both wrong. We grabbed seats in the front row of his arrival gate and were talking about the Forty-Niner’s chances when I asked: “Dad, why are you still with her?”
He looked like I punched him in the stomach. He stared at Grandfather’s airplane. “Good question, I don’t know.”
Bullshit, I thought watching the plane taxi to the gate.
“You know, for better or for worse,” he said.
I got up and walked to the ramp. Father followed and placed his arm around me. I fought back tears. I took a deep breath and composed myself. I rested my head against his side.
“There he is,” I ran to the top of the ramp. Grandfather stepped from the jetway. “Hey Punk,” he howled extending his arms. Weaving in and out of the unloading passengers, I ran towards him. My grandfather looked more like a forty-something hippie than a sixty-something retiree. His long silver hair was pulled back in a ponytail framing a pair of granny glasses resting atop a once broken nose. He wore an army jacket. On its right shoulder was a screaming eagle patch, telling anyone who cared he was a combat veteran.
“Granddad,” I yelled lunging into his arms.
“How are you?” He smothered me with a hug. His jacket’s smoky smell reminded me of California. When I was little, he would whip me into the air and spin me around. Until a couple of years ago he would give me parachute rides; our personal ritual – He would pick me up and raise me above his shoulders and lower me twice before throwing me into the air and catching me. Now I was content with bear hugs.
“Granddad?” a flight attendant asked as she passed.
“Didn’t believe me?” he laughed.
“I would have never guessed. Nice meeting you Stan, enjoy your stay.”
“I will. Thank you. Enjoy your holiday,” he smiled.
“Did you get her number?” I asked. He stood with his arm around me as we watched her sashay up the ramp.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. I hear your not doing to bad yourself.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t be coy. What about that neighbor of yours?”
“Oh, Shannie. We’re just friends.”
“They’re the best kind. Take care of them my boy, take care of them.” He flung his carryon over his shoulder. “Where’s the son-in-law?” I pointed to the top of the ramp. “Hey Son-in-law, you going to welcome an old man to this pigsty or are you going to stand there with a thumb up your ass?”
I couldn’t wait to show him off.
Grandfather’s presence even effected dad. The car was alive with conversation. My father hadn’t laughed this much since we moved to Pennsylvania.
“Where’s a good florist?” Grandfather asked before we reached Beyford. “I have to get that daughter of mine some roses or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
We stopped at JD’s tavern for some “spirits” and a watered down coke. Next we visited the flower shop where Grandfather bought a dozen roses for my mother. He also bought a long stem rose, had it wrapped and presented it to the lady who sold it to him. She blushed; he smiled.
The sun briefly broke through the clouds as we turned into our driveway. Grandfather looked at the Ortolan’s house and then after a long moment glanced into the cemetery taking in the tombstones and obelisks. “Punk, is this what had you scared?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s spooky.”
“It’s nothing really.”
“If you say.”
“I was more scared before we moved,” I chirped.
My mother stood on the front porch, a hand massaging her stomach. Leaving us to handle his luggage, Grandfather climbed the stairs, “Hi precious.”
“Hi Daddy,” He hugged her and kissed her cheek.
“You shouldn’t have,” she said as Grandfather gave her the roses.
“Nonsense.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” she said.
I understood how she was mistaken for his sister; the comparison drove her crazy. He looked down at her bulging belly: “Damn it girl, how many times must I tell you about drinking those expensive imported beers. They lay in your stomach like rocks. Stick to light beers. Look at me,” He patted his belly. “Years of drinking and nothing to show for it.”
If Mrs. Miller was peering out from behind her curtains, she would have told her bridge club that loud Mary looked tense. Even though mother was glad grandfather was here, she had an edge. “One of those imports would taste good about now,” she said. The sun dipped behind the clouds again. A cool wind swirled leaves across the yard and onto the street.
After grandfather settled in, the four of us sat around the kitchen table talking the afternoon away. The day seemed perfect, like California without palm trees. Later, mother excused herself, saying she needed a nap. As the afternoon turned to evening, Grandfather asked, “So Casanova, when am I going to meet this girlfriend of yours?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I objected. Looking to my father for support I noticed his head hung low as he played with his beer bottle’s label.
“Rumor has it you’re quite an item.”
“Rumor is full of shit.”
“James, knock off the language,” father lamented.
“Son-in-law let the boy go. He’s twelve - he’s got to learn sometime.”
“If your daughter hears him, we’ll all have hell to pay.”
“My daughter needs to kill the bug that crawled up her ass.” He paused. “You didn’t hear me say that. I don’t want her wrath. I’ve been through one war; I don’t want to go through another.” He sipped his beer. “As for the cussing, I don’t give a shit. How cool’s that?”
“Cool, very cool,” I said.
“The correct answer is Fucking A.”
“Fucking A,” I repeated. My father shook his head.
A gust of wind slammed against the house, rattling the windows. Grandfather jumped. “Oh shit,” he said. “She heard us - we’re in for it now.”
I laughed. “It’s the wind dumb ass.”
“James, listen up - just because I don’t care if you cuss in front of me doesn’t mean you have permission to be a dumb ass in front of your mother. Respect her wishes; don’t cuss in front of her. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Now tell me about that girlfriend of yours?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I sighed.
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Why should I, she can tell you herself?”
“Deal. Call her – get her over here. I want to meet her.”
“She’s only thirteen. She’s a little young for you,” I said.
“Yeah, but I hear her mother’s available. We could double date.”
My father laughed. “That’ll bring the wrath of Mary.”
“You two could join us.”
“We could sell tickets to that cat fight.”
“Son-in-law,” he waxed: “You only live once.”
“You don’t want Mom and Diane in the same room,” I said. My grandfather chuckled. “Since day one they mixed like oil and water.”
“The best laid plans,” Grandfather said. “Now invite that little friend of yours over.”
“Who mixes like oil and water? And no, don’t invite that little friend of yours over.” Mother waddled into the kitchen.
“Why not?” Grandfather asked facing my mother.
“Because I said so. Who mixes like oil and water?” She asked.
“You and Diane,” I blurted.
“Dear God what have I done to deserve this? Can’t one day, just one blessed day pass without me having to deal with that wanton woman and her demon daughter? And you,” she said to grandfather. “What are you scheming now?”
“I want to meet James’s girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend!”
“Wouldn’t it be neighborly for all of us to go out to dinner.”
“Over my dead body!” Mother lamented.
“What did she ever do to you?” grandfather asked.
“I don’t believe you! Using your grandson to help you get laid. If you want it that bad, knock on the wench’s door. She’ll welcome you with open legs.”
Dad and I looked at each other and shrugged. I think he was thankful someone else was on the hot seat.
“You’re unbelievable,” Grandfather rebutted. “You piss and moan about the boy’s language and you disrespect your father in front of him, shame on you. No wonder the boy has a mouth like a sailor; he gets it from his mother. If you weren’t in such a condition I’d be of mind to bend you over my knee and give you what you deserve.”
Dad winked at me.
“Just because I’m an old man doesn’t mean you can talk down to me. I haven’t lost my mind yet. If you do it again, I’ll be on a plane back to California. I didn’t come all this way for abuse.”
“I’m sorry daddy.” Mother hung her head.
Grandfather stood and hugged her. “It’s okay Precious. Don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t,” she whispered.
“Good. Good,” He stroked her hair. “Now what’s for dinner?”
After dinner I invited Shannie over. “I have to finish my homework,” she said. Grandfather was finishing the dishes when she knocked. “You’ll have to excuse me,” Mother waddled out of the room.
“Hi James,” Shannie sang as I opened the kitchen door.
“Someone wants to meet you.” I motioned to the sink where Grandfather was drying dishes. “Shannie, this is my grandfather.” He turned around. “Wow! You’re more beautiful than James said. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said extending his hand.
Shannie blushed. “Nice to meet you Mr. Alison,” she said. I was surprised Shannie remembered his name; I mentioned it once. Grandfather told her she could call him Stan.
“It’s a pleasure to meet my grandson’s girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Shannie questioned with a surprised smile. “James! What have you been telling people?”
I blushed. “How many times do I have to tell you she’s not my girlfriend.”
“James. James. James,” he shook his head. “Look at her. Tell me that you wouldn’t want her to be your girlfriend.”
My face blazed.
“Tell me you wouldn’t want her for a girlfriend,” Grandfather goaded.
Sweat poured down my forehead. My temples throbbed, my lips quivered and my knees weakened. I never hated anyone in my life, not Rex Byrne or Ed Nugent, not even the Dallas Cowboys, like I hated Grandfather at that moment! Humiliated, I ran out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs; the house rattling with every step.
“JESUS CHRIST!” my mother screamed from her bedroom. “Take it easy! You’re going to break my water.”
I slammed my bedroom door and buried my head in a pillow. After a few agonizing moments, I decided to save face. I crept down the stairs. Shannie’s voice drifting upward. “My father was in the 101st,” It was the first time I ever heard Shannie mention her father. I sat on the landing and listened. “He was killed in Vietnam. I don’t think he ever knew he had a daughter.”
“I’m sorry dear,” my grandfather said.
“My mother never mentions him. It’s like I never had a father.” Shannie changed the subject and asked him about World War II. I smiled. Shannie was showing off.
“How does a thirteen year old girl know World War II battles?” Appreciation laced Grandfather’s voice.
“My mother is a Twentieth Century history professor. I think its how she stays in touch with my father.”
“I missed Normandy, I was in Holland and Bastonge. We were in for a long night of war stories. I slipped back into the kitchen. He was a good storyteller and these were great stories. I wouldn’t miss them for the world. It was after ten when grandfather called it a night.
“Punk,” Grandfather said. “You’re not going to let the young lady walk home alone, are you?”
“She lives next door. It’s no big deal.”
“Do I have to teach you manners?”
“No.”
“Good. Walk the young lady home.”
Grandfather kissed Shannie’s cheek and thanked her for an enjoyable evening. What a role model, too bad I was uncomfortable with the role.
Outside Shannie thanked me and told me she had a great time. “Thanks, he insisted on meeting you.”
“Really,” she smiled. It was the surprised smile from earlier in the evening. “Why’s that?”
“He’s heard a lot about you.” I wanted to hold her hand.
“How so?”
“Shannie,” I said ignoring her question.
“That’s the name.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About?”
“About tonight,” We were standing outside her front door. “I’m sorry. I acted like a kid.”
“Yes?” she bit her lower lip.
“I really, well, I really like you.”
“And…”
“Well, I like you.”
Her smile waned. “I like you to.” She slammed the door in my face.

“Your grandfather is a trip,” Count informed me on the way to school the day before Thanksgiving. “Jesus, can he tell stories.” Count had dark circles under his eyes but voice was full of vigor. “The codger kept us up most of the night and we still didn’t want him to leave. And you know how the old lady is about having anyone in the house. What a life. I hope I can live one half as interesting. What he has done and seen.”
“Yeah he has.”
“He won a Silver Star in the war. He shook Kennedy’s hand. He was at Woodstock, which is pretty cool since he must have seemed like an old fogy to the hippies. He wrote a book. He even had an end zone seat when Dwight Clarke made the catch.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell Count that my Grandfather’s greatest talent, besides being in the right place at the right time, was embellishment. Granted, he did win a Bronze Star and he did write an obscure book on The Battle of the Bulge. I’m not sure about his claims of shaking Kennedy’s hand. At Woodstock, Mom said he was a rent-a-cop. As far as Dwight Clarke’s catch, I was with him. We had end zone seats, except they weren’t at Candlestick Park. We were at a sport’s bar in San Francisco called The End Zone. “Did he mention he banged Marilyn Monroe?” I asked.
“He fucked Marilyn Monroe?” Count’s face lit up.
I smiled and nodded my head.
“No he didn’t.” Count studied my face. “He did, didn’t he?”
“After Joltin’ Joe and before Arthur Miller.”
“He fucked Marilyn Monroe - lucky bastard; I’d give my left nut, I’d give both my nuts. I’d mount my nuts on the mantel if I could pound a sex symbol. Jesus, I would have saved the rubber.”
“I think he did. I’m almost positive. Ask him about it.”
“No shit,” his voice full of admiration. “You think he’d show it to me.”
“If it ain’t dry rotted.”
“AWESOME,” Count put his arm around me. “Your Grandfather fucked Marilyn Monroe. What a heritage; Jesus, my grandfather couldn’t tag my grandmother and yours pounded the most famous sex symbol of all time.”
“What are you two queers up to?” Steve Lucas chimed in as we walked up the Junior High’s steps.
“His Grandfather banged Marilyn Monroe.”
“Say again,” Steve asked.
Ignoring Lucas, Count continued, “I can’t believe he didn’t tell us that last night.”
“He won’t in front of Flossy,” I added.
“What a gentleman.”
“Wait a second,” Steve interjected. “Your Grandfather swapped DNA with Marilyn Monroe?” Steve was occasionally slow.
“That’s the story,” I said.
“Shut up shit head. I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.” Count told Lucas as he held the door open.
“I know why he didn’t tell you,” Lucas said.
“Why?” Count asked.
“He caught the clap from her. It’s like you finally get to eat at Shay Whities’, you order lobster tail and end up getting salmon vanilla.”
“What the hell are you babbling about?” Count asked, eyebrows scrunching together.
“Salmonella you moron,” I laughed.
“Whatever. Anyway, you get this great dish but you would have been better off with a happy meal from Mickey D’s.”
“Shut up Asshole,” Count replied. “That is the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“Don’t you think she can have the clap? No Lucas, not Marilyn Monroe, she was as pure as the driven snow,” Steve mocked Count with a high pitched whistle. “You think girls don’t shit? You should live with my sisters!”
Count shoved Steve against the lockers. A loud crunch exploded over the noisy hallway. “That’s enough out of you,” Count admonished. “You think he’ll tell us?” he asked me in a calm tone.
“Beats me,” I answered.
“Maybe he’s modest and wants to keep that gem to himself.”
“My Grandfather Modest? HAH.”
“Can you think of a better reason why he wouldn’t tell us?”
“Cause he didn’t,” I said.
“He didn’t what?” Count wrinkled his brow. “I’m totally confused.”
“He didn’t bang her, dumb ass. Jesus you’re gullible.” I took off, weaving my way through the crowded hallway.
“You suck Morrison,” Count yelled after me: “Paybacks are a bitch, asshole!” Frustrated, Count shoved Steve Lucas into the lockers again before heading to homeroom.

“James, wake up,” Grandfather’s voice invaded my dreams “James, wake up!” He said shaking me. “Come on James, Get up!”
He never called me James. I opened my eyes. Flashing red lights filled my darkened room. “The house on fire?” I asked bolting up. I heard my mother cry underneath the din of unfamiliar voices. The crackle of a police radio and the rattle of a diesel engine shook the windows. In the strobe-like effect of the emergency lights I saw fear painted on my grandfather’s face. Wrinkles etched his forehead, his eyes wide and alert. I tried to ask what was happening but words failed me.
“They have to take your mother to the hospital.”
“The baby? She’s having the baby?” My heart raced. I was exhilarated. I was going to have a baby brother. “I’m going to be a big brother,” I mumbled throwing on my clothes.
“Slow down James,” Grandfather told me. “Listen to me,” he placed his hands on my shoulders. “Your father is going with your mother in the ambulance. I don’t know the way to the hospital. Do you know how to get there?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Good,” there was hesitation in his voice.
Outside the ambulance pulled away. The dim glare of the street lights splintered the blackness. “I got to take a whiz,” I said.
“We don’t have time. Wait till we get to the hospital.”
“It’ll only take a second.”
“Hold it.”
“I’ll only be a second.”
“NO! DON”T YOU GO NEAR THE BATHROOM!” he bellowed. “THAT’S AN ORDER!” His yell shrill like mother’s.
I stepped backwards. He never raised his voice to me. His expression told me he would tackle me if need be. That’s when I realized something was wrong. “Wait till you get to the hospital. Okay,” his voice returned to normal.
“Okay,” I mumbled. I was scared.
The first hints of dawn peeked over the horizon as we pulled into the hospital’s parking lot. The ambulance that transported my mother was leaving. A bitter breeze slashed our faces as we crossed the parking lot. Inside, my father was sitting behind a window giving a nurse the necessary information.
“Wait here,” Grandfather motioned for me to take a seat. I paged through magazines that littered the waiting room. I stood, I paced, and I sat back down again. In my anxiety I forgot I had to piss. I gazed out the waiting room’s window at the stirring signs of life. An occasional car passed, their headlights knifing through the brooding morning. I remembered it was Thanksgiving. I was supposed to go to the Senior High game with Count and his old man. Great timing mom, I thought.
I was alone in the waiting room, no janitor or stray drunk to keep me company. I flopped into a chair and forced myself to sleep. As I dreamt I felt someone cover me with a blanket. Other voices now shared the waiting room, but I didn’t open my eyes.
“She’s stable,” my father’s voice said. “She’s going to have to have a D and C.”
“Do they say what happened?” grandfather questioned. He was sitting in the chair next to me.
“They’re thinking spontaneous abortion.”
That’s why he didn’t want me to go into the bathroom, she aborted my brother in there, I thought. That bitch, can’t she ever think of anyone else. I couldn’t feign sleep. I opened my eyes to find myself covered with Grandfather’s army jacket. “Did she lose the baby?” I asked knowing the answer.
My father looked to Grandfather and than back to me. “Yes.” I think my father breathed a sigh of relief.
A hollow feeling gnawed at my gut. If I wasn’t sitting I would have fell. “Bitch,” I mumbled.
The side of my face exploded with fire, the burning a stark contrast to the emptiness I felt. "What did you say?” Grandfather asked.
An old lady across the waiting room watched. I cowered into the chair raising my arms. “Why the… why did you do that?” I asked, bewildered.
“What did you call your mother?” Menace lurked in his voice.
“I didn’t call her nothing,” I squirmed. Tears of shock filled my eyes.
“James. so help me God I’ll knock your teeth out. We’re in a hospital, if you’re lucky they’ll be able to save them.”
My father stood in front of us. He didn’t say or do anything.
“I didn’t say...”
His eyes flamed, “James, Tell me!”
I swallowed hard and closed my eyes. “A bitch.” The hit I expected never came. With a soft voice he asked, “Your mother just lost a baby, she may die. I know you have your problems, but why, why today would you call her a bitch? I never thought you could be so cruel. Maybe your mother is right, maybe you are a miserable self-centered snot nose.”
His words hit me harder than his fist ever could. I exploded into uncontrollable sobs.
“Stop it.” He commanded. “Your mother is fighting for her life and your crying over a scolding. Stop it.”
I struggled to stop.
“Shut up Damn it! Grow up.”
Fury seared my bones. I despised him worse than my mother. Despite my anger, I was ashamed – I let my hero down. For him to be so angry I had to have done something terribly wrong. I was confused. “Why aren’t you mad at her?” I asked between sobs.
The question startled him. “Why would I be mad your mother?”
“You said she had an abortion. That’s why you wouldn’t let me go into the bathroom. She had an abortion in the bathroom. She decided she didn’t want the baby and got rid of it.”
“Oh James,” he whispered. He brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Oh God no. Your mother didn’t have an abortion. She didn’t choose to get rid of the baby. The baby spontaneously aborted. It’s like a miscarriage. Something went wrong.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“The Doctors don’t know,” I repeated my grandfather’s words to Shannie and Diane later that day.
The Ortolan’s picked me up at the hospital that afternoon. I spent the rest of Thanksgiving with them.
“Have you spoken to her yet?” Diane asked.
“She’s been sedated all day.”
“Poor girl,” Diane replied.
Shannie scowled at her mother before glancing out the window. She was in what Diane called a navel gazing mood. In those moods, Shannie was cold and introspective.
“Cut the shit, Who are you kidding?” Shannie said when we returned to Cemetery Street. I protested her idea of checking out the bathroom. “You know you want to.”
“For the fifty-second time, I don’t have my keys.”
“We don’t need them, I know a way in.”
“Great. Now you want me to break in to my own house.”
“We’re using an alternative entry method.”
“Wait a minute. How do you know how to get into my house?”
“Experience is a wonderful thing,” she said.
“But what if they come home while we’re in there?”
“Geezus Pete James,” Shannie rolled her eyes.
“Diane, we’re going for a walk,” Shannie said. Behind the rhododendrons guarding my front porch, she instructed me to lift the lattice. I smiled at her. I had crawled behind those bushes countless times and never thought I could get into the house this way. “Your dad did a great job on the basement,” she said after we slipped in. “The old owner was a slob.”
“It’s locked,” I said trying the basement door.
Shannie pointed to a key hanging from a nail on the doorframe. “That should do it.” Awkward didn’t quite describe my feeling. Shannie knew my house better than me. She replaced the key and led the way across the creaky floor. Gray seeped through the aging windowpanes.
The air was heavy on my shoulders. Stillness rang in my ears. The house felt as if it was brooding, mourning the loss of an occupant. The idea gave me the shivers, my hands broke into a cold sweat. My curiosity waned. I didn’t want to look behind the bathroom door. Fear of Shannie’s scorn kept me going.
At the top of the stairs I told her I didn’t want to look. “Suite yourself Just James,” excitement sparkled in her eyes.
Droplets of blood led from my parent’s room into the bathroom. They returned my stare - taunting me with visions of the flashing red lights and my mother’s cries. Without warning my stomach erupted, bile rushed into my mouth. Force of will prevented me from drawing a gruesome collage with my dead brother’s blood. Hand to mouth I took three steps at a time, racing my stomach tremors. I lost my Thanksgiving meal in the kitchen sink.
“You Okay?” Shannie asked from behind when I finished.
“You satisfied?” I barked, head buried in the sink. My voice acidic. Tears rushed down my face - sweat soaked my body. “You just had to see it.”
“Where does she keep the Pine-sol?” Shannie asked.
“Are you happy,” I continued. “I bet this made your day.”
“I need a bucket. Where does she keep it?”
“What do you care?”
She stared at me for a second. “If you want to be a drama queen go ahead. It’s okay with me. But someone has to clean up the mess. It would really be cruel if your father or your grandfather. God forbid if your mother got stuck doing it. Seeing how things are done around here, that wouldn’t surprise me.” Her words were razor sharp. “If you don’t want to help me, at least get the fuck out of my way.”
I pointed beneath the sink as I stepped aside.
“Good.”
Times like these Shannie seemed an old spirit. In the blink of an eye, she transformed from giddy teenager to a I’m going to twist the nads off life mentality. Maybe it was the navel gazing mood - maybe it was PMS. As she fished under the sink for the supplies, I thought of that Sunday she faced the onrushing train – God, I loved her composure.
With the same composure she put my grandfather in his place. When he and dad returned from the hospital, he yelled: “James, get your ass down here, now!” He seen the bathroom light from the road. “I told you to say out of the bathroom,” he continued. The floorboards creaked under his impatient footfalls. Not waiting for me he started up the steps.
“Let me handle this,” Shannie said.
“Hi Stan,” she perked stepping into the hallway. “How’s Mary doing?” The stairs fell silent under him.
“Oh,” he paused. “Shannie it’s you.”
“In the flesh,” she answered.
“She’s stable.”
“I’m sorry about the baby.”
“Thank you. Mary will appreciate the sentiments. Where’s that grandson of mine?”
Paralyzed with fear, I stopped scrubbing the tile.
“Do the doctors know what happened?” Shannie’s voice peppered with concern. Her drama classes were paying off.
“Placentia Abruptus,” he said.
“What’s that?” Shannie asked.
Thick silence filled the air. I could almost here my grandfather’s thoughts: how the hell do I know, I know is I lost a grandchild today and almost lost my daughter. What he said was, “The doctor said something about something and then something happened. I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry.” She paused. I held my breath. “How are you holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. But I’m a little perturbed with my grandson. I told him not to go into the bathroom. He’s with you?”
“Yup.”
“James, get out here,” he said.
I crept out of the bathroom and stood next to Shannie. My grandfather looked like he aged ten years. He looked tired and frail. His ponytail seemed out of place.
“It was my idea. James didn’t want to do it, really. I talked him into it. You all had a bad day, I figured cleaning the bathroom was the least I could do.”
That’s my Bug, I thought, never at a loss.
“Never-the-less,” he continued.
“Really Stan, I’m not covering for him. It was my idea.”
“Is that so?” he stared at me, daring me to let a girl take the fall.
“Yes,” I told him. She deflected my grandfather’s anger.
My grandfather fell in love with Shannie that Thanksgiving night. After diffusing the situation, she invited him for dinner. “I’m too tired dear,” he said. I thought he would jump at meeting Diane. When I told Shannie this, she said. “Geezus Pete James, where’s your sense of priorities. Diane can wait.”
“You weren’t there,” I wanted to tell Shannie of his second night in town - his reaction when caught me looking out my bedroom window. “What’s so interesting Punk?” he asked standing next to me. Diane gazed at her reflection in her dresser mirror as she brushed her hair. Her eyes focused on the brush cleaving through her locks. I barely noticed him. Without a word I turned my head towards him and nodded towards Diane. “Holy Shit,” he whispered - the sweet smell of alcohol enveloped us. We watched in silence until Diane finished and turned off her lights. Without another word he patted my back and let himself out of my bedroom. We never spoke of it.

“You’re going to have to be more sensitive to mom’s needs,” my father said. We were on the way to the hospital the morning my mother was to be released.
Like I’m not, I didn’t say. My father’s words further cast the pall I felt that holiday season. Like you are, I thought gazing out the window. You lumbered around the last few months half alive, lost in your own world while fate dealt mother cards from the bottom of the deck. Maybe if you were around she wouldn’t have taken her frustrations out on me. You could have saved me my own trip to the hospital. Sensitive, what about you, you prick? Don’t tell me you didn’t breath a sigh of relief in the hospital, I saw it with my eyes, your head may have hung low, but your feet were floating.
“You’re right,” I answered. I watched myself in the window’s reflection.
“It’s time we put Christ in Christmas,” mother preached from her hospital bed. “No more materialism. No more forgetting the real meaning of Christmas.” She summoned me to her side. Placing her IV laden arm around me she continued. “We lost a baby, as hard as it is for us to understand, God is using us. It’s God’s will, I know it; I feel it. It’s his reminder that we still have each other. We may have our disagreements, but we have each other. We should thank God for that. Really thank him.”
Oh shit, my lips quivered. I can kiss the Nintendo goodbye. Damn it, what did I do to deserve this?
“Just go with it,” Shannie told me over the phone. “She’s been traumatized. You and God are the only ones she can trust. Look on the bright side, you’re in good company.”
Good company would be to live with you and Diane, I thought. If I can’t live with them at least I can live next to them. Sanity was a bedroom’s window view away.
The first Saturday after mother came home she reminded us not to wander too far, confession was that evening and she expected dad and I to celebrate the sacrament with her. “Since when is confession a celebration?” I asked my father. He shrugged.
“What do I have to confess about?” I questioned Shannie as images of Diane flooded my mind. I felt my face warm.
“Whatever making you blush,” Shannie teased.
“I’m not blushing.”
“You are to.”
“Am not.”
“Geezus Pete. You’re impossible.”
“I think it would be cool to confess,” Shannie continued.
“You would say that.”
“Absolving yourself. It’s like starting with a clean slate halfway through the game.”
“Easy for you to say you never had to do it. It sucks and it’s creepy. You sit in that little dark closet and tell the priest your darkest thoughts. If that isn’t bad enough the whole things suppose to be private, but do you mean to tell me he doesn’t recognize our voices. It’s bullshit No wonder our priest always wears a shit eating grin.”
“Like he cares about your erectile dysfunctions,” Shannie quipped. My face burned. “I think its cool and I’d like to try it.”
“Convert.”
She stuck out her tongue at me. I returned the favor.
“You have thrush.”
“Do not?”
“What’s that white stuff? Papal duty?”
“Up yours Shannie.”
“There’s something else you can confess about. Let’s see,” she began counting my sins on her fingers. “By the way,” she said when she finished my rap sheet, “better brush up on your Hail Mary’s, Our Father’s, and your tongue every morning and night.”
She was right. Later in church, after the priest gave me penance, I knelt in horror as I tried to remember the words to Hail Mary. I was okay until full of grace. I couldn’t even remember the freaking words. Okay God, I’m fucking doomed. I squeezed my hands harder together as I closed my eyes and bowed my head.
I finished and looked up. I was met by the accusatorial stare of the Joseph statue. I broke out in cold sweat. A frown overtook his face. Joseph’s voice, sounding like Ole Luther, the bitter bartender at Giorgio’s. “You can’t even say a Hail Mary.” He snapped his tongue in ridicule “Instead of wasting all your time beating off to you neighbor’s mother maybe you should study the catechism you little piss ant. Learn to beg forgiveness with dignity.”
When I told Shannie of my experience, of course omitting the beating off to Diane part, she told me I was my mother’s son.
“What’s that suppose to mean?”
“You’re full of guilt. By the way, when were you ever in Giorgio’s? And why?”
“The day my grandfather came to town, we stopped there for a drink,” I lied.

Knowing Grandfather’s reputation as a lady’s man, Shannie and I thought we’d witness sparks. We tried our hand playing cupid. When we brought the idea up with Diane she dismissed it. “He seems wonderful, but he’s not my type.”
“What do you mean he’s not your type?” Shannie protested.
“Yeah. He wrote a book,” I chimed in.
“Just because I like a book doesn’t mean I’d like the author.”
“How would you know if you never met him?” Shannie persisted.
"Don’t you think he’s a little too old for me?” Diane replied.
“He doesn’t act old,” I countered.
Shannie and I knew it would be a challenge. We agreed that the tension between our mothers dampened any spark. I didn’t tell Shannie Ms Horne might have something to do with Diane’s lack of interest.

Once my mother got resettled, Grandfather returned to being the social butterfly. He visited Beyford’s taverns regularly. There he struck up a friendship with Russell. “There are some characters in this town,” he said over dinner before Christmas.
“Daddy you need to stop going to those places. There full of freaks and derelicts.”
“So sayeth the uninformed.”
“You’re an educated man, what could you find fascinating with a bunch of drunks?”
My father lowered his head over his plate as if studying the molecular makeup of mashed potatoes. He stacked his arms in front of his plate guarding it from the oncoming storm. Grandfather brought his napkin to his mouth as he finished chewing. He peered over his glasses at my mother. “Mary Beth Alison, of all the stereotypical things you could say.”
“It’s Morrison, daddy,” she interrupted.
Grandfather folded his napkin and placed it atop his plate. He cleared his throat. “You may bully your way with your husband and frighten your son into submission, but those shenanigans won’t work with me.”
“All I’m saying there’s better way to spend your time.”
“I see I wasted a lot of good money putting you through school. You’ve mastered pseudo elitism.”
“You know, I really resent your remarks.”
“So what. What makes you any better?”
“I don’t believe you.”
"Answer the goddamned question,” his voice rose.
“I would never carry on in public.”
“That’s right,” Grandfather said rising. “You keep it behind closed doors.” He slipped into his army coat. “I’m off to laugh with the sinners.”
I tried not to smile.
“I’ll pray for you,” she yelled after him. “Can you believe him?” mother complained to the room. “Three weeks ago he almost lost me and now he has the audacity to say such things.” Turning to me she continued, “I never met such a self- centered person.”
I shrugged and retreated to my room.

My Grandfather was eulogized as a revolutionary. “A man before his time, a pathfinder for succeeding generations,” the young Californian ‘minister’ touted, “daring to jump head first while his peers timidly tested the waters.” My mother groaned at this comment, considering the way he died, I didn’t blame her. “Let us take solace that brother Stanley lived an active and adventurous life, full of many climatic events.” Many of the solitary women who populated the church bowed their heads. Among them I noticed the flight attendant I met at the Philadelphia Airport. “Your Grandfather was a wonderful man,” she said after the service.
“Who the hell was that?” mother bemoaned.
“Mrs. Abernathy, you know, his neighbor before he moved,” I lied.
“Really. I thought she was blonde?”
“I think she dyed her hair.”
“He touched so many wives, ah, lives,” the minister flashed a toothy grin from behind the pulpit. He spread his joy selflessly. Never finding the need to boast of his good fortune, he shared it with generous deeds, quietly going about helping those in need, always putting those knees, needs, in front of his. The world will be an emptier place with the passing of brother Stanley.” After blessing my grandfather’s urn the minister called on me to receive his remains.

“I love the sky; I refuse to be buried,” Grandfather announced at breakfast one morning.
“Daddy, what are you talking about?”
“You know damn well.”
“Do you have to bring it up now? Just once, I would like to eat in peace.”
“James, listen to me. When I kick the bucket, don’t let anyone put me in a box and throw me in a hole.”
“Keep James out of this!”
Grandfather set his utensils on the table. “He’s the only one with enough guts to do what I want.”
“That isn’t fair daddy,” mother protested. “He’s only a child. He shouldn’t have to hear this.”
“Life isn’t fair. And he is old enough. Give him the credit he deserves.”
"God forgive me for talking like this, but you shall have the proper sacraments and if that includes burial, burial it shall be.”
“God may forgive you, but I’ll be damned if I will.”
“You’re incorrigible. I’m doing what’s proper.”
“Mary Beth. Take what you think is proper and shove it up your ass.”
“Why, I never,” she gasped. I sniggered; dad grinned.
“Maybe you should.”
The Saturday before Christmas Grandfather took me shopping. Over lunch he again brought up the subject. “James, please, please don’t let her bury me.” Fear filled his eyes. “It’s written in my will, but I know your mother, she will take the ashes and bury them. I don’t want my ashes in the f-ing ground. Promise me you’ll help me? You’re the only one I can trust.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Use your imagination. Just don’t let her bury me.”
I looked down at my French fries. After a moment of tense silence he spoke, “When you’re old enough I want you to throw my ashes out of an airplane. I want to have one last jump.”
“Are you going to die?” I asked. Fear filled my expression.
A smile washed over his face. “Of course I am.”
“What? Are you sick or something?”
“Sick of the East Coast and the cold weather.”
“Then why the big deal?”
“It will happen someday, you need to know what to do when someday comes. Your mother thinks you’re still a child. She’ll use your age as an excuse not to talk with you about death - that’s her problem. You’re twelve, you’re going to be a teenager next month. I think you’re old enough. You need to know its inevitability.”
“I know everyone croaks.”
“Good. And when I do, It’s your job to make sure I get my wishes.”
“Why me?” I protested. “Why not dad?”
He sat back in his chair and looked me in the eyes. “Your father doesn’t have the balls.”
I laughed. “… like I do?”
He leaned forward. “You may not know it, but you’re a tough little bastard. What I’ve seen, you do a damn good job standing up to her. If you have any trouble you can always count on your neighbors.”
“The Ortolan’s?”
“They’re good people. And that friend of yours, Shannie, she has spunk.”
“Yeah she does; she’s a trip.”
“I know she does. She would make a father proud.”
“Granddad,” I ask on the way home.
“It’s Stan; I hate being called Granddad. I call you James right? I don’t call you Son-Son, Grandson. I could call you Pissboy.”
“Mom would throw a seven is she heard me call you Stan.”
“She would, wouldn’t she,” his eyes gleamed.
“Fucking A,” I said.
“Fucking A,” he laughed.
As we pulled onto Cemetery Street I told him I didn’t feel like going home yet. “Let’s get a cup of coffee,” he said.
“Why don’t you want to be buried when you die?” I asked Grandfather after we settled in at the diner.
He replaced his cup in its saucer and leaned back against the back of the booth. “You ask the damnedest questions,” he peered at me over his glasses.
“Sorry,” I tried not to squirm in his stare.
“Don’t be. I’ve been dying to answer it forever.”
We giggled at his pun.
“The dirt and mud.” He took off his glasses, as he spoke he cleaned them with a napkin. “I spent lots of terrifying times crammed into foxholes and slit trenches. I’m too familiar with the smell and taste off mud and dirt. I still can’t stand the smell. It brings back lots of bad memories; memories of buddies whose foxholes were their graves.” He replaced his glasses.
I was silent. The clatter of silverware and chatter spoke for me.
“Your friends, the cemetery people.”
“The Lightmans.”
“Yeah them. They’re wonderful people but I don’t like being around them.
“Why not?” I asked. I imagined them best of friends.
“They smell of the grave. They have that earthy odor - that oppressive, moist,” he paused searching for the right word. “Decay, the smell of rot. It’s on them, it’s on their clothes, it’s part of them. It makes me edgy. I imagine being in my box and hearing the worms working their way through my casket.”
“You think too much. Everyone knows that when you’re dead, you won’t be able to hear the worms. You won’t be able to hear anything. You’ll be dead.”
He smirked. “How do you know?”
“You’ll be dead.”
"How do you now a dead person doesn’t hear anything?”
“I never met a stiff who complained about loud music.”
“Good point.” He sipped his coffee. “If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it does it make a sound?”
“What does that have to do with the price of apples in New York?”
“James, if your not there, how would you know? We don’t know until we experience it.” He changed the subject and didn’t mention it until we pulled into the driveway on Cemetery Street. “James thanks for listening to the ramblings of a crazy old man.”

“I don’t believe you Just James,” Shannie said on the other end of the phone.
“I saw him with my own two eyes,” I whispered.
“You sure it was him?”
“You bet.”
“Yeah, but it was dark. You could be wrong.”
I almost said it was dark that night I saw Ms. Horne; I swallowed the thought. “I’m not wrong. I saw him there last night.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible.”
“I was home last night and I didn’t hear a thing. I was awake.”
“Whatever. All I’m saying is he was in your house last night.”
“Saw whom?” my mother asked as she walked into kitchen.
Shannie asked. “Did Mary the terrible walk in?” I tilted the mouthpiece away from my head so Shannie could have a better listen.
“Why are you whispering? There are no secrets in our house.”
“I’m not whispering,” I protested.
“Yes you are and who did you see?” mother persisted.
“No one.”
“Tell her. I want to hear her tits in a flutter,” Shannie cried.
“Stan,” I blurted.
“Oh my God, you’re going to tie her panties in a knot,” Shannie laughed.
“Stan? Stan who?” mother asked.
“Geezus Pete, what a maroon,” Shannie’s voice filled the receiver. I covered my other ear in an attempt to keep Shannie’s voice from echoing into the kitchen.
I pointed to the living room where grandfather, sitting roughly in the same spot as Manson the night of his persuasion, was watching Jeopardy. “That Stan, Granddad.”
“Damn it James, I wish you show him some respect.”
“I show him a lot of respect. He doesn’t want to be called something gay so I call him by his name. What’s wrong with that?”
“You go boy. Give her hell,” Shannie cheered.
“Don’t get smart with me. I’m asking you to show a little respect. Is that too much to ask for?
I burst out laughing as Shannie sung out R-E-S-P-E-C-T. That’s all the old bag needs.”
“What’s so funny? Who are you talking to?”
“Count.”
“Are you sure you’re not talking to that little tramp.”
“That bitch,” Shannie started. “Where does she get off calling me a tramp? That cunt!”
“Why do you always have to slam Shannie,” I yelled, hoping to grab Grandfather’s attention.
“Don’t you raise your voice to me.” She came towards me gesturing for the phone. “Give me the phone.”
“NO. I’m talking.”
“Hang up the phone,” mother ordered. “Hang up the phone or I swear I’ll return every last present.”
“What a bitch. Don’t you dare hang up the phone; stick to your guns.”
“Leave me alone, I wasn’t bothering you,” I complained.
“Shannie who are you calling a bitch?” Diane’s voice leaked through the phone.
“I’m warning you James; I’m not kidding.”
“Merry old maid Morrison,” Shannie answered Diane.
“Take ‘em back. Take ‘em all back. See what I care. You’re not getting me anything I want anyway.” My mother’s face turned purple and her eyes filled with insanity. With the return of her scowl, I knew she had recovered from the miscarriage.
“I can think of worse things to call her,” Diane quipped.
“Damn it Mary,” Grandfather bellowed over my shoulder. “Leave the boy alone?”
“If you didn’t let my son get away with murder maybe he won’t be such a smart ass.”
“I better go,” I told Shannie. “It’s going to hit the fan.”
The argument turned vicious. It was louder than my parents. It ended with a lot of tears and grandfather calling the airline and booking a return flight back to California the day after Christmas.
“James,” he told me as he tucked me into bed that night. “If it wasn’t for you I’d be on the way home tonight.”
“Stan.” He was about to shut my bedroom door. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said. The hall light outlined his body as he sat on the edge of my bed.
“Were you talking to Diane the other night?”
He took a deep breath and looked out my window. “How could I? I was at JD’s tipping a few with Russell.” It was the only time I knew he lied to me.
“I didn’t think it was you,” I smiled.

Christmas came and went and I got my Nintendo, thanks to my grandfather. Truth be told, I wish my mother would have made good with her threats and returned the gifts she got for me. Even though mother and grandfather tried to be pleasant, the air was tense. I wish we could do it over again - it was the last Christmas we had together. The next day, I savored the sight of grandfather walking down the jetway; it was the last time I saw him alive.


Chapter 7 A Beetle and a Cop

“Would you like to be a pallbearer,” Shannie asked, her right hand twisting her hair while her left danced over her sketchpad. The April sun chased the last chill from the air. The trees standing sentry between the Ortolan’s backyard and Fernwood were threatening bloom. Singing their song, birds dipped and weaved across the cobalt sky. I watched a robin land on the Ortolan’s lawn, make short thrift of a worm and fly off. Only the sandstone and granite monuments in Fernwood didn’t sense the change of season, for them it’s always winter.
“For whom?” I asked, distracted by the monotonous cadence of a pair of doves. I thought of last summer when Count and I took turns using doves as targets for his B.B. gun. I wasn’t a threat to the love birds, I didn’t come close to hitting the nearest telephone pole. Count was fatal, killing both with a single shot. “How did you do that?” I cried. ”It’s all in the touch,” he blew his fingertips.
“For me,” she chirped. She looked up from her sketch pad.
“Plan on croaking?” I asked.
“Sure am. You want to help?”
“Whatever,” I returned to the book I was struggling to read. English assignments suck.
“You know the kid whose family owns the funeral home?” she asked.
“Steve Lucas,” I sighed trying to concentrate on reading. “What about him?”
“I think he’s cute. Think you could tell him I like him?”
Steve Lucas! I wanted to scream! What a dork! Stained teeth and pale skin, banner combination. Count said the only way someone could be that pale and not be dead was to ingest formaldehyde. If it wasn’t for his discolored teeth it would be impossible to tell where his face ended and his mouth began. Beady brown eyes shifted under his out-of-date Beatles haircut.
“Are you feeling okay?” I dropped the book onto my lap.
“Better than yesterday, not as good as tomorrow,” she answered not taking her eyes off her sketch. My Bug - the optimist.
“What do you see in him?”
“I don’t know,” Shannie stopped sketching and looked into Fernwood. “He seems sweet,” she returned her gaze to me.
“As sweet as a pile of dog shit, about as popular to.”
Shannie laughed. I didn’t.
“You’re jealous,” Shannie chided.
“Jealous. Not!” I lied. “Worried? You bet!”
“Worried? Do tell.”
“I think your brains fell out. First you tell me you want me to be your pallbearer and now you like Steve Lucas. Oy Vey!”
“Yeah, so?” she asked.
“If I had a thing for Steve Lucas I’d need a pallbearer too, because I’d jump out a window.”
“Is that so?” Shannie put her pencil down.
“That’s so,” I answered watching Shannie stand and stretch. I admired her breast development. Thank God for warm weather and T-shirts, I thought. She walked past me. She busted me checking her out in the sliding door’s reflection. “Would you like anything? - to drink!”
“I’m fine,” I blushed as she disappeared into the house. I peeked at her sketch. An ornate casket rested on the shoulders of the pallbearers who were dressed in black tuxedos, their faces somber and colorless, their hair slicked back.
“What’s up with the doom and gloom?” I asked when she returned to the deck.
“Wait and see.”

“Your Grandfather has flipped,” mother complained. “He insists on calling late every Sunday night. Doesn’t he realize people work Mondays?”
“You don’t work,” I reminded her.
“What do you call looking after slobs. It ain’t a vacation.” In her convoluted way, bitching was a compliment. She was ecstatic they we’re on speaking terms again. Plans were in the works for her to fly to California when the phone rang earlier than normal one Sunday.
I rushed to answer the phone. “Mrs. Morrison. Mary Morrison please,” an indifferent voice droned.
“Mom it’s for you,” I was hoping it was grandfather.
“Who is it?” she took the phone from me.
“A salesman.” I shrugged my shoulders.
I was about to sit and watch TV when I heard a loud thump. The noise woke my father who napped on the couch. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
“Mom?” I called.
She didn’t answer.
“Mom,” I yelled running into the kitchen. “Mrs. Morrison, are you okay? Can you hear me?’ the salesman’s voice called from the phone. “Oh Jesus, Mary get up,” my father bemoaned as he shuffled into the kitchen.
“I think she passed out,” I said into the phone.
“Is this Mrs. Morrison’s daughter?” the voice asked.
“No!” I snapped. “It’s her son!”
“Sorry. Listen, is your mother breathing?” the salesman asked. My father emptied a glass of water on mother’s face.
Her eyes flew open, infected with rage. “She is now,” I reported, “My dad just threw water on her.”
“Good. Is she able to talk?” the salesman asked.
“Who wants to know?” The salesman was a busybody.
“My name is officer Dukowski. I’m with the Alameda County, California Sheriff’s department…”
“He’s dead!” my mother shrieked from the floor. “He’s dead! He’s dead!” she repeated over and over.
“… I regret to inform you of the passing of a Mr. Stanley Alison,” the voice droned.
“Give me the phone,” my father yanked it from my grip. A tingle erupted in my temples and flowed like lava down my neck and back. The kitchen darkened around me, a warm trickle flowed down my leg. In another world I heard my father tell my mother to calm down, “I can’t hear over your wailing.”

Gazing out the airplane’s window at the darkened country below, I worried how to stop my mother from doing ‘the proper thing.’ I turned my gaze to my sleeping mother. She looked innocent in her sleep. I couldn’t understand how she could create such drama. Why couldn’t she let Grandfather be? I looked back into the night, wishing I could keep her sedated.
My father, he’s useless. “What can I do? It’s her father,” he said. Somewhere over the Rockies exhaustion overpowered my anxieties. I fell into a dreamless sleep. I woke as the plane touched down. Shuddering with the fuselage, I grabbed the armrests, white knuckling them until the plane came to a stop.
As we disembarked, through luggage claim and renting a car, I studied my mother’s swollen eyes and puffy face. How could this woman threaten grandfather’s wishes? Diane’s words filled my head, “Don’t worry about a thing. If you need anything, call.” Hugging me she whispered, “we’re family.”
We met the minister of the Shepherd of the Hills Non Denominational Church in his office. Floyd, as he insisted on being called, was a short, muscular man in his mid-thirties with a rapidly balding head and a big, toothy smile. He had a reputation for not mincing words, it attracted grandfather to Floyd’s flock. “He’s a feisty little fucker,” my grandfather had said.
“I understand how you feel,” Floyd leaned back in his chair. “You should reconsider viewing his remains. It would be a mistake – a terrible one.”
“Thank you for your concern Reverend…”
“Floyd,” he corrected with a smile.
“… Floyd,” mother said. “You need to understand I want a final look.”
“Suit yourself,” he said over his squeaking chair. Glancing over the steeple he formed with his stubby fingers he continued, “James, please step into the hall.”
I rose from my seat. “James, sit down.” Turning back to Floyd. “He’s entitled to hear what you have to say. ”
“So be it,” Floyd reached for the baseball he kept atop his desk. “If you choose to view the remains, they won’t resemble your father. You’ll be better off -spiritually, emotionally- remembering his likeliness before the accident. What you see will be upsetting.”
“That would be for me to decide,” mother hissed.
“Of course it would.” Floyd ran his fingers over the seams of the baseball. “This would be a closed casket deal if Stanley wasn’t being cremated. His jumpsuit held his body together. He was crushed - like a grape, splat.” I jumped as Floyd banged his fist on the desktop.
“You’re out of line,” mother protested.
“Sometimes it’s the only way to get people to understand,” the minister retorted.
“He proves you don’t have to be a dork to be a minister,” I told Shannie over the phone that night. I called from the hospital.
“If I can’t talk you out this – it’s a bad idea - at least allow me to accompany you,” Floyd bargained with mother. She reluctantly agreed - on the condition she would have a few moments alone with grandfather. Floyd agreed. At the hospital, Floyd said, “she would have gone to the funeral parlor anyway.” After taking a long, nervous drag off his cigarette, he continued: “I had a gut feeling something would happen.”
“Don’t worry about it,’ father said. “You did us all a favor.” Later, father let it slip that Floyd would have done us a bigger favor by stuffing mother in a nearby coffin and locking the lid. “We could have got a two for one deal.”
“She’s been concussed,” the emergency room doctor told us. “As a precaution, I want to keep her over night.”
I stepped back from the doctor.
“We also stitched a laceration on the back of her head,” he continued in a professional monotone.
“He needs a Tic-Tac,” I complained when the doctor walked away.
“I knew it was a bad idea,” Floyd vexed. “I never imagined such a reaction.”
“You don’t know my wife,” father grinned.
“Her screams - horrifying,” he shook his head. “Seeing her like that, all that blood.” Floyd snuffed out another cigarette. He pushed ashes around with the cigarette butt.
“You had good intentions,” father said.
“We know where they lead.” Floyd lit another cigarette before recounting the story. “The funeral director and I were standing outside the viewing room, we heard Mary’s sobs. Didn’t think anything of it.” Floyd paused if viewing the scene. “Then we heard that thud. Her muffled screams. We ran inside. There she was,” Floyd said. He took another drag. “Her rear end up in the air and her head caught inside the casket. The lid had trapped your mother. She was stuck, her head against his chest. The horror. The blood, it was everywhere. He took another drag before asking: “Did they shave much of her hair?”
“Most of it,” my father said poker faced.
“Horrible,” Floyd paused. “Joe, I’ve seen and heard a lot, but Mary’s curses embarrassed me.” He took another drag off his cigarette, exhaled, took a deep breath and said: “Forgive me if this is an inappropriate question at an inappropriate time, but I need to ask, man to man. Will she make good on her threats?”
“What threats?” my father asked.
“She said she would sue me to hell and back. Joe, I have a small congregation, and even smaller treasury. If she sues, I’ll – the church will be ruined.”
“She’s venting. Don’t worry,” my father lied. “It’ll pass.”
“Thanks Joe,” Floyd said. I hung my head.
“That son of a bitch minister is out to get me,” mother claimed the morning of the memorial service. We were on the way to Shepherd of the Hills Non Denominational Church.
“How so?” father asked.
“What do you think? He’s Daddy’s patsy! He’s trying to stop me from doing what is just and moral! He’s trying to stop me from burying Daddy’s ashes.” Years later I learned she was on to something.
“You’re ridiculous,” father said.
“Ridiculous? I ended up in the hospital over this! Do you think it’s ridiculous that I have to walk around half bald?” Her spittle coated the windshield.
“Thinking Floyd tried to hurt you sounds as ridiculous as your bald spot looks,” Father said.
“Your mother’s an asshole,” Shannie railed during our nightly phone conversation. “I can’t believe she’s bringing his ashes back. Bury them in Fernwood? Geezus Pete, he never lived here! He didn’t even like it here! She’ll want to exhume them when your dad gets transferred.”
Shannie’s insight made me pause; I never thought we would move again.
“We’ll exhume the ashes and take them with us,” mother announced.
“Your being retarded!” father snapped.
“She lost touch with reality,” Shannie barked over the phone that night.
“You should reconsider,” Floyd protested before the memorial.
“Stay out of it,” Mother hissed at Floyd.
After the service, during the rest of our stay in Pleasanton, and even on the flight home, mother didn’t let grandfather’s urn out of her sight. “She kept it in her bedroom last night,” I told Shannie. “I think she’s afraid dad’s going to swipe them.”
“That’s it!” Shannie said tapping the side of her head. “You’re a genius Just James, Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Think of what?” I puzzled. “Oh no,” I protested catching on. “I’m not going there. I’m not stealing his ashes!”
“You promised your grandfather. Your integrity is at stake. All we need to do is get your mother out of the house for five lousy minutes. Five minutes,” she reiterated.
“She’ll notice he’s missing.”
“We’ll make a switch. We take your grandfather out and put phony ashes in. Your mom’s happy, your grandfather’s happy and you’re off the integrity hook. Get her out of the house and I’ll do the rest.”
“How?”
“Geezus Pete, do I have to think of everything?”

I was fretting away the afternoon when a brown UPS truck stopped at the Ortolan’s. The driver knocked on their front door. Diane exchanged a few words, signed for a decent sized brown box and the brown clad driver hoped in the brown truck and drove away. Shit, that’s it! “MOM,” I yelled bounding down the steps.
“What?” she asked with bloodshot eyes. She was taking Stan’s death hard. She dealt with her grief by spending an inordinate amount of time in the kitchen, she hated the kitchen. She looked pitiful with flour smudged on her face and her remaining hair wrapped in a bandana.
“I was thinking. You’ve always wanted to eat at Brownback’s.” Brownback’s was a restaurant mother always talked about, but could never get my father to take her. “Lets go tonight. On me.”
She smiled despite herself. “What a sweet offer,” she set down her rolling pin and hugged me. I coughed from the cloud of flour. “How are you going to pay?"
“My birthday money; I didn’t spend it yet.”
“Do you know how much it will cost?”
“I have two hundred bucks."
“It might cost that.”
I swallowed hard: “You deserve it."
“We have reservations for seven-thirty,” I told Shannie.
“Brownback’s Huh? When are you going to take me?” Shannie teased.
“As soon as I can drive,” I replied.

After dinner I bolted ahead of my parent’s into the house. There was no sign of Shannie. Damn, she’s good, I thought. Everything seemed untouched. My parent’s bedroom door slightly ajar - as always. A quick peek inside their room told me that she hadn’t any problems switching ashes. Grandfather’s urn sat on my mother’s dresser.
I phoned Shannie. “I couldn’t slip out of the house,” she replied.
“WHAT?” I cried.
“Serious. Diane was being a bitch. I couldn’t get out of the house."
“Ah shit. A hundred-fifty bucks shot to hell. What are we going to do? She’s burying them tomorrow. What are we going to do?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Shannie assured me.
“Don’t worry about it? Stan’s being committed to the kingdom of the worms and you’re telling me not to worry. Jesus H. Christ, what are we going to do?” My thirty-dollar entrée protested in my stomach.
“I don’t know about you but I have to make a mud pie,” Shannie said.
“A mud pie? How can you be worried about a mud pie when, when… when your integrity is at stake?”
“My integrity is intact.”
“Bullshit!” I cried. “You made a promise you couldn’t keep.”
“If you quit jumping to conclusions – I’ll tell you what happened.”
“I’m not jumping to conclusions,” I protested.
“Geezus Pete, shut up and listen. I was going to say, I couldn’t get out of the house. I called Count and he made the switch for us.”
“Yes,” I said. I tingled with relief.

Outside the weekday church regulars and my immediate family, the only other people who attended my Grandfather’s mass were the Ortolan’s and the Lightmans. The Miller’s who were retired, were out of town.
Besides the priest, only brilliant sunshine and blustery wind accompanied my parent’s and myself in Fernwood. After the graveside service, I told my parent’s I’d walk home. I watched their car slip out of the cemetery before climbing a tree. Bear emerged from the converted church and piloted the backhoe towards Grandfather’s grave. After filling it, Bear saluted Grandfather’s tombstone and hopped on the front-loader.
Like clockwork, Shannie appeared with grandfather’s mud pie. This time, she was dressed in a black dress. “Why are you making a mud pie?” I asked her the previous night. “We’re not burying him.”
“I’m paying respect,” she answered.
Under my weight the limb swayed in the wind. As she knelt in front of Grandfather’s grave, her right hand battled to keep her face free of her blowing hair. “That’s my last pie,” she told me later. “I don’t feel the need anymore.”
“Now that we have Stan’s ashes, what do we do with them?” Shannie asked as we passed a Sunday afternoon in the maple tree. She had taken it upon herself to be their caretaker. She kept them in her jewelry box atop her dresser under a wallet size picture of my grandfather.
“Ain’t it obvious?” Count launched an empty coke bottle into a towering trajectory. The three of us watched its flight in silence, anticipating the crash and Duke Nukem’s response. The bottle exploded; the dog erupted.
“Is it?” Shannie asked.
“Take him skydiving,” Count said.
“That’s tacky, he was killed skydiving.”
“Count’s right. It’s what he wanted. He told me so. He wanted one last jump.”
“There’s our problem, you have to be eighteen,” Count said.
“We wait until James is eighteen,” Shannie said. “Then James gets the honor.”
“I’m sixteen. We’ll only have to wait two years. I’ll take the course and dump ‘em,” Count said.
“He’s James Grandfather! James gets the honor,” Shannie repeated.
“That’s four years!” Count argued. “His ashes will decompose by then.”
“Ashes don’t decompose dumb ass,” Shannie said.
Over the following weeks, the three of us became obsessed with everything airborne. We spent weekends at Squaw Valley airport watching parachutists. The jumpers got to know us. An instructor approached us asking why we were so interested. He offered to scatter Stan’s ashes. We politely denied. Word spread and soon we were unofficial mascots of the Squaw Jumper’s Parachute Club.
We spent the rest of the summer doing odds and ends around the club in exchange for getting our first jump free. The head rigger –whom to this day I know as Beetle, introduced us to the art of parachute rigging. She was a leftover flower child with a penchant for exotic dew rags and unshaven armpits. “She’s cool,” I told Count. “But her armpits make me sick.” I found myself sneaking peeks, they were a train wreck.
Beetle took an immediate liking to Shannie. Shannie became Beetle’s protégée. “I just hope Shannie always shaves her armpits,” I complained to Count. “What’s the fascination with hairy armpits?” Count asked. “They’re not fascinating, they’re fucking disgusting!” I retorted.
My fingers are uncoordinated and I could never get the hang of rubber banding the risers. I became frustrated and still believe rigging belongs in the realm of smoke and mirrors. Shannie took right to rigging and by the end of the summer was ‘unofficially’ packing chutes. “You better not tell a living soul,’ Shannie warned. “I swear Just James, if you tell anyone, even Count, I’ll cut your balls off.” She sounded like Beetle. Beetle was always threatening to cut balls off.
“My lips are sealed.”
“I rigged a chute solo today,” Shannie said. “A newbie’s going to jump it. What if it malfunctions? What if she burns in?”
“What did Beetle say?”
“Everything looked fine.”
“What are you worried about?”
Shannie sighed and rested her chin in her palm. “I don’t want to go tomorrow. I’ll never be able to live with myself.”
The next morning Shannie said she couldn’t go. “If anyone asks, tell them I’m not feeling good.” I wasn’t surprised to see Shannie and Diane pull into the airport’s parking lot. The jumpers were loading.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” I teased.
“Ha-ha,” she responded. “Who has it,” she asked Beetle.
“Four,” Beetle said.
“It would be,” Shannie complained. In the summer of ’86, students went one at a time. It meant Shannie had plenty of time to contemplate her pack job. “It was fifteen minutes of hell,” Shannie later admitted.
I joined Diane – who, clad in her customary denim shorts and half top, stood with a foot resting on the bottom rail of the fence separating parking lot from tarmac. I sat on the top rail next to her. “Did she really pack a parachute?” Diane asked. I brought a finger to my lips. “No one is supposed to know.”
Shannie paced from the staging table into the office, back to the table, to the manifest shack, back to the table, circle around the table and finally back to the manifest shack when the Cessna cut its engine so that the first jumper could exit. “The last jumper is wearing Shannie’s rig,” I whispered to Diane as I watched Shannie staring skyward.
“I’m really proud of her,” Diane said.
“Me too,” I watched Shannie resume pacing; this time she was intercepted by Beetle, who uttered a few words and led her into the office. “She threatened to duck tape me to the rigging table.” Shannie later said. Beetle had told her: “You may have packed the chute but it’s my ass. If anyone finds out, I’m fucked. If it malfunctions, it’s my balls that get cut off.”
“She really trusts you,” I told Shannie. Shannie bit her lower lip.
Diane grabbed my hand as the Cessna made its final approach. The warm softness of her touch woke every cell in my body; I was covered in goosebumps.
Shannie and Beetle stood outside the office door, their gazes directed skyward. A tinge of jealousy rushed over me as teacher and student stood together. The pilot cut the plane’s engine and I looked skyward.
“Oh fuck,” I murmured - my body suddenly rigid. Jumper four had a problem. As the jumper fell away it appeared the parachute malfunctioned.
“What’s happening?” Diane’s dug her fingernails into my wrist.
Then it was over. Jumper four was under a full canopy. “Thank God for a reserve,” Diane sighed.
“That’s not the reserve, it’s the main.”
“And you,” Pete Condra – the jumpmaster for the student load – said to jumper four. “Flawless exit, a great smile, flawless arch. It was so perfect I almost had a perfect load of shit in my pants.” Pete’s hands flew in many directions as he spoke. “Your arch was too good,’ he demonstrated with the back on his hand. “Your pilot chute burbled, it got caught in the vacuum created by your arch. It had no where to go.” Jumper four, whose name was Michelle, was a twenty-something brunette with a toothy smile. She would eventually become a sky-god who would be killed years later in a plane crash at a skydiving competition. “It looked like you were having so much fun holding your arch that you were going to hold it all the way into the ground. Don’t laugh,” Pete told the others. “I’ve seen it happen.”
After hearing Pete’s explanation, Shannie beamed.

Two years later, during the summer of ’88, a year after the Iraqis hit the USS Stark with an Exocet missile killing 37 American sailors, Count made his first jump. He didn’t have to worry about his chute burbling, he wasn’t talented. Ironic, considering two years later, as Shannie and I were making our first jumps, he was stationed at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky as a member 101st air assault division, the modern incarnation of my Grandfather’s old division.
If Count was nervous, he hid it well. “Nothing to be nervous about - other than little Ms. Ortolan confusing twisty ties for rubber bands.”
Unlike the first time she rigged a parachute, Shannie didn’t have to wait until the last pass of the Cessna to witness her handy work; Count was first to exit the plane.
“Not bad,” Pete critiqued Count. “It looked like you wanted to go into a fetal position. Then a light bulb went on and you remembered to look up. Congratulations. Good luck in the army.” A month later, Count left for basic training. Three days after Count’s departure, I helped lower a coffin for the first time.
During the spring of 1990 - around the time Count decided to re-enlist - on the night before Shannie and I made our first jump, Diane, Shannie and I sat around the Ortolan’s kitchen table sipping coffee. “I have something to show you,” Diane said. Shannie and I followed Diane into her bedroom. She handed me the cardboard box with an UPS label affixed to its top. A chill ran along my spine when I noticed the sender: The Reverend Floyd Meaks, Shepherd of the Hills Non Denominational Church, Pleasanton, California. “The box is empty,” Diane said.
“I can see,” I said turning the box over in my hands. “Why would you get a package from my grandfather’s minister?” I asked.
“Before he died, your grandfather asked if I could do him a favor,” Diane answered.
That’s why he was in her room, I thought. “You knew him?” I asked.
“He introduced himself. Anyway, we made an arrangement. Your grandfather said if anything happened hold onto my ashes until James is old enough. He knows what to do with them. I trust him. The minister sent his ashes here for safekeeping. To keep your mother happy, the good reverend gave her bogus ones.”
“I’ll be damned,” I uttered. “But what about the switch? The one Count made.”
“That was phony.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It was important that you thought it happened,” Diane said.
Diane and Shannie followed me into the kitchen. “You didn’t need to know about it, but you needed to know that we weren’t burying his real ashes,” Diane said.
We could have jumped the previous winter, but we chose to wait until the weather broke. “I’m not freezing my ass off,” Shannie said. I agreed.
Throughout the class, I found myself glancing at Shannie; later in the morning I noticed I wasn’t the only one. A forty-something man – who Pete Condra dubbed Sergeant Slaughter – with a square jaw, high forehead, and a horrible comb over mauled her with his eyes. Sergeant bragged he was a Philly cop.
“Does he think he’s fooling anyone?” Shannie quipped during break. “Like I didn’t notice he’s going bald.”
“Male pattern baldness is traumatic,” I said.
“How old is your sister,” Sergeant asked.
“You a pervert?” I snapped.
“I think she’s cute.”
“My sister is eight years old and has spina bifida. Stay the fuck away from her!”
“No. No,” Sergeant Slaughter laughed. He leaned against the outside wall of the office and took a long drag off a cigarette. “The cute blonde inside.” Chris, his buddy – a fifty-ish looking man with graying hair and the beginning of a pot belly rolled his eyes. “You have to excuse him,” Chris said after lunch: “He’s high strung.”
“She’s taken. Her boyfriend is a mean motherfucker,” I told him.
“I eat mean motherfuckers for breakfast.”
“The Sergeant is on the prowl,” I warned Shannie.
Never one to back down, Shannie asked Sergeant and Chris if we could join them for lunch. “I hear you have a boyfriend,” Sergeant said. We shared a booth at the greasy spoon next to the airport.
“I see you have a wife,” Shannie pointed out Sergeant’s wedding band.
“She died. Cancer, a few years ago.”
“The jackass isn’t even original. Howard Stern’s been saying that for years.” Shannie fumed after lunch.
“Why do you still wear it?” she asked him.
“It reminds me of our good times.”
“Maybe we have something in common,” Shannie glared. “I like wearing tampons all the time - they remind me of the good times me and my menses share.” I laughed. “Assholes understand flatulence,” she told me later.
As the afternoon progressed, so did Shannie’s flirtatiousness. “Look at those big black boots. Big hands, big feet, makes a girl wonder,” she winked. Sergeant kept a poker face. He even scolded Shannie that this was not the time, this was a matter of “life and death.”
“Give me your home number,” Shannie teased.
“Okay guys,” Pete Condra lisped. “You think you are ready to do it?” The knot in my stomach tightened.
“You remembered them, right?” I asked Shannie.
“Geezus Pete, for the hundred and fifty-second time; they’re on the shelf in the rigging room.”
“You sure?”
Shannie rolled her eyes.
“Let’s do it,” Pete announced. Shannie placed her arm around me and whispered, “Beetle rigged Sergeant’s chute to open lazy, very lazy.”
As we waited, Shannie and I sat against the office wall. Sergeant paced back and forth. “Stan would be proud of you. Hell, I’m proud of you.” She placed a hand on my cheek, the cool dampness of her palm betrayed her nervousness.
Sergeant stopped in front of us. “Better watch it kid. Her boyfriend is a mean motherfucker.”
Shannie glowered, Sergeant resumed pacing.
“First jumpers, manifest,” the PA announcer ordered.
“That’s us,” Shannie said.
“Bug,” I said struggling to my feet. “I ah, I ” the words wrapped themselves around my tongue like a car around a telephone pole. “Thank you,” I closed my eyes. My heart punched my chest for not expressing itself.
“Anytime Just James - what are friends for?” Without a word, we walked together towards manifest.
A sharp whistle cried out followed by Beetle’s soggy voice. Despite my numerous protests she insisted on calling me Jim. “YOO! JIM MORRISON!” she yelled. “YOU FORGET SOMETHING?” She waved the tube containing Stan’s ashes.
“HURRY YUP” Pete lisped over the Cessna’s prop. When we got to the door the jumpmaster gave us the exit order. I struggled to hear Pete over the prop. “Chris four, Chames three, Channie two, Chargent one.” I followed Chris through the open door on my hands and knees to my spot in the rear left side of the Cessna.
Pete barked last minute instructions as the plane taxied to the end of the grass runway. The plane came to a momentary rest before swinging around. The pilot idled up. “LEAN FORWARD,” the jumpmaster ordered. I reached around Shannie with both hands and held her belly; through her jumpsuit I felt her stomach vibrate as the plane lurched forward. As the plane accelerated along the bumpy runway, she leaned her rear-end into my crotch and guided my left hand to her breast. She wiggled in my lap. I squeezed her breast as I stared at the back of her white bubble helmet. My hard-on strained against my jumpsuit. Then we were airborne. Shannie guided my hand off her breast and gave it a tiny smack.
Pete Condra told Sergeant he was “hooked.”
Shannie asked Sergeant “Does the size of a guy’s feet indicate his endowment?”
He responded with a vacant stare. “I guess all the blood rushed to his ass,” Shannie said later.
“OPENING THE DOOR,” Pete yelped as the plane leveled off and made its approach. “GOGGLES ON, THERE’S GOING TO BE A WIND BLAST.” The wind rushed over us as the door slammed against the underside of the wing. Relief from the heat was immediate. With his hands on Sergeant’s shoulders, Pete leaned over him and stuck his head out of the door. “CUT!” the jumpmaster yelled to the pilot. “FEET OUT,” Pete patted the jumper on the shoulder. Sergeant leaned back and placed his feet on the small step outside the door. “HANDS OUT!” the jumpmaster ordered. Sergeant’s hands went out of my view. “HANG STRUT,” Pete yelled out the door. I looked past Pete, Sergeant Slaughter was hanging, his feet dangling in the breeze. “GO!” Pete Screamed. “GO!” the jumpmaster repeated.
Sergeant Slaughter hung on for dear life.
“YOU GOTTA LET GO! WE CAN’T LAND WITH YOU ON STRUT!”
He refused to relax his grip.
Pete grabbed the Jesus handle, leaned way out and hammered Sergeant’s hands. The jumper fell off the strut. I watched Pete lean further out of the plane, his ass was almost out the door. The static line clanked against the fuselage. Pete’s face reappeared in the plane with a wicked smile on his face. “CHESUS CHRIST,” he lisped. “THAT WAS THE LAZIEST OPENING I EVER SAW. WHO WANTS TO BET CERGEANT HAS A LOAD IN HIS PANTS.” The pilot lurched the plane, slamming the door shut.
Pete turned to Shannie. “YOU’RE NEXT KIDDO,” he said patting the floor. “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO FIGHT ME LIKE CHARGENT CHLAUGHTER? he asked. “YOU’RE HOOKED DOLL.” Shannie tugged the line, testing it.
I moved behind the pilot and grabbed hold of his seat. Pete kneeled behind Shannie. Rubbing her shoulders, he gave her words of encouragement. As the plane made it’s approach he popped open the door. Imitating the jumpmaster, Shannie stuck her head out the door.
“CUT!” Pete cried.
Shannie climbed out. My position behind the pilot afforded me a good view. Shannie hung from the strut. “KEEP THAT SMILE; I WANT TO COUNT YOUR TEETH.” Pete yelled into the wind. “GO!” She was gone, lost to a sea of gravity. The jumpmaster again leaned way out of the plane to the chorus of the clanking static line.
“BEAUTIFUL! ABSOLUTELY BEAUTIFUL!” The proud teacher exclaimed.
“YOU’RE IN THE CAT-BIRD’S SEAT,” Pete yelled to me as he tapped the floor in front of him. “No matter what,” Pete told me as I slid next to the closed door. “Do not touch those pedals with your feet!” In front of me rudder pedals moved back and forth like the keys of a player piano. My heart raced as I glanced at the pilot. I never felt so alive, beads of sweat danced over my body. “YOU’RE HOOKED,” the jumpmaster yelled handing me the static line so I could give it a reassuring tug. Pete’s hands worked my tense shoulders as he said, “Take your time, don’t rush, don’t get ahead of me. When I yell cut; don’t exit! Wait till I tell you. Understand?”
I nodded.
“After your feet are on the step, slide your hands up the strut to the marks. When I tell you to hang strut, slide your feet off the step and give me a big, juicy smile.” I could only nod, my heart was trying to escape my chest. My face and arms tingled “James, just remember to look up. I want you to tell me how many fingers I’m holding up. Got it?”
“Got it,” I repeated.
“Good. I don’t know about you, but I need some air.” I looked down as he opened the door. The wind stole my breath. I struggled not to hyperventilate. The jumpmaster leaned over my right shoulder and stuck his head out the door. His hair danced as he looked for the spot. When we were over it Pete’s tapped me. “CUT!” he yelled, bringing his head back into the plane. “Make him proud,” the jumpmaster said patting my back. “Feet out.”
I leaned back, took a deep breath, and stuck my feet out the door. The force of the wind surprised me. I planted my feet hard on the small wooden step. If I survive, I will never do this again. I’ll stay on the ground where I belong, I thought. I took another deep breath, grabbed the strut and pulled myself out the door. The prop blast rolled over me like a breaking wave.
“HANG STRUT!” Pete yelled.
I slid my feet off the step. I hung, the wind shaping my body. I looked at Pete.
“GO!”
I let go.
Poof! The next thing I knew I had a canopy. I laughed and laughed. Especially when I heard the radio crackle, “Jumper One, if you need assistance wave your hand.” Sergeant Slaughter, expensive French jump boots and all, flared his chute too late and landed hard, shattering his right ankle.
“I heard him scream like a banshee, and I was a thousand feet up,” Shannie said later. Not letting opportunity pass, Shannie approached the injured Sergeant Slaughter, his leg strewn across his buddy’s car seat. “You never answered my question,” Shannie said twisting her hair. “Is it true what they say about men with large feet?”
“Yeah,” he grimaced.
“Great, then go F yourself.”
Under canopy, I didn’t have Sergeant’s problems. I released my Grandfather’s ashes and watched them fall away. After drying my eyes, I marveled at the feeling of being suspended under a flimsy piece of nylon. The ride was too short, the ground approached too quickly. I glided over the pea pit and flared, the ends of the canopy tightened, the center of the canopy filled with air and I stepped to the ground as if stepping off a two-inch step. I exhaled as my canopy fell to the earth. Rest in Peace Stanley Alison, I thought.


Chapter 8 Miss Dead America

My mother made good on her threats and filed a lawsuit against The Reverend Floyd Meaks, Pastor of the Shepherd of the Hills Non-Denominational Church and Krass Brother’s Funeral Parlor seeking untold damages, at least untold to me, for permanent and debilitating physical and psychological injuries including, but not limited to, physical incapacity brought about by gross negligence and questionable business practices of the above mentioned.
“They caused me untold humiliation, permanent physical injuries and psychological trauma. I’ve been scarred for life,” she argued. The bandanna she took to wearing became her campaign’s flag. “Those charlatans at the funeral parlor will have to flip burgers for a living, and that preacher should be defrocked.”
“Your mother should run for chief-prosecutor of The-Idiots-Court,” Shannie commented after hearing of my mother’s pending legal action.
“She’s a litigious lunatic,” Diane said.
“She’s a suit short of a full deck,” Count said.
“If you croak, have your mother call Katzenmoyer’s! They’re Jews; they have the good lawyers,” Steve Lucas told me.
“If your mother would have listened to Floyd, none of this would have happened,” my father told me as we played catch with a football.
When I repeated those sentiments, I had to dodge a second glass. “Jesus Christ! Who’s side are you on?” she wailed as the glass shattered against the kitchen wall.
“She’s not a litigious lunatic. She’s a certifiable lunatic. She should be committed!” Diane said upon hearing about mother’s latest outburst.
Even the Lightman’s broke their silence, “You know,” Bear quipped seeing my bandanna-clad mother working in our garden. “I bet that funeral director wished the coffin did her in. Hell I’d bet he’d give your dad a two-for-one deal.”
“That’s funny, my dad said the same thing.”
I enjoyed my friend’s insults; their comments reassured me that it wasn’t my fault she acted the way she did. At the same time, those same insults made me feel defensive. After all, she was mourning her father.
When I told Shannie my feelings she told me to stop being an apologist. “Don’t enable her,” Shannie said precociously. When I argued that my mother was: “in a lot of pain,” Shannie countered: “That’s no excuse.”
“Go easy on her,” I argued. “She just lost her father.”
“At least she had a father!” Shannie snapped. “You know why I can’t stand her? She doesn’t realize what she has. If you don’t wise up, you’ll be just like her!”
During the long hot summer of 1986, I sought out Count’s company. I would much rather argue who was a better front man for Van Halen: David Lee Roth vs. Sammy Hagar. I was all for Sammy Hagar, Count was a DLR man. “Hagar can’t hold Diamond Dave’s piss bucket,” Count said.
During one of our evening trips to Wally’s, David or Sammy was the farthest thought from Shannie’s mind; she fretted about the inevitable retaliation against the United States for bombing Qudafi and the Libyans. “He’s not going to do a thing. He’s toast!” I bragged. “You heard it here,” she cried, “Qudafi is not going to sit back and let us rain bombs on his family without some American paying for it.” Two and a half years later, when the Pan-Am jet was blown out of the sky over Lockerbee, Shannie said, “I smell a camel!”
“You worry too much about that shit,” Count told Shannie in June of 1988, prior to Count’s departure to basic training. We were sitting in the maple tree overlooking the junkyard. “I’m telling you, peace is breaking out all over the place. The Cold War is over!”
“And I’m telling you, it’s not the Russian’s that we have to worry about, they have their hands full with Afghanistan. If I were you, I would be preparing for a warmer climate.” Shannie was more concerned about Count’s and my future than we were.

In the summer of ’86, I was preparing to enter eighth grade at Beyford Junior High; Shannie was entering the accelerated studies program at the Chester school – a private school she’d been attending since she was eight. She had her eyes on Ursinus College, the same school at which Diane was a tenured professor.
I wasn’t a horrible student – failing wasn’t a concern, neither was being valedictorian. Like everything else about me, I was painfully ordinary. Even on my report card, I was straight C, except for algebra: I finished with a B.
Although it was waning, the one thing that didn’t make sense was Shannie’s interest in Steve Lucas. Why did she have any interest in a geek like Lucas? She was Mensa material, Steve Lucas wasn’t Community College material.
I would never be mistaken for Mr. Popularity. Despite being in town a year, I still had more friends than the funeral director’s only son. I was of opinion the only reason anyone would bother themselves with his presence was that he had two hot older sisters. Janice, a recent graduate of Beyford High, who was entering her freshman year at Ursinus, and was unanimously voted best chest in her yearbook. Marcy, sixteen, like Shannie was also attending the Chester school, and like her older sister, had a great rack.
Rumor had it that the sister’s were exhibitionists who flashed their younger brother’s friends. I wish I could say I had the good fortune of being victimized. Because I wasn’t, Count busted my balls: “You’re the only guy I know who could be in a room full of tits and come out sucking his thumb.”
“Like you ever seen them,” I complained.
“Let me tell you something my boy,” Count wrapped his arm around me. “I’m not one to kiss and tell, but I had Marcy in the coffin show room. She’s a kinky girl. She wanted me to nail her in a coffin.”
“You’re so full of shit!” I cried.
“How could I refuse?” he continued.
“Bull – Shit!” I insisted.
“Don’t believe me, see if I care. But, next time you see that little turd Lucas, ask him how Marcy got that little scar on the side of her head.”
“What scar?”
“You’re not paying close enough attention,” Count chided.
“Yeah, it’s true,” Steve Lucas admitted. “She cut her head on a coffin latch banging Count. Got herself a nasty little gash on the side of her head, bled like the pig she is - got blood all over the satin lining. Jesus was my dad pissed; he had to reline the box. I got grounded for two weeks over that one.”
“Why did you get grounded?” I asked.
“I took the fall. The old man would kill Marcy if he found out about her little fetish. I always say; it’s better to get laid in a coffin instead of being laid out in one. Yeah, she begged me to tell the old man we were wrestling, that I smacked her head against the latch. I told her it would cost her. When the old man asked me if Marcy’s story was true and I said, “Yes sir, it is.”
“What a noble gesture,” Shannie said when I told her.
“Getting grounded didn’t bother me,” Steve continued. “I don’t go anywhere after school. Plus I ended up getting a good look at the best pair of tits in town.”
“That’s disgusting!” Shannie exclaimed.
“That’s Steve Lucas,” I said.

“I can’t wait for school,” Shannie said during a late August afternoon spent in the maple tree. The oppressive heat hung over the junkyard and neighboring Squaw Valley, building thunderheads threatened the hazy sunshine.
“F school. I’d rather sit at home and read.”
After a minute of watching the darkening sky, Shannie said: “That’s the difference between you and me Just James. The heat, the humidity, they’re like complacency; at its core complacency is oppressive, it saps us, makes us lazy. A thunderstorm, that’s action, change in progress – liberation. I love thunderstorms, they’re exciting – they’re escape from the same old same old. You see the heat and humidity as what is, to your credit you tolerate it – yeah man, if it isn’t broke don’t fix it.” She playfully punched my arm. “Clouds on the horizon, bad news, you don’t like their noise and excitement. Lightning starts fires, wind blows over houses.”
The first gusts of wind overtook us, the limbs of the giant tree swayed. Like when Shannie challenged the train, she closed her eyes and tilted her head; raising her face sensuously to the wind, her features contrasting the darkening sky.
I wonder how she would have reacted if I didn’t fight my impulses. I waned to feel her next to me, to feel her breasts against my chest, her breath upon my neck.
A bolt of lightning crashed nearby breaking her spell. Without a word, accompanied by an enormous clap of thunder, we jumped out of the giant tree and headed towards Fernwood. The rain came fast and furious as we walked through rows of Beyford’s past, wondering about the future. I glanced at Shannie, who stared ahead, her long hair matted against the back of her drenched shirt. I turned away noticing the effect the cold rain was having on her. I wished I told her how much I loved her! How much I wished she was mine!
We crossed under the trees between Fernwood and Shannie’s back yard. At the foot of the deck our eyes met. We stood looking into each other’s eyes. Without a word, accompanied by another clap of thunder, Shannie climbed the steps and slipped inside. I stood in the deluge, feeling the emptiness where Shannie stood. Oh God, if I could just relive that day! What I would change!

Our shadows grew longer in the early autumn sunset. A balmy breeze rustled the changing leaves. The school year was a few weeks old and Shannie made habit of visiting football practice.
“I’m so tired of double standards,” Shannie complained. “I swear the next one I hear, I’m going to beat the person with a stick.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“Why is it that when a guy asks a girl out everything’s cool, but if a girl asks a guy out, it like causes a controversy?”
“I don’t think it’s weird; I’d love it if some chick would ask me out. It takes the pressure off.”
“That’s because you’re you. And I’ve had a little time to set you straight.”
“Who you planning on asking out?” I crossed my fingers that Shannie was going to ask me to the Chester School’s dance.
“Same thing with opening a door,” Shannie paused waiting for traffic to pass on Bainbridge Street. “If a guy opened a car door for a gal, people would say he’s a gentleman. But what would people call him if she opened that same door for him?”
“LOSER!” Count screamed from a passing car.
“Remind me to beat Count with a stick,” Shannie sighed as we waited to cross Bainbridge Street.
“What would you say if I asked you to ask me something?”
“Excellent Eggs,” Shannie said, her eyes brightening up. “Actually I was going to ask you something.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Would you like to be one of my pallbearers?”
“Not that again!” We ran through a gap in the traffic.
“A dead girl needs helpers too,” Shannie answered.
“Planning on killing yourself?”
“Yup.”
I stopped and turned to her. “You’re serious.”
“As serious as a heart attack.”
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“Sort of.” Shannie rubbed a temple. “It’s just the pressure; I can’t handle the pressure anymore.”
“I can get help. I’ll talk to the guidance counselor tomorrow,” I said.
“No don’t! He won’t be able to do anything. I need your help, not the psycho-babble of some smuck.”
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Come with me, help me pick a tuxedo for you. I want you to look perfect.”
“Shannie,” I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a quick shake. “You’re talking gibberish. Listen to me, don’t do anything stupid! We can get help!”
“I’ll get help, but…” she fell into my grasp. “…for now. Just hold me; please hold me.” We stood on the sidewalk embracing. My mind spun. After a moment of silence, framed by the desperate, late season cries of crickets and the passing traffic I whispered: “Did you talk to Diane?”
“Of course I did!” She looked into my eyes.
“And?”
“She supports me,” Shannie answered.
“Has she flipped her lid?”
“Oh Just James, that’s why I love you! You care so much it’s flattering. But don’t you see? I have to kill myself! Well, sort of. How else can I enter the Halloween parade as Ms. Dead America? Wouldn’t a living Ms. Dead America poses a credibility problem?”
“Fuck you Shannie!” I cried. Shannie laughed.
That’s how Shannie Ortolan snookered me into her project for Beyford’s Halloween parade. She reintroduced me to the drawing she completed the previous spring. “That’s why I asked you about that little putz,” she was referring to Steve Lucas. “At the time I thought he was my only in for getting a real coffin. We could use our wooden piece of crap, but it’ll cost us first place. I talked to Marcy at school. She say’s it shouldn’t be a problem to borrow one, as long as we return it the same night.”
“Where are we going to get the money to rent tuxes?”
“There’s a costume shop in Squaw Valley. They have the style I’m looking for. Twenty bucks a pop. Diane and I will jew them down.” It was just like Shannie to have everything handled. As the Halloween parade approached a crisis arose when one of the pallbearers dropped out. “What’s his excuse?” I asked.
“What does it matter? I don’t have time for excuses, we need another pallbearer or we’re history!”
“Count,” I said. Shannie had resisted asking Count because of his height. In being true to her competitive edge, she felt Count would hinder our chances. “The coffin has to be shoulder-borne. He’s a foot taller than everyone else. It won’t work,” she complained.
“You’re too anal,” I said. “Do you really think anyone else put as much thought into this? We’re competing against kids in Smurf costumes. If we don’t drop the coffin we’re a cinch. Ask Count, you’ll have your six.”
For one of the few times, she capitulated to my argument. “Okay, you win. Count is in. But only because we’re running out of time.”
To stir the pot I called Shannie the night before the parade. “Bad news Bug.”
“What now?” she asked with an edge in her voice.
“Count copped an attitude about you waiting to the last minute, he backed out.”
“That prick! ” She screamed into the phone.
“He feels insulted.” I covered the phone’s mouthpiece. I was trying not to laugh.
“I’ll call you back!” Shannie hung up.
Oh shit, I thought, imagining her burning up the Lightman’s phone line. Less than a minute later the phone rang. “Fuck you Just James! You really suck!” she slammed down her phone.
I retired to my perch, hoping to catch Diane in some state of undress, I had no idea a bigger problem awaited.

I should have known by Steve Lucas’s behavior that something was up. He avoided me all day. I thought I was lucky - he wasn’t annoying me. Spared from his aggravation, I spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Shannie. I planned on skipping football practice and meeting her after school to complete last minute details.
It was impossible to miss Shannie as I pranced down the front steps of the Junior High. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, she stood on an island of personality. “Hey Bug,” I said.
“We have a problem!” Shannie uttered.
“Marcy ditch us?” I asked. Shannie in her pervasive manner, talked Marcy into having Janice, a creative art’s student, do the make-up for the pallbearers. Once Janice agreed, filling the remaining pallbearer spots was a snap. “Don’t even think of it,” Shannie told me when I wondered aloud about being so close to those breasts, “I’m doing your makeup.”
“Worse!” Shannie replied.
“What could be worse than that?” I asked.
“Let’s get out of here,” Shannie led me towards Lucas’s Funeral Parlor. “The Lucas’s ran out of caskets.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” Shannie said. “According to Marcy, there’s a casket crunch - their main supplier is on strike and with the accident on the Expressway last week, they’ve been left casketless. If they were a hotel, the no-vacancy light would be on.”
“Here’s the ticket,” Marcy said in front of the funeral parlor. “We can still use a box; the catch is, we have to take the stiff out and put him back when we’re done.”
“Fuck that!” I cried. “We can use yours Shannie!”
I didn’t like the look in Shannie’s eyes.
“It’s not a big deal,” Marcy said. “Wait till dark and sneak the coffin out. When your done bring it back and slide the body back in. Nobody will ever know. No harm, no foul,” she sounded like her brother.
“A change of plans,” Shannie told Diane. “We can’t get the coffin until six-thirty; have my court meet us at 6:45 in the parade’s marshalling area. Count, James, and I have to meet Steve at the funeral home.” Shannie then called Count and harangued him into borrowing the powder fairy blue pickup truck. “If you 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 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 narrow bed of the truck.
“Open it up,” Bradigan said.
“Whatever,” Count sighed and opened the casket’s lid. I looked to Count, who looked to the funeral directors son, who looked downward and didn’t fart. “I think I was shitted out,” he later bemoaned.
“Are we missing something?” Bradigan jeered as he looked into the empty coffin.
I followed Steve Lucas’s lead and studied the asphalt street. Steve Lucas broke the uneasy silence: “It was that Cunt Janice, she stole the stiff…”
“We don’t need to use that language!” Bradigan barked.
“You don’t know my sister,” Steve Lucas answered. Big Dick Bradigan slammed the coffin lid down and was met with Shannie’s continuous stare. “We’re going to talk with Mr. Lucas. I’ll follow you.”

“No body, no crime,” Shannie said in the truck.
The elder Lucas stood outside the rear double doors of the funeral parlor, his waxen semblance glowering. A chill fell over me as I caught his image in the rearview mirror as Count backed into the funeral home’s rear parking lot. For good measure, Big Dick Bradigan parked his cruiser across the curb cut. Count parked next to the hearse.
As the three of us approached the funeral director, he stared past us, as if we were invisible. His gaze appeared captured by the street light above the police cruiser. Formaldehyde clung to him like cheap cologne. Shannie spoke first. “I apologize; this was my idea and I accept responsibility.” He appeared not to hear Shannie -or chose to ignore her. Instead, he lowered his gaze, locking onto the approaching image of his son and Big Dick Bradigan.
“You should know better,” he scolded. Both Shannie and I cringed as he spoke - his voice screeched like the breaks of a freight train.
“Your right sir,” Shannie responded.
The funeral director diverted his gaze and scrutinized Shannie. “I’m not talking to you!”
“Sorry,” Shannie rose her chin. I stepped back.
“Janice set us up!” Steve cried.
“Oh?” Mr. Lucas responded. He sounded amused. “Is that so?”
“Damn straight,” Steve kept a safe distance from the ashen undertaker.
“Janice set you up,” Mr. Lucas chided. “There you go again, blaming your sisters. What do I have to do for you understand accountability?”
Years later, Steve Lucas admitted to Shannie and I what his father had in mind. Shannie and I were enjoying cocktails at Dino and Luigi’s when Steve Lucas stumbled in. We invited him to join us and after a few drinks the conversation came around to our Halloween stunt. “You know what that prick did? He made me sleep in the room with the fucking stiffs! The fucker locked me in there. He bolted the doors! Whenever we had a full house, he made me sleep in that room. “I’m putting you in charge of security,” he’d tell me. “I don’t want any more corpses walking away. I hope he rots in hell!” Steve Lucas sermonized.
“That’s disgusting!” the tipsy Shannie cried.
The elder Lucas made my mother seem like Mother Theresa. The Funeral Director’s idea of retribution for Shannie, Count, and I was much more subtle. He sent us on our way - with the warning: “If the deceased doesn’t turn up by 8:00 A.M., I will have the three of you arrested!”
“He’s bluffing,” Shannie said. “He has Mrs. Johnson. If he didn’t, he’d be having a conniption.”
“You’re wrong,” Count told her. “My old man deals with that bastard - the prick is half-stiff. He doesn’t get excited over anything. He’s as cool as a cucumber!”
“Count’s right,” I said.
“Whatever. I’m not spending all night on a wild goose chase. Drop me off at home. I’m getting a good night’s sleep. Do the same.”
“But, what if Lucas doesn’t have her?”
“Then you better get a good night’s sleep because you’re going to need it,” Shannie said.
“I think we oughta look around. I mean, what if Byrne took the stiff and dumped it in the weeds somewhere. Lucas, that big mouthed twerp.”
“Suit yourself,” Shannie climbed out of the powder fairy blue cab. “I’m going to bed.” When she reached the front door she turned and thanked us for being in her court.
“The way I figure it, the old lady can be in one of two spots: Somewhere behind Fernwood or at Ursinus college,” Count reasoned.
“Or in Lucas’s funeral parlor,” I added. I was tired and didn’t want to deal with a wild stiff chase. I wanted to go to bed and forget the whole mess. I hoped Shannie was right.
I tossed and turned all night. Tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I pictured the pleasant grandmother - wearing her stupid smile -lying somewhere in the junkyard, waiting to be Dukes next meal. I climbed out of bed and stared at the tombstones - their grayness illuminated in the moonlight. I made out the old truck resting peacefully next to the converted chapel. I climbed back into bed, tossed and turned some more, decided I was hungry, climbed out of bed and went downstairs and made a late night snack.
The old house creaked and groaned around me. The old joists and trusses limbered up for a new day. A large truck rumbled down Main St. shaking the house. I sat at the kitchen table and stared down a peanut butter and banana sandwich. An eerie calm fell over me, the events of last night seemed like a dissipating dream; the gist barely remembered, the details forgotten. About me the unnoticed appeared: the metronomic ticking of the clock. The inane pattern of the wallpaper, the texture the tablecloth, the knots in the phone cord. Even the brightening eastern sky gained my attention.
Above me, footsteps make their way across the floor. I tried to determine if the footfalls were my mother’s or father’s. The flush of the toilet startled me, my new found calm cascaded with piss down the pipes. Like the water replenishing the toilet tank, Mr. Lucas’s threat washed over me. I bit into my sandwich. God, let Shannie be right!
I passed out when I reached school. I slept through most of homeroom, bolting when the morning announcements crackled over the PA. Disoriented, I looked around the room. It was 8:10. Our fate was sealed! Count informed me that his early morning search was futile. Steve Lucas’s empty desk was another ominous sign - the undertaker probably had his son arrested first.
When the bell rang, I stumbled my way to first period. I looked over my shoulder, wondering which of my peers was an undercover cop. As the morning ground on, my paranoia increased. It takes time for a police report to be filed. It’s not like the cops would arrest me at 8:20, not even Beyford’s - who’s most pressing issue of the morning is the choice between Boston Cream and French Crullers. I was certain they’d get me early afternoon, late morning at the earliest!
Understand the horror I felt during Mr. Link’s third period Civics class. A police car crept up Cemetery Street. “Who can tell me who would assume the presidency, if both President Reagan and Vice President Bush were (A) incapacitated,(B) killed , or ( C )any combination of the above mentioned?”
Normally, the titters of my classmates would have given away what was about to happen. Mr. Link was famous for launching erasers at anyone who didn’t pay attention to his monologues. He was deadly accurate – his nickname was the never missing link. The police car held my attention as it slowed to a crawl in front of the school. I was kneeling on my seat when I felt the sting of the eraser on my shoulder. I turned in time to inhale a plume of chalk dust.
“Mr. Morrison, would you care to answer the question for the class?
“Donald Trump,” I coughed, gagging on the chalk dust. My classmates erupted with laughter. I couldn’t help but look out the window again. The police car had stopped in the middle of the street.
“Silence!” Mr. Link decreed with an evil stare and raised hand. My classmates capitulated. “Mr. Morrison look here!” Like my classmates, I complied. “What’s so fascinating?” the teacher sighed.
I blurted: “Big Dick Bradigan!” before turning my attention back to the street. My fellow window dwellers rose from their seats, curious to see what was a Big Dick Bradigan.
“See here,” Mr. Link commanded, snapping his fingers.
Across the room a classmate shouted: “Silly faggot, dicks are for chicks.” More laughter. Mr. Link was slow to squelch the coup, his attention held by my spontaneous case of Attention Deficit Disorder. My classmates used the occasion to launch paper bombshells at the classroom dictator. Not as accurate as their suppresser’s, the missiles missed their target.
“SILENCE!” Mr. Link bellowed retreating to the blackboard. “Who wants to try me?” He challenged holding up an eraser. “Everyone, take your seat! We will have none of this nonsense! Do we understand?” His voiced boomed. After a moment of uneasy silence, he barked: “Very good.” Turning his attention to me, Mr. Link continued, “You can tell Mr. Hillman what is fascinating about a Big Dick - Bradigan.” My classmates sniggered. He banished me to the principle’s office. As I gathered my books, I noticed the police car had moved on.
I was condemned to the horrors of detention - with Mr. Link! After making sure I understood the Speaker of the House of Representatives was the correct answer and his name was Tip O’Neil, D-Mass, and not Donald Trump, Real Estate magnate- NY, he disappeared into the hallway. I overheard him making time with an unseen lady teacher. Curiosity got the better of me and I snuck across the room straining to identify her voice. Good luck pal, I smiled recognizing Ms. Horne. Shannie would have a better chance than you. I laughed as I returned to my seat.
After hours, school hallways are lonely places - like cemeteries after dusk; subtle hints of decomposition lurk. I imagined Mrs. Johnson falling out of a locker. Freaked, I broke into a sprint, punching the lockers as I ran. I burst through the front doors of the Junior High.
Shannie sat Indian style atop the concrete abutment in front of the piano factory. Her face - camouflaged by billowing hair – was buried in a book. I slithered across Cemetery Street, across the sidewalk and up the short bench. I dove behind the hedge in front of the piano factory. I looked over the hedge, Shannie was floating towards the school.
“Hey Bug!” I cried.
“What the are you doing up there?” Shannie asked.
“I got lost,” I answered.
Since that afternoon, I have tried to sneak up on Shannie on occasion. I never had any luck. “How do you know?“ I asked. Beats me, she shrugged. That New Year’s Eve the opportunity to test her ability presented itself.
Diane was a big shot with Laurel Hill Cemetery – a Victorian boneyard on the banks of the Schuylkill River in the East Falls section of Philadelphia. "The cemetery has a hundred thousand ‘residents.” Diane said. “It’s the Main Line of the dead.”
New Year’s Eve was the birthday Diane’s favorite resident: Civil War General George Gordon Meade – Diane and rest of the Friend’s of Laurel Hill used the opportunity to sip champagne and act genteel. After a brief ceremony commemorating the general, the wonks retired to the gate house - the only entrance to the city of the dead - leaving Shannie and I to frolic amongst obelisks and mausoleums that populated the terraced cemetery.
A light, persistent snow fell, shrouding the cemetery in gray silence. Our words seemed muffled - distant, otherworldly. Despite the snow, the sun made momentary appearances, casting a dull orange glow over the necropolis. On the horizon, an occasional sunbeam slipped between the clouds, as if claiming another soul for the heavens. Thirteen years later, I would experience the same eerie conditions.
“Imagine…” Shannie whispered. We stood shoulder to shoulder facing a sandstone cenotaph. “…the thought that went into this, the symbolism, the choice of sandstone over granite. Exquisite.” At eye level rested a decaying sandstone coffin, the top half of its cover ajar, exposing the sculptured likeness of the deceased. Lower in the coffin, an angel rose from the heart.
“It’s over the top,” I whispered. Why are we whispering? I wondered.
“You can say that,” Shannie said.
“Nothing but a bunch of rich assholes trying to buy immortality,” I heard my father’s cynical tone in my voice.
“It’s decadence done right!” Her tone matched the grayness of the day. “James?” she asked.
“Shannie?” I answered.
“Nothing,” she sighed. Lines etched her forehead. Below us, laughter rang out. Diane led a pair wonks up a path. “I’m not in the mood for them.”
“I want to be alone,” she said. She headed towards the terrace overlooking the Schuylkill River. My eyes followed her until she disappeared over the crest of the hill.
“I’ve come into possession of one of the last plots,” Diane boasted. I slithered behind the monuments.
Shannie sat Indian style upon a bench on the terrace, not too far from Diane’s plot. Snowflakes speckled her hair. I crept from gravestone to gravestone, my eyes never leaving her. I imagined her gaze, staring across the river, past the rushing traffic into eternity. I thought I was finally successful when she said: “I don’t think they were trying to buy immortality. They’re celebrating life.”
I walked around the bench and sat next to her. “I’m going to die,” she announced.
“We’re all going to croak.”
“You have such a way with words,” Shannie said.
“Not the fortune cookie thing,” I protested.
“Yes the fortune cookie thing,” Shannie sighed. “What else does an empty fortune cookie mean?” Shannie’s eyes never relinquished their hold on destiny.


Chapter 9 Bumper Stickers

Shannie didn’t celebrate birthdays, she suffered them. “It sucks having a birthday during the holidays. You’re an afterthought - to everyone. Everyone’s too busy returning Christmas presents.”
“Or making plans for New Years,” I chided.
“Screw New Years!” Shannie cried. “Believe me Just James, there’s a world of difference between December twenty-ninth and January twenty-ninth,” Shannie was referring to my birthday. “Consider yourself lucky. Maybe, you compete with the super-bowl.”
“The super-bowl is bigger than Christmas and New Years combined,” I argued.
“Birthdays are a bummer,” Shannie claimed. The year my Grandfather visited Shannie believed her birthday fortunes were changing. Then Grandfather and my mother had their spat. “If Mary-the-horrid could keep her trap shut, Stan would have stayed and I would have had a decent birthday.”
He left without getting her a card. I practiced forging my Grandfather’s signature and spent my Christmas money on ‘Stan’s’ birthday gift for Shannie. I wanted to change her fortune.
The next year, Diane and I conspired to make Shannie’s fifteenth birthday festive - we almost pulled it off. Shannie loved Peking Duck. We took Shannie to Joe’s Duckhouse in Philadelphia’s Chinatown. We had a great time, until the arrival of our fortune cookies. I never imagined Shannie melting down over a fortune cookie – more accurately – a fortune-less cookie.
“What the Hell?” Shannie cried pounding one half her unfortunate cookie to smithereens. Diane and I sat speechless as Shannie threw the other half to the floor and stomped it; crushing it like a bug. “What ta mat ta?” Shannie mocked a staring waitress. “You neva see round eye go ba wis tic?”
Shannie was cranky the rest of the day. “I just want to go home,” Shannie sighed.
“I’m doomed,” Shannie later confided. “It’s my karma Just James. I should have never let Lucas talk me into moving that old lady.”
“Bullshit,” I said. “No harm – no foul. You called it - Lucas’s old man figured us out - he should have the karma problems.”
“He didn’t steal her,” Shannie replied.
“He probably did worse,” I said.
On the surface, Shannie’s birthday woes ended the following year - her sixteenth. She awoke the morning of December twenty-ninth, 1987 to find a black Volkswagen GTI sitting in the Ortolan’s driveway. I watched from my perch as she caught glimpse of her birthday present. Shannie popped open the front door to retrieve the morning paper.
I smiled when she noticed the GTI. She stared - her face in disbelieve. She shut the interior door and reopened it. “Yes!” her muffled shout rapped my window as she floated across the frosty ground. She circled the car twice, staring at it; afraid to touch it - as if it would dematerialize if she did. Diane smiled behind the storm door, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.
Five minutes later, Shannie pounded on our front door. “Just James!” Shannie gushed as I answered the door. “You’re not going to believe it!” She cried - her cheeks flush in the brisk morning air.
“Happy birthday Bug,” I walked past her and placed my present on the rear bumper.
“My Karma ran over your Dogma,” she read the bumper sticker.
“I thought you might like it.” My frozen breath tumbled out of my mouth.
“You knew! You knew I was getting a car?” she said hopping up and down.
Just James just smiled.
“Excellent Eggs!” she said. Our eyes met. Then she kissed me. I mean, she really kissed me.

Shannie developed into a connoisseur of bumper stickers; although her car never sported more than one at a time. “I’m not trailer trash and I’m not going to look it! There’s no way my car will beshitted and bespeckled by fifty ratty bumper stickers.” True to her word, Shannie never let Saphix, her name for the GTI, suffer the indignity of a single worn bumper sticker. On the first Saturday of each month, Shannie would scrape off the old and apply the new. The only exception was during the Gulf War when Saphix sported “Support our troops” for the duration of Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Even then, every first Saturday, Shannie replaced the worn sticker with a newer version. Saphix was socially aware, and never short on sarcasm. In retrospect, Shannie was advertising the state of her psyche. At the time, I didn’t know any better, I was curious who she would attack next.
If she couldn’t talk her way out of another speeding ticket, the next month’s bumper sticker would take a poke at the cops. Her personal favorite was, “D.A.R.E. to keep cops off donuts!” I was partial to, “Bad cop! No Donut!” We both felt, “Hey, who made 7-11 a police station?” was apropos.
Though she lampooned my father once, Shannie assured him he wasn’t the target when “Your kid may be an honor student; but you’re still an idiot!” made an appearance after I finally made the honor roll. I counted three bumperstickers in my mother’s honor: “All dumbs aren’t blonde; Worry about your own damn family,” and “ We’re not the brightest crayon in the box, are we?” When I asked why she insisted on still wasting effort on my mother, she quipped, “She’s probably still a bitch?” Her stab at my father was obvious: “Split wood, not atoms!”
Even Mr. Lightman, her self-proclaimed rent-a-dad, wasn’t immune. When he placed “If it ain’t country, it ain’t music,” on the powder fairy blue pickup truck, Shannie responded with, “Discourage Inbreeding, Ban Country Music!”
In the early 90’s, when Russell had a run in with a group of skinheads: “Racists eat pooh!” made an appearance - only Shannie toughened the language a bit. The obligatory: “Challenge Authority!” had its day. When the Soviet Union collapsed and the Baltics were clamoring for independence, “Lithuania!” showed up.
The most telling, were the personal references. “Give me a coffee and no one gets hurt; Gravity gets me down; When I grow up I wanna be me!” Those showcasing Shannie’s humor: “Deja Moo - the feeling you heard this bullshit before; The Gene pool needs a little chlorine; Mean people are cool.” The more telling: “The Eve of Lilith; I found it and now my finger stinks; All I ever needed to know, I learned from porno; A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle; Crack, at least it ain’t Marijuana; History doesn’t remember well-behaved women; Suicide is a way of telling God -You can’t fire me, I quit!”
“Spare me Just James,” she sighed when I questioned her about the suicide sticker. “For the fiftieth time - I’m not going to kill myself, I want to get do-gooders tits in a flutter.”
“You sure?” I questioned.
“Geezus Pete, you’re not going P.C.! If you have, help me find some rope. Okay?”
I dropped the issue.
My parent’s looked upon Shannie’s car with horror. They had to have known the scourge of pestering that was in store for them. Then again maybe they didn’t - that would have been par for the course. As my sixteenth birthday approached I dropped scores of hints. Most of my pleas were ignored. When I raised my voice; my father said: “Get a job, then we’ll talk about it.”
Hissy fits, usually very effective in my mother’s presence, drew blank stares. I found myself wishing for old times - secretly hoping she’d launch a glass and a bevy of curses in my direction. “Talk to your father. I have a lot on my mind.”
“He said talk to you,” I answered.
“I’m telling you talk to him!” She snapped. It was an education in bureaucratic run-a-rounds.
My mother stared blankly at the kitchen’s wallpaper. Her lawsuit against the Good Shepherd Non-denominational Church, the Reverend Mister Floyd Meaks, and the Krass Brother Funeral Parlor was scheduled for trial at the end of January.
“Look at it this way,” Shannie told me a week before my birthday. We were having coffee in the Ortolan’s kitchen. “You can’t lose. If your mother wins her case. Look at the money she’ll have. She’ll get you a car just to shut you up. I know I would.”
“Thanks,” I said stirring my coffee.
“Anything for you,” she whispered - I peered up from the cyclone in my coffee cup. “Anywho, if she loses. She’s out of your hair for a week or two. If you’re lucky, her plane will crash.”

I laid awake in my bed, listening to the wordless clatter of breakfast. I savored every chime of silverware, every clink of a coffee cup. With the silencing of the silverware came the shutting of the inner kitchen door, followed by the outer door, and car doors in quick succession. My father’s car briefly struggled before turning over in the bitter morning air. The gears ground into reverse and the engine whined as they pulled out of the driveway. I listened to the car disappear down Cemetery Street. The silence pressed me into the mattress. Tears welled as I watched the falling snow.
Over the following days, I thought nothing that my mother didn’t call. She was in the middle of a trial. I didn’t expect to hear from her. Though I missed her, Shannie was right - she was out of our hair. It was vacation like. The air inside our home was relaxed. My father no longer worked late. He was talkative. During that first week we talked more than we did since moving to Pennsylvania.
The Saturday before my birthday we spent the day looking at used cars. For my birthday, he did buy me a car - a ’68 mustang; a matchbox. Although disappointed I was glad to see his sense of humor resurface.
On my birthday, Diane invited my father and me to dinner. “What if Mom calls?” I asked.
“We have an answering machine,” my father quipped.
“It’s my birthday, I want to talk to her,” I plopped into a kitchen chair, arms folded across my chest.
“How many chances will I ever get to eat at Diane’s?”
“But?” I whimpered.
“Come on buddy, do me this favor.”
“She won’t forget me! Not on my birthday!”
My father sighed. He pulled a chair around the table and sat next to me. “James, I don’t know how to say…”
The telephone rang. I bolted from my seat and raced across the kitchen. “Hello!” I cried into the mouthpiece.
“Wrong number,” I said.
My father watched me. “I don’t think your mother is going to call.” His eyes held me, his tone was slow and deliberate: “Don’t bet on seeing her back east again.”
“Why not?” I questioned.
He took a deep breath. “A hunch,” he whispered.
“A Hunch! What do you mean a hunch?” I demanded.
“Relax James,” He held up an open hand. “Don’t get excited.”
“I’m not excited!”
“The morning she left, she didn’t say a word - not a single word - from the time we woke until she boarded her flight.”
“So?” I asked.
“Don’t you find that weird?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged.
“I sat with her a few minutes at the gate before I got up and walked away. I’d call her bluff, she’d have say something; right?”
I nodded.
“She didn’t say a word, not a word. I found a nook and watched her. She stared straight ahead. When it was time, she boarded without looking back.”
“Wupty do, ” I cried.
He walked out of the kitchen and returned holding a postcard. “This came in the mail this morning.” He handed it to me. It was a typical view of San Francisco - a cable car climbed towards the picture taker. Alcatraz loomed in the bay.
“Read the back,” he said.
In my mother’s handwriting it read: “I’ll be longer than expected.”
“She forgot my birthday,” I whispered.
“Yeah that to. There’s more,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked; confused.
“Doesn’t anything look suspicious to you?”
“Besides forgetting my birthday?” I obsessed.
“Look at the postmark,” he instructed.
“Santa Monica? “The trail is in Pleasanton, isn't it?”
“It is,” he answered.
“Why would she send a postcard of San Francisco from Santa Monica? What is she doing in Santa Monica?” I questioned.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I don’t think she’ll be coming back.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“I can tell you what I’ve done. I’ve canceled our credit cards. I’m not paying for your mother’s trysts.” A week later he showed me another postcard. This one of the famous Hollywood sign, also postmarked Santa Monica. On the back she scribbled “Rot in hell, prick!” To which my father said: “Your mother is such a fair weather Catholic.”
I begrudgingly agreed to go next door with my father for the remainder of that bitter birthday. The temperature matched my disposition as we scampered through the cold.
Diane and my father babbled endlessly. I peered at Shannie over my coffee cup. She stared at Diane and my father, her lanky hair tumbling over her face and slouched shoulders. Her skin, sporting its mid-winter pallor, reminded me of non-dairy creamer. I got up and dumped the rest of my coffee in the sink. Shannie was riveted to our parent’s conversation, her head shifting back and forth between them. Silently, I left the kitchen.
In the darkened living room, I peered out of the bay window down Cemetery Street. Streetlights illuminated the street. Each successive light lower than the previous until they appeared to rest on the street. I was admiring the sentinels of the night when Shannie slithered into the room.
I waited for her to speak. Her eyes scratched and clawed at my back. I refused to turn around. I refused to break my silence. I was convinced that if I did, I would never see my mother again. I wasn’t going to let my mother down without a fight. In the kitchen our parent’s laughed.
She moved behind me, her steps in sync with the Grandfather clock. Her breath tickled the nape of my neck. She drew a breath as to speak – she sighed and stepped away. I continued my vigil, mesmerized by the occasional vehicle traversing Cemetery Street. “She’s not coming back,” Shannie finally said from a corner of the room.
Fuck you Shannie, I didn’t say. On Cemetery Street, a shadow kicked a telephone pole, knocking out the street light.
“If you ask me, she’s doing you guys a favor.”
“I didn’t ask you,” I murmured.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I didn’t ask you,” I repeated louder.
“That’s what I thought you said,” she replied. The shadow, now closer, kicked a second pole, killing its light.
“Up yours Shannie,” I mumbled as I turned around, startled to find her looming behind me, leering through dangling hair.
“Look on the bright side,” she said: “If death comes in threes, you only have one more.”
I turned my gaze out of the window. “She isn’t dead Shannie!”
“May as well be,” Shannie sneered. She returned to the kitchen. Unable to reply, I did what I do best - I watched. My palms were in a cold sweat as I watched the shadow approach the telephone pole between my house and the Ortolan’s. The shadow kicked the pole - blackening the world at the end of Cemetery Street. The shadow was Count, on his way home from his own tryst with Marcy Lucas.

As the weeks turned to months and more bumper stickers spent their allotted time on Saphix, my mother was not heard from. “Maybe she’ll call over Easter.”
“Why do you put yourself through such grief?” Shannie asked.
“What grief?” I peered out the GTI’s window, watching the world race by.
“Don’t be a twit. When she doesn’t call over Easter, you’ll wonder if she will over Memorial day, then July 4th and Columbus day, need I go on?”
“You forgot Labor day,” I mumbled.
“You’re hopeless,” Shannie retorted.
“What if you lost a parent?” I questioned her profile.
“I did, ass wipe!” Shannie punched my left arm. “You’re an asshole!”
“I forgot; I’m sorry,” I resisted rubbing my arm.
“Don’t you think I miss my father?” Shannie whispered - interrupting the hum of the road. “I do,” she answered. “You know what? It’s really hard! Do you know why? I don’t know what my father was like. Your mother was a bitch, everyone knows that! If I knew he was a prick, maybe it would be easier. But I romanticize the bastard! To me, he’s Prince Charming and King Arthur all wrapped up in one. He’s your Grandfather and Clark Gable. He’s flawless - except that he’s dead! He’s fucking dead!” Shannie paused - her eyes focused on the road. “If he was alive, I might hate the prick, but he’s not, so I love him - and I miss him. You know your mother,” Shannie repeated. “You know she’s a bitch! I envy you Just James! I wish I could hate my father! I wouldn’t miss him so much. But I didn’t know him, I’m cursed to have Prince Fucking Charming as a father!”
“I’m sorry Bug,” I whispered.
“I resent you taking for granted that I don’t miss him. You presumptuous shit! God I wish I could hate you!”

I still fret, no less than I fretted the following Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday - my seventeenth. When my mother didn’t call, didn’t write - not even a simple postcard; I fretted even more - filling the following Easter, Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor day with knotted stomachs and dashed hopes. When the phone call that I knew would arrive, didn’t - I sulked. She may as well be dead, I thought. Maybe she is dead, I worried. If she was dead, she wouldn’t have forgotten me!
Shannie and I were watching the World Series when my fretting was hastened by the 1989 Loma Prieta Quake.
“Earthquake,” I said as Candlestick Park shook.
“Hella Cool,” Shannie yelled bouncing on the couch.
“You wouldn’t say that if you were there,” I scolded.
“I don’t need to be, you already rock my world Just James,” Shannie said, her eyes glued to the television.
When I wondered aloud about my mother’s fate Shannie asked, “Why do you think she’s in San Francisco?”
“I don’t know, but what if she got hurt? What if she’s dead?”
“I’d thank God for small favors,” Shannie quipped, her attention held captive by the televised drama.
Shannie broke our silence. “God, how I miss him.”
“Who?” I asked
“Count. I don’t know what made me think of this,” she said.
“Think of what?” I asked.
“I’d better not say. He’d kill me if I told you.”
“He’ll never know,” I said.
“Ah. Never-mind,” she said.
“Okay,” I said watching San Francisco burn.
“The night before he left…” Shannie began. CNN was no match for Shannie. “… I got a late night phone call. It was Count; he was in tears. He’d been arrested.”
I turned my head towards Shannie. "What?"
“You heard me. He was in some backwoods town along the Maryland border. The cops picked him up after receiving reports of a prowler - a naked prowler.”
“Count?” I laughed. “A naked prowler?”
“He was scared shitless. He begged me – I like it when someone begs me– to bail him out. ‘Bear’s gonna kill me, my last night before boot camp - I can’t get arrested.’”
“I woke up Diane. She talked with Count – talked to the cop, gets Count back on the phone and tells him she has it handled. I begged Diane to tag along.”
“’I won’t want you to miss this for all the sand in the Sahara,’ Diane told me.”
“What the hell happened,” I asked.
“Apparently, Count is a legend with the lady’s – in his own mind. You know he was diddling Marcy Lucas?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, he had a brainstorm.”
“He asks Marcy if her and Janice would give him something to help him remember home. You know how jealous Marcy is – it pissed her off. So she asks Janice to help. They tell him, “Well send you off with a bang. You enough of a man for both of us?”
“On the special night, they blindfold Count and drive him to the boonies. Janice tells him they’re taking him to her favorite spot. She said they drove for almost an hour. The entire time Count told them he would make them coo. On a country road, Janice noticed a clump of trees between two cornfields. No houses around. They led Count from the car.”
Shannie’s attention was averted by the TV. A car hung precariously over the bay bridge - a span from the upper deck sheared away from the structure and fell upon the lower deck.
“Get on with it,” I prompted.
“Patience is a virtue so shut up and listen! They led him to a clearing under the trees. They strip him and tie him to a tree. They toyed with him a bit, Marcy slipped a condom onto Don Juan, got him buku aroused and stole his clothes, leaving him balls to the wind.”
“No way,” I said.
“Way. They took his wallet, ID, everything – except the rubber.”
“They left him there?” I hooted.
“Hung him out to dry,” Shannie cried. “When they got home, they called the police.”
“Holy shit!” I howled.
“My kind of girls,” Shannie bantered.
“What did they tell the cops?” I begged.
“A naked man jumped in front of their car.”
I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
“Could you describe him? Did he have any distinguishing features?” a cop questioned Marcy.”
“Big oaf with a buzz cut, with a condom dangling off his puny pecker,’ Marcy said.”
“Poor Count,” Shannie cried. “Lost, no clue where and a bus ride away from the army.”
“Private Puny Pecker,” I roared.
“Private Puny Pecker,” Shannie repeated, giggling.
“It’s a wonder he didn’t kill them,” I laughed. “He must have been pissed!”
“Yeah he was. He was livid,” Shannie said.
“When Diane and I got to the cop shop, Count was seething. He was pacing back and forth in the holding cell clad in a borrowed pair of way-too-small boxers, scratching himself like an ape. He had a run in with a little poison ivy.”
“’I’m going to piss on them, the whole fucking family!’ Count roared when he saw us.”
“‘Keep it down,’ the cop yelled. To me he said, ‘Ma’am, be careful, don’t feed the animals.’”
On television, the upper deck of the Cypress Street section of I-880 in Oakland, collapsed. Reports of survivors filtered through Shannie’s story.
“'You’re a barrel of laughs!' Count told the cop as he scratched himself. Be quiet lover-boy,' the cop laughed at Count."
“’They’re all a bunch comedians Shannie,” Count told me. I had a date with those two cunts. They wanted to give me something to remember home by. Something that would get me through basic training.’”
“’Looks like they did!’ I told Count.” Shannie said.
“‘What did I ever do to them?’ he pleaded.”
"You pissed them off, You know, hell hath no furry…’ I told Count," Shannie continued.
“’Mr. Light-dick, excuse me, Mr. Lightman,’ the cop said opening the cell door. ‘You’re free to go.’ As we left the station the cop yelled after us, ‘Hey Light-dick! Don’t forget the boxers. I expect them back.’”
“'Yes sir,' Count faced the cop and saluted."
“Did he?” I asked.
“In spades, Just James. In Spades! Think bacon strip!” Shannie laughed.

In August of ’88, two weeks before he left for the army, Count led us to a place twenty miles upriver from Laurel Hill, past places named Manayunk and Conshohocken, past ports named Kennedy and Providence; atop a bluff known as Indian Point, which overlooked a river named Schuylkill stood another monument - its only inscription: Angel Wind. Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup along a railroad siding and we hoofed over the tracks and across the trestle spanning the river.
Shannie climbed atop the trestle’s hand rail and crossed on the narrow, warped balance beam forty feet above the river. Her forehead etched with concentration - her eyes unblinking, Shannie took one deliberate step after another, on occasion her arms flailed. Count and I gained the far side, sat under a tree and waited.
“If I lose my balance,” Shannie yelled from the center of the trestle. “Even for a second - a second,” Shannie teased. “I could die.”
“You will die Ortolan,” Count yelled. “Cause I’m not getting off my ass to help you!”
“For what?” Shannie ignored Count. “Like there has to be a what!” Not only does she make things difficult, she has to give a speech, I thought. “Would they say I died in vain, died for a thrill?”
“Stupidity,” Count bellowed.
“Yes, died of stupidity,” Shannie answered. Her pace quickened. “Died for nothing, what a way to die - for nothing! I like that. There isn’t any pressure in nothing.”
“The lunatic has a death wish. Well, Morrison,” Count slapped my back. “You’re going to have your hands full.”
I sat silently, watching Shannie. She was in the zone; her pace quickened, walking along the handrail as if it were a sidewalk. I admired her grace. When she reached the end of the trestle, she vaulted off the rail. Shannie flew through the air, her long hair raced behind her. As she neared the ground, her shoulders straightened as she extended her arms and cupped her hands downwards, as if two handfuls of air would slow her fall. She landed on the stone bed next to the railroad tracks, her knees flexed forward arresting any remaining forward momentum - a perfect standup landing.
A low rumble came from Black Rock Tunnel. “Hey Shannie, It’s your lucky day,” Count quipped. A westbound freight thrashed through the tunnel. Shannie ran towards us, a smile plastered across her face. The blue Cyclops emerged from its cave groaning loudly, shattering the midday calm. “Come on,” she pleaded. “Lets run it.”
“Do what you want, I gonna meet my fate meaningfully,” Count said.
“Come on James, get up!” She cried.
I leapt to my feet and chased my blonde siren.
“Run!” She smiled over her shoulder. The earth shook beneath our feet. “Run! Fast! Come on, Faster! Faster! Faster! Faster!” she screamed, her voice swirling in the wind. “Feel it?” she shrieked. Feels great! Just great!” she laughed, her hair dancing behind her. Her laughter pierced the freight’s roar. She reminded me of a salmon swimming upstream. I ran faster, wanting her hair to wash over my face. I needed to smell its freshness - its blossom. Then it was over; the wind replaced by midday stillness. The clank of metallic wheels faded into the distance. Shannie’s hair rested upon her back. Dust and grime that blew out of the tunnel with a cyclonic whirl settled around us. I watched as Shannie kissed me with her excited eyes; I returned the favor. I wished for the courage to feel her lips with mine.
“If you two want privacy, say the word,” Count said lumbering towards us. Shannie’s spell broke. She winked. “Thanks Just James,” she whispered.
“For what,” I questioned.
“For trusting me,” she said evoking the magic of our first day. “Let’s run the tunnel. We don’t have to worry about banshees.”
I watched Count and Shannie precede me into the belly of the whale. Fooled by the illusion of light at the far end, my friends, mere yards ahead slipped into oblivion. I took a deep breath and stepped in. Cool, dank air smacked my face. Water dripped all about. To the sides of the track, puddles lay here and there. In front of me a shadow moved. Elsewhere rats squealed. I took one step at a time; left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. The sounds reverberated off the uneven stone walls, blending together in damp, black horrors - a symphony of the grave.
“James,” Counts voice echoed through the tunnel. “Listen. If a train comes, bend over, grab your ankles and kiss your ass goodbye.”
“You’re funny,” I answered.
“Don’t listen to that asshole,” Shannie cried up ahead, surprisingly far ahead. I couldn’t see her, though the end of the tunnel was clearly illuminated. The paradox was maddening.
“I ever tell you ‘bout the curse of the tunnel?” Count asked. I jumped as his paw grabbed my shoulder. “Why so jumpy?” Count laughed.
Up Yours, I didn’t say. In the distance I heard a rumble. Another train? I squirmed from Count’s grasp and stepped deeper into the darkness.
“Not so fast,” Count said grabbing my shoulders.
“Let me go asshole!” I shrieked, elbowing his ribs.
“You pecker head!” Count shoved me, launching me forward. I threw my hands in front of me to break my fall. Jagged rocks seared into my palms. I swallowed a scream.
“Chill out!” Count said looming over me. “You all right?” he extended a hand to help me up. I ignored him. I rolled to my side. Up ahead, Shannie emerged from the darkness. She turned and stared back into the tunnel, hands on her hips.
“Be a douche bag,” Count said when I didn’t answer. Mumbling, he walked away. I found my feet and followed.
Count stepped into the light. Shannie spoke, Count waved a hand. She stood in the middle of the track, staring into the darkness. Though it was impossible for her to see me, I felt her glare.
“What’s the curse of the tunnel?” I asked Count as I emerged. He leaned against the tunnel’s bulkhead, legs and arms crossed. He ignored me.
“You had to bring it up,” Shannie bemoaned. Count shrugged. “Go ahead, tell him,” Shannie snapped.
“Just a crazy old coon’s tale,” Count replied.
“Geezus F-ing Pete,” Shannie rolled her eyes.
Count motioned us to follow. A hundred or so feet off the tracks at the base of a steep hill, nestled amongst overgrown vegetation, rested the shell of an old stone house. Both sidewalls were intact, though scarred by flame. A chimney clung desperately to a wall. Stones from collapsed walls were strewn about, small trees poked through the cracks. The remains of a campfire rested in the center of the ruined house. Broken beer bottles sparkled in the sunlight. Used condoms hung from a tree.
The ground trembled, an eastbound freight screeched out the tunnel. Ignoring the train, Shannie stood at the foot of the crumbled front wall.
Count nodded at the wrecked house. “They were murdered. All but one, and he blames himself.”
“Way cool,” I commented, foraging through the remains. “When? Why?” I asked.
“The 40’s, give or take.” Count answered. He squatted, investigating whatever it was that caught his attention. “Why?” Count looked up. “The old coon says he heard the banshee’s wail. Says he knew it was coming. Says he didn’t do nothing to stop it. He was walking through the tunnel one foggy morning. He always walked the tunnel; it’s how he got to work. He worked at Diamond glass, way before they shut her down. Walked all the way to town from here, careful to time his trip through the tunnel, didn’t want to get caught in the tunnel with the early eastbound freight. That morning wasn’t any different. In the middle of the tunnel, the cries of the banshee and the clanking of her chains surprised him. He didn’t see it coming - you know, the fog lurks in the tunnel too. He dove out of its way just in time. He laid in muck beneath the fog gazing up as thirteen palls passed. Thirteen sets of clanking chains overpowered his whimpers.
“Banshee Smamshee, what a dumb story,” I said.
“That’s what I said…” Count stood behind the dead campfire, his arms outstretched, like a condor riding thermals. “… until I found out how many people lived here.”
“Let me guess - thirteen,” I said.
“Fourteen,” Shannie said. I turned to her, she sat upon a fallen tree outside the crumbled front wall. “He was the sole survivor.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Russell,” Shannie replied disappearing behind the wall. A breeze rustled the treetops, in the distance, water tumbled over Blackrock dam.
“Bullshit!” I said.
“Think so?” she asked emerging from behind the wall. “Ask him, see what he says.”
A few weeks later I asked Russell what’s the curse of the tunnel. Leaning on his broom in front of Wally’s, he warned, “Don’t be caught in there when a train comes. Wicked things happen to people you love. Now excuse me, I has to get back to work.”
“It’s still a dumb story,” I avoided Shannie’s glare.
“How can people do this?” Shannie protested kicking strewn garbage. “This is hallowed ground.”
“Maybe for you,” Count said. “For everyone else, it’s just some dumb coon’s old house.”
“You’re an insensitive prick!” Shannie snapped.
“No one gives a fuck,” Count answered.
Choosing not to double back through the tunnel, we followed the footpath along the river. A bluff rose high above the water. Crooked trees pockmarked the point’s jagged face. Jutting from the woods, Indian point supervised the twists and turns of the meandering Schuylkill. Broken glass and trash branded the craggy surface like liver spots. In the distance, the double plume from the Limerick Nuclear plant lingered over the rolling hilltops. Jet’s contrails crisscrossed the clear sky.
“That’s a helluva fall,” I stood on the edge looking at the crawling river.
“Tell me about it,” Count nudged me forward. His quick execution of a full nelson kept me from falling. “Imagine being thrown over,” he continued as he drug me from the edge. “Than you might know what that little girl felt like.”
“What little girl?” I asked - my heart racing.
“The monumental one,” Count answered.
Splayed across the rocks, soaking up the sun, Shannie spoke. “Translation from moron-ese: Dingleberry means she whom the monument honors. By the way, she wasn’t little. She was eighteen-nineteen.”
“She jump or something?” I asked.
“You could say that,” Shannie said.
“She was thrown off!” Count said. “Murdered. Killed in cold blood.”
“Who?” I repeated.
“Angel Wind!” Count answered.
“That’s not her name, Jackass.” Shannie sat up: “Geneva Galetto, Galatchi, Ga - something Italian. She was from Tunerville. Her family couldn’t except that she killed herself and took their frustrations out on the world.”
“You lost me,” I said.
“She was raped!” Count declared.
Shannie ignored Count. “Her two brothers, biceps bigger than their brains, took matters into their own hands. Armed with baseball bats they killed thirteen people and blinded a fourteenth.”
“Bullshit,” Count argued.
“They set fire to the house to cover up their handy work.”
“Bullshit,” Count repeated.
“They got away with murder!” Shannie countered. “Thirteen times over!”
“More bullshit,” Count insisted.
“Is it?” Shannie leapt to her feet. “Tell Russell it’s bullshit, see what he says. You know better. He’d crack you with his cane. Go ahead, ask him. You don’t have the balls! Think its bullshit? Tell Russell it’s bullshit!” The veins in Shannie’s neck bulged; her face flamed. I stepped back. “I’ll tell you what’s bullshit,” Shannie turned to the monument. “This is bullshit!” She picked up the painted stones surrounding the monument and threw them into the river. I waited for Count to stop her. We watched the candles go over next. She was about to heave the white cross, the centerpiece of the monument, when Count decided enough was enough. He wrapped Shannie in a bear hug.
“Let me go you rat bastard!” Shannie struggled to free herself. Count managed to pin Shannie’s arms to her sides. Feet flailing, Shannie repeatedly kicked at Count’s shins. “Let me go!” Her wails angrier than my mother’s ever were! Count loomed over her, repeatedly telling her it’s okay, it’s okay.
“Let me go,” Shannie cried. “Let me go,” she repeated, her voice trailing off.

Recently I found the courage to ask Russell about the tunnel and Indian Point business. I returned to Beyford for my father’s wedding. The day after the wedding I slithered into JD’s Tavern.
Still dressed in his tux, Russell’s ass was parked on the same stool as that afternoon fifteen years ago. I again tracked down Russell for information that could bring me closer to Shannie. Three other patrons hunched over their beers. The television pleaded with the uninterested patrons to stay tuned for a once in a lifetime half-time spectacular. Russell, isolated in his own world of stale cigar smoke, peered aimlessly into the dark side of his sunglasses.
“Happy New Year, old man!” I said plummeting into Russell’s stratosphere of cheap tobacco.
His thick lips turned upward, his stubble the color of the early January sky. “James Morrison,” he coughed. “I never expected to see you here.” Laughing at his own joke, Russell fell into a coughing fit.
“You better change out of that thing before they charge you double,” I said.
“Boy,” he said, pausing to inhale his cigar. “These here tweeds never looked so good as they do on this old fool.” He tugged a pant leg.
Across the bar, a patron yelled to the television: “Fuck the new millennium!” He threw his mug at the TV. “What’s there to be happy about?” The drunk’s mug missed the television and shattered against the Saint Pauli Girl’s breasts. She continued smiling. The other patrons guarded their beers. Russell’s laugh was crusty. “You tell ‘em Ralph.”
“Fuck you and your fucking tuxedo, you old bastard,” the drunk slurred. Russell laughed more. “What’s the new millennium going to bring you?” the drunk slobbered. “More of the same. You’ll still be in chains! You’ll always be in chains! You dumb old bastard. You’re as stupid as the rest of them,” he cried.
“I’s going to be free, free at last,” Russell laughed, falling into another phlegmy coughing fit. He motioned for another shot. The miserable bartender obliged.
“Fuck y’all,” the drunk bellowed. He jerked out of his stool, sending it to the floor with a crash. “Burn in hell. All of you!” He stumbled out the door. “Happy Fucking New Year,” the miserable bartender uttered.
A couple of shots later, as the bourbon burned down my throat, I asked Russell, “What really happened?” He turned towards me, sunglasses staring into my eyes. I told him about the day on Indian Point. How Shannie demolished Angel Wind’s monument. The old man trembled. “It’s true,” he mumbled. Russell’s hands limp in his lap, his head hung low. “I didn’t rape her; we were in love. I still love her. After all these years, I still love her.” He grabbed my arm - his grip tore through my sweatshirt. “You carry the same cross. Till you’re an old man, you will love her. And you love her boy, you hear! Always love Shannie. Love her a little more each day! To the day they plant you in the ground, you’ll carry her cross. Yes you will.” He let go of my arm.
A long silence ensued. I decided to leave. Rising, I patted his back and wished him a happy new year. Russell spoke: “Geneva was with child when her two brothers did Satan’s bidding.” I sat back down. “She was with my child. She lied about the father. When her brother’s shook down the impostor, they came back and beat her. Beat her unconscious. When she comes to, they beat her till the truth come out. Then they beat her till the baby come out. Then they throw her off Indian point. You know why? She disgraced the family. They say she laid with the beast. And then they tell everyone the niggers did it! The niggers raped their sister!
“They said she jumped off Indian Point. And then they goes and built that sham monument. Their family still maintains that farce. After Butterfly did her thing, they built it again. The sham will outlive the truth.” I wanted to say it wouldn’t; that the truth always prevails. I didn’t, I would have felt foolish.
Russell continued. “On Christmas Eve, a foggy one, the reaper, in the form of those two brothers came for my family. As we slept, they broke in, swinging their baseball bats at anything that moved. Screams filled the house. I don’t know how many of my family they killed before they got to me. I know they didn’t kill all of ‘em; they save ‘em for sport. Busting their knees, keeping them alive. When they gets to me, they bust my knees, only they gag me and tie me to a kitchen chair. On the table in front of me, they took to raping my sisters - one by one. And when they were spent, they raped them with whatever they could find. When they finish with my family, they drag me outside. They set the house on fire. As it burn, I hear my family’s cries. They say they’re doing the honorable thing. The screams of my family fill the night, they tell me they’re righting a wrong; they tell me because of my evil fourteen people are dead. They say killing me let me off too easy; that they hope I live to be an old man, that I live with the evil I wrought. When there are screams no more, when the heat of the fire burn the tears from my face, when the last of my family is dead, one brother says, just so you don’t forget, we’re going to make sure this the last thing you’ll ever see. The other, he grab a tree branch, light it afire from our burning house and burn my eyes out.” Russell took his sunglasses off, revealing ancient scars.
I turned away, grabbing the padded armrest I studied the grime atop the bar. Our silence roared. The miserable bartender kept his distance. A tremor lurched through me as, less than a block away, a freight train rumbled across the Main Street crossing. “Don’t you go worrying about old Russell.” Placing a leathery hand on my back, he continued: “You have your own crosses to bear. Yes sir, You have your own.”


Chapter 10 A Decade’s End; Another’s Beginning

I rang in New Year’s 1990 with Jenny Wade. I was miserable. Shannie was with Beetle. Since Shannie’s eighteenth birthday, she spent a lot of time with Beetle. I prayed for a second dead Beatle.
“You don’t mind if I spend New Years with Beetle?” she asked – told me, at her birthday party.
What was I going to say? “No,” I answered.
“You’re the best.” Shannie kissed my cheek. I wanted to jump out a window. “You’re coming to Laurel Hill? It wouldn’t be New Years without you.”
“Of course,” I replied. New Year’s Eve day was better than nothing. I bared my canines at Beetle, who hovered behind Shannie like a dragonfly. “Why don’t you come along?” I asked the Queen of the unshaven.
“Gotta work,” Beetle’s voice rattled like coal down a chute. Freckles carpeted her face like shell holes a battlefield. Dark rings sagged beneath her eyes. Thin lips hid teeth the color of nicotine. I never knew Beetle’s age; Shannie never told.
“Too bad,” I basked in my momentary victory.
“Too bad my party is girls only.”
What guy would go? More importantly, what was I doing for New Years? I wasn’t going to spend it with Diane and my father. I’d rather mope on the couch. That brought another dilemma – what if, when I finally moped to my room, I spied Diane and my father ringing in New Years in her bedroom?
Desperate, I called Jenny Wade. As Jenny’s phone rang, I resolved to make Shannie as green with envy as Beetle’s teeth. “Hello,” Jenny’s voice squirmed through the telephone.
“What are you doing New Year’s Eve,” I asked.
“I’m supposed to go bowling - with my parent’s,” Jenny answered.
“Oh joy,” I mumbled.
“Why do you wanna know?” Jenny snapped.
“You want to hook up.”
“Like, go out?” Jenny asked.
“Uh, like, yeah.” I stumbled. My stomach knotted. “I don’t bowl.”
“You can learn. It’s fun,” Jenny said.
“I don’t want to learn.”
“Oh,” Jenny paused. “I guess I can stay home. I’ll act sick or something. Then you can come over. Like they’ll be gone all night – they won’t be home till like six in the morning.”
“Sounds cool,” I said. Since seventh-grade Jenny had a thing for me. Jenny’s dream was my nightmare. The idea of spying my father in Diane’s bedroom kept me from canceling. I should have quit while I wasn’t far behind, life would have been less complicated.
If I don’t piss her off, I’ll get my dick wet, I thought walking to Jenny’s. I almost missed my chance. I never saw the car’s headlights. The screech of brakes and burning rubber startled me. I stared into glaring headlights. “What the fuck is your problem?!” the driver yelled. I flipped him off and ran into the night.
Breathing heavy, I knocked on Jenny’s back door. I barely stepped inside when Jenny knocked me to the floor. Five years of pent-up passion unleashed itself. Jenny’s tongue forced its way past my lips. Who was I to protest? I got what I wanted with zero effort! Bear always said: “Be careful what you wish for, you might get it.” Bear never said anything about getting more than you bargained for.
The cold kitchen floor contrasted Jenny’s hot breath; gooseflesh tickled my spine. Jenny’s breath worked down my neck, I smiled - wishing Shannie was eating her heart out.
As Jenny slipped me inside her, I thought of Shannie. Then it was over; I released inside of Jenny. I bit my lip to keep from crying: “Shannie.” Jenny would have mistaken my head for a basketball and bounced it off the floor.
“That’s it?” Jenny cried. “I’ve sat at stop signs longer! I waited five years for this? You’re horrible! You’re terrible! You suck!” She pinned my shoulders to the floor.
“Fuck you Jenny,” I croaked trying to lift her thick hips off me.
“Is that what you call it, Mr. teeny weenie. Mr. Two Stroke wonder. Goddamn you!” she punched the floor next to my head. “I knew I should have gone bowling. At least that’s an all nighter.”
“Up yours!” I barked. Then stupidly: “Get off me lard ass.”
“What did you call me?” Her spittle soaked my face. Her hands grabbed my neck. I grabbed her wrists and bucked my hips. She landed with a thump. Outside a dog howled. I gained my knees and backed across the kitchen floor. Jenny sat against the kitchen cabinets, disheveled hair hiding her stare. “Steve Lucas is a better fuck!”
“Call him, he wouldn’t mind sloppy seconds!”
Her lips quivered. “I’m not in love with Steve Lucas.” Outside, a drunken voice yelled at the howling dog. There was a thump and a yelp.
“Don’t go there.”
“Why not? I love you James.” Outside the mongrel kept silent - the drama inside the Wade’s capturing its floppy ears.
“What’s the matter, afraid to love someone who loves you back?” Her words landed like a Muhammad Ali jab. I gained my feet and slipped out the backdoor.
“I bet that blonde cunt never let you get this far,” Jenny cried. “Happy New Years you fuck!” she yelled. I slammed the door. Cold air slapped my face where Jenny’s words left off. The dog howled again.
Streetlights and starlight accompanied me home. Laying on the couch, I hoped the nineties would be better than the eighties. They had to be, I thought. I was wrong.

In the lexicon of teenagedom, the two most terrifying words are: “I’m pregnant!” Believe me, I know. About the time Shannie and I took our first jump course, Jenny said the magic words. She cornered me at the seven-eleven across from the high school.
“What?” I leaned against the front of the store.
“Did I stutter?”
“Maybe it’s not mine. Did you ask Lucas?” I clenched tightly so I wouldn’t piss my pants. I imagined Shannie’s smile, more unattainable than ever.
“I’m not a slut,” Jenny cried, shoving me into a garbage can. “I don’t sleep around.” A crowd gathered.
“Really, You had me, Stevie boy, Yerrington,” Yerrington was a lie, but who’s counting.
“I did not!” Jenny barked.
“You told me yourself.” I felt the approval of the gathering crowd.
“You’re full of it. I won’t let that geek fuck me with your puny prick.” Hoots of approval encouraged Jenny.
“How do you know it’s not Stevie boy’s?”
“I didn’t fuck him!” Jenny crooned “Recently!” she mumbled.
“You didn’t fuck me recently either,” I countered.
“If fucking’s what you call it! Mr. Peter Puny Prick!” More laughter. “New Years wasn’t that long ago.”
Snickers and smirks teased me.
“You better think of something faster than your dick, Mr. less-than-a-minute-man,” Jenny warned. Her hot, humid breath pruned my skin. “I ain’t holding the bag on this one.”
I wished Count was home. He’d know what to do. I could try calling him. But, I didn’t know the number. I could write, that would take too long. I couldn’t talk to my father; Diane and Shannie were out of the question! Steve Lucas - I do better talking to a wall. So I did what most teenagers do: I avoided Jenny, I avoided thinking about her and hoped it went away.
“At least Jenny Slut doesn’t have AIDS,” Steve Lucas said. Jenny Slut was Steve’s new nickname for my favorite New Year’s date.
“Thanks for the sentiments, ass wipe.”
“What are friends for?” Steve Lucas slapped my back. “Look at it this way. The bun’s in her oven. She’s the one with the problem. I wouldn’t worry.”
I stared at Steve. “You really don’t get it,” I said.
“What’s the worst that can happen? She has the kid - you’re a daddy. You wouldn’t be the first to ride that ride.”
“How many fingers am I holding up?” I questioned. We stood on the sidewalk in front of the funeral parlor.
“Two,” Steve answered. “Why?”
“I want to know if you’re as stupid as you sound.”
“Listen,” Steve placed an arm around my shoulder. “She’s not going to have the kid. She’s going to get an abortion. She’ll hit you up for three - four hundred bucks. Take it to the bank.” Steve wore a stupid smile. “Hey, I made a funny. Get it? Cover the costs; take it to the bank.”
“You’re a regular George Carlin.” I rolled my eyes. “Tell me Kreshkin, how the fuck do you figure she'll get an abortion?”
“Ain’t it obvious? And you call me stupid. You my friend need to extract your head from your ass.”
“Enlighten me,” I said.
“If Jenny Slut’s parents found out, they’d kill her – away goes your problem. Right? Wrong! ‘Cause when her old man finishes with her, he’ll track you down and slaughter you like the pig you are. You’re not Jenny Slut’s problem, self-preservation is. She has to get rid of your little nightmare. There is no way in hell she’ll keep it.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I have it on good sources,” Steve said.
I looked at Steve blankly.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Steve questioned.
“One,” I answered. “Why?”
“I’m just seeing if you’re as stupid as you look,” the future undertaker mocked. “Marcy told me you asshole. Cough up three hundred bucks and you’re out of Jenny Slut jail.”
“How does Marcy know? And where the fuck can I get three hundred bucks?”
“Jenny Slut cried on her shoulder. I’m telling you lover boy, the bargain keeps getting better for you.”
“Shit,” I mumbled. “If Marcy knows, Shannie knows. And if Shannie knows, I’m…”
“You’re what?” Steve interrupted.
“I’m screwed. I’ll lose her for sure.”
“Like you ever had her,” Steve said. “Don’t go looking for the cloud on a sunny day. Cleaning up this mess is more important than what little Ms Ortolan thinks.”
The next day Jenny Wade confirmed Steve Lucas’s prediction. She cornered me in the high school’s lobby. “Listen, I figured a way out of this mess. You cough up three hundred bucks and all is forgotten.”
“Where am I going to get three hundred bucks?” I averted her gaze.
“That’s not my problem. I need it by next Friday, capisce?”
I stared at my shuffling feet. “I don’t have it.”
“Listen dick wad,” She mimed through a stiff upper lip. She grabbed my shirt and shoved me against the wall. “I don’t care how you get it, I need three hundred bucks next Friday!”
The beginning of a moustache sprouted above her chapped lips. I thought of crabgrass in a cracked sidewalk. She is going to have a hella thick rug. “But, I…”
“Rob a bank or something.” Jenny’s mousy voice was deceptive. “Ask your little bitch girlfriend,” she sneered. “When this nightmare is over, remind me to tell you what a dead-end that bitch is; she’s going to break your heart, and stomp on the pieces.”
I was silent. Around us the lobby bustled. To a passing eye we looked like a couple eking a moment’s privacy. “Three Hundred Bucks! Next Friday!” she released my shirt. The glimmer in her eyes vanished. She turned away, disappearing into the tidal flow of bodies flowing down the halls.
As the days dwindled, Steve Lucas assumed the role of my conscious. “Man, don’t fuck this up. She’s leaving you off easy. You don’t want her old man finding out. You’ll be run out of town like your predecessor at 907 Cemetery Street.”
“How did you know about that?” I cried.
“Nothing happens in this town that I don’t know about,” Steve Lucas boasted. “Anyway, don’t worry about my snooping ass. Don’t fuck this up,” Steve warned - his expression serious.
That evening, around the Ortolan’s kitchen table, Diane asked: “What’s wrong James?” I considered telling them. The words were forming on my lips when I changed my mind. Shannie studied me. She sighed and returned to sketching. Her work, a self-portrait, would eventually appear as the goddess Venus on a feminist jeweler’s website – an unknown entity in nineteen-ninety.
Later, sitting in my perch, I pondered my problem. My father and the Ortolans were out. So were the Millers. It was too late to ask Count. Bear and Flossy probably would help, if they had money to spare. Which left me with old man Lucas - the Detroit Lions had a better chance of winning the Super Bowl than I had of getting a nickel out of that corpse creamer. Bingo - the little twat himself – Steve Lucas, he saved every penny he ever made. So sure that my friend would bail me out that I fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
“You out of your gourd?” Steve Lucas barked the next morning. “What makes you think I have three hundred bucks?”
“Come on ass wipe. You have every last penny anyone ever gave you.”
“And I’m telling you I don’t have it!” He spit on the ground in front of my feet.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” I shoved him before spitting in front of his feet.
“Let’s say I have three hundred bucks, why should I give it to you?”
“Loan me,” I corrected.
“Yeah right! I’d have a better chance of getting my money back if I threw it into the Schuylkill.”
“Douche bag,” I snapped.
“What’s your point?”
“You’re a Jew, that’s my point!” I exclaimed.
“No, Katzenmoyer is a Jew; I’m a smart business man,” Steve Lucas said.
“I’d loan you the money in a heart-f'ing-beat.” We stood behind each other’s luggies, staring each other down.
Steve shook his head: “I wouldn’t get into this kind of mess. What you’re saying is total monkey shit.”
“You’re total monkey shit!” I hissed. “You suck the big one. Don’t lend me the money dickhead, see if I ever lift a finger to help your sorry ass. When I croak, Katzenmoyer will handle the arrangements. Cheap Prick!” I cracked Steve across the side of his head, sending him to the ground. I stormed away yelling next time I’d beat his ass till he shit nickels.
When I stepped into the lobby Jenny ambushed me. “Got the money?”
“Is it Friday? NOT!”
“You better have it,” Jenny warned.
“I have it,” I hissed. “Why would I give it to you a day early?”
She stared me down. Her moustache grew thicker overnight, I thought, “Meet me in front of the Jr. High tomorrow morning, 7:45 sharp. Don’t diss me; you do, you’ll have hell to pay.” She used to be such a timid little mouse, I thought watching her saddlebags waddle into the crowd.
Standing against the lobby wall I considered bank robbery. I imagined walking into Beyford First National Bank armed with a note and my hand in my jacket pocket, only to be laughed out of the bank by elderly tellers. “Hey Myrtle, get a load of this: Peter Puny Prick demands quality quantities quick - ha, maybe if he didn’t have such a dime store dick he wouldn’t be in such a fix.” I can’t even rob a bank in my imagination, I thought.
The homeroom bell rang. I waited for the hallways to clear and slipped through the front doors. Shannie sped by as I walked down Bainbridge Street. I dropped my head hoping she won’t recognize me. The GTI downshifted. I glanced over my shoulder, Shannie was turning around.
“Where you going?” she asked driving at my pace. Traffic piled up behind the GTI.
“Nowhere,” I mumbled.
Behind her, drivers honked horns. “Hop in,” Shannie motioned with her billowing mane. “I’m going there myself.”
“Nah, I’ll walk.”
“I insist; get in!” she said. More car horns.
“You’re pissing people off,” I smiled.
“You better get in,” Shannie reasoned.
“No. I’ll walk.”
“COMEON!” Someone yelled. Another car drove around our roadblock. “Asshole,” its driver yelled.
“Turd Blossom,” Shannie retorted. “Just James get in, you’re ruining their day.” I crossed Bainbridge and jumped in. “Nothing personal, let’s really piss him off.” She leaned across the seat and kissed me on my lips.
“FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, GET A ROOM!” the driver screamed. More horns blared. We kissed until we heard a car door slam. The driver was out of his car coming towards us. Shannie threw Saphix into gear and sped away.
“You’re a nut,” I laughed, gazing at her profile. As we scampered along tree lined streets sunlight fell through budding leaves and the open sunroof, showering us in golden light drops. When Shannie shifted gears, I noticed a ring on her finger. Shannie rarely wore jewelry, she never wore rings. I assumed the worst.
“You excited?”
“About?” I grumbled.
She peered at me over oval sunglasses. “Geezus Pete you forgot!”
“Forgot what?”
“Next Weekend, first jump course?” I stared at the ring as she slid the GTI into fifth gear. Shannie’s hair danced in the wind, adventurous strands waltzed through the sunroof. “You know, jumping, Stan’s ashes.”
“I have a lot on my mind!” I peered at the passing countryside. A lone tractor tilled a field. I wished I was the farmer – his worries couldn't be as bad as mine, I thought.
“Like what?” Shannie chided.
“Who is he?” I asked, ignoring Shannie’s question.
“Who is what?” She asked.
“Your boyfriend. Who is he?” I sat up.
“Huh?” She asked slowing for a stop sign.
“You heard me,” I repeated.
“Are you serious?” she quipped - accelerating the GTI.
“As serious as a heart attack!”
“Are you smoking crack?” She responded.
“You never wore a ring before. Someone gave it to you.”
Shannie evaluated me from behind her sunglasses. “I’m busted, Steve Lucas,” she said straight faced. “I know its weird. He’s so good. In so many ways. It’s hard competing with his sisters but someone has to do it.”
“That fucking Brutus.”
Shannie turned to me. “I thought your family was idiot proof after your mother left. FYI - I wouldn’t fuck him, not even with Jenny Wade’s fat ass.”
My face burned. Fucking Marcy, I thought staring at my reflection in Shannie’s sunglasses.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t want a boyfriend. I don’t need a boyfriend. If I wanted one you’d be him. But you’re too big of a pain in the ass; so I do without.”
She loves me, I thought. I smiled.
The rest of the afternoon, Jenny Wade was an afterthought – for a few hours Shannie occupied my mind. That night, it occurred to me that Shannie never told me who gave her the ring. The thought wasn’t going to keep me awake, my worries were history. Under my pillow rested my bachelor’s ransom. Unwittingly, Shannie solved my problem.
We spent that afternoon on Indian Point. We couldn’t be at Indian Point without mentioning Russell. In a heartbeat, I knew Russell was the man. I remembered Shannie telling me: “When in doubt; seek Russell out.” Like an omen, an eastbound freight lumbered across the trestle towards the darkness of the tunnel.
In the darkened hallways above Wally’s, pipes clanked and mice squealed. I held my breath as I walked. The place stunk. No wonder Russell smells like rotten eggs, he lived in a science project gone wild.
“Who be there?” Russell’s voice seeped under his door.
“It’s me, James.”
“James who? I don’t know no James,” Russell growled.
“You know me. James, James Morrison.”
“Don’t know ya,” he coughed. His voice billowed like smoke from burning tires.
“Yes you do, Come on, open up. It’s James. James Morrison. You know Shannie’s friend.”
He didn’t answer. I pressed my ear against the door. Inside his feet puttered to and fro. A greasy film clung to my ear as I pulled away.
“Russell? You okay?” I asked.
“Oh, that James.” When he opened the door, the smell of pot embraced me. “I thought it was those pain-in-the-asses Jehovah’s Witnesses again. You know, telling me all about the wrongs of my ways. Telling me they can offer me salvation. I always told them they want salvation, come smoke a lid with me, that’ll salvatate ya.”
Russell’s stoned, I thought, awed. I never knew he partied. It was hella greatness seeing him high. “Come on in boy. Ain’t often I get visitors who ain’t trying to save my ass.” As I entered Russell’s hand flew up against my chest. “You ain’t trying to save my ass, is ya?”
“Hell no,” I said.
“That’s good, Cause I’d rather laugh with the saints, than cry with the sinners.”
“I’d rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints,” I corrected.
“You wouldn’t be busting a blind man’s stones now, would ya?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’ll take you word for it,” he coughed.
“Actually, I was hoping you could save my ass.”
“Now that’s a different story. Take a seat boy.” He motioned for me to sit on his couch. Calling it a couch was generous – it’s legs were gone and chunks of cushions missing. Like its owner, it had seen better days. The couch, like a three legged dog with bad breath, was one only its owner could love. In front of the couch sat a coffee table, it’s top littered with roaches – the joint kind - cigar butts, ashes and beer cans in various stages of use. A candle burned in the middle of the table. “Tell me boy, how can I save yo ass?” Russell sanded, his voice contaminated with sawdust.
“Well I, um, got, um, I knocked someone up.”
He scowled. If his eyes could see they would have burned a hole in me. His hand tensed on his cane. “It ain’t my little Butterfly now, is it?” he asked. His cane rose off the floor.
“No!”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to beat you senseless with my cane here,” he said. Russell stroked the cane like a golfer his favorite club. “We wouldn’t want anything bad happenin’ to our Ms. Shannie now, would we?”
“No sir,” I intoned.
“I’m glad we see eye to eye.” Russell fell into another chorus of coughs. “Gotta change my brand,” he said pounding a fist against his chest.
“Yeah you should.”
“You didn’t come here to discuss my health now, did you?” The old man asked.
“No sir, I didn’t.”
“Good. Now, who is she?”
“Who is whom?” I asked absentmindedly.
Leaning forward in his seat, Russell said: “Cut the shit Junior. You came to me with a problem. If you want my help, you’ve gotta tell me who’s your problem, or you can walk yo ass right out that door and let me be. Them the rules, you don’t like ‘em, lump ‘em.”
I fell back into the couch. So much for Russell being a fool, I thought.
“Jenny Wade,” I exhaled.
“The Wade’s from Church Street?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Oh boy,” Russell whistled. “You know how to pick ‘em.”
I shrugged.
“You could have knocked up a good Irish-catholic or Chinese girl or something - you had to knock up a Sicilian. Oh Peter, Paul and Mary.” Russell fell back into his chair. The noise of Main Street drifted up and across the room. “Boy, never cross a Sicilian.” Russell fumbled for a cigarette among the butts and roaches. After lighting it, he took a deep drag: “What she want to do about it? She want a keep it?”
“No,” I answered.
“How much she shaking you down fo?” Russell exhaled a plume of smoke.
“Three hundred bucks.”
“And you don’t have it,” Russell’s glasses studied me.
“You broke the code.”
In the apartment above a couple began arguing, a baby wailed. Russell paused, maybe listening to the argument, maybe considering if he should bother. Years later, Russell told me it was the argument that made his decision. He imagined the couple to be me and Jenny Wade.
“If I help you?” Russell said between his separated incisors.
“You’d be the shit,” I smiled.
“I’m already the shit,” Russell shot back. “How you going pay me back?”
“Uh, like I’ll get a job,” I spouted. “Yeah, I’ll get a job!”
“You better,” Russell inhaled his cigarette holding the tar and nicotine in his lungs - considering me with sightless eyes – before exhaling. “This here the deal. I get you the money you need - I take it you need it yesterday…”
“Tomorrow,” I interrupted.
“Like I was saying – here’s the deal: I get you the money; you pay me back in full with a little bit interest say by, mid-June.”
“What kind of interest?”
“Nothin’ steep, enough to keep you honest,” Russell smiled, a sly smile.
“What’s enough to keep me honest?”
“Boy, how’s I see it, you in no position to negotiate rates.”
“I’m not negotiating, I’m asking.”
Russell laughed. A glass shattered against an upstairs wall. The wife screamed obscenities. I shivered – I thought of my mother.
“Ten percent,” Russell laughed.
“Ten percent! That’s robbery.”
Russell roared: “Boy you is silly. You don’t know a bargain when it bites ya. That’s thirty dollars. Get money on the street and see what you pay.”
Who was I to argue? I agreed to Russell’s terms. When June arrived I handed Russell an envelope, he handed me back thirty dollars. I knew better than to listen to Steve Lucas. The future mortician/con artist advised. “He’s blind, he won’t know how much you give him. Short him thirty.”
“You’re an asshole.” We were in Steve’s room spying on his sisters. They were working on their early season tans.
“Last time I looked greenbacks aren’t printed in braille. Look,” he nudged my arm. “Look at Marcy, she’s going to do it; there she goes, there she goes, there they are,” he cried. In the yard below, Marcy bared her tits to the wind. “Ain’t she bustluscious? I mean she’s gotta have the best rack you’ve ever seen.”
“She’s you’re sister.”
“She’s not you’re sister,” he quipped.
“You need help,” I said while focusing on the best rack ever.
After meeting with Russell I felt better than a private audience with Marcy. My worries were over!
The next morning Jenny Wade waited for me at the corner of Bainbridge and Cemetery Streets. “You’ve got the money?”
“At least say Good Morning.”
Jenny held out her palm.
“We were supposed to meet in front of the Junior High.”
“And let you slip through my fingers.” She paused – then added. “Slime ball.”
“Why so bitter? It’s a beautiful morning.”
“Cut the shit. Where’s my money? Do you have it or not?” Jenny hissed.
“What do you think?”
“You better have it asshole, or this will be your sorriest day. You’ll wish you stayed in California.”
“You think?” I stared her down.
She stared up at me, trying to snarl. I walked past her towards the High School.
“Yo asshole! If you know what’s good for you, you’d stop!” I stopped. My back facing her. “Listen Douche Bag. For you sake, I hope you have the money, especially since that big goon friend of yours isn’t around to protect your ass anymore.”
“What are you going to do?”
Jenny shoved me. I stumbled but kept my balance. I reached inside my jacket for the envelope. Jenny watched too many mob flicks, when she saw me reach inside my pocket she stepped back.
“Here’s your Goddamn money.” I held the envelope in front of me. As she reached for it, I lifted it out of reach. By now, a crowd formed.
I taunted her as she jumped, her short, stocky frame failing to reach my outstretched hand. “Give it to me you prick,” she screamed.
I lowered the envelope, waved it in front of her, only to raise it when she lunged. “I already did, and now you’re knocked up.”
Jenny’s beady eyes glowered. Her right foot found its mark. I crumpled to the ground. Laughter erupted as I brought my knees to my chest. I cursed in agony. Jenny snatched the envelope. For good measure, she kicked my lower back and then my ass, before storming off.
From that day on, Jenny was known as The Nutcracker. My new nickname was Mouse. Lucas said it was because how I squealed after Jenny’s foot found paydirt. On a positive note, I only had two months of public humiliation before graduation.
Two months after graduation, world events happened. Our little corner of Cemetery Street would never be the same. August 2nd, nineteen ninety isn’t an infamous day. But it did begin a downward spiral that twisted through January 16th, and March 2nd, nineteen ninety-one and culminated on December 19th, nineteen ninety-eight. How I wish those dates could be just meaningless days in my pathetically petty life.
“Did you watch the news?” Shannie asked on August 2nd.
“No.”
“Iraq invaded Kuwait.”
“So?”
“There’s going to be a war.”
“What’s the big deal?” As time passed, I understood her emotion. Count was in the middle of the mess. So began our vigil; CNN our alter.
“Trust me, good old Mr. Thousand points of light isn’t going to sit by and watch Saddam suck up the oil.
“That’s the first step,” Shannie proclaimed when President Bush announced an embargo of Iraq. “But that’s not good enough!” Days later as the European Community and the U.N. announced like embargoes. Shannie told the television, “Bush is lining up the dominos, it’s a matter of time before he tips them.”
What really had Shannie upset was Count not returning phone calls. “He’s not getting my messages,” she lamented. “Why else wouldn’t he return my calls?”
“Maybe he’s busy preparing for war,” I said. Shannie scowled. “He is a soldier; war is his job.”
“You’re an asshole!”
I shrugged and returned my attention to CNN. News broke that the Saudi’s invited United States military forces into the kingdom. In the days following, Shannie and I watched endless flights of men and materiel head for Saudi Arabia.
The morning of August 17th began like any other. I crawled out of bed, took a quick glance at the Ortolan house, and stumbled into the shower. I had a busy day at work. We had two funerals. Two graves needed to be opened and sealed. Working for Bear wasn’t bad, the pay sucked, but grave digging wasn’t a career - just a way to earn a few bucks before starting community college. Since the Iraqi business started, Bear was testy. I can’t blame him, we all were. In Fernwood, it was impossible not to feel tension lurking behind every tombstone. Considering the juxtaposition of his and his only child’s professions, I’m sure Bear couldn’t escape the obvious conclusion - I couldn’t.
Such thoughts filled my head as I made breakfast. The phone rang, breaking my trance. “Jesus Christ Morrison, you always so pleasant in the morning?” Count asked.
“Hey dude! What’s up?”
“You a moron?” he laughed. “Haven’t been watching the news?”
“What a pisser, I….”
“We missed Panama, we not missing this one.”
“Cool,” I answered stupidly.
“Morrison, I can’t talk long, listen up. We’re shippin’ out for Saudi in a few hours. I want you to look after Flossy, you hear? She’s going to be a nervous wreck. Tell her I’m fine. Tell her not to listen to all the negative bullshit on the news. We’re pro’s doing a pro’s job.” Count paused as heavy equipment rumbled by. “Take care of Ortolan,” he resumed. “She’s too smart for her own good. But she’s fragile. When I get back, I’m going to sit you two down and have a talk about the ways of the world.”
“Yeah,” I smiled.
“Good. We don’t have to worry about Mrs. O. And my old man can handle himself. Don’t let me down, I don’t want to hear about any problems at home when I’m in the desert, or I’ll come back and straighten you out. You hear me?”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” I mocked.
“Good. Don’t panic when you don’t hear from me, far as I know there ain’t no phones in the desert. I promised Shannie I’ll write her every chance I get. Don’t take it personal if you don’t hear from me. I promised too much agreeing to write Ortolan. I’m sure she’ll show you my letters.”
“Will do,” I answered.
“If your grandfather could see me now - patch and all.”
“He’d be proud of you,” I said. “If he was alive, he’d buy you a beer.”
His tone turned somber. “You’ve been like the brother I never had. If anything happens to me, help Bear take care of things. You make sure everybody is okay.”
“Sure thing,” I answered.
“Cool,” he repeated. “I have to run. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck; give’ em hell.”
“Good-bye James,” he said.
“Godspeed dude,” I answered.
The line went dead.
Godspeed? I questioned the persistent dial tone. Where the fuck did that come from? I stared at receiver. It wasn’t part of my vocabulary. A sour taste settled in my mouth as I returned the receiver to its cradle. Count never said Good-bye, ever!
I spent many late summer and early autumn evenings in my perch, gazing past rows of gravestones towards the converted chapel. I witnessed the dying sun pursued across the cemetery by dusk’s melancholy gray. Each night, the security light atop the maintenance shed light flickered on, a lone sentinel against eternal blackness.
He’ll be all right, I tried convincing myself. As desert shield drug on, my doubts deepened. Hope seemed fleeting as the late autumn sun.


Chapter 11 Letters

Among the greatest of Shannie’s accomplishments was haranguing Count into journaling his experiences during Desert Shield/Desert Storm. In school, Count never wrote a single paper. I have it on good information he paid Shannie to write his. Count wasn’t Harvard material, but he wasn’t anyone’s idiot. He’s letters prove he didn’t apply himself in school – he applied himself at life.
Count’s letters are treasures. Now a days, when I make it home, its tradition to sit about Diane’s kitchen table and reread Count’s words. We’re blessed with the opportunity to glimpse the possibility life once promised, if only we had the energy to recapture its elusiveness.
We share bittersweet laughs seeing how Count struggled not to let his trash mouth run amok. I’ve edited out most of his four letter words while trying to maintain his personality. As his letter writing campaign progressed, scribbled out profanities became less-frequent. Here’s an example of how his letters would have read: We arrived in fucking country yesterday. We flew into fucking Dhahran, King Fucking Fahd… To quote Count: “You get the picture?”

Count’s Letters:

Dear Shannie, August 19th, 1990

We arrived in country yesterday. We flew into Dhahran, King Fahd International Airport. On the flight, some idiot started a rumor that we’d have to come off the plane gun’s blazing; that the Iraqi’s would be waiting. When we landed, I guess you can say that we unloaded with our asses blazing. Stepping out of the plane was like stepping into a clothes dryer. Somebody said it was 142 on the tarmac, 128 on the desert floor. I don’t know if that’s true. Whatever it was, I never felt heat like this before. I feel like a stick of butter in a skillet. I’m telling you, all you do is sweat. Get a load of this shit, we have orders to drink eight gallons of water a day. You read me right! Eight gallons - a person- a day. I don’t know about anyone else, but this is one order I won’t have a problem following. I never thought I could piss so much. I feel like a walking water recycling factory.
And if the heat ain’t bad enough, the flies are freaking atrocious. They’re national bird of Saudi Arabia. Imagine the Russian Jew’s junkyard in mid-July, times it by a million. You get the picture? And if the flies ain’t bad enough there’s this dust, an engineer buddy of mine says it’s from marl being ground by trucks and boots, it gets on everything; it sticks to you like flour. Mix that dust and heat and you kind of feel like you’re in a baker’s oven. Other than that, this place is great - better than Hawaii! You really need to contact a travel agent and book a flight. You don’t know what you’re missing. Do me a favor and tell everyone I’m fine. Phones are scarce so I doubt I’ll be calling anyone.

Count

PS. This letter thing ain’t too bad. I don’t think I’ll have a problem writing home like you asked. Hell, I think I’m going to need to. Keep me from going nuts.


Shannie, August 26th, 1990

This place is the twilight zone!. We didn’t step out of a plane into Saudi. We stepped out into hell! In hell there ain’t no fire and brimstone, there’s sun, dust and flies. Remember the Amityville horror? The one with all the flies - that’s almost as bad as this dung pile. And the heat, it presses so hard against you, you feel claustrophobic in the wide open desert. You best say your prayers girl, ‘cause if you don’t, when you croak, you going to find yourself in Saudi Arabia.
The fan belts, that’s what we call the Saudis, are building this tent city for us. These tents are called Hajs, they use these things for the pilgrims who visit Mecca. Other than keeping out the sun, I wouldn’t use ‘em for toilet paper, the goddamn things are cheap. When a wind blows up, the tents blow away. I guess it’s the fan belts way of telling us to hurry the hell up and get the job done.
There’s a lot of mistrust between the Saudi’s and us. Because of the terrorist threat, they’re only permitted to work under the eyes of our MPs. I guess they think we’re going to like corrupt their morals, rape their women or soil their sand or something. I mean they’re always throwing you the evil eye, lets you know that they don’t like us being here, but they’re also smart enough to know the alternative is worse. One thing I like about those fuckers is this rule they have with each other. When they’re standing up the hajs, and they go about hammering the stakes into the ground, if one of them smashes the other guy’s hand with the sledge, they switch spots, you know, the spotter becomes the sledge swinger and the sledge swinger becomes the spotter, pretty clever if you ask me. I think the army should take note, if officers fuck up, they should switch spots with some of us NCOs, that’ll learn their asses.
Other then that, it’s typical army bullshit. You know, hurry up and wait. And waiting means you can stand around for hours scratching your nuts. You always said racing to the red light. You pegged army life. Rumors run wild, most of them so buku crazy even a piss on like me knows they’re full of shit. Every night a new one circulates that tonight’s the night the Iraqis cross the border.

Count

PS. I figure you’d want to know why we call the Arabs fan belts. It’s ‘cause of that rubber thing they wear to keep their headdress in place. Get this, one retard in my squad insists the headdresses are call yarmulkes – the asshole don’t know the difference between a Jew and an Arab. And this clown is my squad’s explosives guy. Go figure!


Shannie, September, 3rd, 1990

Goddamn it girl, you don’t know how good it feels to get a letter from home. Thanks for writing! It’s cool to know that home folks are behind us. It means a million! I can picture the yellow ribbon on the elm tree in your yard. It makes me feel what I’m part of is almost worth the aggravation.
To answer your question, I don’t know how much I can tell you. If a censor gets hold of one of my letters, at the least it’s gonna be all blacked out. And I may get a nice visit from some counter-intelligence goon. I don’t want my life being any more miserable than it already is. I think I can tell you this much, we’re setting up base about 5 clicks Northwest of King Fahd. The base is nothing but a tent city that the yahoos in our outfit dubbed Fort Camel. Camp Eagle II is its official name. I don’t know why it’s II. Someone said there was a Camp Eagle back in Vietnam. Your guess is as good as mine.
Besides drinking water and pissing all we do is train, train, train. Our immediate job is basically providing ground coverage for Fahd if Saddam decides to visit. What I don’t get is if that crazy fuck wanted, he could dance to Dhahran or Riyadh. We don’t have much on the ground and he’s gotta know it. I figure he’s gotta know we have a lot of shooters in the air, he knows we can make them bleed, but ain’t no way we could stop him. Not now! Not with so few troops on the ground! Like I said, if he wanted it, he could have Riyadh. I don’t think he wants it, that’s my gut feeling. I hope it’s right. I hope the asshole stays put. I’m telling you it’s sobering knowing there ain’t anything but a few hundred miles of sand, a bunch of camels, some scorpions and a few Saudi National Guard units between his tanks and us. Although, it helps being this close to Fahd and seeing the never-ending train of transports land. With every transport we grow a little bit stronger. It’s kinda reassuring.

Count

PS. You have my word, soon as anything happens I let you know.


Shannie, September 8th, 1990

We’re on the move. Today we husbanded up with our birds. I never thought I’d miss the sight of a Blackhawk. Go figure!. Rumor has it that tomorrow we’re heading up towards the Kuwait border. We’re nervous, but it beats the hell out standing around Fort Camel with our puds in our hand sweating out chicken-shit details. We don’t know where we’re going or what we’re doing, scuttlebutt has it were going to be part of a covering force near the border. Don’t shit your pants if you don’t hear from me for a couple of weeks. I kinda figure we’ll be completely in the sticks. It’s fucked up to think that Fort Camel is like a city compared to where we’re going.

Count

PS. Maybe you’ll see me on CNN!


Shannie, September 10th, 1990

What a difference a day makes! It’s night, and there’s actually a chill in the air. I’m ‘Up North’ at a place the apache pilots call Camp Hell. The pilot’s say we’re about 50 or so miles from Kuwait. Our battalion is garrisoning a FOB – army talk for a forward base – near a town called An Nuriya - General Peay dubbed it Bastonge. Wouldn’t James’ Grandfather get a kick out of that? I already figured you want to know why it’s called Bastonge. Like the Belgium town, An Nuriya is an important road junction. If the Iraqi’s come after Dhahran or Riyadh they’ll need An Nuriya. We’d probably have orders to hold it at all costs. Say what you will about Peay, he’s knows how to motivate. I think he’s clever for invoking ghosts of campaigns past. Tradition creates high expectations.
What a night! I’ve just got back into camp. A few of us spent some free time on the dunes outside of town. We found a spot on a side of a dune and watched the heavens. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. The night is so dark; it’s the blackest black I ever saw. And piercing the blackness is the starlight, they’re the whitest white I ever seen. Like lasers, they burn brilliant holes in the darkness. It’s insane, in a good way! Back home, I never could make out constellations, here you can’t miss them. Their sight is as liberating as the daytime heat is oppressive. It feels like a different planet up here. I can’t explain how different it is than Dhahran. Even the sand is different. Back at Fort Camel, it is flat and white, kinda like at the shore. Up here the sand is yellow, coarse, and it rolls into dune after dune. They kinda remind me of waves on an ocean, only bigger. According to our topo maps they’re anywhere from 150 to 1000 feet high. I bet Beyford could fit on the side of some of the bigger dunes. On the flight up, from the helicopter, the dunes were an overwhelming site. You got the feeling they were somehow alive, liquid, like water, but much tackier, much slower, plodding. A captain on board said it best, he called the sight sublime.
I feel lucky to be one of the first grunts to be up here. As of the present, you can have a bit a privacy. After Fort Camel, this place is heaven. It’s obvious that ain’t going to last, so I’m enjoying it while I can, just as long as Saddam and his rat bastards don’t come over the border.
In a weird way, I’m kinda relieved to be up north. If we have to fight, I’m glad to catch sight of the battlefield before the fight. I don’t know how to describe it to you other than it’s sorta like being a boxer who walks the ring before the fight, you know, to get a feel.
There’s a lot of work to be done, by the time you read this, the rest of my Brigade will be in Saudi, if not already at Bastonge. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write, there’s a lot to do. I’m sure we’ll be training our asses off. I promise that when I get a minute and have the energy I’ll pen you another letter. Keep writing. Letter’s from home are better than gold. More inspiring than the heavens at night.

Count

PS. Thanks for listening to my pissing and moaning.


Shannie, September 25th, 1990

Looking for a new place? Have I found a house for you! It’s in a quaint little place called Qaryat al Ulya, we call it Oasis cause of their being one about five or so clicks to the southwest. Housing’s cheap, and there’s plenty of them. This place is just like the Jersey shore, without the fancy houses, boardwalk, or the ocean. Qaryat al Ulya is an abandoned town, the fanbelts left long before Saddam ever thought of invading Kuwait. Now it’s 101st territory – another FOB. Besides covering, we’re using the town training for house to house combat. Fun shit.
Speaking of shit, get a load of this, and you thought flies are disgusting, you should see these dung beetles! They’re the most sickening creatures known to mankind. Arabs hijack jetliners, dung beetles hijack shit. They’re the kind of creature Steve Lucas would have as a pet. Come to think of it, if you’d put that pissant in an armor shell, he’d look like one. The dung beetles are starting to be a problem. Out in the desert, we don’t have the most modern facilities. So when nature calls, you answer wherever you can. You dig a cat hole and throw a little dirt on top when you’re done. No sooner than you’re done, these dung beetles appear, dig the dirt up and roll the crap away. If it weren’t so sick, it would be funny. Because of the dung beetles, our Lieutenant’s worried about sanitation. Now we have orders to dig two-foot deep catholes to do our business in and pound ‘em shut when we’re finished. Gives a new meaning to pounding sand! You’ve always said the army’s goal is to tell you how and when to take a dump.
And then if the dung beetles weren’t enough, outside town, next to this old airstrip, a patrol I was on came across a bunch of these mounds in the sand. At first no one thought anything of them, I figured ‘em for little dunes or something. That’s until someone walked over one, the poor bastard heard a crack a second before he sunk up to his knees in some soft fleshy gunk. He looks down and sees a bunch of scorpions and shit swarming out of the mound and over his boots and up his legs. Fucker screamed like a banshee, like Morrison when he’s pissed. To make a long story short, he sunk into the guts of some dead animal, probably a camel. At least that’s what we think, really couldn’t tell, it was way too rotted. So we go about digging into the rest of these mounds and inside every one of ‘em there’s a rotting camel or goat or something. At home, I lived on a cemetery, here I’m bivouacked next to an animal graveyard. Well that’s not quite what it is, we found out that it’s a dying ground. Get this, when the fanbelts’ animals get sick, instead of putting them down, they bring them out here, tie their legs together, and let ‘em die. And then they let the wind take care of burying them.
Since we have an unlimited supply of scorpions, we hold scorpion fights for shits and giggles. Each squad has a scorpion, we throw him in a jar with another squad’s, shake the jar; this gets ‘em good and pissed, and then we bet on ‘em when they start fighting. To tell you the truth, I’m better at betting on football, and you know how bad I’m at that. Till next time.

Count

PS. Oasis is a revolting place, it kinda reminds me of Wildwood during senior week.


Shannie, October 10th, 1990

Got your care package. Thanks a million! I hung the picture of you and Diane in my tent back here at Fort Camel. Yep you read me right, for the time being, we’re back in Dhahran, Good old King Fucking Fahd, Camp Eagle II, Tent City, who’d thing that one place could have so many names. It’s all too confusing. Anyway, you guys’ picture gets many compliments. Everyone wants to know how my girlfriend looks so young having a daughter your age. I tell them she has great genes. They tell me, no shit; she looks great in jeans. I tell ‘em back that it’s ‘cause I’m a great jean mechanic, that it takes skilled hands to maintain such a masterpiece.
It looks like division is getting into the habit of rotating the brigades between Bastonge, Oasis, and Dhahran every fifteen days or so. I guess it’s supposed to keep us on our toes. Whatever. All I know is despite the ‘luxuries’ we have here at Fort Camel, I’d rather be up north. Brass’ logic is to bring us back to Camel to refit and relax. What a crock of shit! Sure we have electricity, showers, cots but we also have loads of chicken shit details. Not to mention we’re missile fodder back here. Up north the Iraqi’s have to play our game, here we have to play theirs. It really gets under my skin. But not as much as the chicken shit gets under my skin! Goddamn it, we’re staring down the fourth largest army in the world and the powers that be are worried about dust inside our hajs and scuffs on our boots, we’re in the middle of the Goddamn desert! When this is all over, and my hitch is up, I’m out. I can’t wait to wear civilian clothes again. Sorry about bitching, but this place is tough enough without having to deal with brass’ caca.
To answer your question, here’s what this Sergeant's thinks of this lesbian afterbirth of a clusterfuck called desert shield: The 101st is part of the larger 18th airborne corps, ABC for short. The 82nd Airborne, the 24th Mech. and 3rd ACR (Calvary regiment) complete the 18th ABC. The jar-headed marines and whatever other Arabs are in country make up the rest of the covering force. ABC still provides the bulk of ground coverage, and there is a lot of Saudi Real Estate to cover. The one oh one sits out front of corps, our job is to slow the Iraqi’s down and contour the battlefield - funnel him into a killing zone made up of the rest of 18 ABC. In other words, get him to fight by our rules. Shitty job, but someone has to do it. Why is the 101st out front? Good question when you consider the Iraqi’s are tank heavy and the 101st doesn’t own a single one. The answer is mobility and firepower; no one else has anything close. Our mobility is a force multiplier. We can get from Point A to Point B so fast that we appear a lot larger than what we are. We’re anti-tank latent – we have so many anti-tank weapons it’s silly. And that’s not including the Apaches. I’ve seen what an Apache is capable of doing. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of that bird. In a scary way, it is awesome. I’d take 10 Apaches over 100 tanks any day.
If a lowly Sergeant knows this, Saddam has got to know something to this effect. That’s why I think he’s not going to come into Saudi. He knows he’ll have to pay. Knowing this, I can hear my old man’s voice in my head over and over again, prepare for the worst, hope for the best. It took coming half way ‘round the world to realize that he’s not as dumb as I thought. Go figure! Maybe if I believed him back in the day I’d be sweating my ass off digging graves instead of sweating it off over here.
Tell everyone I said Hi.

Count


Shannie, October 28th, 1990

You’re a saint and you don’t even know it. Beings that were up north, you couldn’t imagine how good it feels to see a letter post-marked Beyford, PA. The simple things that remind me of home, if I press my nose against the envelope, I swear I can smell burning leaves. If I close my eyes, I can see the wind blowing them across Fernwood. God how I miss home, especially this time of year, fall was always my favorite. Sometimes late at night I can hear Mr. Ralston’s ratty voice announce another first and ten for Beyford’s Iron men.
I think it’s a fucking laugh to hear that my old man is pitching a shit fit over Schwarzkopf. He really did take a liking to Morrison’s nicknaming him Bear. Now Schwarzkopf comes along and steals the old man’s thunder, serves that gravedigger right. If he had stuck it out in the army, maybe he’d be the ‘other bear’s’ boss.
Some crazy shit went down a couple of nights back. We had a drive by shooting, makes me wonder if we’re in Saudi or L.A. Rumors say it was a bunch of Iraqi terrorists. Others say it’s Saudi nationals pissed off by our presence. In a weird way, I kinda hope they were Iraqi’s, you know one expects it from those animals. But if it was a bunch of fan belts, fuck them! We should pull out and let them defend themselves. Ungrateful bastards! See how’d they like living under Saddam. Whoever it was, this is the story I got. A truck or two came up on a checkpoint with their lights out. Challenged by MPs, they turned around. Once they got out on Tapline road they got ballsy and allegedly fired off some shots back towards camp. A bunch of patrols went out and helicopters went up, but they disappeared into the night. The next day a bunch of Saudi cops sniffed around. They didn’t find anything. That’s one thing similar between our cultures, small town cops are about worthless, if they had a 7-11, the Saudi cops would be hanging out sucking down tea and Arabian donuts. Makes you wonder. Where’s big Dick Bradigan when you need him?
Speaking of Tapline road, it’s like the major highway in all of Saudi, pretty pathetic considering it’s a two-lane road, kinda like 724, except more dangerous. I shit you not. Fanbelts don’t know how drive. They’re lunatics! Get a load of this, if a driver coming towards you and decides he (and it’s always a he Ortolan, it’s one of the things the Arabs have right, women ain’t allowed to drive) wants to pass, he has the right of way in your lane. No wonder the fan belts are so fatalistic. They are always going around saying Inshallah – God willing. I guess they figure if God wants them to be crushed by a five-ton truck or a flatbed hauling a tank it’s perfectly all right with them.
To answer you question, no, the Saudi government ain’t like a bunch of cultural or religious Nazis. Whatever you’ve been hearing on talk radio is full of shit. Far as I know, nobody around here’s been hassled about crucifixes or Stars of David. Religious services are held openly. Our rations still have ham, if that’s what they call it. No one’s given us any shit about American flags on our fatigues. You know if they were, I’d be bitching up a storm. Till next time, hang lose. Enjoy the fall; you don’t know how lucky you are. What I wouldn’t do to see another frost.

Count


Shannie, October 31st, 1990

Jesus Christ, I turned in tonight and before falling asleep realized its Halloween. It’s funny that I almost forgot, considering just the other day I got to thinking about the night we borrowed the corpse from Lucas’s. It’s funny now, but back then it was serious business. I never admitted it, I was scared shitless after old man Lucas threatened to call the cops. I thought for sure we bought it. I know Morrison felt the same way. I still don’t know how you figured out he was bullshitting us. But, I never could figure you out. I think Morrison is the only one who can. That reminds me, when I get back, we have to have a talk about you two.
Anyway, it’s late, reveille is early. I’m turning in. Again, Happy Halloween, even though it’ll probably be closer to Thanksgiving when you get this. So happy Thanksgiving too.

Lurch


Shannie, November 20th, 1990

Rumors ‘round here are jumping. This place has more rumors than dunes, and you have to be here to understand that statement, really!
The big one is we might be coming home! Words filtered down that the brass in Washington is chewing on a rotation policy. If they approve it, we’re stateside! Sentiment is don’t get your hopes up. I’ll believe it when I see it. In this case, it’s safer to be the pessimist – at least I won’t be disappointed. I think a lot of folks are reacting to the arrival of VII Corps. If you watch CNN like you say you do, you knew they were coming. You can’t help but noticed the increased traffic on Tapline Road. A joke has it that they brought so many tanks that the Arabian peninsula will break off and sink into the Gulf. A buddy of mine over in aviation brigade told me his CO is on record as saying VII Corps is here to join us not to relieve us. You know what that means - the road home goes through Kuwait. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t care how the road gets me home, as long as it gets me there.
Another rumor started a couple of days ago and got a good argument brewing. Word got out about a couple of reporters who wandered off and got lost up at the border. Rumors floated that since we were covering at Bastonge we might be up for a rescue mission into Kuwait. Of course I shot my mouth off that the goddamn reporters had no business being up at the border and that there was no way in hell I’d willingly risk anyone in my squad to save their sorry asses. They disobeyed orders, let ‘em pay the price. Why should any of my boys get shot up over some dumb reporter’s stupidity? Another NCO argued that if they were American we’d be obligated to get them. I told them a story I remember my old man telling me about Vietnam - Erroll Flynn’s son – like these reporters, went MIA in Cambodia and the Army didn’t try to save his ass. To make a long story short, we ended up taking a vote, and I seem to be the only one with common sense! The rest of the officers in my company said they go in if they were sure they’d get no casualties or if our action didn’t start a ground war. Sounds a bit like being a Monday morning quarterback on Saturday afternoon. I don’t know Ortolan, these are good soldiers and everything, but sometimes their heads are stuck so far up their asses I swear they can’t hear their thoughts over their heartbeats.
Happy Thanksgiving and all that shit. What I wouldn’t do for a real turkey dinner. Do me a favor, When you sit down to a nice turkey dinner, think about me eating MREs - Meals Rejected by Ethiopians. If that doesn’t turn your stomach may guilt inspired indigestion do the trick for you.
Anyway, tell everyone I said hi. Hug Flossy for me.

Count


Shannie, December 12, 1990

Day’s run together in an endless band of training and meaningless bullshit. It is easy to forget what day of the week it is. I started carrying a little pocket calendar, every night before I turn in I X off another day. It’s the only way to keep days straight. Anyway, I just realized we’ve been in this shithole sandbox almost four months. This place really puts a chip on your shoulder, it gets you so pissed you wanna kill! No wonder the Arabs always want to pick a fight. I’m really starting to believe that it’s not them, it’s this place. The Fan belts up north, they walk around constantly pissed. I used to think it was us that pissed ‘em off, you know interfering with their desert crossing. I think different, it’s this shithole. The sameness, there’s no landmarks, unless you consider dunes landmarks. You really have to be careful and not wander too far from camp or you’ll get lost. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve gone on search and rescue missions for a guy who wandered out in search of a little privacy. Who thinks about taking a slugger with them to take a dump? A slugger is a hand held GPS. Ortolan don’t laugh, what I wouldn’t do to climb a tree! God knows I’ve been climbing whatever wall I can find. I guess living, eating, pissing and shitting in the sand does it to you. I want a goddamn slice of pizza!
The waiting is a killer. The Germans perfected Blitzkrieg; we’re perfecting Sitzkrieg. Sitting, training and waiting. Everyone, including the Iraqis, know that they have to January 15th to bug out of Kuwait. It’s obvious we’re not going to do anything before that. Saddam would have to be a fool to try anything now. If he wanted to attack, he would have a lot earlier when we weren’t as strong. That doesn’t mean we don’t think he could pull a terrorist attack or something. If a terrorist attack gets through, it ain’t Saddem’s fault, it’s ours for letting our guard down. God knows how Peay drills that into everyone’s skull.
Don’t get me wrong, this place drives me batshit, but I can’t think of a place I’d rather be. It’s my chance to pay my dues, like the old man did in ‘Nam. I know it sounds fucked up, but if I was anywhere else, I’d be itching to get here. But once this is over, when my hitch is up, I’m out! I’ll know I did my part. I’m going to get a place, get that mustang and live the good life. Even if I have to dig graves the rest of my life, there ain’t nothing wrong with it.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year and all that shit.
Count


Shannie, January 7th, 1991

The days wind down and we’re still training. We’re ending our latest stay Fort Camel, tomorrow morning we’re heading north. Being at Camel is like being in the locker room before a fight. It is tense here, everybody knows what’s up with the deadline. Everyone in my squad agrees that the deadline makes it all confusing. In one way, we basically have a heads up for when the shits going to hit, but in another way, Saddam could pull out, and if he does that, the fight’s over before the opening bell. Part of me hopes it is cancelled. Another part of me wants to step into the ring, wants all this firepower to be unleashed! Fucked up ain’t it? Even though the idea scares the shit out of me, I find myself rooting for carnage. It’s like this ultimate test. We’ve been here going on five months - training and sweating, sweating and training; I’m telling you, if this fight’s called off, the past five months, if not the previous three odd years would seem like a big waste of time.
Anyway, like I said we’re moving out tomorrow; headed for Bastonge. It’s kinda cool to know that we’ll be up north if and when the fighting starts. At least we won’t be SCUD fodder.
I want you to keep an eye on Flossy for me, I know she’s going to work herself into a tissy. You tell her nothing’s going to happen to me; I’m a pro. Nothing happens to well prepared pros! If anyone else starts to squawk, I want you to tell everyone I’m where I wanna be, doing what I wanna do!
If the bullets do get to flying, I doubt I’ll have time to write you. If I have a second or two, I’m going to keep a log. Listen up, this is important! I’ve cut a deal with a buddy. If something happens to me, he’s going to deliver my log to you.
Now you keep this between you and me; I want you to know, that you’ve always been the little sister I always wanted and never had. You’re special like that, who else would I torture myself writing these letters for? Oh yeah, and Ortolan, no matter what goes down, I want you to tell Marcy that I love her.
Count

PS. Keeping my fingers crossed!
PPS. Dying for a beer in Saudi!


Chapter 12 Count’s Log

Jan. 13th, ’91 0745
In the air, the rotor wash and vibrating hull help still my shakes. Had ‘em since finding out we’re headed further north. Brigades been ordered to a place called Hafer al Batin. From what I hear, it’s a town ‘bouts 40 miles from the junction of the Saudi/Kuwait/Iraq triborder, other than that, don’t know squat about the place. Rumor # 7569 has it that we’re being chopped to 7th Corps. Something’s up, I have a bad feeling.
We landed at Al Quysamah airfield outside Hafer al Batin. Word came down the Iraqis are planning a spoiling attack. Bad news! Source is reliable. The axis of advance is straight down the Wadi al Batin, into Hafer al Batin across Tapline road into King Kahlid Military City. Sitting here, I can look out and down into the wadi. It ain’t nothing but a big ole shallow canyon. I reckon it’s a good five miles from side to side. Orders are to retain the Al Quysamah airfield. This ain’t good. This mean’s no retreat; hold at all costs! Peay named the wrong place Bastonge.

2030 We’re already into routine: Dig for four hours, pull guard for four hours, rest for four hours, do it all over again. Word is Six Iraqi Armour divisions, including two Republican Guard divisions will be attacking down the wadi, if this is true we’re outnumbered something like 20 to 1 in men and like 1000 to 0 in tanks.
What’s really disturbing is that this place is loaded with REMF types, we’re the only American combat outfit, supposedly there’s an Egyptian Division and a Saudi Brigade at the border. We’re counting on the Saudi’s fighting hard, there are serious doubts about the Egyptians. Brigade keeps morale up by flying apaches over the wadi.

Jan 14th, 1991 0745
It started raining, torrential fucking downpour. If that ain’t bad enough, words come down that residents are flocking out of Hafer al Batin. A sure-fire sign that the Iraqis are coming. Word’s out - the fan belts are bailing. I’m so scared my asshole’s numb. I try to hide it from my squad, I think they’re picking up on it. I’m jumpy, I lost my sense of humor.

1130 7th Corps engineers passed through and are up front digging an anti-tank ditch across the width of the Wadi. We’ve been so busy digging in primary and secondary firing positions for our TOWS that we haven’t even dug our own foxholes. What fun digging in this slop. If there is a God, I pray that this is a fucked up joke. I pray that the Iraqi’s aren’t coming. I pray this is just someone’s sick idea for training.

16:30 More bad news. The medics are passing out pills that counter and pre-treat the effects of nerve gas, everyone’s under order to take ‘em. The higher ups have to be thinking the Iraqis are coming and bringing their big toys. I do my best to keep my guys calm. Just keep your Mopp4 ‘s handy. Goddamn NBC suits, I hate the idea of having to wear ‘em. You can’t move in ‘em! You can’t fight in ‘em. Especially being outnumbered 20 to 1.
Big morale boost. 1st Cav is moving behind us; I don’t feel good being their screening force. I like to have their muscle up here. A tank or two would be comforting. I’ll feel better when we can dig ourselves in. The alternative firing positions are almost dug for the TOWS.
20:45 The TOWS are in! We got our own foxholes dug. It started to pour again. Now the fight is to keep water out. There ain’t no buckets out here and spades are about useless: ponchos work best. It’s cold and raw. I’m shivering. This place is chalk full of extremes. I’m glad to have a hole, at least we’ll have a place to hump when the Iraqis start throwing hot steel.

Jan 15th 1991 0345

The heavy work is done, just stay alert. Easier said than done! I’d rather be digging, it occupies the mind. My guys are on edge, I’m trying my best to keep ‘em calm. Rumor says it’s a matter of hours before the Iraqis visit. Just gotta keep my boys settled. This writing keeps me sane. It gives my squad the appearance I have it together. I’ve got to be a better role model. God, I feel like I’m losing it, I hope no one notices.
Their questions grate me. When do you think they’re coming? Do we have a chance sarge? Will we be tortured? How many I don’t knows can I give? Will they lose faith? It’s starting to happen already, the vacant looks, the disgusted spits, the distracted kicks of gravel. Just keep sucking it up and pitch the party line.
I make rounds. I go foxhole hopping. I jump into my guy’s foxholes, tell ‘em over and over to make sure they’re dug in deep enough; I remind them to keep their weapons dry and clean, and to make sure their Mopp4’s are handy. I remind them to keep an eye on their buddy, make sure their head’s on tight, we don’t need someone’s brains falling out. I pat them on the back and moved to the next foxhole.

0445 During my last round I made a bargain with God, pretty good for someone who ain’t a churchgoer. I asked him again to stop the Iraqis from coming. If they come, they leave their chems and bios behind. If they’re coming that they fight fair, so we can duke it out with bullets and bombs.
The Iraqi’s have to feel the same! If they even know we’re coming? Does the grunt on the other side even have a clue? Can he imagine what’s going to hit him? For his sake, I hope not. If they come first, I hope they don’t have their shit together like we do. It’ll be a long war for the country and a short one for our sorry asses. If they come, I’m afraid that our road home goes through Dover. I guess it could be worse, going through Dover beats the fuck out of being buried in this slop hole. Go figure; I’m picky about where I want to be planted.

0845 Wish I could say I saw the sun rise, the sky went from black to gray. The Arabian desert is the last place I ever thought I’d feel like a drowned rat. Goddamn rain! No sign of the Iraqis; holding tight, trying to stay dry.

1315 Squad’s morale is sinking. Rumors persist, each one worse than the previous; I think they’re all full of shit. Brigade still thinks an Iraqi attack is immanent. REMF types are scarce. Another sign of 7th Corps concern. All we can do is wait for ‘em and try to stay dry. Feeling like a fish in the desert.

2010 We’re calling ourselves the desert fish. Still no Iraqis; I ain’t complaining. I’m nervous about Mitchell – he stopped bitching. The squad’s biggest whiner, not saying a word. It’s fucked - gotta keep an eye on him. I’m glad I have someone to keep an eye on; keeps my mind off myself – feel a little more in control.

Jan 16th, 1991 0345

Everything is quiet, too quiet. Every noise sounds like the distant rumble of Iraqi tanks. To make it worse there’s cloud cover, which kinda muffles everything. There’s no starlight, it’s all too murky, all too eerie. Too much time to think.
I increased the pace of my rounds, helps keep me focused. Mitchell still has a stiff upper lip, he ain’t complaining about a thing, barely even talks. I tell the guys to try to relax, that if they’re going to come, the Iraqi’s will wait till sunrise, that’s their habit. Get a wink or two, I tell ‘em. I hope if they come, they’ll come at night. It’ll be our advantage.

0830 Nothing! A squadron of Apaches flew over our position ‘bouts an hour ago. What a sweet racket, you could feel everyone’s spirits rise. Turning in, need to get a few hours shuteye.

1945 Back from a patrol up the wadi. We ran into a few Syrians a few clicks up the wadi. They seemed surprised to hear anything about an Iraqi attack. They claimed to know nothing. I wish I believed ‘em. I don’t trust the look of those bastards. I did manage to trade off my desert hat for one of their berets. If I’d known someone in logistics, I could have made us a fortune selling the Syrians our kevlars. I asked ‘em why they want our helmets so bad. While pointing to his head and saying bang, a Syrian says in broken English that it is best stopping bullet. It’s kinda nice to know that others want what you have.

2200 We’re digging again. This time more artillery. Brigade feels that tomorrow morning it is. A buddy of mine at HQ says they’re as sure as shit. Tension is thick. There’s been a few cases of guys breaking. Seems my trick of visiting everyone’s holes is paying off. Mitchell the only one who’s acting different. But who’s complaining, it’s a treat not to hear his whiny voice. He’s pulling more than his share.

Jan 17th, 1991
0300 Something’s up! For the last ten or so minutes fighters have been screaming northward. Explosions in the distance! Occasional flashes on the horizon. The air force is delivering ordinance, but on what side of the border?

0315 The war has started - it’s our doing. Air force is bombing into Iraq and Kuwait. We’re on alert, expecting spoiling attack.


Chapter 13 A Banshee’s Cry

(March, 1991) Atop the brownstone church, a bell tolled. Birdsong overtook the bell’s keen. Its mournful plea ignored, the bell soldiered on, beseeching nature to suspend its joyous song. Sensing its duty’s futility, the seasoned bell gave way to the roar of the pipe organ. Inside the church bird song was silenced. The mighty organ paused, as if catching its breath. Shannie’s sobs pierced the organ’s echo. Sunlight burst through the stained glass windows and danced in pools across the gray floor. An errant bit of sun reflected off the medal pinned atop the flag draped casket. In the first pew, the Lightman’s sat stoically, a lesson learned from the tombstones that lined Fernwood. Flossy was sedated into a stupor. Leroy Sr., the knowing soldier, the incredulous parent, still was in shock; a soldierly shock – determined and marching.
Behind the Lightman’s sat the Ortolans. Diane, an arm draped around her daughter, whispered into Shannie’s ear. Sobbing, Shannie rested her head upon her mother’s shoulder. Diane stroked Shannie’s hair which poured like tears over her black dress.
My father and I shared the second pew with the Ortolans. I trembled in the organ’s embrace, hoping its grasp would spring my tears. Like my mother, my tears vanished. Next to me, my father stared at the simple white cross that served as the altarpiece, his hands resting in his lap, his upper lip stiff. Through arid eyes, I gazed at Shannie, the small space between us a gulf of empty pine.
In the pew behind us was the Lucas family. Marcy sat next to Count’s casket. Janice held an arm around her younger sister. The pipe organ receded - reloading for another barrage. The clickty-clack of Russell’s cane tap-danced around the scattered coughs and whispers of the congregation. I wished to be with Russell, I wanted to feel his strength. I’m sure he saw through the folly! I’m sure that’s why he arrived late! He saw how everyone needed to be part of Count’s funeral, Count’s story, Count’s posthumous fifteen minutes of fame. I’m sure Russell saw through it all. He knew that most of the people who filled the church didn’t care a rat’s ass about Count before his death. He was just that redneck gravedigger’s son. Hypocrites!
The pipe organ again sprung to life, announcing the beginning of the service, beckoning the congregation to sing the hymn. The congregation accepted, in unison they stood - stood all around me – and sang their hearts out. They sang for Leroy Lightman Jr.; they sang for Count. Despite their best intentions, they sounded like a gaggle of geese. And Mr. Lucas - the greatest offender of them all - that prick! That hypocrite! His croon - the cadence of an artillery shell, - rose above the others. I winced as the undertaker’s wail bounced about my bitter, empty heart. With Shannie, I agreed we lost a brother. Unlike Shannie, I didn’t sing for Leroy Lightman Jr. I didn’t have to sing for Count. He wouldn’t have wanted me to; he would have told me to: “shut up the hell up dumbass! You can’t carry a football, what makes you think you could carry a goddamned tune.”
My eyes waded through the sea of mourners. Across the center aisle, a few pews back I discovered Jenny Wade glaring at me. “What do you see in that little bitch?” she once asked. Her glower repeated the question. “She’s a dead end. Can’t you see that? She’s going to break your heart.”
You happy now? I scolded Jenny with arid eyes. Are we even? Do you like seeing my heart broke? I continued in a tearless stare. Shannie didn’t break my heart, Count did! Jenny’s glare intensified with the organ. Up yours Jenny, I said my weakening stare. Quit staring at me! It pleaded. You jealous bitch, stop it! Quit Staring! I turned away. I wished this was her funeral.
“At least she’s honest,” Count reminded me from somewhere within my heart. “You got to give her that much.” One always knew where they stood with Jenny Wade.
The organ lost its bluster, its lingering notes faded into the brownstones. In near unison the congregation sat with a thump. A nervous cough escorted the heavy jowled minister past the altar. From the pulpit he looked approvingly over the packed church.
“I swear he wanted to smile,” Shannie said after the service. “He probably never saw his church so crowded. Probably praying for residual memberships - probably wished he passed the plate.” When I told her Catholics pass the plate she answered, “Whatever!”
The good reverend began his reading, something from the book of lamentations. His voice boomed, thick and powerful, full of conviction. A short strand of hair dangled from his dying widow’s peak, leaning over his high forehead like a broken tree over a cliff. I stared at the reverend, trying to listen. I lacked his conviction. His voice faded, his enunciated words muddled – a victim of my numbness. For all I know the reverend could have been reading from the phone book. I was too busy treading a sea of disbelieve. Count couldn’t be dead!
“Count’s not dead, is he?” I questioned God. “It’s a big joke, right? How about a trade. I’ll take Count back and you can have Steve Lucas, Jenny Wade, hell, take my mother too; a three for one deal!” I glanced about, unsure if anyone heard my thoughts.
When I was confident no one heard me, I raised my head. I looked at Count, the sun danced atop his casket. Like the rest of the country it seemed to be celebrating. A war may have been won, I told the dancing sun, but Shannie and I feel vanquished. Shannie glanced up, her bloodshot eyes meeting mine.
In her last letter before the start of the war, Shannie wrote Count telling him that she’d give up her car; drive it off Indian Point, if it meant he would return home safely. She never had a chance to make good on her promise. Count was dead before he received it. The army returned the letter unopened.
Don’t be a hero, Shannie wrote. I want you alive. I need a friend, not a martyr for Texaco. In a previous letter, she warned, my mudpie making days are over you rat bastard! I think she knew his fate. She knew in her heart that Count wouldn’t survive the war. She saw it coming and couldn’t do anything about it!
As the inevitability of war became apparent, so did the desperation of her pleas. In one letter, she tried coaxing him into going AWOL. She said she’d meet him in Israel. She knew Count would turn her down, there wasn’t another place on earth he’d rather be. The horror Shannie felt.
In the days from the outbreak of hostilities till learning of Count’s death, Shannie was glued to CNN. After learning of Count’s demise, she continued watching the war - it engulfed her life. The roar of jet engines was a fixture in the Ortolan’s television room. When I called her to task, Shannie returned her stare to the television.
Shannie’s head returned to Diane’s breast. Somewhere far away, like a distant helicopter, the good minister droned. From behind, Jenny’s stare clawed my back. I felt myself falling into oblivion – my guilt ridden conscience easier to deal with than the horrors of the outside world.
“It’s going to start today,” Shannie warned me. The date was January 16th, 1991.
“What is?” I asked.
“The war! Geezus Pete!” Shannie snapped.
Around seven o’clock Shannie called. “It started. Get over here.” We spent the night watching John Holleman, Peter Arnet, and Bernard Shaw’s up to the minute coverage of the fireworks over Baghdad. When Charles Jaco’s report from Riyadh was interrupted by air raid sirens and the screen suddenly filled with snow, we were sure the Iraqi’s unleashed their arsenal of mass destruction - we were positive that our best friend was dead. We didn’t know how right we were – we were wrong about the circumstances. Shannie pulled her legs to her chest and rested her head on top her knees. She spent most of the war in that position. I’ll never forget that; I doomed to remember! Just like I’m doomed to remember what I did after escaping the Ortolan’s that night.
If I wasn’t so caught up in the hysteria, I would have remembered Count wasn’t anywhere near Riyadh. If we would have taken the time to reread Count’s letters, we would have figured out that he was supposed to be at An Nuriya – Bastonge. Although, later we learned this wasn’t true, he was at a place called Wadi Al Batin. The rational mother and daughter fell to pieces, their sanity grains of sand blown about by a desert storm. My sanity wasn’t too far behind. We tasted helplessness. Unlike the Ortolans, I wasn’t content to watch events unfold on television - I needed to do something, I reverted to superstition.
I evoked an old legend. I needed to feel power. I wish I visited Russell, he’d talk some sense into me. But I didn’t. I needed peace of mine, so I decided to roll the bones. A safe bet; a sure thing - I knew the train schedule. If I could run the tunnel, Count would make it home. I slipped into my hooptie and headed for Black Rock Tunnel.
On the radio, a self-congratulating politician filled the airwaves. “We decided to go in tonight,” he crooned. “We’re going to get the job done.” The gall of the bastard! Like his ass was on the line! I remembered the smug prick; I helped vote him out.
Disgusted, I turned off the radio. The hum of worn tires seemed more intelligent.
I parked along the railroad siding - the same place Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup. I waited until a westbound freight roared out of the tunnel and rolled across the trestle. I waited until the flashing red taillight disappeared from sight. Then I 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 earlier incarnation of myself peering from behind darkened windows. I’d much rather watch, I thought as my mind returned to the task at hand.
Summer days spent hurtling tombstones or autumn nights carting Shannie’s coffin through Fernwood never prepared me for it, could anything? Who was ever prepared to literally bury a friend?
Earlier in the morning I opened the grave, soon, I have to close it. I am of the mind that opening a grave is much easier. No wonder I latch on to each passing second with desperation. The determination to see the process through wilts with every rose tossed atop Count’s casket.
This morning, opening the grave came as a relief, something to occupy my time. I didn’t have to sit around waiting for the funeral service, or attend the horrid wake. As horrible as I feel for Bear and Flossy, I can’t stand being in their presence. Since Count’s death, I feel guilty. I told her that Count would be fine, “he’s a professional doing a professional’s job.”
“Professionals get killed,” Flossy’s stare answered, ripping into me like the backhoe ripping into dewy grass, opening a wound in the earth that would become a grave. This morning, after the Lightman’s pulled out of Fernwood’s driveway, I trudged across the cemetery, focused on the job at hand. Waiting until they left gave me little time. Starting earlier was unacceptable, I couldn’t imagine the horror the Lightman’s would have felt hearing the backhoe’s engine turnover, knowing it’s purpose was to dig their son’s grave.
As the mourners filed away, I lingered. “Are you going to make it to the reception?” the good reverend asked, whapping my back.
“I don’t know,” I averted his gaze.
“Try to make it,” he said before turning towards his car.
“Father… I mean Reverend,” I called.
“Yes,” he answered facing me.
“Do me a favor? Make sure Mr. and Mrs. Lightman don’t leave early. Keep them as long as you can.”
“Oh?”
“Can’t have them coming home while I’m still closing the grave, can we?” I glanced past his heavy jowls into cold brown eyes.
“You’re right, we can’t have that.”
“Give me an hour, hour and a half.”
“That long?” he asked.
“I’m working alone,” I answered.
“I think I can keep them occupied.”
The reverend’s car pulled out of Fernwood; I was alone with the most confronting task of my life, penance for my tunnel running stunt. I faced Count. I placed my hand atop the casket. “I love you brother.” I found the switch for the electronic winch. The motor sprung to life and Count began the descent into his final resting-place. I turned away before the top of the casket sunk beneath ground level. “If I hadn’t met you,” Count’s voice echoed in my memory. “I’d never had met your Grandfather and if I hadn’t met your Grandfather, I wouldn’t be going into the army.”
If you hadn’t met me, you wouldn’t be dead, I thought. I released the switch when I heard the thump of the casket against the floor of the burial vault. Tears clouded my vision as I gained my feet and sprinted home. I wasn’t about to bury Count wearing a suit.
My father offered his help adnauseam. I turned him down. When it came down to it, the choice of working alone or having the well intentioned help of someone who didn’t know their ass from a hole in a ground was an easy one. Despite our conversations I wasn’t surprised to see someone sitting on a folding chair next to the open grave. Only when I walked under the trees into Fernwood did I recognize that it wasn’t my father, it was Steve Lucas.
“Thought you could use some help,” Steve Lucas said as I approached. “I know something about burials.” What Steve didn’t say was that it’s state law that a Funeral Director or his representative needed to witness the sealing of the vault.
“I could use a hand,” I said.
The two of us got to the business of burying our friend. We worked with deliberate silence, speaking only when necessary. Determined to handle every last detail, we resolved that Bear would not have to restack a folding chair. After breaking down and storing the canopy and chairs we sprinted past rows of tombstones to the maintenance shed. I jumped in and started the backhoe. Steve chained the vault’s concrete cover to the front-end loader. With a hydraulic squeal, the front-end loader lifted the concrete. The cover swayed back and forth like a pendulum, struggling to find its center of gravity. As it steadied itself I slid the tractor into gear. Steve jumped on the step aside the backhoe’s cab. As the tractor lurched forward, he grabbed hold of the side-view mirror. Speechless, we rode across Fernwood.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Steve’s white knuckles. I glanced at him. He stared forward in deep concentration. Under wind blown hair, a tear trickled down his face. At that moment, I gained new respect for Steve Lucas that I haven’t lost. Steve didn’t have to be there, it would have been a lot easier for him if his despicable father would have supervised the ordeal. I made it through that afternoon because of Steve Lucas’ determination.
He leapt off the backhoe and directed me in lowering the cover onto Count’s vault. With another dull thud, it fell into place. I lowered the loader to the ground and Steve unhooked the chains. Nodding as he finished, he stepped aside. Biting my lower lip, I plunged the loader into pile of topsoil. With a full bucket, I swung the backhoe around and crawled to the edge of Count’s grave. My chest heaving, I dumped the bucket. The topsoil avalanched atop Count with a sickening clunk.
After closing the grave. I used the front end loader to contour it. I motioned for Steve to hop back on when he finished raking the mound. He looked at me puzzled. Knowing what was next, I broke our silence: “Hop on.”
Shrugging his shoulders, he threw the rake into the front end loader and hopped on. As we lumbered across Fernwood, I glanced into the rearview mirror; clad in her black dress, Shannie emerged from behind the tree line carrying her last mudpie.


Chapter 14 What Happened

Random House defines fratricide as the act of killing one’s brother; the United States Army defines fratricide as the employment of friendly weapons and munitions, with the intent to kill the enemy or destroy his equipment or facilities, which results in unforeseen and unintentional death or injury to friendly personnel. James Morrison defines fratricide as a fucking tragedy.
Shannie claims that its harder to accept that Count was killed by an American bullet. I asked her what difference did it make, Count was dead, knowing what happened wasn’t going to bring him back.
“How can you be so obtuse?” Shannie asked. We were sharing a six pack in the maple tree. The overcast afternoon matched our mood. Since the funeral Shannie and I fell into the habit of spending time in places that the three of us hung out. I don’t know why, but it helped, as if we were absorbing Count’s remaining aura. Shannie went a step further, she started drinking Count’s favorite beer.
“Whatever,” I exclaimed. “I just don’t see the difference.”
“Geezus Pete James! It makes all the difference in the world. It’ll give us some sense of closure.”
“Closure, let me tell you about closure, I had it up to here with closure. Burying him was enough closure. But if you want closure, I’ll give you closure: Closure, closure, closure; Closure, closure, Closure; there’s your fucking closure!” I jumped out of the tree and whipped my empty in a high arc. The bottle shattered somewhere in the junkyard, Duke Nukem sprung to life, his insane chorus silencing the expressway’s traffic. “Take your closure and shove it up that pretty little ass of yours.” I escaped into Fernwood.
“You insensitive prick!” Shannie yelled after me.
I shot Shannie the middle finger.
“Your mother is right. It is all about James. James is all that matters, James, James, James; it’s what’s best for James! It’s all about James!” Shannie’s voice chased me.
“Piss off,” I yelled.
“You think you’re the only one who hurts?” Shannie’s voice rained upon me.
I stopped, needing to answer; I had an idea what I wanted to say, but somewhere between my brain and tongue my train of thought derailed. I skirted Fernwood avoiding Count’s grave. Despite being mid-afternoon, I slipped into bed and slept until the next morning.

A pall hung over Cemetery Street during the following months. The sun didn’t shine as bright, clouds hung lower, and rain fell longer. At night, stars glowered and the moon wore a constant frown. The weeds flourished, thriving on the melancholy. When I worked I perpetually weed-whacked Fernwood. I kept Count’s grave immaculate.
Days which Bear and I had a funeral were blessed, the work required enough concentration to be distracting. The work was a good reason to crawl out of bed. Other days when nothing was on tap, I began my weed-whacking odyssey late in the afternoon often finishing after sundown. Those gloomy days taught me darkness could be my friend, it coddled me tight in its bosom, protecting me from a didactic world.
After a dismal day of weed whacking, Fernwood faded in dying gray. Welcoming the darkness, I shuffled past the ashen tombstones. Passing under the trees between the cemetery and my house I heard Shannie’s voice: “Come with me to Washington.”
Shannie was nowhere to be found. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, fighting the urge to sprint for the safety of my bedroom. With Shannie-like determination, I kept a normal stride.
“Up here,” Shannie’s voice called after me.
I glanced up. Shannie sat in a tree. “Come with me to Washington,” Shannie repeated from the branches where I used to spy funerals.
“You scared the shit out of me!” I snarled.
“I think I’m on to something,” she said ignoring my complaint.
“Not this again!”
“Yes this again. There’s going to be a parade in D.C. Count’s unit is marching. It’ll be a good chance to talk to some people, find out what happened.”
“I told you I don’t care.”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Shannie’s eyes glowed like emeralds in dying light. “You walk around like a zombie. It’s like you’re dying to find out and won’t admit it to yourself.”
“Bullshit,” I protested.
“I’m only going to ask you once more; Come to Washington with me.” Shannie swayed with the breeze.
Avoiding her gaze I kicked at the ground.
“You coming or not?” she implored.
“Why should I?” I mumbled.
“Cut the shit, do you want to go or not?”
“NO!” I answered.
“Suit yourself,” Shannie swung off the tree. “I’ll ask Beetle. She’ll go.”
“Fuck her!” I protested. “I’ll go!”

The sun reflected off the Potomac as Shannie and I made our way through the crowd lining the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Its shadow skimmed over the water reaching for the distant Fourteenth Street Bridge. Overhead, the chopping sound of a helicopter washed down upon the crowd. Around us, people looked skyward. Taking advantage of the crowd’s preoccupation, Shannie led us to the parade’s disassembly area. It was here that Shannie choose to lie in ambush, waiting for the right moment to assault any member of the 2nd Brigade, 101st airborne.
I spent the afternoon marveling at Shannie’s tenacity; I’d rather roll over. I didn’t get Shannie’s obsession. The harder I tried to understand the worse I felt. I understood that she wanted to find out what happened, but once she did what good would it accomplish? The effort wasn’t worth it. Why am I here? I asked myself as wave after wave of soldiers marched down Memorial Drive. It beat weed whacking.
“There they are,” Shannie nudged my side.
“Who?” I asked.
“The 101st you asshole.”
“Oh,” I said.
Grabbing my hand, Shannie ordered me to stay with her. She pulled me towards the disassembling column. “Excuse me,” she asked a group of flanged helmeted soldiers who mingled with wives and girlfriends. “I’m looking for B Company, 2nd Brigade.”
“Can’t say that I know where there at,” a tall soldier with a deep southern voice said. “Don’t even know if they have anyone here.”
“How about 2nd Brigade? Do you know were they are?”
“Can’t say that I do. They gots ta be somewheres ‘round. Why don’t ya ask a MP, they gots ta know.”
“You guys wouldn’t happen to know anything about a Leroy Lightman?” Shannie persisted.
“Should we?” asked a shorter soldier.
“Who the hell is Leroy Lightman?” The tall soldier added.
“He was killed - fratricide - Wadi-al-Batin.”
“Never heard of him,” the short soldier said.
“Name doesn’t sound familiar,” the tall soldier said. “Say, sure you gots the right outfit, I’m thinkin’ the Wadi was 1st Cav’s turf,” the tall soldier continued.
“I’m sure,” Shannie answered.
“Say, Billy Joe,” the tall soldier called to another whose attention was held by a busty brunette. “You know about 2nd brigade spending anytime in the Wadi-al-Batin?”
“They were chopped over to 7th corps right before the air-war. Something about some scare, Iraqi’s planning an attack or something like that,” answered Billy Joe.
“Why didn’t I hear anything ‘bouts that?” the tall soldier whistled.
“Maybe ‘cause you’re a moron,” the short soldier replied.
“2nd only spent a week or so there before re-upin’ with the rest of division,” Billy Joe turned his attention back to the busty brunette.
Shannie approached Billy Joe. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt, do you know anything about a fratricide there?” Scowling, the busty brunette nudged closer to Billy Joe, thrusting her breasts forward as she grabbed onto his arm. I smirked thinking she though Shannie’s question was the army’s version of a pick-up line.
“Can’t say that I do,” Billy Joe smiled before turning his attention to the brunette.
“Are you sure?” Shannie asked.
“He said he didn’t.” The brunette ran her eyes up and down Shannie disapprovingly.
I gave Shannie a ‘let’s go’ look.
Shannie stood firm. Batting her eyelashes at Billy Joe Shannie said: “I don’t want to be a pest…”
The brunette sighed.
Shannie continued. “…My brother was killed and nobody seems to care. I can’t get any answers. I’m just looking for answers. All I want are some answers.”
“Write your congressman,” the brunette snapped. “Leave us the hell alone.”
Shannie turned her attention to the brunette. “If it was your boyfriend instead of my brother, I’d help you.”
“Fiancé,” the brunette extended her hand, revealing an obnoxiously large stone on her finger.
“Oh Stacy, stop it,” Billy Joe said to the brunette.
“Don’t oh Stacy me,” the brunette snapped. “I waited seven months for you to come home, I’m not about to let a little hussy interfere with my happiness.”
“Put yourself in her shoes,” Billy Joe entreated.
“Maybe she should put herself in my shoes,” the brunette began.
“What a beautiful ring.” Shannie’s comment went unheard. The couple began arguing. “Where you’d get it, Wal-Mart? Must be pure Zirconium, gotta be the most expensive ring in the trailer park.” Turning to me, Shannie said, “Let’s go Just James.” Leading me by the hand she stopped at the first pair of helmeted soldiers, again asking if they were absolutely sure that they didn’t hear anything about Count’s fratricide. “Thanks for nothing,” she mumbled as we turned away.
We approached group after group of soldiers, their reception civil but cool. None of the groups as inhospitable as the first, none of them friendly. Shannie became disquieted, “It’s like no one gives a fuck."
Late afternoon shadows were long when we stumbled across the first members of 2nd Brigade. Almost immediately they directed us to members of B Company. “You want to ask for a Captain Mulberry,” a 1st Lieutenant Meany instructed.
“Thanks,” Shannie answered. “You wouldn’t know anything about a fratricide in the Wadi-al-Batin?”
“You mean the fratricide. Yeah I heard of it; everyone in 2nd heard about it,” Meany said. “Over and over again. No one really knows the details.”
“What do you know?” Shannie asked with raised eyebrows.
“Not much. Someone went off. You know, like, wanting to execute a one-man invasion of Kuwait. Ended up getting himself and some other poor bastard killed.”
“Anything else, like names or anything?” Shannie asked.
“Nope. Just knew it happened. Tainted a miserable week,” Meany said.
“Thanks again,” Shannie said. We went in search of Captain Mulberry.
Mulberry was a squat, fireplug of a man, whose shoulders were as broad as his legs were high. He wore a square, concrete jaw. Shannie said it was the result of a cinder block implant. A pug nose jutted outwards encasing his mouth between twin peaks. Even when he didn’t speak, his mouth rippled like a windblown lake. His voice was deep and cavernous. His gray eyes were like a lighthouse’s searchlight, constantly scanning the coast in front of him.
“Soon as I saw him, I had the urge to punch his jaw,” I told Shannie.
“Lucky you didn’t. You would have broke your hand.”
When he moved, his cockiness vanished. He didn’t walk, he rolled. His legs moved too fast for his body, giving him the appearance of perpetual stumble.
He towered over Shannie by a mere two inches and outweighed her by a hundred pounds. Except for their height, they were complete opposites. Shannie, graceful and delicate, precise as a scalpel; Mulberry, clumsy and coarse, blunt as a sledgehammer, its no wonder they only saw eye to eye standing face to face.
“I need to talk to you,” Shannie said.
A corner of the Captain’s mouth rose into a smile, his eyes paraded up and down Shannie. “Who are you?” Mulberry sneered.
“I want to know what,” Shannie began.
“I can do for you?” Mulberry jeered, cutting off Shannie.
“Kind of. Tell me what you…” Shannie said before being interrupted again.
“Tell you what I can do for you? And how I’m going to do it,” The captain said. Uh oh, I thought. The fool doesn’t know what he’s getting into.
“Wow, we have ourselves a live one,” Shannie scoffed.
“Wouldn’t you love to find out,” Mulberry’s sneer widened, his concrete jaw erect in front of him.
“Yo Napoleon, I didn’t come here to listen to your fantasies. Take them up with your sister.”
“My, my, I think you’re the live wire,” the captain crowed.
“Cut the shit! Tell me what you know about the fratricide in the Wadi-Al-Batin!”
The condescending smile vanished from the Captain’s face. “Don’t know nothing bout no fratricide. Got the wrong outfit babe.”
From the corner of my eye I noticed a large black soldier watching Shannie.
“This is the 101st, 2nd Brigade, B Company, is it not?” Shannie scoffed.
“It is,” The captain mumbled.
“I got the right outfit; babe!” Shannie jeered. Unnoticed by Shannie or Mulberry, the black soldier stepped closer. “I want to know what happened to my brother,” Shannie continued.
“I don’t know what happened to your brother,” Mulberry dug his heels into the ground.
“I didn’t tell you who my brother is. How would you know?” Shannie asked.
Mulberry eyebrows curled, trying to get a fix on the unrelenting demon in front of him. A small part of me felt sorry for him.
“Mitchell or Lightman?” Mulberry asked after a long silence.
The black soldier crept closer, as unaware of me as Shannie and Mulberry were of him. He appeared transfixed by Mulberry’s question.
“Lightman,” Shannie sighed. A slight breeze rustled her hair.
“What can I tell you about Sergeant Lightman?” Mulberry asked.
“Everything you know,” Shannie said.
Extending his arm, Mulberry touched Shannie’s shoulder with a concrete hand. “This isn’t the proper place to discuss this matter. Maybe we should be alone,” he nodded towards me. “Possibly over dinner, maybe a bottle of wine.”
“My brother’s dead and you’re hitting on me?” Shannie cried. “You fucking pig!” Shannie slapped the captain’s face. A sharp crack echoed across the disassembly area. The black soldier, who I noticed was a captain, flinched. People further away stared towards the source of the crack. The collective gaze of dozens of eyes rained upon the diminutive imp and the stone-faced captain, her handprint glowing upon his face. The two combatants were locked into a loathsome stare.
The black soldier nodded for me to restrain Shannie, he motioned he’d check Mulberry.
“Bitch,” Mulberry lunged at Shannie. Like lighting, the black soldier struck. Leading with his shoulders he slammed into Mulberry, driving him to the ground. Mulberry grunted as the weight of the black soldier fell atop of him. Count would have been proud, I know I was. “Burn in hell you rat bastard!” Shannie shrieked. “My brother’s dead and you’re hitting on me! Burn in hell! Burn in hell you rat bastard!” Another murmur arose from the onlookers. For good measure, the unknown soldier slammed Mulberry’s head against the ground.
Mulberry mumbled something. “Don’t even think of it asshole,” the black soldier warned. “You say another word, I’ll open your piece of shit skull, you know what I’m saying?”
I stood between Shannie and scrum on the ground. Her eyes teared. Her hands clenched into tiny fists. “We better get out of here,” I told her.
“He’s right, you oughta get out of here,” said the unknown soldier, still holding Mulberry to the ground. Covering Mulberry’s ears, the unknown soldier continued. “Meet me on the steps of the Lincoln memorial in an hour. We need to talk. Now, get out of here. Go count blue cars! Go on, scram!”

“What do you think he knows?” I asked trying to inspire conversation. We sat on the top step of the Lincoln memorial, glancing past the reflecting pool and the Washington monument towards the Capitol. The mall swelled with a sea of humanity. Many in crisp, pleated uniforms, arms around significant others. Giddy with the patriotic fever, their laughter and smiles crashed over us.
Shannie glanced at me before turning her attention back to the crowd. With slouched shoulders and chin resting in her upturned hands, she was the picture of exhaustion. Dark rings emerged under her eyes, which were absent and pallid.
Our silence thickened. I returned to looking for the black soldier. It was well over an hour and still no sign of him. “We didn’t even get his name,” Shannie bemoaned. “I don’t believe it. We just fucked up the chance of a lifetime. We blew it, we’ll never know. And all because of that rat bastard Mulberry.”
I nodded in agreement. We watched the crowd thin. “Nothing like being at funeral when the rest of the world is at a wedding,” Shannie said.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” Shannie sighed. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay.” I agreed.
We stood. “Just James, make me a promise. Don’t ever leave me! Promise you’ll never leave me! Please? I mean you’re the only friend I’ve got. I need you.” She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me against her.
For a moment, I felt we were one. I imagined our hearts beating together. Her feel showered me with goosebumps. “I won’t leave you. Never, ever, I promise!” She smiled, took my hand and led me down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. From the corner of my eye, I watched Shannie’s hair sway back and forth over her lowered face, each step playing peek-a-boo with her tired smile. Despite everything, it was the happiest moment of my life.
I wonder how different life would be if we’d left a minute earlier? How different life would be if we missed Calvin Gray at the bottom of the Lincoln Memorial? I’m positive two people would still be alive.
“There you people are. I was worried I’d miss you.”
I resisted letting go of Shannie’s hand, she yanked hers from mine and extended it to the familiar stranger. “Hi,” Shannie said.
In front of us was the soldier who freight-trained Mulberry. “Sorry I’m late, I had to take care of some business, you know what I’m saying?” He took Shannie’s hand into his.
“You gotta do what you gotta do… Captain Gray,” Shannie said reading his nametag.
“Please, it’s Calvin, I hear enough of that Captain bullshit all day,” he said with a toothy smile. He introduced himself to me with a bone crushing handshake.
“Thank you for what you did back there.”
“Anytime,” Calvin’s smile faded. An uneasy silence fell between the three of us. Both Shannie and Calvin began. With an uneasy laugh, Shannie insisted Calvin begin first. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re Sergeant Lightman’s sister. I knew Lee, knew him good, he never mentioned nothing ‘bout a sister. Guess you never really know people as well as you think, you know what I’m saying?”
Shannie’s cheeks flushed. “Well, like, I’m not like a blood sister. Like we grew up together, we’re kinda best friends, he’s like a brother to me.”
Calvin pointed. “You’re the neighbor. Heard all about you. He spoke highly of you.”
Shannie looked at her feet.
I remained speechless. This was Shannie’s quest, she didn’t need my stupid remarks.
“Look, this ain’t going to be easy, you know what I’m saying?” Calvin said. “Let’s take a walk, maybe grab a pop or something.”
We walked along the mall. Calvin said his family was from Atlantic City, that he had a half-sister who lived there. “She’s keeping something I’m supposed to pass on to you. You see, Lee, he took a liking to writing, he was always scribbling his thoughts down. I used to give him lots of shit about it. And he’d say - if you knew how to do it, you’d be writing things down too.” There was a sad glimmer in Calvin’s eyes. “Anyway, he made me promise that if anything happened to him I’d see that his log would get to Ortolan. That’s what he called you. Never called you by your first name, just called you Ortolan. I never thought anything would happen to him - he was a survivor type, you know what I’m saying? Anyway, he gave me your address and all, but I lost it. So, I got my sister to help me find you. I knew he lived in a cemetery and all, once I got out, I was planning on driving up to Pennsylvania and delivering it personally.
“What happened?” Shannie asked.
A long sigh escaped Calvin Gray. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I want to know everything,” Shannie said.
Lights around Washington flickered on. Evening shadows darkened, grayness faded to black. All around us, pinpricks of light penetrated the humid murkiness. “Combat fatigue,” Calvin said.
“Combat fatigue?” I broke my silence. Shannie looked at me with a downcast stare, Undeterred I continued: “What do you mean combat fatigue? He wasn’t even close to combat. The Iraqis were 50 miles away. How could he have combat fatigue?”
“Shut up and listen, you may find out,” Shannie scolded.
“This oughta be good, just like the rest of this fucking trip. I can tell this is going to be a real winner, just like the rest of today! What the fuck? Why should it be any different from anything else; it’s been a fucking ten-bell year!”
“Excuse him,” Shannie apologized. “He’s taking it pretty hard.”
“Goddamn right I am!” I snapped. “I don’t want anymore closure. I’m sick of closure. Fuck closure! I’m sick of it all! Why can’t you let him lie? Why can’t you leave him alone? You can’t bring him back! Leave him the fuck alone!”

“Why did you come if you didn’t want to know?” Shannie asked breaking our silence. Until then, only the purr of Saphix’s engine kept me company as I drove home. It was close to midnight and we were on I-95 somewhere between Washington and Baltimore.
“I wanted to be with you,” I said.
“Really?” Shannie smiled.
“Really,” I answered.
“That’s sweet Just James. I didn’t think you liked being with me anymore,” Shannie curled her legs under herself on the passenger seat.
“Why would you think that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Shannie rested the side of her face upon the seat’s headrest. A short silence fell over us, permeated by the GTI’s hum. “I’m beat,” Shannie said. “It’s been a long day, lets get a room.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Really!” Shannie smiled, biting her lower lip.
My hand trembled as I slid the plastic key-card into the motel room’s lock. When the green light blinked, I opened the door and was smacked in the face by a wall of warm, musty air.
“Yuck,” Shannie said stepping into the room behind me. “Nothing like stale air.” She turned the air conditioner on high.
“Wanna a different room?” I asked.
“Nah. One room in a Seesh Mahal is as bad as the next. It’s not like we booked a suite at the Waldorf.”
“You sure?”
“As long as there’s no cock roaches,” she winked plopping herself down on the first bed. “And as long as they have hot water I’m sure. You know, there’s nothing like the feeling of when you first check into a room, the first twenty minutes or so, it’s like escape - there’s no pressure in the world.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I answered.
Shannie studied me a second before smacking the mattress at her sides. “Anywho, I’m dying for a shower. Alone!” she added noticing my eyes sparkle.

I laid on the bed closest to the bathroom, listening to the water dance over Shannie’s body. Its sound danced with the slap of runoff upon the shower’s floor. I closed my eyes, imagining myself a drop of water, running down the side of her neck, along her chest, rising over the corner of a breast before falling between them. I fell into a light sleep picturing myself evaporating in her body’s heat.
“Just James,” Shannie whispered leaning over me, her breath tickling my nose. “Your turn.” A drop of water from her dangling mane fell upon my lips; my tongue immediately captured it. I savored its taste.
Towel clad, Shannie bounced off the bed and stood in front of the mirror running her hands through her hair: “I can’t believe how naked I feel without my hairdryer.”
“I can’t believe how naked you’d feel under that towel,” I said stumbling out of bed. In the mirror, Shannie’s eyes followed me into the bathroom.
Goosebumps exploded over my body as I stepped out of the shower into the cold dark room. Except for the rattle of the air conditioner, a sound wasn’t to be heard. Shannie was asleep. Disappointed, I stumbled towards my bed, never imagining when I got there I’d find years of late night wishes staring up at me. Wordlessly, Shannie pulled away the covers, inviting me to join her.
In the darkness, I studied the outline of Shannie’s nakedness, struggling to make out once familiar details. In front of me was not the bud of the girl I remembered from that summer afternoon, but the blossom of a woman I loved.
My head spun as I climbed into bed. I fell into her softness. Her arms pulled my chest to hers. The warm silkiness of her legs intertwined with mine. Cold air and fingernails raked my back. Her lips found my shoulder while somehow she wrapped the cover around us. Beneath the bed spun. I drew a breath to utter silly words, a finger brushed over my lips, silencing them.
I drew her finger into my mouth, tasting its sweetness, garnering her like the first sip of fine wine - a vintage I watched each and every day for years. I gazed into her eyes, she bit her lower lip.
I moved on to a second, then a third, taking each of Shannie’s fingers into my mouth, kissing and sucking them, before running my tongue between them, darting it against her softness at their base. A soft sigh escaped her lips. My tongue found its way to her palm, tracing its lines before taking it into my hand and raising it against the bed above her head. Desperately I wanted to kiss the lips that for years have been denied; I hesitated, hovering, I wanted to torment her with desire.
With my free hand I ran a finger over her eyebrows. Beneath me, Shannie lay with her eyes closed, her lips parted. I drew my lips to her forehead, kissing it. I ran my fingers down her side. With a giggle, she arched her hips as my hands raced along them. Her eyes flew open, beaming like jewels in the darkness. We locked in a passionate stare. Like so many times before, Shannie worked her will upon me. She willed my lips to hers. Our lips met. Holding mine with hers, pinching first my upper lip and than lower one between hers, she explored me. Their heat melting mine, I faded into her softness.
Rolling me onto my back Shannie straddled my stomach, her lips wandering down my neck. Somehow, as her lips sauntered lower, she dangled her hair across my face. I gasped at the sensation. Looking up, Shannie smiled. Taking my hand, she guided it to my chest, making me feel my heart. It raced. I was about to utter something senseless, she again placed a finger over my lips, hushing me.
I thrust my hips forward, desperately seeking hers, only to be frustrated as she quickly moved away. Throbbing like never before, I worried that our night would end before we started, typical of me, worrying about too much of a good thing.
Rolling onto her side, Shannie’s eyes guided my lips to hers. As they met, our passion for each other found its voice with our heavy breathing. Wrapping her arms around my neck and back, Shannie squeezed me tightly against her. I gasped as her breasts pressed against my chest, their soft firmness tickling me. My hand meandered downward, stopping briefly to explore the small of her back before moving beyond. Her cheeks, soft and firm, filled my palm.
I ran a hand up between us, taking a breast between my thumb and forefinger, pinching it gently. Shannie broke off our kiss with a gasp and leaned into me. Kissing her forehead I rolled Shannie onto her back. Cupping her breast, my mouth worked down her neck toward its prize. Having waited so long to taste them, my mouth savored every second. My tongue danced around one and then her other nipple; a cry escaped Shannie’s lips. Beneath me, her hips danced against my stomach.
I moved lower, my tongue tracing its way along her abdomen into her bellybutton. As always, when Shannie makes the rules she breaks them. Speaking softly, raspy, she said: “Make love to me.”
I looked up at her, smiled and moved my tongue lower. “No,” Shannie said grabbing a handful of my hair. “I want you to give me what no one else has. I want you to make love with me.”
Who was I to argue? I moved upward, running my tongue up the soft swell of a breast and over a nipple, lingering briefly before finding her lips. With her help, I slipped inside. A gasp escaped her lips as her head fell back upon a pillow of her wild, sprawling hair. Below, she gripped me, her softness tugging at me, pulling me deeper, as if she could pull my heart into her. Eyes closed, Shannie lay biting her lower lip, her breasts quivering between us. Without warning, my limb’s tingled; my head lightened. I felt like an unstable explosive in a volatile environment – the slightest provocation capable of setting me off.
With a cry, I exploded, releasing years of built up passion. Shannie’s hips bucked against me, holding me tight. We stayed like this for untold moments. When we relaxed, I fell onto the sheets next to her.
Shannie’s eyes explored my face as we lay with our arms wrapped around each other. “That was fast,” Shannie said, half-jokingly, brushing my hair from my face.
Blushing in the darkness, I laid in silent humiliation. “You’re so passionate,” Shannie told me, kissing my forehead. You’re so diplomatic, I thought. Squeezing her, I buried my head on Shannie’s shoulder. My lips explored her neck. Soon, we were making love again. Afterwards, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.
At some point during the night, I woke. Shannie laid on her back next to me, sound asleep. For the longest time, I watched her perky breasts rise and fall in unison. I touched her left breast, a finger tracing soft circles around her nipple, stopping when the corner of her mouth twitched, resuming when I thought it safe. I did this repeatedly, staring in wonder at her body; stopping when she made the slightest movement. It was during one of these interludes that I noticed a single hair, fine as it was curling up from her upper arm, just below her shoulder. I stared at it in wonder, amazed as often as I’ve seen her bare shoulders that I had never noticed.
I moved my mouth close to her ear and breathed “I love you Shannie.” I held my breath, wondering what I would say if her emerald eyes flew open. I hadn’t a clue. She didn’t stir. When I felt safe, positive she wouldn’t hear me, I whispered “I love you,” into her ear. Her rhythmic breathing briefly stopped, then returned to its steady pace. Smiling, I rested my head on the pillow next to her. As I began to fade, I once again whispered, “I really love you,” before curling up tight against her and drifting off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The room was awash with sunlight when I stirred. I reached my arm around Shannie, but she wasn’t there. The warm feeling in my heart vanished. The vacant burning sensation, which greets me every morning, pressed my chest down into the mattress. Getting out of bed is always an ordeal. The thought that last night was a dream consumed me. A groan escaped me.
“Good morning,” Shannie’s voice called from somewhere in the room. Sitting up, I noticed Shannie sitting at the table in front of the window, her notepad on the table in front of her.
“Morning,” I mumbled as images of last night raced in my mind. I watched Shannie cap her pen and stow her notepad in her backpack. It didn’t really happen? I needed to look no further than my pillow for an answer. A curly, flaxen strand of hair glistened in the sunlight. I breathed a sigh of relieve.
“Checkout is in ten minutes,” Shannie said sitting on the bed next to me. She put her arms around me and whispered into my ear. Her breath tickled me. “I’m sorry Just James. I’m sorry for everything.”
“Huh,” I asked hugging her back. I had my ideas, and I was about to get a good dose of what she was talking about, but it wouldn’t be until seven and a half years later that I’d know exactly what Shannie was sorry about.

On the road, an uneasy silence settled between us. Resting in the passenger seat with my feet on the dash, I satisfied myself with an occasional glimpse of Shannie, her hair tossed about by the rushing wind, an occasional strand sucked through the open sunroof. Shannie looked straight ahead, focusing through her Oakley's on the highway. The radio graced us with Black from Pearl Jam, its lyrics defined Shannie and I. When we emerged from the Baltimore Harbor tunnel Shannie broke our silence. “Do you believe him?”
“Believe who?” I asked.
“Calvin,” Shannie answered.
“Why would he lie?”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Shannie averted her gaze long enough to give me a smile. “Wanna go to Atlantic City?”
“Sure, why not. I don’t have anything better to do.”
“That’s the spirit.”
We can finally put this to rest, I thought. My mind jumped to Calvin. “I saw it happen, I saw it all,” his eyes pleaded his point. “And you see, you don’t have to be in combat to get combat fatigue, you know what I’m saying. Lee knew something was up. He told me so. Said he had to keep an eye on Mitchell. Mitchell was a grunt in Lee’s squad who was showing signs of combat fatigue.”
As Calvin spoke, I reminded myself that Lee was his name for Count. As I listened I thought of Shannie’s eulogy; she nailed it.
Calvin continued, “I mean it’s understandable, God himself knows what we was facing could have been the death for the lot of us. I’m telling ya, nothing, I mean nothing was as nerve-racking as those days in the Wadi, not even when we got into combat. No, the Wadi was worse, much worse, we knew we were in the shit, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing we could do about it. Everyone knew if the Iraqi’s came we’d be lucky to get out of there alive. We was all feeling the heat. Mitchell, he just felt it a little hotter. He cracked first.”
“And poor fucking Lee, he did the best he could do. He did too good, you know what I’m saying? Maybe he be still alive if he didn’t to do so good.”
“What do you mean?” Shannie asked.
“If he didn’t care as much as he did, he wouldn’t have done what he did. I mean, he didn’t have to do it. But he told me, he said, Calvin, I’m responsible for my boys, if I can help it, ain’t a goddamn one is getting killed. That’s why he took to keeping an eye on Mitchell. Hell, he told before it all came down that he had an eye on Mitchell. ‘Cept you see, I didn’t pay him all that much attention; I had my mind on more important things, you know what I’m saying? I mean I had my own platoon to worry ‘bouts, like saving my boy’s asses if the Iraqis came down the wadi.”
Calvin paused; a painful smile resided on his face. In the distance a police car’s siren wailed. “And then our bombs started falling. Even though they was miles away, their explosions rolled down the wadi. It was sweet music, like a Buddy Rich on drums, you know what I’m saying? For that minute or so, I never was so relieved. I knew, I felt it in my bones, the Iraqi’s wouldn’t be coming. We was out of the shit.”
Calvin wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Then I heard a shout, and then a loud explosion. You see, when our bombs started falling, Mitchell, snaps, you know what I’m saying? He goes and jumps out of his foxhole and beelines it for the Kuwait border, one-man invasion style. That’s what I hear anyhow. What happened next I know, ‘cause I saw it in my night vision goggles.
Shannie and I waited for this stranger’s account. “You see, Lee took off after Mitchell, he knew Goddamn well that the crazy motherfucker was headed right into a minefield. ‘cept you see, Lee, he was fast for a big white guy, but not fast enough, I used to kid him he wasn’t black enough. He wasn’t black enough to catch Mitchell. So, when Mitchell goes and gets his ass blown apart stepping on that mine, couple of grunts on sentry who be minding a heavy, opened up in the direction of the explosion. Poor Lee probably never knew what hit ‘em. Probably was dead before he hit the dirt, poor bastard. I know he was dead when I got to him, and that was a half-minute later.”
Shannie slid her arm around me, her fingernails digging into my side.
“Yeah, that gunner was just too good. He had to be good and scared, you know what I’m saying? He had to be scared to death. You see rumors spread like crazy over there, and word was going ‘round that the Iraqis were coming; mix that up the air force howling overhead, explosions and moving shadows, he said he saw shadows, he just didn’t figure out the shadows were running away from him not towards him.
“Fuck the gunner,” Shannie said.
“All I’m saying is he’s got to live with it. Till the day he dies, he’s got to live with knowing he killed one of his own, killed one of us, you know what I’m saying? Killed one of us who was trying to save another one of us. He took out a hero; took out a brother, you know what I’m saying? I don’t have any bad feeling for him, he’ll have more bad thoughts ‘bout himself then you, or any of us can ever feel ‘bout him.
“He’s still an asshole,” Shannie snarled.
“Wouldn’t expect you to feel any different,” Calvin answered, exhaling as he studied the Washington Monument awash in light. “You are in the business of hurting, missing your friend, that’s sucks enough, but you ain’t in the business of knowing you pulled the trigger, knowing that you killed one of your own. I can’t begrudge the gunner. He knows he killed one of his own, you gotta know he’s burning in his own personal hell, you know what I’m saying?”
I knew what Calvin Gray was saying, in a convoluted way I felt like I pulled the trigger. My grandfather’s war stories hypnotized Count. I never heard Count mention one word about the army until my grandfather got hold of his ear. Count told me himself, the day before he left for basic training, when we were sitting in the maple tree drinking beers, “…because you moved in I met your Grandfather. If I hadn’t met your Grandfather, I wouldn’t have been interested in the Army. Go figure.”
It was too hard not to beat up on myself, it’s my one true talent. It’s bad enough having a black cloud following one around, but when the cloud starts raining on innocent people, one considers living the life of a hermit.


Chapter 15 Sisters of Fate

An hour after returning home from Washington, Shannie and I were on our way to Atlantic City. Two hours later, as the sun set over the Intracoastal Waterway, I stood behind Shannie admiring her butt as she knocked on Genise Gray’s apartment door.
“Maybe she’s not home.” I looked over each shoulder. Across the narrow street a woman, a white woman, walked a dog. Besides Shannie and myself, she was the only other white person I noticed.
“She’s got to be. She said she would,” Shannie knocked harder.
“If she ain’t home, she ain’t home. Let’s get out of here.”
“Give up this easy? Are you out of your mind?”
I wasn’t out of my mind, I was out of my element. I didn’t like being a minority. We were in a desegregationist's wet dream, every known ethnic group lived in the section of Atlantic City we’d come to know as Lower Chelsea.
“Baxter that best not be you. I told you to stay the fuck away, unless you have my fucking money! You don’t have my money I’m done with yo smelly ass.”
“It’s Shannie Ortolan.”
“Who?” The cagey voice asked.
“Shannie, Shannie Ortolan. I’m looking for Genise Gray. I talked with her on the phone earlier.”
“Oh, you the one.” The catch on the lock slid open. The heavy wooden door opened. I had an idea what the owner of the vexing voice looked like, and when the voice stepped from behind the door, I was reminded how wrong I could be. A short athletic beauty with smooth olive skin and shoulder length raven hair stood before us. Her eyes dark coals that charred anything they touched. My jaw dropped. “I didn’t know what to expect, I just didn’t expect exotic,” Shannie said later.
“Yeah?” Genise asked. - oblivious why two white people stood speechless.
“Ah, Yeah. Hi, I’m Shannie, you must be Genise.”
“That I am.”
“This is James,” Shannie nodded towards me. I immediately got off on the wrong foot when Genise busted me studying her low-cut top.
“Um, Hi,” I grinned. I extended my hand.
“Listen, I have pigs leering at me all day, I don’t need that shit now.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Bullshit, you loved every second of it. Don’t say you’re sorry,” Genise pointed her chin at me.
“Ah, Sorry.”
“You thick or something? I told you not to say you’re sorry when it obvious you ain’t sorry. Damn men are all the same. You’re just like those drunken assholes I deal with day and night. If they ain’t grabbing, they’re staring.”
“O-Kay,” I stared at my feet, they were still there after Genise cut me off at the knees.
“James can’t help himself. Poor guy’s a virgin! He’s kinda like a starving kid staring in a restaurant’s window. Silly James, you’ll never get a table is you don’t learn manners. I’m trying to teach him.”
Genise stared at Shannie: “Uh, Yeah.”
Shannie smiled.
“Anyway, thanks for keeping our friend’s log.”
“Huh? Oh yeah,” Genise murmured. “Anytime girlfriend,” she said, her gaze transfixed on Shannie. “Hang on, let me get it for you.”
Genise disappeared into her apartment. Shannie punched my arm. “You twit. Busted. I oughta crack you.”
“She’s got great tits.” I rubbed my arm.
Genise returned. “Here you go,” Genise handed the small spiral notebook to Shannie.
Shannie beamed. “Thanks again. This means so much.” Shannie extended her hand to Genise. “Thank Calvin for me.”
“Will do,” Genise answered.
I studied the grains of gravel in the top step’s concrete. I didn’t want to risk a stray peep.
Shannie and I made our way down the steps. “Hey, you guys want a drink or something?” Genise called after us.
Let’s get out of here, I thought,. If I had the balls, I would have said no. It would have saved everyone heartbreak.
“Sure. That would be cool,” Shannie smiled at Genise.
Her apartment was small and cluttered. Dozens of photo albums lined shelves, others were stacked in piles, others lay strewn about here and there. On the kitchen table piles of pictures yet to interred waited within envelopes. Her apartment was organized chaos.
“Sorry for being bitchy, I’m kinda having a shitty day,” Genise said.
“No worries,” Shannie answered.
“It’s cool…,” I began.
“What do you do?” Genise asked Shannie, cutting me off.
“I’m a student. You?” Shannie replied.
“I’m a cocktail waitress - at a casino,” Genise told Shannie. “I got wine, beer and soda,” Genise told us.
“Got White Zin?” Shannie asked.
“My favorite,” Genise replied.
“Brew,” I answered.
Genise curled the corner of her mouth, showing me the annoyed look that I would come to know.
“What’s your major?”
“American history, heavy concentration on the 20th century,” Shannie answered.
“I like history too,” Genise opened a bottle of wine. I watched her reach for this or bend for that. When she disappeared behind the refrigerator door, I couldn’t help eying her ass. Shannie coughed. “You nuts?” Shannie mouthed. I sank lower into my chair as I studied Genise’s rear-end.
“I’m kinda fascinated by the old west,” Genise said as she served us. “I’m half Native American. My old man is full-blooded Shoshone.”
“No shit?” Shannie said.
Does that make her a Native-African-American, I wondered.
“Yeah shit,” Genise slid a bottle across the tabletop to me. She poured two glasses of wine. “I love hearing about the shit that happened to my people out west.”
Oh boy, I thought.
That’s how the evening went, Genise and Shannie pried into each others lives, I commented to myself. I may as well have been invisible. I buried myself in Genise’s photography.
An hour later, Genise said she had to get to work. Thank God for small favors, I thought.
“You need a ride?” Shannie asked.
“I’ll catch a jitney,” Genise said.
“Really, it’s not a problem, I’d love to give you a ride.”
“Excellent Eggs,” Genise giggled.
I popped my head up and gave Genise the-mother-of-dirty-looks. Until then, I never heard another person use that phrase, after an hour’s conversation - which Shannie used it once - Genise was aping her. Bitch, I thought.
A cool breeze greeted us as we stepped into the night. Like a beaten dog, I realized my spot and climbed into the backseat. Shannie drove across Ventnor Avenue into the heart of the Casino district.
“You got my number,” Genise said stepping from the car. “Call me sometime.” As I pushed the seat forward Genise slammed the door.
“Bitch,” I yelled after her.
“That’s right,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’m a Babe In Total Control of Herself.” She flipped me off as she wiggled past an ornate fountain.
“What crawled up your ass?” Shannie asked as I reclaimed the passenger seat.
“Whatever.” I lowered the seat and closed my eyes. I thought of the previous night, it seemed another lifetime. Shannie found a new distraction, someone else to take her mind off Count. I wished we could be each others distraction – if I could be so lucky. I fell asleep to the hum of the road.


Chapter 16 Moving On

With Count’s log in hand, Shannie running back and forth to Atlantic City, and Steve Lucas obsessed with his sisters racks, I had a lot of time to kill, and no one to kill it with - a perfect recipe for slipping from a well-worn groove into a deep rut.
Shannie occasionally asked if I wanted to spend a weekend in Atlantic City. I found excuses not to go. It was less stressful laying in bed listening to the rumble of distant freight trains than spending time with Genise. The only positive about Genise was Beetle was an afterthought. I so despised Genise that I told Shannie, “don’t invite me to Atlantic City unless we can play cowboys and indians. Put Genise and me in the same room, one of us is going to loose their scalp. And it ain’t going to be me.”
“You know, Genise likes you. Give her a chance.”
“She has a funny way of showing it.”
Later that night I sat in my perch watching a thunderstorm. I opened the window and stuck my head into the driving rain. Fresh air pierced my lungs. Lightning illuminated Fernwood, I laughed watching the wind whip trees and the rain pelt tombstones. I laughed so hard I cried. I cried for Count; I cried that I again lost Shannie; I cried that I was alone; I cried because I would always be alone; I cried so hard that I got pissed!
I ran into the stormy night, crossed our yards and pounded on the Ortolan’s front door. My hair - which hadn’t been cut since Count’s funeral - hung soaked and matted over my bare shoulders.
“James! Everything Okay?” Diane asked.
“Where’s Shannie?” I asked.
“Come on in.” On the landing Diane gave me a once-over. “Are you high?”
“No!” I didn’t think Diane knew I smoked pot. I started after burying Count.
“Your eyes are bloodshot!”
“I’ve been crying.”
Diane eyed me with skepticism “Don’t lie to me.”
“I don’t touch the stuff,” I lied.
“Tell me, what do I smell at night?”
“Incense.”
“Jesus James, at least you could be original. Been there, done that. You can’t shit me.” Behind us, Shannie walked into the kitchen.
“I’m not high. I’m upset. I need to talk to Shannie.”
“Listen, and listen good,” Diane said in a deliberate whisper. “Keep it away from her. Okay? I don’t want to have to hurt you.” She stepped back and ran her eyes over me. Shaking her head, Diane continued: “What happened to you James? You’re on a one-way trip down.”
My face burned. “What happened to me? What happened to you? What happened to me? Where the fuck have you been? Jesus Christ! Am I talking to Diane? For your information, one of my best friends got killed in some goddamned war. That’s what happened. You wanna know what’s else, I blame myself. Count told me, if it wasn’t for my goddamn grandfather he wouldn’t of joined the army. How would you feel? What’s your goddamn excuse?”
Shannie watched us from the top of the stairs.
“And you’re worried about me smoking a joint. Fuck you! I love your daughter. She’s the only good thing that’s ever happened to me. Piss off!” I slammed the door in Diane’s face.
I ran into the night. I found myself on the baseball field’s bleachers watching the storm roll away. I was sure Shannie didn’t care. I was so wrapped up in my own struggle I never fathomed hers. Today I obsess how different life would be if I had known her dilemma.
Over Christmas of ’98, I learned how Shannie struggled with her feelings, by then it was too late. Diane showed me Shannie’s journal entry written in the motel room on the way home from D.C.

6/xx/91
Somewhere between DC and Baltimore

Last night Just James told me he loved me. I don’t how to react. I love him wildly, I’ve loved him from the day we met, there are times I want to marry him. I think of spending our lives together, growing old together. Then there are the days when the idea revolts me. I’m torn, pulled away by my attraction to women. I think it’s inevitable; I think I’m lesbian. I mean what else would I want in a man? James knows me so well, he’s caring, he’s so passionate. I love being with him. I know him better than he knows himself. But there’s the penis issue. I mean I don’t hate it. But I’d rather be with, well sexually anyhow, Beetle or whomever. Beetle is so passé’, so tedious, she has no future. James could have a future. He is smarter than he thinks. He could be somebody. He has to believe. James wins the possibility index; James wins the innate intelligence index; James wins the passion index; James just isn’t soft enough; he doesn’t have a vagina. Fuck if he had a vagina we’d be perfect. Why is the world so unfair? Even Count sensed the electricity between us. Why can’t I give myself to him? God, there are days when I want to so badly. I hope last night wasn’t a mistake. I hope I don’t break his heart. He’s too good. He doesn’t deserve that. It’s not fair for him. I’m so confused.
PS. I’m not ovulating, I should be okay.

In the summer of ’91, sitting on the bleachers, cold and wet, I couldn’t be more wrong. I was figuring a way to sever my ties with Shannie. There was one problem: Shannie and I could not be apart. The following weekend, I found myself in Shannie’s passenger seat racing towards Atlantic City.
Boats of all shapes and sizes floated up and down the Intracoastal Waterway as Shannie parked along side of Genise’s apartment. A strong breeze danced over the back bay. Cries of seagulls welcomed us. Shannie and I locked eyes before I motioned for her to lead the way. I admired her French braid as we climbed the steps. It was sexy; she was sexy.
“Hey girl,” Genise said opening the screen door. “I see your friend decided to tag along.”
Here we go, I thought. I focused on looking into her eyes. It was an act of self-control, considering Genise’s cleavage was bound by a leopard skin bikini top. She wiggled and jiggled across the weekend. I knew she was screwing with me. I kept quiet and tried to keep my chin up.
“Hi James,” Genise extended her hand.
“Hi.” I enjoyed the feel of Genise’s hand in mine.
That’s how my weekend of sexual tension began. Imagine my torture: being in the company of two beauties and not being able to do anything about it. To escape I parked my ass on the sea wall across the street from Genise’s apartment. On one of these occasions, the lady with the dog came walking by.
I jumped off the wall and asked if I could pet her dog.
“Mr. Beau, stop it.” Her dog was licking my face.
“It’s cool. What is he?” I rubbed behind his ears.
“Golden Retriever.”
Shannie has her ‘friend’, Lucas has his sisters; I’ll get myself a dog. For the first time in months, life was worth living.
“Whatever you do, don’t get a pure-bred. They’re insane. All that inbreeding and shit. You’re better off with mutt,” Genise told that night.
Good advice from a half-breed, I thought flipping through the photos on Genise’s kitchen table. I didn’t want to be busted eying her tits. Eventually, I learned to wear sunglasses - then I could check her out with impunity.

“I’m worried about you,” Shannie said.
“Me?”
Shannie turned off the radio. She took a deep breath, keeping an eye on road. “You’re having a hard time. I think you need help.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You slept all weekend.”
“I was tired.”
“We were at the shore.” Passing headlights silhouetted her profile.
“Sorry for not sleeping on the beach.”
“Geezus Pete Just James. You walk around like a zombie. All you do is work in Fernwood and sleep,” Shannie sighed. “No offense, you don’t have a life. If I don’t drag you somewhere you’ll sleep all day. You’re depressed. I’m worried about you, I think you might kill yourself or something.”
“I think of or something all the time.”
“I’m serious."
“I’m seriously tired.”
“Whatever,” Shannie said.
We drove in silence until I uttered: “Okay, maybe I don’t have a life, but I don’t sleep all day.”
“What were you doing on Genise’s floor until four this afternoon?”
“I was tired,” I protested.
“From what?” Shannie challenged.
“You want to help me?”
Shannie took my hand. “Of course I do.”
“This is what you can do. Be with me or stay out of my life!”
“I’m not going to stay out of your life. That’s not an option. I don’t care what you say! I love you too much to drop out of your life! Geezus Pete, look at all we’ve been through. We have to stay together.”
“If I’m so important, stop going to Atlantic City,” I said.
“Oh no you don’t! No one, No One, tells me how to live my life. Not you! Not Diane! Not No ONE!” Shannie’s voice rose.
“Ought oh, double negative.”
“FUCK YOU!” Shannie shouted.
We didn’t speak all the way home. Shannie broke our silence in the Ortolan’s driveway. “You think I’m a freak, don’t’ you?” The outline of her faced glimmered under the streetlight – the same light Count was known to kick out. I didn’t answer. I opened the door and slipped into the night. “I’m not a freak,” Shannie cried.
Too upset to sleep, I slithered down Cemetery Street, past Lucas’s funeral parlor, over the railroad tracks and across vacant lots that were once giant factories. I sat upon an uprooted tree hovering above the Schuylkill River. Watching the water ripple under a full moon, I promised myself better. It was time to move on. I was tired of atrophying into a spineless slug.

Weeks had passed since we spoke. It was the longest we’d ever gone without talking. God knows but not for the arrival of another female in my life, Shannie and I wouldn’t have spoken again. Her name was Eleanor Rigby, I called her Ellie. She was affectionate, a bit demanding, and sometimes trying. More than anybody, I credit her with snapping me out of my funk. Shannie fell in love with her and Ellie took a liking to Shannie. Ellie took a liking to anyone who offered her treats.
I can’t say I chose Ellie as much as she chose me. When our eyes met, she curled her ears and tilted her head. My heart snapped. I tried walking away, looking at other dogs, only to look over my shoulder at her. My father sensed the connection. He nudged me and said it was time to fall for another blonde.
That afternoon Dad, Diane and me fussed over Ellie; Shannie was in Atlantic City. That night, I fell asleep on the floor with my arm wrapped around Ellie. I set a dangerous precedent. The next night Ellie protested sleeping alone. She whined and whined. “ELLIE! Stop it,” I scolded. She did, for a minute, before repeating herself. “ELLIE! Knock it off!” On went this battle of wills. Luckily my father slept like the dead.
“Jesus Christ! Okay, okay, you win,” I patted my mattress. She leapt onto my bed, curling next to me and resting her snout on my pillow. I was too tired to argue. “If I was smart, I’d take you back to the pound,” I said petting her. I was in love.
The next day Ellie and I were playing in the yard when Shannie returned home. “Oh my God! She’s adorable,” Shannie fussed. “What’s her name? It’s a her? I didn’t see any equipment down there.”
“Eleanor Rigby; I call her Ellie.”
“Cute.” Shannie looked up at me. We locked eyes. “I’m sorry Just James.”
“Me too.”
Shannie scratched behind Ellie’s ears. “I hate when we don’t talk. It’s stupid.” She stood. “Wanna kiss and make up?”
“I’d rather make out,” I smiled.
“Don’t press your luck.”
We hugged. Shannie and I had an unspoken understanding. Don’t ask; don’t tell. As maddening as it seemed, it was better to lose part of Shannie than all of her.
I was telling Steve Lucas as much one afternoon in the embalming room when he said: “Be careful dude, Shannie and that bulldyke friend will convert your mutt.” Steve became the sounding board for my Shannie frustrations. He made their relationship his personal challenge. “If I ever meet this Comanche chick…”
“Shoshone.”
“I’ll give the Shoshone my bologna. I’d convert her; she never met a paleface from good stock; I’m pedigree.”
“You couldn’t convert a virgin in a whorehouse. I’m telling you dude, she’s Satan fucking incarnate!”
“Ye of little faith - give me a loaf of bread and watch me butter the slices. This is what you do. Get your wannabe woman to invite her squaw to Beyford. We take them out on a double date and let the rest to me.”

The weekend before Memorial day, 1992, Shannie duped me into a third trip to Atlantic City, this time with Ellie in tow. Traffic on the Atlantic City Expressway was heavy. “Goddamn Shoebees,” Shannie bitched.
“What’s a Shoebee?” I asked.
“Tourists,” Shannie snapped. Her hair fluttered in the wind. “Don’t you do it. Don’t do it. He did it, you asshole!” She flipped off the car who pulled in front of her. In the back, Ellie paced back and forth on the seat, occasionally nudging her nose against the windows.
“How long have you been seeing Genise?”
Shannie looked at me from behind her sunglasses. “A year next month. Why?”
“Why haven’t you brought her home?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just curious.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, she doesn’t drive,” Shannie flipped through the radio pre-sets.
“She could take Greyhound,” I said.
Ignoring me, Shannie focused on the traffic. Her knuckles white against the black steering wheel. “I’m moving to Atlantic City for the summer,” she said.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t give you permission,” I cracked. My heart fell into the bucket seat; my ass throbbed in panic.
“Fuck you,” Shannie smiled.
“If you did, we wouldn’t have this problem.”
Shannie punched my arm: “You’re an ass.”
“JESUS CHRIST! WATCH OUT!” I braced myself against the back of the seat. Shannie slammed on the breaks; the nose of the GTI dipped and its rear end rose as it squealed to a stop. Ellie slammed into the back of my seat. The smell of burnt rubber drifted through the sunroof. The GTI rested inches from the blue Cadillac in front of us.
“What the fuck?” Shannie laid on the horn. “ASSHOLE!” Shannie yelled at the driver in front of us. “Why’s the asshole stopped in the middle of a highway?” Shannie questioned.
Around us drivers stared. In front of us cars weaved back and forth, queuing into lines. “It’s a tollbooth stupid.” I turned my attention to Ellie.
“Oh My God,” Shannie mumbled.
The driver of the blue Cadillac, a little old bald man, shook his head in his rear-view mirror. He kept a wary eye on Shannie until he was through the tollbooth, when he sped off.
Silence fell over us as we dodged stares. When we got through the tollbooth Shannie spoke. “I could have got us killed.”
“Look at the bright side, the three of us would be together forever.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m serious.”
Shannie kept her eyes on the road - her hands on the wheel. “That’s bullshit. How do you know we just don’t end up in a hole."
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You brought it up. What makes you so cocksure there’s an afterlife?”
“What makes you so sure there ain’t?” I replied.
“Didn’t say there wasn’t, but I’m not betting there is. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like there’s a heaven out there. It’s not like you make a right turn at Pluto and there are gates. I don’t think it’s a place, it’s like it’s a state of being. When your dead how can you be?”
“You can be dead.”
“Yeah you can, but that’s it - you’re dead. Dead means dead.”
“What about your soul? It has to go somewhere.”
“Soul-smole. Who says there’s a soul?” Shannie answered.
“There has to be. How do you explain, like, the light at the end of the tunnel stuff?
Shannie shrugged. “If that does happen, it’s the body’s way of tricking us. Kinda like the ultimate survival instinct, you know, it tricks us, makes us think we’re going to survive when we’re dying.”
“That’s fucked up,” I said.
“No more fucked up than believing a higher being cares about your every thought.”
“I don’t like to think that Count is just in a hole, that Stan is scattered over Squaw Valley. It’s fucking cold - hopeless.”
“I hear you.” Shannie slowed as she approached the next toll plaza.

“You want me to do what?” I was sitting between Shannie and Genise on the seawall overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway.
“You heard us,” Shannie answered.
“It ain’t no big deal,” Genise said. “We need another set of eyes. You need to hold the money.” Genise was friendly. I’ve should have known she had an ulterior motive.
“Let me think about it.”
“What’s there to think about?” Shannie asked.
“Yeah, but,” I hesitated.
“It’s like you’re our stage manager. Nothing to it,” Shannie said.
“You’ll witness history in the making,” Genise chimed.
“I doubt that.” Behind us Ellie tugged on her leash. Kids rode past on their bikes. I looked from Shannie to Genise. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“You got a choice, you can sleep on the couch or on the street,” Genise said.

I was taking Ellie for a walk when I stumbled across three kids standing on a corner. Hey. Didn’t I see you earlier?” A black kid asked – he was the leader.
“Did you?” I stared down at him. The other two watched.
“You were with those two weird chicks.”
“Yeah,” a Hispanic kid said. “The black one, she’s a bitch. She juggles knives. I used to watch her practice on the sidewalk. She yelled me. Told me if I ever bothered her she’d cut my nuts off.”
“She ain’t cuttin’ nobody’s nuts off,” the leader said. A second black kid didn’t say anything; he knelt and played with Ellie.
“I’ve seen her do it. She’s nasty,” I said. I looked around as if I was about to tell a secret: “Between you and me, she hates guys. It’s a good idea to stay away from her. She eats deep fried nuts for lunch.”
“I knew it! They’re lesbos?” The leader cried.
“The blonde isn’t. The knife lady is,” I said.
“Bullshit man, them bitches always together. They clam slammers.”
“They ain’t,” I said.
“How do you know?”
“I’m the blonde's boyfriend.”
Two of the kids laughed. “You’re her boy-fool,” The leader said.
The quiet kid petting Ellie spoke up. “What’s her name?”
“Shannie,” I answered.
“Hi Shannie,” the quiet kid said scratching Ellie behind her ears.
“No, the blonde is Shannie. That’s Eleanor Rigby. You can call her Ellie.”
“Hi Ellie,” he said. Ellie kissed his face.
“Watch out man, those lesbos will convert your dog,” the Hispanic said.
There’s a Steve Lucas in every crowd, I thought. “You’re funny, too bad you ain’t original,” I said.
“What kind of dog is she?” the kid petting Ellie asked.
Staring at the leader I answered: “Ellie’s a coonhound. She doesn’t like wise asses. The last kid that gave me shit, Ellie ripped the rat-bastard’s arm off and chewed on the bones for weeks. Human bones make her happy,” I warned.
“You full of shit,” the leader said as he took a step backwards.
“Hey Drew,” the Hispanic kid cried to the leader. “You going to take that shit? Man, the cracker just called you a coon!”
“Try us,” I said, glaring at the leader. “Excuse me,” I said to the kid petting Ellie. “Ellie’s got a job to do.”
“Oh,” Ellie’s new friend whispered as he stood.
“Ellie sic,” I said doubling her leash around my wrist. Ellie barked, jumped, drooled, and tugged the leash. The leader and Hispanic kid turned and ran down the street. The quite kid chuckled. “Good girl,” I gave a quick tug on her leash. Ellie sat down without another bark.
“You got a cool dog, but she ain’t no coonhound,” the quite kid said.
“She’s a pitbull.”
“That’s what I thought.” The quiet kid smiled.
“I’m James,” I extended my hand.
“Jerome.” He shook my hand.

After sunset, Shannie, Genise, Ellie and I walked the boardwalk. “This works,” Genise said. We were at the corner of St. James Place and boardwalk. “Hang here,” Genise said placing a duffel bag and boom box at my feet. “We got dibs on this corner. Anyone moves in, start shit. Don’t sweat it, no one gonna fight. They’re gonna move on.” Genise was talking about other acts. Spots on the boardwalk were always up for grabs. I leaned against the wall with my arms crossed, sporting a baseball cap on sideways and shades. Having a pitbull helped. I didn’t have to wait too long before they reappeared. Seeing them I was glad I wore shades.
Clad in short shorts, a low cut top and inline skates, Shannie looked wonderfully trashy. She coasted on her skates drawing gawks. She winked at me as she approached. She bent over and turned on the boom box and cranked its volume. A crowd formed. Shannie circled backwards on her skates. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“James, whatever you do…” Genise’s voice appeared from nowhere. A cheer rose from the growing crowd. I missed Shannie nailing a back flip, landing on her blades, “…don’t move an inch! Got it?”
“Got it,” I watched Genise retrieve the duffel bag next to me. “I mean it. Not a fucking inch.” She skated away from me on an old pair of quad skates. “Give it up for MS. Montana Fontana.” With the skills of a ring master, Genise shooed people to the sides, forming a horseshoe around Shannie and me. Shannie did a couple more tricks before Genise and Shannie grabbed my arms and backed me against the wall.
Genise pulled three impressive looking knives from her duffel bag. Genise began juggling them. Reflections of halogen lights glimmered off the polished steel.
“Not bad!” Shannie cried as Genise gathered in the last knife. “Would’ve been better if they were real.”
“What makes you think they’re not?,” Genise answered skating towards Shannie.
“Real knives? Ha! You’re afraid to butter toast. You’re afraid of chipping your fingernail polish. God forbid, you might even break a fingernail.”
Like everyone else, I glanced at Genise’s fingernails – they were painted blood red.
“Is that right? Genise glared into Shannie’s eyes.
“That’s right,” Shannie goaded the crowd. “You’re too big a princess to play with real knives!”
Genise glanced at me before turning to the crowd. “A princess?” Genise bellowed. Genise spun on her skates and launched the knife towards me. Strands of light shimmered off the sheath as it darted towards me. I screamed. The knife imbedded itself in wall inches from my left ear. A second knife landed inches from my right ear. The crowd broke into laughter and applause; money poured into the buckets. “Give it up for Ginsu Gina.” I heard Shannie cry before my world went black.

“I can’t believe you passed out,” Shannie teased.
“Fuck you!” I moaned.
“Awesome,” Genise said. “We couldn’t have scripted it any better. You’re an improvisational genius.”
“You’re an asshole,” I said.
The three of us sat around Genise’s kitchen table counting the take. The Sister’s of Fate put on three more acts. When we finished, I told them they needed to find another target. “I’m out.” They didn’t have to wait too long for a replacement. The next day I found their man.
“Hey Ellie,” Jerome’s called. Tail waging, Ellie pulled me in Jerome’s direction.
“I caught the act last night.” Jerome reached into his pants pocket.
“What did you think?”
“It was fly when you passed out,” Jerome gave Ellie a treat.
“They’re looking for someone.”
“You think they’d let me?” Jerome asked. “That would be tits. I’d do it in a heart-beat.” Jerome got his wish.
I didn’t see Shannie much that summer, she spent it in Atlantic City. With the exception of July 4th and Labor Day I spent the summer doing the Fernwood thing. When I visited, I enjoyed their freak show, Jerome kicked ass.
Over Labor Day Jerome told me, “My mom says I can get a dog when I’m sixteen.” I liked Jerome, he was a dreamer. He talked of being a rapper or an Air Force pilot. He didn’t live long enough to realize either, let alone have his own dog. Over Thanksgiving of 1994, Jerome’s luck escaping death ran out, he was killed in a drive-by three days prior to his sixteenth birthday. I didn’t attend his memorial service; I had my own problems to deal with. It would be months before I could comprehend what happened. A brain injury is funny like that.


Chapter 17 Coming Home

As I pen these words, I deal with the effects of what happened in the early fall of 1994. I forget things – I’ve learned that a short pencil is better than a long memory - and only come to cherished memories with the help of pictures or scents. Although playing with aromas is playing with fire. Certain smells trigger avalanches of uncontrollable memories: the smell of steak releases an onslaught of memories of my family; brewing coffee frees Shannie; burning leaves remind me of Count; cigar smoke evokes Russell and Main Street; burnt rubber takes me back to Atlantic City. The force of such memories paralyzes me. It’s as if my memories have me. It makes for a distracted lifestyle. Pictures are much safer, they aren’t the frayed edge of an unpredictable memory strand.
Since my accident, I have a tendency to befuddle. I fly into tangents. I rarely finish a thought let alone a project. My shrink suggested penning this, she says it’s great exercise in staying focused; I pray it will exercise my demons. My shrink is a sadist, but she’s patient. Krista is everything I like in a woman, too bad she’s married and has kids. If she wasn’t, I’d do her, the age difference wouldn’t bother me.
There isn’t a smell that triggers a clear memory of what happened that September night. My father insists I was driving around looking for Ellie, she ran away the previous night. He said I was worried sick - I don’t remember. I do remember it was raining. I don’t remember hitting the pole. He says no one witnessed the accident. The police said that my car was wrapped around the pole like an accordion. I was found sprawled across the front seat, unconscious. They said I was lucky not to be wearing my seatbelt, if I was I would have been sliced in two by the door. I’d rather not think about the details. Diane and my father took pictures of my hooptie – for posterity sake, they said; I refuse to look at them, the idea seems morbid.
I could have sworn there was someone in the car with me, both my father and the police insist I was alone. Why would they lie? I guess it’s another example of how people once present in my life haunt me.
For a week I battled for my life, slipping in and out of a coma. Ironically, my most powerful memory occurred the instant I hit the pole. It’s more like a feeling than anything else, a feeling of floating in water, but not separate from it, as if I was becoming part of it. The water’s current separating whatever remained of my identity from my being. I felt myself letting go – dividing in countless parts, all rushing to join distant parts. The feeling was rapturous! Then everything turned black.
I awoke in the prison of a broken body reeling from the invasive feeling of tubes and needles. They conspired to pull me back from euphoric disembodiment. In a strange way, I can relate to the helplessness of a hooked fish. Despite a valiant fight, it learns it isn’t the master of it’s own destiny – that it’s useless resisting. I came to understand that it wasn’t my time. That doesn’t mean I didn’t fight to find that feeling again. I slipped into obscurity, but the blissful stream was no where to be found, only darkness and the absence of pain greeted me.
When darkness faded and pain returned, I noticed a picture of a serious faced woman taped to a television like box that had green squiggly lines running across its screen. In the picture, the woman sat on the ground with her knees pulled to her chin, sunshine bathed her pale skin and untamed blonde hair. Her back rested against what I would eventually identify as the memorial arch in Valley Forge National Park. Above her etched into the stone was the quote: “We can not admire enough the bravery and fidelity of the American soldiery,” George Washington.
Who’s George Washington? I thought turning away from the picture. My head flinched against the pillow when I noticed the same serious faced woman sleeping on the chair next to my bed. I watched her chest expand and contract beneath a blanket, its rhythm steady and strong. Her mouth twitched and she mumbled something in her sleep. I don’t know how long I watched her, occasionally I turned to study the picture before turning back to her. Who is she? Why is she sleeping in my room?
I studied her face, turning its features over in my mind, prying through its recesses for a slightest hint. Her bright green eyes flew open.
“James,” She whispered.
I smiled thinking who is James?
“James,” she said louder. “Oh my God,” she cried bolting up in her chair. “Just James you’re awake!”
I don’t know why, but my heart raced as she climbed out of the chair.
“Nurse!” she cried. She stood next to me clicking a button. “Oh my God, Just James, you’re awake. Oh my God. Thank God. I can’t believe it! Oh my God!”
The door flew open and the room was flooded with light. “He’s awake,” the blonde cried. “He’s out of it! He’s awake!”
“Welcome back James,” another woman said while gazing at the screen with the green squiggly lines.
I smiled and looked back at the blonde woman. “Damn it Just James, you scared us shitless.” She brushed the hair from my forehead.
“I did?” I whispered. Why would this stranger care? Whatever the reason, I delighted how my forehead came to life with her touch. Something about it was familiar, but I couldn’t place it; something about her was familiar, but I didn’t understand how.
“Yeah you did,” the familiar stranger answered. She bent over and kissed my lips. “God, I love you Just James,” the stranger said.
A starburst of warmth exploded throughout my body. I smiled. Exhausted, I closed my eyes.
“James?” the blonde’s voice pleaded, it had an edge of panic.
“Yeah?” I struggled to open my eyes.
“He’s okay,” The nurse said. “James, are you tired?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Shannie, why don’t you call James’ father,” the nurse said as I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to doctors and nurses prodding my body. “Hello,” a young faced doctor said as I opened my eyes. He said his name was something or another and that he was a neuro-something. Even now, I can’t remember his name. My father reminds me his name is Dr. LaPish. “What’s your name?” the doctor asked.
“Ah…” I stuttered. “James,” I guessed.
“James what?” the doctor grilled.
“Uh, um,” I stalled. I couldn’t remember my name. “It’s James. Just James,” I said.
“Do you remember what happened, why you’re here?”
“Swimming, I was swimming, put I was pulled out.”
The doctor frowned. I sunk into my pillow. “I wasn’t swimming, but it was wet,” I continued.
“Do you know where you are?” The doctor asked.
I thought very hard for an answer: “In a hospital.”
“Do you know what hospital you’re in?” I shook my head no. The doctor told me my last name was Morrison and that I was in a serious car accident. He told me the name of the hospital.”
If you say so, I thought. Grimacing, I tried to memorize what he said.
“Rest up bud.” He patted my arm and escaped the room.
“James Monroe?” I mouthed, trying to remember my last name. Frustration consumed me, I knew my last name wasn’t Monroe, but I couldn’t remember what the doctor said. I remembered him saying I was in an accident and that I was in Pot town Hospital. Not thinking to read the name on my wristband, I slammed my head against the pillow. Pondering my name I fell asleep.

“Watch,” the blonde’s voice resonated. “Look at James’s heart rate. Whenever I come into the room it speeds up. It did it when he was in the coma; it’s still happening, isn’t that cool?”
I opened my eyes. Two vaguely familiar people were in the room with the blonde. They stopped talking and turned their attention to me. “James, you gave us quite the scare,” an older good-looking lady said. She looked like the younger blonde, but wiser, more weathered, the first hint of crow’s feet etched the corner of her eyes. Her hair wasn’t as wild but she was dressed much more seductively, wearing a low cut blouse that tied between raised and tucked breasts. Though I couldn’t define cleavage, I knew what I saw. I’m convinced the older blonde’s attire guided me through the first step of a long and painful recovery.
The other person, an unremarkable male, who would have blended into the wall if the other two didn’t prod him, spoke: “How are you son?” He patted my arm. For weeks I struggled to describe my father, especially in the shadow of the older blonde. How do you describe a white wall on which a masterpiece hangs?
During the following days, after I was moved into an ordinary room, life resumed with some semblance of routine. Physical therapy was heaped upon physical therapy; on occasion Dr. Whatever his name, the neurologist, had me put square pegs in square holes.
At night, either of the blondes or my father visited, always at least one of them, sometimes two, and once even the three. I complained that I didn’t understand why I was in the hospital. “Why are they keeping me prisoner?” I questioned the younger blonde. “I want to get out of here,” I complained to my father. “I’d heal faster at home,” I reasoned with the older blonde.
“Where is home?” she asked.
“Home is home,” I answered. I hadn’t a clue.
“Be honest doctor, what’s James’ prognosis?” I heard the older blonde ask Dr. Whatever. She cornered him just inside my room. She thought I was asleep.
“None of James’ superficial injuries pose any problems. The arm fractures should heal, his knees are banged up, he will require physical therapy – maybe additional surgery. His brain injury has me concerned. A prognosis, at this stage - it’s too early to say. We’ll be transferring James to Lenape Valley Rehab. They have a great brain injury unit. Then we can evaluate the damage and begin recovery.
Fuck them, I’m not brain damaged. I’m not a sped, I thought.
“James’ injury, is a classic case of closed head injury. His skull wasn’t pierced. The brain jury occurred as his head struck the windshield. When this happened his brain slammed at a very high velocity into his skull. The collision caused numerous bruises and tore numerous blood vessels. I’m concerned that the rapid movement may have stretched neuronal axons.”
“What would that do?” the older blonde asked.
“Worst case, a permanent effect on his fine motor control, up to and including paralysis.”
The older blonde sighed.
“Neuronal axons are threads that link cells to one another throughout the brain and from the brain to the rest of the body. Widespread axonal injuries can disrupt communication between brain regions and also between the brain and the body. An injury like James’ has a tendency to effect broad areas of functioning.”
“Can you tell? Are they’re any tests you can give him?”
“No. We don’t have a test that can detect this type of diffuse damage. All we can do is pay close attention to his motor functions. As we get further along a clearer picture will emerge. James will have to relearn many basic living skills. We can’t be sure how the brain injury will affect his personality. An injury like his can damage systems that control our social-emotional lives. The ramifications may be very difficult. James’s personality can change subtly or drastically.”
I didn’t remember that explanation, that’s what Diane told me.
My last day in the hospital began like every other. With the help of a nurse I walked behind a wheelchair, pushing it up and down the hallway. As I approached the waiting room, the younger blonde’s voice drifted into the hallway. Hearing my name I stopped and listened. “James may have mood swings. He may show dependant behavior, irritability, lethargy. The doctor says he could be uninhibited. He may not be able to modify his behavior to fit the situation.
“You just described James before his accident. Maybe this will knock some class into him.”
“Geezus Pete Genise! You can be such a bitch!”
“What’s the big deal?”
I pushed the wheelchair into the waiting room. “YOU! THE DEVIL WITH TITS! OUT! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!” I bellowed. The fiend grinned at me as I rumbled towards her. She tucked her legs into her chest as I crashed the wheelchair into the side of her chair. It tipped over and spilled her onto the floor. I backed the wheelchair up, ready to again ram it into the overturned chair. She scrambled to get out of harm’s way. The blonde placed herself between the beast and me.
“James! Stop it!” The blonde commanded. With all her might she leaned into the front of the wheelchair. Her eyes blazed, their glare disarmed me. Arms wrapped around me, restraining my movement.
“It’s alright James,” the nurse’s said. “Come on, let’s go back to your room.”
“Yeah lets, you retarded asshole,” the beast’s voice cried.
“Shut up Genise!” Shannie barked.
“Yeah, Shut up Genise,” I laughed all the way to my room.

That afternoon I was transferred to Lenape Valley Rehab. I wanted out of the hospital so bad that I correlated my release with my violent outburst. Act like an asshole, be released, I thought. In retrospect, I figured the brain injury allowed my mother’s genetics to run wild. I’m positive that if I’d had a glass drinking container during my stay at Lenape Valley, it would have been smashed against a wall.
I was clueless of the rigors I was about to experience. Never in my life did I feel such psychical pain and mental frustration as I did during the thirteen weeks I spent as an inpatient. There’s no joy like having to relearn colors, multiplication tables, or the difference between vowels and consonants.
“Are you my mother?” I asked the older blonde.
“No,” Diane repeated for the thousand time from the chair aside my bed. Even though I was in a rehab, it felt like a hospital. My bed was a hospital bed, doctors and nurses still made annoying visits.
“Who is?” I asked.
“Mary Morrison,” Diane stated.
“Oh.”
“Who are you again?”
“I’m a friend of you and your father’s.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“I don’t know. She ran away,” Diane told me.
“Really?” I turned my attention to the little TV on the end of a long arm. “Who’s the girl with the blue eyes? I pointed to the picture of the serious faced girl sitting against the monument.
“They’re green eyes,” Diane corrected.
“Oh,” I mumbled.
“She’s your best friend. Do you remember her name?”
I searched across the expanses of my mind. Frustrated and embarrassed, I turned my head away from Diane. From the television, laughter showered down upon me. I rolled to my side, pulling the cover over my head. After a long silence I turned back towards Diane. “J-Jenny, Jenny.”
“No. That isn’t it.”
“Yes it is.” I was positive Diane was lying. She was part of something bigger to keep me in prison.
“You’re close, her name ends in –nie.”
“You sure it’s not Jenny?” I asked my tormentor.
“I’m sure.” Sitting up in her chair she said. “Read my lips, her name is, Shay-knee.”
“Shay-knee, Shay-knee,” I repeated - willing myself to remember.
A few days later, Diane asked me the name of the girl in the picture. “Ja...” I began. “Ah, it’s something knee,” I mumbled. Then Diane performed a miracle, in her hand was a cup of coffee. She undid the lid and ran the cup under my nose, filling my senses with the smell of freshly ground coffee. “Shannie, Her name is Shay-knee.”
“Shannie.” I took another whiff.
After Diane left, as I lay on the edge of sleep, I reached for the cold cup of coffee that she’d left behind. After struggling to pop off the lid, I inhaled. Memories of Shannie washed over me like a warm shower. I fell asleep with the image of Shannie and me standing in the base of a huge tree, our backs against limbs so big that they could have been trees themselves.
My father’s visits were never as dramatic, nothing fantastic ever happened. He was just there. I can say that there was never any bad feelings around him. He was the embodiment of calm. He seemed at peace with himself and his environment. I could relax in his presence. He calmed me, especially if I had a rough day. He always seemed to appear after a rough day. I never imagined the staff requested his presence after such a day. His presence was like a sedative.
He visited after the mother of such days. It was Halloween. Leading up to the grand morning, the staff insisted over and over that I help prepare for the upcoming party. “Fuck no,” I answered. “I’m not a third-grader. Ask the other Speds. Leave me the hell alone!” Everyday, some staff person would invite me to help. Everyday, I’d tell them to shove it.
I was certain that the nurses and their aides were out to drive me insane. They were doing a good job. “Goddamn it! I’m not helping. I’m not a Sped and this is a Sped thing to do!”
The morning before Halloween, a cute nurse that I had a crush on pressed me. “Quit being such a party-pooper. Why don’t you join the fun?”
“I swear, if anyone asks me again, I’m going to piss on someone’s cornflakes.” A scattering of patients in the dayroom chuckled.
“You wouldn’t do that now, would you?” the nurse asked.
“Of course I won’t do it now. But when there’s cornflakes I will.” For the life of me I couldn’t remember the name of the meal served in the morning.
“Hey Jimmy,” a wise-ass patient called. “You going help us set up the party tomorrow?” Everyone laughed.
The next morning, Halloween morning, as we gathered for the morning meal, my memory didn’t leave me down. I snuck behind the wise-ass and as he was about to enjoy his cereal, I unleashed myself into his bowl.
“JESUS H CHRIST!” The wise-ass backed away from the table.
“Don’t call me Jimmy you asswipe! My name is James!”
Groans and laughter filled the dayroom.
“Don’t fuck with me. I mean what I say, I say what I mean, I mean it! Count on it!”
All day I was bothered by my words. Later that evening I questioned my father, “today, when I told everyone they could count on it, something clicked, but I’m not sure what it was. I don’t know why. Would you know why?”
“I don’t know if I’m the right person to ask,” my father said. “But Shannie’s coming tonight. Ask her.”
“Shay-knee,” I repeated. I liked how the syllables rolled off my tongue. “You think she’d know?” I asked.
“She’ll have an idea.” My father patted my hand.
I studied her photograph.

Shannie walked into my room wearing seriousness on her face and a jacket over her shoulder. After small talk my father excused himself. “Don’t forget son.”
“Don’t forget what?”
“Something I said today,” I paused, struggling to remember the details.
“What did you say today?” Shannie asked.
I told her about the cornflakes. “You didn’t!” She laughed pushing my hair from my face.
I mentioned something clicking when I said, “count on it!”
She sat in the chair next to me. “What do you think it means?” Shannie clenched her jaw.
“I’m not sure.” I looked away from her, frustrated that I couldn’t get my thoughts together. Speaking to the wall I soldiered on. “I have this feeling like, that, that if I can figure this out, that, that I’ll like remember who I am. Like I know my name is James. I think my last name is Morrison. But, like, I, I’ll, ah, know, like, what my life was, ah, was all about, b-before the accident.”
Shannie remained silent.
“You know,” I turned to her. “You know who I am. You know what my life was like. You know what, what, what I said, what it means, don’t you?”
Shannie nodded her head.
“Tell me. Please. Tell me what it means.”
Shannie looked away and then back at me and away again. The corner of her mouth twitched, like when I first woke up in the hospital. Her eyes welled with tears and then she sighed.
“What? What is it?”
“Tell me what you know?” Shannie said.
“Goddamn it! Why can’t you just tell me?” I pounded the bed with both fists.
Shannie rose. “I’ll be right back.” Her eyes held mine.
“Don’t leave me?”
“Do you trust me?” she asked.
“Should I trust you?”
“If you know what’s good for you,” she said.
“I don’t know who I am, how am I suppose to know what’s good for me?”
“Figure it out.”
“Are you serious? I can’t figure out shit, I’m almost a Sped.”
“I’m serious as a heart attack.” She paused. Leaning into me, she said: “If you ever call yourself a Sped again, I’ll beat you with a stick.” She disappeared. I heard her voice over the hallway’s din but couldn’t make out her words. It was a while before she returned. Stepping into the room, she said: “Tomorrow you and I are taking a ride.”
“What the fuck for?” Inside I rejoiced.
She leaned over me. “I don’t care how pissy you get. You don’t talk to me like that. Got it?”
My heart raced as I watched her hair dangle about her face.
“Got it?” she insisted. When I refused to answer she continued, “Listen James, I’m not here for my health - I love you. But if you’re gonna be an asshole, that’s fine with me, I’ll go home and you can spend tomorrow sitting in the dayroom watching the world go by.” She knew what strings to pull.
“Got it,” I whispered.
“Tomorrow you’re getting a crash course on James Morrison.”
I tossed and turned all night. I was horrified. I stared at the ceiling wondering what kind of person I was and the life I lived. Rediscovering truths about oneself is terrifying. I wasn’t totally clueless, but there were too many mysteries. I viewed my life like a nervous driver viewing a foggy, vaguely familiar road.
When morning came, Shannie and I set off on our mission of rediscovery. Despite being a threatening gray day, the first rays of hope burnt away the shroud of fog encasing me. It would be sometime before my fog would lift, but for the first time since the accident, I felt grounded.
“Take me to the picture,” I told Shannie as she drove from the rehab’s parking lot.
“What?” Shannie asked.
“Take me,” I paused, frustrated that I could not give more details. “Take me to the place in the picture.”
“What picture?” Shannie asked.
“The one on my TV. The one of you. You, you’re sitting against that build, building thing.”
“The arch? The arch in Valley Forge?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
The GTI crawled slowly over the cobblestones surrounding the arch. From the passenger seat I read aloud the quote which haunted me since first seeing it. Slowly, pronouncing each syllable I read aloud George Washington’s words: “We can not ad-mire e-nough the brav-er-y and fi-del, del-I-ty of the a-a-mer-I-can s-sol-dier-y.”
Shannie watched me.
“I don’t know why,” I faced Shannie. “But, that means something. It’s like if I can figure it out, I’ll be able to remember a lot about myself.”
Shannie’s lip twitched, the answers to all my questions wanted to rush from her. Remembering how headstrong she was, I didn’t ask her to tell. I’d save us the aggravation. I looked across the rolling fields, at lines of cannon, and the bare trees climbing the hills beyond. “I wasn’t a soldier was I? I mean I don’t think I was.”
“You weren’t. Two people very close to you were.”
“Really?” I asked, my voice rising.
“They’re both dead.” Shannie’s eyes held mine.
“Oh.” I looked across the field at the cannons.

As we crossed the Schuylkill River Bridge into Beyford recognition flooded over me like forgotten scenes of a favorite movie. JD’s tavern, Borough Hall, Wally’s, the blind black man walking down the street - all beguiled me. But nothing evoked a similar reaction to the glare of headlights from an approaching train. I watched the gates drop as Shannie climbed Main Street. Something about the train held the secret of who I had been.
Shannie turned right and then a left at the next street. Above the intersection a street sign read Cemetery Street. I stared out the window as we passed the Junior High School and then the old piano factory. My mind was alive with images, as if I was watching ghosts walking up and down the street. At the corner of Bainbridge and Cemetery Street, I saw the ghosts of a younger Shannie and myself standing on the corner, their attention captured by the shout of a familiar voice escaping a passing car.
As Shannie crossed the intersection, I cried: “That’s your house. I remember! I fucking remember! My house, it’s, it’s right next to yours on that side of the street!” I pointed to our left. “There it is!” I jumped up and down in my seat as the old Dutch Colonial came into view. Shannie downshifted as she guided the GTI over the curb cut and to a rest in the driveway.
“Welcome home Just James,” Shannie said – her smile all things bittersweet.
I struggled with the seatbelt before freeing myself. Climbing out of the GTI I was greeted by the echo of the freight train’s horn. I looked around, barely able to contain myself. Across Shannie’s yard, past the line of trees the tombstones in Fernwood stood at attention. Even the sky, glorious in its raw, damp grayness welcomed me home.
“Where are you going?” Shannie called after me as I waddled towards my house. From inside, a chorus of ecstatic barks cried out. I waddled faster.
“Your dad’s at work; no one’s home,” Shannie’s voice bled through Ellie’s barks.
“Silly Shannie,” I smiled over my shoulder. “I am.”
Inside, Ellie, whom for the longest while I insisted on calling Elsie, greeted me by jumping up and knocking me over. Ellie tried drowning me with her slobber as she licked my face. “GEEZUS PETE!” Shannie screamed seeing me supine on the floor. “Are you okay? ELLIE, STOP IT! COME ON, GET AWAY FROM HIM!”
“It’s okay,” I laughed.
“No it’s not! You’re hurt. You can’t be rough housing.”
“Who’s rough housing?” I hugged my other favorite blonde.
“Stop it,” Shannie grabbed Ellie’s collar and pulled her away. Ellie wheeled up on her hind legs from the force of Shannie’s tug. Women – they don’t understand the love between a boy and his dog.

“What his name?” I asked Shannie. I was sitting in my perch watching the stationary parade of tombstones. Each row aligned like a well-honed marching band.
“Whose name?” Shannie asked from my bed where she sat Indian style flipping through a magazine.
“The big kid,” I said tapping a finger against the windowpane, its hollow rap knocking on the door of concealed memories. “You know, the kid who lived in the house in the cemetery. I think his name was Larry Lighter or something like that.”
“Leroy Lightman,” Shannie answered.
I stared across the cemetery at the old converted church.
“Do you remember what we used to call him?” Shannie asked. A stuffy silence filled the air as I tried to remember. “Come on, let’s take a walk,” Shannie said. “He was a soldier,” Shannie told me as the three of us trudged into the cemetery. The smell of burning leaves hung in the air as Ellie sniffed about a tombstone.
“Count!” I nearly shouted. “We called him Count! He broke a kid’s leg once for calling him Cunt. God, I remember that. Jesus, he was so pissed. Everybody was afraid of him. I remember when he kicked another kid’s head into a locker. He was mean. But he was cool, way cool. You had to know him.”
“Stay.” Shannie yanked Ellie’s leash. Ellie pulled hard against Shannie’s grip. Wordlessly Shannie encouraged me to continue.
“We used to play football right here. God, I can remember the day he clobbered me. We were racing or something and he blindsided me,” I babbled, the words racing off my tongue. “Freight-trained me, God how that hurt; my head hurts thinking about it.”
Shannie led me towards a gaggle of tombstones aside the main body. “Oh my God,” I laughed. “Do you remember when we lost that body?” My words couldn’t keep pace with the avalanche of memories. “Or the time he got arrested? That was too much. Who were those two girls that left him out in the middle of nowhere?” I laughed, my eyes blurred with tears.
Shannie stopped. Directly in front of us sat a modest granite tombstone. “Do you remember how he died?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Count,” Shannie answered.
An invisible hand slapped my face. “He’s dead?”
“Read the tombstone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you in Valley Forge."
“Really? I think I forgot. I mean I thought you meant someone else.”
“Who?” Shannie questioned.
“Like, I don’t know,” I answered, fidgeting. “I just didn’t think you meant him,” I avoided Shannie’s gaze.
A silence fell between us, broken by the prattle of passing traffic. I felt as raw and gray as the November day. “Don’t you remember any of it?” Shannie asked.
“Any of what?”
“How Count was killed?”
I shook my head. “Maybe, but, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
We walked back towards Shannie’s house. From the side porch of the old church an elfish woman stared at us before slipping back inside. It wasn’t until I was in bed at the rehab did I realize the woman’s name was Flossy and that she was Count’s mother. Although exhausted, sleep was elusive, when it finally came it was deep and dreamless.

The next time I saw Cemetery Street was Thanksgiving. I was excited about the visit not only because it interrupted my daily torture, it was my first overnight stay away from rehab. We had dinner at Shannie’s. I stunned everyone by asking to say a prayer. “God is good, God is great, now Diane get your ass over here and fill my plate.” We laughed.
After dinner Shannie emerged from her room with a sand-colored binder containing Count’s letters. Only Shannie seemed not to notice as I slid out of my chair and waddled into the television room. I stared at the dark television screen imagining the horrors Count must have faced as I caught bits and pieces of Shannie’s oration. I questioned why someone as revered as Count died while someone as useless as myself survived. I remembered it was my fault that he joined the army.
The next day as the sun sunk, Shannie and I made our way down Main Street. I was returning to prison. As the GTI passed JD’s tavern the railroad crossing lights sprung to life. Shannie accelerated, she wanted to beat the gates. “Stop, I want to feel a train again.”
Since moving to Beyford I’ve felt a primordial excitement over an approaching train; I can’t explain it other than it’s simply pleasing. Many times in my hooptie - even in the dead of winter - I’d roll down my window as a freight approached. Whether it’s the glaring headlights or the deliberateness of the horn – its blast stating that if you know what’s good for you, you’d clear the way. Or maybe it’s just the shear power of the engines; I respect anything that makes the earth tremble.
Shannie nosed up to the gate as it bounced to a rest. I rolled down the window. I smiled to the train horn’s blast and the engine's determined rumble. I knew the freight was an eastbound and that it was moving slowly, probably a coal train headed to Cromby.
“What are you doing?” Shannie asked as I climbed out.
“Want a better look.”
“Don’t do anything stupid!” Shannie commanded.
Ignoring Shannie I stepped up to the gate. The monster’s lights sliced dusk. The ground shook under my feet. My skin vibrated over my bones. “Don’t worry,” I said to Shannie.
I ducked under the gate and gimped onto the track. The tension of the recent past vanished in the face of the closing freight. In the seconds I challenged the advancing monster, I came closer to understanding Shannie than I ever had. Complete freedom and calm overtook me; I never felt such peace, at least while conscious. I was in complete control of my destiny. I was the only force that determined if I lived or died. The engineer didn’t have a vote. Shannie had no say, nor did the handful of horrified witnesses. I began laughing, quite uncontrollably. I glanced at Shannie, waving to her. Her face was wracked with terror. She was shouting, unheard over the train’s roar. In that moment she aged beyond what she lived to see. Smiling, I faced the train once more before stepping to my left and out of its path. Ignoring the curses of the engineer and the gawks of drivers, I laughed as my hair was rustled in the freight’s blast.
I turned and watched the freight’s blinking tail light slink into the falling darkness, its presence as fleeting as my experience of freedom. I gimped towards the awaiting Shannie. The color had yet to return to her face. “Never thought I meet you on the wrong side of the tracks,” I said opening the passenger door.
“Are you insane? What the fuck is your problem?” Shannie cried.
She may as well of been a stranger sitting next to me in a taxicab. She was no longer my best friend or the only person I’d ever fall in love with. She had forgotten. The sacred memories that even I remembered were lost to her.
“Thanks for trusting me Shannie,” I grumbled.
Shannie burst into tears. She bawled and bawled. When she pulled it back together, she slipped the GTI into gear and we rode wordlessly into darkness.

I was surprised to see Shannie at the rehab the following evening. “Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“I got bad news,” Shannie said when we were alone in the elevator.
Distracted by her fragrance, she smelled so clean and fresh with the slightest hint of coffee. “Really?” I nuzzled up to her.
“James, stop it,” she said pushing me away. “Do you remember Jerome?” Shannie asked.
“Who?”
“Jerome, you know, the kid from Atlantic City.”
“Atlantic City,” I aped. “The only thing I remember is that bitch. Denise - the devil incarnate - Beelzebub.”
“Genise.”
“Whatever.”
“No it’s not whatever. I’m not going to let you sleaze James. Say it. Ga-niece. Ga-niece.”
The elevator slid open and a nervous man and woman stepped in to hear me say: “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not a Sped?” Before we exited I continued: “Repeat after me, James is not a Sped. James has a brain injury.”
Dispelling the notion that blondes can’t walk and chew gum, Shannie shook her head and rolled her eyes. When the elevator’s doors swooshed shut Shannie said: “Jerome is dead. He was killed, shot to death.”
I paused for a second. A faceless image gathered in my brain before dissipating. I resumed my gait toward the front door. Outside the brisk November air embraced us.
“Do you remember him?” Shannie’s breath dissipated into the starlit night.
I shook my head.
“Try James.”
“What do you think I’m doing? You think I like not remembering? I’m sure I knew him. I’m sure I should be upset. I’m sure I should be a lot of things. I just can’t remember. Okay? Jesus Christ cut me a break.”
The one thing I did remember was that some of my supposed friends - well there really was only one in particular - had abandoned me. Since my accident, I hadn’t heard from Steve Lucas. “I have a hard time getting upset over somebody else when my supposed friends are no where to be found.”
“I’m here. Diane and your father are here. If Count was alive he’d be here.”
“What about this Jerome kid? If we were friends why didn’t he visit? What about Steve Lucas, I remember that rat bastard, I know who he is, where the hell is he?”
“Jerome had no way of getting here,” Shannie answered.
“He could have hitched a ride with you. The bitch did, I remember her in the hospital. He could have come with her. What’s the difference? You probably coerced her to come.”
“Whoa Captain Vocabulary, they’re teaching you well in language therapy.”
“Fuck you Shannie.”
“You must be acing profanity 307.”
“You know, if you’re going to be an asshole, leave me alone?”
“That’s a good idea,” Shannie snapped. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Whatever,” I mumbled.
“By the way, Steve Lucas is away at college. He’s worried about you. He plans on spending some time with you over Christmas break.
I felt sick watching the GTI crawl through the parking lot and into the night. “Everything all right?” the night watchman asked as he came outside to catch a smoke.
“Can I bum one?” I asked.
“Sure,” he extended the pack to me.
“Thanks.” We smoked in silence. When I finished I thanked him again and shuffled to my room. I twisted and turned in my bed. I switched on the television and when Saturday Night Live failed to lull me to sleep, I looked for the notepad with the Ortolan’s phone number. I called Shannie.
“Hello,” Diane answered groggily.
“Diane, it’s James, is Shannie there?” I asked.
“James, do you know what time it is?”
“It’s late.”
“No, she isn’t here.”
Did she go to the beast’s house?” I continued.
“The who’s house?” As Diane spoke, a familiar voice crawled over Diane and through the phone line.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Who’s house?”
“Who’s in bed with you?”
“None of your business!”
“Is it who I think it is?” I persisted.
Diane hung up.
I searched the notepad for my phone number. I dialed the number. I hung up when the answering machine picked up. I dialed the Ortolan’s number only to slam the receiver down before it rang. I glared at the phone. My father’s banging Diane Ortolan. My father is fucking the mother of my girlfriend - the love of my life. The humanity! Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

I have a thing for my shrink, Krista. Maybe because she reminds me of Diane - always in control of her thoughts and emotions, sure of her opinions. Did I mention her eyes melt me? Maybe I have a thing for older women. Whatever it is, I hang on her every word. She had to know she could look at me crooked and send me reeling. “You judge yourself way too hard. Relax, go easy on yourself. You’re a delightful person. You have a wonderful personality.”
“It’s your job to say that.”
“No, I’m saying that because it’s the truth.”
“If I’m such a wonderful person fix me up with your daughter!”
“Absolutely not,” she said without batting an eyelash.
“Why not? You tell me that I’m a delightful person, I have a great personality.”
“A wonderful personality,” she corrected.
“Whatever. The point is if I’m the wonderful person you say and not the brain damaged Sped that I really am, why wouldn’t you set me up with your daughter?”
“Because my daughter is two years old.”
My sessions with Krista were always eventful, especially when she brought up my father sleeping with Diane.
“How do you know that I know that they’re sleeping together?”
“Diane approached me,” Krista answered.
“So? What’s the big deal?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” Krista leaned back in her chair, evaluating me from behind her reading glasses.
“Like I said, what’s the big deal? My father’s knocking off a piece, so what?”
Leaning forward in her chair, Krista rested her arms on her desk and locked her fingers together. “You’re full of shit. In the two weeks since Thanksgiving you haven’t made any progress in cognizant and remedial therapies. You’ve regressed in math and reading skills and your RA’s say you’ve withdrawn emotionally.”
I fell into my seat.
“James, I’m considering not recommending you for release from inpatient status before Christmas. Clue me to what’s up.”
“You’re the expert. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you…”
“Spare me the bullshit, Okay. If nothings wrong why am I here? I’ll tell you why I’m here, I’m a goddamn sped. I’m brain damaged, and I’m never going to be right again.”
“You finished?” Krista implored.
I nodded.
“Thank you. I was going to say there’s nothing wrong with you outside of the brain injury, which means something’s bothering you.”
“Oh Jesus Christ, here we go.”
“I’m not Jesus Christ, I’m Jewish.”
I laughed and laughed at her comment. A symptom of my brain injury was inappropriate laughter. When I returned to earth, I forgot what we were talking about.
“So, what’s bothering you James?”
Smiling as I puzzled, I said: “I can’t remember.” I burst into another fit of laughter. During our next session Krista asked if either Jerome’s death and/or the discovery that my father and Diane’s were seeing each other were the underlying issue of my setbacks.
“I don’t remember this Jerome kid. Shannie acts like I was friends with him. Maybe I was, I don’t remember.”
“Tell me about Ellie,” Krista beseeched.
“My dog Ellie?”
“Yes. Tell me about Ellie.”
“She’s my girl,” I smiled. I told Krista how Ellie out willed me over sleeping arrangements. “But, what, what,” I stuttered, losing my train of thought, “what does Ellie have to do with that kid, Godamnit, I can’t remember his name.”
“Jerome,” Krista replied.
“Yeah that. What does my dog have to do with Jerome?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a huff. “Doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Does your father like your dog?” Krista inquired.
“I think so,” I hesitated. “Yeah,” I answered with more confidence, remembering how he delighted in Ellie following him around or how I busted him slipping her table scraps. “He likes her more than he’d admit.”
“How so?” Krista pried.
“I think, I think he’s lonely. You know, ever since my mother bolted. Yeah, he’s lonely. I mean, besides his job, he doesn’t talk to people. I think, yeah, he misses my mom. He never talks to anyone except Diane. Yeah, I think he needs to get laid.”
Krista laughed. I enjoyed watching her neck as she threw her head back and how the ends of her hair curled forward not quite reaching the sides of her neck. I laughed because she laughed. I liked making Krista laugh.
“Maybe he isn’t lonely. Maybe he doesn’t need to get laid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why don’t you tell me.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Give it a try,” Krista implored. “Imagine playing a game, its name is reasons why your dad doesn’t need to get laid.”
“My mom cut his balls off,” I said.
“That’s one. Give me another.”
“Um, he’s celebrate.”
“He’s what?”
“He’s celebrate. You know, like a priest.”
“Celibate,” Krista corrected.
“Whatever. He is catholic. I remember going to church as a kid. I don’t remember going after my mom left. Come to think of it, maybe he isn’t celebrate.”
“Celibate.”
“Whatever.”
“Any others?”
“He’s a bigger jerk-off than me.” I blushed as the words slipped off my tongue. “Any more?”
I hesitated, knowing the only other answer. The blush of embarrassment gave way to the flush of anger.
“Yeah, that.”
“What?” I played dumb.
“That thought. The reason you’re angry. Tell me, what are you thinking?”
“You’re the doctor, why don’t you tell me,” I rubbed my temples.
“I’m a doctor not a mind reader,” Krista said.
Sinking further back into my chair I complained that I didn’t feel good.
“Stick with me James,” Krista ordered.
“I’m ignoring you now,” I said.
Leaning forward in her chair, her weight shifting onto her arms, Krista looked ready to pounce. “Could it be you’re angry. Do you blame him for your mother? Or maybe, you’re jealous. Is that it?”
I pulled my knees up to my chest to hide my nakedness. I rocked back and forth in the chair. Krista’s sharp words were replaced with a maternal gaze. We sat in silence.
“James,” she said breaking the silence. “It’s okay. Those feelings are natural.” I heard Krista stand. I imagined her gliding over the carpeted floor. I felt her hand upon my arm. “James, take this.” She handed me what I thought was a pillow. I hugged it. When I noticed a teddy bear buried into my shoulder, I punched it before whipping against the far wall.

I was discharged from inpatient status the week before Christmas. I learned it wasn’t that big of deal. I slept at home, but I still spent eight hours a day, five days a week at the torture chamber. It would be months until Lenape Valley Rehab gave me my walking papers, and even then a facilitator would visit two or three times a week. It would be two years before I escaped the facilitator’s talons. I saw Krista weekly until 1999 when I moved out west.
The day I was ‘discharged’ no thoughts of future therapies clouded my mood. I was the happiest man on earth. I was beaming as Shannie, Diane, and my father escorted me out of the Rehab’s front door into the brisk December sunlight. Shannie’s description of the freedom she feels the first twenty minutes after checking into a hotel room best fit my mood - the world held no ills. After going out for breakfast, we headed to the dead end I knew as Cemetery Street.
Steve Lucas visited that day. The five of us sat around the Ortolan’s kitchen table. I was silent as spoken memories flew like snowflakes in a blizzard.
“Speaking of Count, how’s his old man and Flossy doing?” Steve Lucas asked.
“I see Bear here and there. Flossy who knows? She turned into a recluse,” Diane said.
“I saw her,” I said breaking my silence.
Four sets of eyes turned their attention to me. “When did you see her?” my father asked.
“When Shannie showed me Count’s grave. She was on the side porch staring at us. It was spooky. She didn’t wave, did say anything - she just stared, and when she knew I saw her, she stomped into the house.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Shannie asked.
“I thought you noticed her. You notice everything,” I said.
“Didn’t see her,” Shannie said.
“I think she blames me?”
“Why?” Diane asked.
“I don’t know. But I feel it,” I answered.

Steve Lucas spent a chunk of his Winter Break with me. Although he never said, I think he regretted doing so. He learned the craziness a traumatic brain injury can cause, like the night I imitated Nancy Kerrigan at the King of Prussia Mall. The mall was packed with Christmas shoppers. Frustrated with the crowd, I started screaming “Why me? Why me? Why me?” while drooling like an idiot. People got out of our way. I felt like Moses after parting the Red Sea.
He learned how fast I could succumb to fits of fury – an innocent comment could set me off on tirades that Steve said were reminiscent of my mother’s. Two days after Christmas, Linda, one of my occupational therapists, stood talking with me outside the rehab when Steve pulled up. “You getting any of that?” Steve questioned as I closed the passenger door.
“Getting what?” I was in a bad mood.
“Jesus Christ Morrison, you’re not that out of it. You’re tapping it.”
I didn’t answer.
“Who cares is she’s carrying an extra hundred, it’s all pink on the inside.” I tried counting to ten. “You don’t want some of that? Wow, that mangy blond of yours is putting out.”
Without a word I punched him, sending his head into the side window. “If you ever call Shannie a dog again I’ll kill you!”
Steve’s hands never left the steering wheel. “What the fuck is your problem? I meant Ellie you asshole.”
“Whatever.”
Two days later - Shannie’s birthday - I erupted on Steve again. Diane, Shannie, Steve and I were sitting around the kitchen table. Steve asked, “Any one see Jenny Wade around lately?”
“I heard she’s really round lately.” Shannie inflated her cheeks.
“She rode one too many poles,” Steve Lucas laughed. He stared at me.
“Man, why do you have to bring that shit up?”
“What stuff? Oh, that stuff,” Shannie snickered.
“You can’t leave it alone can you? You have to blab it to everyone! Dickwad!” My voice rose an octave.
“Calm down, you’ll give yourself a stroke,” Diane snapped.
I reached for my coffee cup. Shannie pinned my arm to the table. If she was a second slower I would have launched the cup at Steve. “I didn’t mean anything by that brother,” Steve Lucas said. He was a sage, he understood my memories were returning.
Unlike Steve Lucas, I rarely snapped on Shannie. Not even later that winter when she raked me over the coals after Mr. Miller broke his hip. We were walking down Cemetery Street when we witnessed his fall. I exploded into a fit of laughter, even as he writhed on the ground. “Are you insane? Wait, I already know the answer,” Shannie snapped as the ambulance drove away. She turned and walked home.
“I hate to see you leave, but I love watching you walk away,” I cried.
“Asshole.” She flipped me off before slamming her front door.
The Miller’s never forgave me. I earned their scowls until the day they died. I didn’t care, they never visited me in the hospital.
I shuffled into Fernwood. I wandered up and down the rows of tombstones until I found my Grandfather’s phony grave. I stood admiring our ruse when Bear startled me, “What was all that ruckus?” Bear stood next to me.
“Old man Miller broke his hip.”
“What a shame,” Bear shrugged.
“God how I miss him,” I nodded at the headstone.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Bear said. I spied him looking in the direction of Count’s grave.
“How do you deal with it?” I asked.
“It seems I don’t have a choice. I gotta deal.” He ran a hand over his head.
We stood in silence, the frigid breeze and the echoing expressway our only company.
“You know he’s not buried here,” I nodded at my grandfather’s headstone.
“I wish I could say that about my boy,” Bear patted my back. “Oh how I wish I could say that.” I watched him walk away, his head down as if counting blades of grass. He disappeared into the maintenance shed.
From the old church’s porch Flossy glared. I managed a half-hearted wave. She answered with a continued stare. Mustering my courage, I moved towards the old church. She disappeared inside, slamming the door behind her. I retreated across Fernwood. I wandered past my house and down Cemetery Street. I wanted to talk to Russell.
Beyford is a small town, it’s almost impossible to get lost - I managed. Till this day, I have to think about right and left. I’m better with cardinal direction. I meandered around hours before finally finding Main Street and Russell’s column of cigar smoke.
“Russell,” I cried as he approached.
“If it ain’t James Mo-ison.” Russell shook my hand. “I hear you gone off and got yourself in loads of trouble. Boy you got to watch them telephone poles, they always going about jumping out in front of good folk.”
After some small talk Russell said: “It’s colder then an Eskimo’s clitty, let’s get us some anti-freeze.”
“Not allowed to, you know, my condition,” I said.
“Your condition?” Russell stared at me from behind his sunglasses. “You’re a pup, pups don’t got no conditions. C'mon, just a little juice to keep ya loose.”
“Ah,” I hesitated.
“What them there doctors don’t know can’t hurt ‘em.” He clapped my back. “Let’s us have one for old times sake.”
I followed Russell to his apartment.
“What’s this I hear about that old girlfriend of yours?” Russell slammed a half-empty bottle of Ten-high on the coffee table.
“Shannie?”
“No you fool, not my Butterfly - she ain’t really your girlfriend anyhow.” I recoiled. “I’m talking ‘bouts that Jenny Wade character. Yeah it’s a good thing I bailed you out of her hell. That’s be life sentence waiting to happen there, wooo-eeee. I know fellows do softer time in the penny.” Russell took a swig and passed the bottle: “I hear she got her ass knocked up.”
“I heard that to.” I took a belt of bourbon. I winced as it burned its way down.
“And that Burn punk…”
“Rex?”
“Yeah, him, he got himself in trouble with the man. He knocked off a pizza joint.”
“No shit?” I laughed.
“Yeah shit. See what happens when get yourself knocked out. The world happens.” A salvo of phlegm riddled coughs interrupted him. He took a belt from the bottle. “Ah, good for what ails ya boy,” he pounded his chest. “Yeah, looks like the dumb ass be spending some good time on the inside.”
My head spun. Russell’s voice faded in and out as he cackled. I passed out.
“Never figured you for such a light weight,” Russell said as I came to. My head ached, I struggled to sit up. The bourbon bottle sat empty on the table.
“Take you time boy. Don’ts go standing up too fast,” Russell instructed.
When I found my legs, Russell’s apartment seemed alien to me. The stale, damp air constricted around my lungs. I needed to escape. Russell’s voice crackled like a distant AM radio station. “Russell, do you know where I live? I don’t know where I live. I forgot where I live. I don’t know where I am. Where the fuck am I? Can you take me home? Please, I don’t know where I live!”
“Get hold of yourself boy, I’ll take ya home.” Russell’s voice slithered through my panic. My claustrophobia faded as we stepped out into darkness. The fresh air chased the residue of Russell’s apartment from my lungs. A semblance of calm returned.
“Where you going? This way boy,” Russell said. When we crossed Main Street he told me to lead the way. “If you screw up, I’ll tell you.”
I walked, once familiar landmarks rushed around me. I felt dizzy. I tried to mask my increased breathing.
“Relax boy, you ain’t going to be lost again.”
Despite his reassurance, I felt a like stranger in a strange land. As we came to Cemetery Street, Russell asked me: “which way boy?”
I looked up and down Cemetery Street, its streetlights casting a pall in the winter night. I knew that I lived next to a cemetery that was at the end of Cemetery Street. I was confused about if it was uphill or downhill. It’s uphill, it’s gotta be uphill, I told myself. I looked down Cemetery Street and noticed Lucas’s funeral parlor. Though I knew better, I started towards Lucas’s.
“Where you takin’ that ass of yo’s?” Russell asked.
“Home, I live by the Cemetery.”
“Yeah you do and the Cemetery be the other way,” Russell pointed up Cemetery Street.
“You sure?”
“Sure as Clinton is a Democrat and bush is something I wanna eat.”
“Huh?”
Russell chuckled as he relit his cigar. The tip glowed in the dark. With the finesse of a connoisseur he exhaled into the night. Cigar smoke curled skyward. “It’s up the hill boy.”
“Yeah but, there’s Lucas’s. Lucas’s has to be close to the cemetery. My house has to be that way.”
“Do me this favor and trust crazy ole Russell, he knows where he’s going this time.” I watched him from the middle of the crosswalk as he tapped his way onto the sidewalk. “You coming or do I have to get Butterfly to pick you up?” he called, his back to me.
I floundered after him. We walked in silence. At the old piano factory I said,” You know she blames me for his death?”
“Who blames you for whose death?” Russell asked.
“Flossy blames me for Count.”
“That’s the plum craziest thing I heard all night. That’s nuttier than you thinking up is down and all.”
“It’s true,” I paused. The familiar purr of Shannie’s GTI sauntered down Bainbridge Street. I watched the turn signal click off as she eased Saphix towards home.
“Yeah, she’s something else,” Russell said nodding towards the Volkswagen. “She’s my girl, the apple of my eye,” Russell chuckled. “I can’t believe I still crack myself up. I’m the funniest man I know. Apple of my eye, I’m blind,” he said as if his blindness was breaking news. Shannie’s brake lights flashed before going dark. I caught glimpse of her under the street light before she slipped into the night.


Chapter 18 Promises

Watching Russell tap his way down Cemetery Street, I realized moments of contentment are fleeting. Uneasiness and insecurity rose like the full moon nosing over Fernwood. Before turning to my darkened house I admired the Ortolan’s home – its warm light bathed the frozen ground. I understood why my father spent so much time there. Even now he bathed within that warm glow. I retreated into my father’s blackened house.
Ellie curled up on my bed as I gazed at the Ortolan’s house and the moon-washed cemetery. Peering through bare tree limbs I searched the graveyard for my grandfather’s and Count’s graves, never imagining the news Shannie would break the following morning.
Shannie was quiet most of the ride to Lenape Valley. “I’m not going to Atlantic City anymore,” she hesitated, concentrating too hard on the road. “At least for a while.”
“Why not?” I hoped that my enthusiasm didn’t betray my expression.
“It’s for the best.”
My eyes wondered along her arm as she downshifted. I loved the aloof finesse which she operated. “I’m sorry.”
“Why should you be sorry? I know you can’t stand her.”
“Okay… WOOOOOHOOOOOO!” I hooted. “SCORE.”
“Don’t patronize me!” Shannie fell into silent concentration. “Just James,” Shannie broke her silence as she pulled into the Rehab’s parking lot.
“Yeah Bug?”
“Ahhh, never mind,” she brought the car to a rest.
“What?”
“Forget it okay.” She avoided my gaze.
“If you insist.” I reached for the door. She grabbed my hand. Her touch was clammy. “Promise me, promise you’ll never leave me. I almost lost you. I couldn’t live if I lost you. Promise you’ll never leave me; promise you’ll always be here. If I lost you it would kill me.” Her pale green eyes searched for a promise lurking somewhere within my soul.
If I was smart, I would have asked her to marry me. Instead I said: “I’m here, I’ve always been here. You always leave and I always wait. That’s not a promise Bug, that’s the way it is.” I slipped my hand from her icy grip and stumbled through the rest of my day.
A couple of weeks later, Shannie wrote in my birthday card:

If our eyes are the gateway to the soul
Our memories are its gatekeepers
Out of memory comes meaning
Out of meaning – warmth
Out of warmth – Love
Out of Love – Us

Beyond anyone - I remember you.

We grew as close as ever over the following months. Not as close as I’d like, there wasn’t a prayer of repeating the magical night in the Sheesh Mahal. She laughed off my innuendoes. As February ground into March, I was reminded daily how platonic our relationship was. I would have been better off with ice cubes instead of testicles, at least my eyes wouldn’t be making love with Shannie every time she bent over. At least she wasn’t bumping uglies with anyone else, I consoled myself.
A few weeks later, Linda and I were standing outside the rehab. She kept me company while I waited for Shannie, my ever-dependable ride. Linda is a sweet person, but dull and tedious - even for someone in my condition. She railed about not having a second date since college. “I don’t have problems meeting guys. They don’t want to go out after a first date.”
I shrugged.
“Guys are pigs. They expect to get something on the first date. When I don’t give it to them, I don’t get asked out again. Hell, they’re lucky to get a good night kiss.”
“Not even a cheap feel?” I asked.
“I’m not that kind of girl,” Linda snapped.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I counseled. Good advice from someone who was never on a real date. If priests can be marriage counselors, I was within bounds.
“There has to be a real gentleman out there somewhere.”
She had a point, we are pigs. I’ve banged two chicks, got one knocked up, but I’ve never been on a date. Steve Lucas probably gets more than me. My old man, since coming east was working on number two. I’m a bigger loser than Steve Lucas. I’m a bigger loser than Linda. Christ, she’s not even a loser, she turns down getting laid. I’d take any piece that came my way. When I realized Shannie got more pussy than me, real self-loathing set in.
The GTI’s purr sliced through Linda’s prattle and my mental masturbation. “Are you getting some of that?” Shannie teased as I shut the passenger door.
“Very funny,” I retorted.
“Ugh oh. Did someone shoot you down?”
“Shut up Shannie!”
“Be that way. I just got the best news in the world, you’re not bringing me down.”
“The miserable half-breed called and wants to kiss and make up.”
“Fuck you!” Shannie punched my arm. “Take that back you prick!”
“Don’t start.” I resisted rubbing my arm. For her size, Shannie brought the heat. She didn’t punch like a girl.
“Don’t start? Don’t you start asshole. What the hell’s your problem? Dickwad!”
“I don’t have…” I began.
“Shut up!” Shannie yelled.
“…a problem,” I continued.
“Shut up!”
I turned away. Linda was watching. I waved as Shannie pulled away. We drove into another uneasy silence. Even the radio knew to be quiet. The silence allowed me to pay homage to the shrine of my wretchedness. Shannie mistook my silence as self-righteousness, she never understood my level of self-contempt.
“If you’re not going to ask me about my good news, I’m going to tell you anyway,” Shannie said.
I glanced from the floor towards Shannie. Don’t you know misery loves company? I thought. Good news meant I was closer to losing her, especially if it had anything to do with Genise.
“Princeton Law accepted me. I’m going to Princeton. I start this fall.” Despite our spat, her enthusiasm bubbled over.
“Really?” I mumbled, inadvertently unenthusiastic.
“Really,” Shannie chirped.
“That’s great,” I droned in an uninspired monotone. “I’m happy for you.”
“You know, why can’t you be happy for me? Geezus Pete, this is the biggest thing that ever happened to me and you don’t give a shit. Just forget it, Okay?”
“I said I was happy for you,” I protested.
“Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit,” Shannie pounded the steering wheel. “Your words say one thing, your tone says 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. His eyes shut, a hand rushed upwards in attempt at intercepting the loogie. In the background an onlooker stared mouth agape.
In the next photo, the man reaches into his pocket. The woman appears in midst of a giant leap backward, like a coyote hop in reverse. Fear is noticeable beneath her anger.
“I thought for sure he was packing,” Genise said startling me. She looked over my shoulder. “She thought so too.”
The next photo reveals the man staring at the backpedaling woman and drawing an object from his pant pocket. The stunned onlooker in the background is also caught in retreat.
In the next one he produces a handkerchief. “He really pisses her off,” Genise said.
“Like she’s not already,” I looked over my shoulder at Genise.
In the following photo he wipes the loogie away with a smile upon his face. He still rests against the back of the bench. “He laughs at her. She rips into him, calling him a fucking this and a fucking that and he just sits there calm as can be, laughing at her. I wanted to smack both of them.”
“Why?”
“Cause she was way out of control and he was way in control, like too contrived or something.”
In the last photo, the woman’s face was flushed with anger, her forehead purple beneath tightly curled bangs. Her eyes glaring as she turned away.
“History doesn’t remember well-behaved women,” Genise said matter-of-factly.
“Where did you get that from?” I turned quickly, studying Genise’s face. A half dozen or so freckles dotted each cheek. I never noticed them before.
Genise peered down, studying my eyes. A moment of silence settled between us. “Shannie,” Genise uttered, breaking the spell.
“What about her?” I asked.
“I got the saying from her. She had the bumper sticker on her car.”
“Oh,” I mumbled beneath my stare.
“Shit! The stir-fry.”
My eyes followed Genise across the kitchen. I felt horrible betraying Shannie. Don’t wimp out, I told myself. I’m not walking out on Genise – a deal is a deal. I came here to get laid and I’m going to get laid! I’m going to hate myself. So I may as well get a little ass.
Throughout dinner, Genise and I were civil. We didn’t bring up Shannie or our deal. Thank God for the photo albums or we wouldn’t have anything to talk about.
“I’ll wash, you dry,” Genise said when we finished eating.
“Deal,” I answered.
Tension seeped over us like globs of maple syrup as we stood at the kitchen sink. Genise’s movements were tense, as if she was expecting my move any second. I focused drying each dish, wary she’d have a change of heart and break a plate over my head. I enjoyed the uncertainty. My paranoia aided the tension. How would I explain a run in with Genise’s flying Corningware? I hid my sweaty palms behind the dishtowel.
Then it happened. With the suddenness and intensity of igniting gasoline. The trigger, an innocent brush of arms. I hated that Genise could produce such a reaction. I hated not being able to control my reaction. I hated not being able to control Genise.
We broke a dish, but it wasn’t over either of our heads. As I pulled Genise to me, she dropped the plate in her hand. Her lips sought mine. She was softer than she looked. Our lips locked, my hands ran under her arms, down her sides and over her hips. I squeezed her ass. A marshmallow in an athlete’s body, I thought.
She crushed her breasts against me. Our tongues crossed in a race for the other. I submitted to her probing tongue. I ran my hands upward, squeezing her shirt clad breasts.
She withdrew her tongue and threw her head back. I reached around her waist helping her maintain her balance. Genise thrust her hips into mine, rubbing her pelvis against mine. “Fuck me,” she ordered.
Like an obedient boy-toy, I laid her back on the floor. “Not the floor,” she commanded. Scooping her up, I moved towards the bedroom. “Not the bedroom.” she added swallow breathed. I threw her down on the kitchen table. She winced as a pointed edge of a photo album poked the small of her back. She brushed the album to the floor as I raised her top over her head. I admired her perpetually tanned breasts. I couldn’t help comparing them to Shannie’s – they were rounder, her nipples thicker, fuller; chocolate compared to hollow pink. Hershey Kisses compared to after dinner mints. Shannie’s were perky; Genise’s exotic.
The small of Genise’s back arched off the table as my lips found a nipple. Like a child on Christmas morning, my tongue raced back and forth over and between her gifts. I squeezed Genise’s breasts together. After a parting peck, my tongue left her breasts to my hands will. Descending over the swell of a breast, I ran my tongue down her belly, pausing briefly at her navel before racing towards the button atop her shorts.
My hands departed Genise’s breasts for a more exciting destination. I fumbled with her pant button before finally springing it open. I looked up, her eyes were closed, her head back. She fondled her breasts as she raised her hips allowing me to slide off her shorts.
Her shorts fell to the floor. I paused; imagining her womanhood hiding behind a leopard skinned thong. The thong which would be so out of place on Shannie was perfect for Genise. Smiling, reminding myself there’s only one chance to view someone for the first time, I slowly pulled Genise’s thong downward revealing her secrets. Placing a hand on the inside of each knee, I parted her legs before running my tongue along her thigh. I paused and savored her with my eyes.
“Yes,” Genise cried. “You want a little dessert.” She spread her legs further. Grabbing my hair she directed me. I closed my eyes, imagining Shannie. I ran a finger over her softness. Parting her lips I explored. I kissed her. The tip of my tongue wandered. She arched her back, I felt her tremble.
She grabbed my hair and pulled me away. Genise dropped to her knees in front of me. When she was satisfied with my state, she slid back onto the table. Spreading her legs, she invited me forward.
We made love numerous times, doing it almost every conceivable way on every piece of furniture in sight, except for her bed. When she wanted to go a third time, I said: “Jesus girl, you’re a Genise Penis Trap.” We laughed and laughed.
I was having too much fun to refuse. When we finished I watched the sun drop behind the bay, reflecting on how fun it was playing cowboy to Genise’s Indian. “You can stay the night if you want,” Genise said standing behind me.
“Can’t, people are expecting me.”
“Call ‘em,” Genise quipped.
“And tell them I’m in Atlantic City?”
“Lie,” Genise slid her arms around me. “Tell them you’re in Pittsburgh or something.”
“Yeah right. Who do I know there?”
“You worry too much. Tell them you just felt like getting out. You just drove and ended up there.”
It would be fun, I thought. “It’ll be a lot easier to hit the road. My old man will be at Diane’s. Shannie will be holed up at school.” I turned around. I imagined being with Genise. If it wasn’t for Shannie, I would have stayed. Who knows how long? I lifted her chin with a finger. We kissed. We hugged. Genise buried her head in my chest; for a moment, I lost myself her hair’s aroma. Pulling away I said. “I have to go. It’s easier to deal with the guilt this way.”
“You know,” Genise whispered. “You’re not in a relationship with her.”
“Yeah, but I love her.”
Genise looked at me with poisoned eyes. “We have that in common. What about us? We still have a deal?”
“I gotta go.” I turned away.
“Don’t stiff me,” Genise repeated.
“I just did,” I smiled.
“A deal is a deal.”
“It is.”
“You and me, we’re strange bedfellows,” Genise quipped.
“Yeah we are,” I ran a finger down Genise’s cheek. “You know, we’re both victims of Shannie’s charisma,” I whispered. I kissed her forehead and walked into the night. Without looking back, I climbed into my hooptie and went over my directions home before driving away.
As Atlantic City’s lights faded behind me, I thought of how acquainted I am with things bittersweet; how well my stomach twists to the strains of my heart’s beat and my smile glistens under showers of tears.
Memories of my latest adventure swarmed about as the hooptie coasted to a stop atop Beyford’s exit ramp. With a sigh of relieve I turned down Main Street. I slowed as I passed Fernwood, glancing across the tombstones, past the line of trees to our houses. I thought of my mother, wondered where she could be. Would I recognize her? I missed her. I wished I could talk with her. Of the pain I suffered, her indifference hurt the worst.
My headlights bounced of Saphix’s reflectors as the hooptie turned onto Cemetery Street. The driveway stones crackled under the hooptie’s weight. I closed the driver’s side door and slunk across my front yard. As I slid my key into the door I heard the distinct chirp of Shannie’s whistle. I exhaled, trudged down the front steps and towards the elm between our houses.
“Where’ve you been?” Shannie asked from the limbs above.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be climbing trees,” I looked up into the limbs barely noticing her outline in the darkness.
“The day I’m too old is the day they plant me in the ground. Everyone should have a personal relationship with a tree.”
“If you say so,” I said staring at my feet. I was too guilt ridden to look at Shannie’s shadow. Passing cars punctuated our silence.
“Beautiful night,” Shannie mumbled. Her hair dangled over a shoulder as she glanced across Fernwood.
“Yeah.” I wished I could run my fingers through her hair. “I’m beat. I’m going to turn in. See you later.”
“Later,” Shannie answered.
Walking away I felt Shannie’s eyes upon my back. “James,” her voice slithered across the grass before wrapping itself around me. Its softness sent goosebumps up and down my spine.
I faced the tree. “Yeah Bug?” I answered.
“Nothing,” the tree answered.
“You sure?” I asked the swaying limbs.
“Goodnight Just James.”
“’Night Bug.”
As I walked away I thought I heard the tree whisper: “Promise that you’ll love me forever.”


Chapter 19 Scandals

1996 was an unremarkable year. Between my appointments with Krista and facilitator’s visits, I had ample opportunity to ponder where my life had been and where it was going. I was twenty-four and understood a mid-life crisis – I didn’t have a trophy girlfriend or a red sports car: I was in love with a lesbian and was burdened with an orange beater. “Joy to the world,” I toasted as 1996 faded and 1997 loomed on the horizon.
My father wasn’t home, he was never home –he found a new home. The house was his in name; it’s occupants Ellie and I, he all but moved in with Diane. They made a great couple. I sighed with the thought. Ellie answered with a tilt of her head, coaxing another treat from me.
“You’re getting fat girlfriend,” I said scratching behind her ears. Ellie was great company and other than our conflicting schedules she never bitched. She whined when it was time to do her business which always coincided with my next nap.
My mother’s memory haunted me. She didn’t attempt any contact. She was never mentioned in conversation unless I brought her up. “She doesn’t care about my accident,” I complained to Shannie.
“She doesn’t know about your accident,” Shannie reminded me.
“Maybe if she’d call she’d find out.”
“She may as well be dead,” Shannie said.
“Sometimes you’re a cold-hearted bitch.”
“It’s not my job to pump sunshine up your ass.”
“You’re going to make one hell of a lawyer. You have the sensitivity.”
As Christmas of ‘96 passed and the New Year was a sunrise away, my father, Diane, Shannie and I made the trip to Laurel Hill. The trip was unremarkable, other than it was the first time the four of us attended together. “We’re one big happy family,” I complained to Krista. “I never, ever, imagined being Shannie’s step-brother. Jesus H. Christ, life sucks.”
“I didn’t know they’re getting married,” Krista chirped.
“They’re not! Not that I know of.” Our session fell into a rare silence. Krista let the silence stand. She knew my mind was racing.
“You know,” I said breaking the silence. “My dad is reaping the ass I worked so hard to sew.”
“You tried getting into Diane’s pants?” Krista asked, amused.
“Christ, everyone’s a comedian,” I complained.
“I know what you mean, but do you?” Krista asked.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” I replied.
Krista returned my stare. She was a pro, I wished I had her composure. “I’m pissed. I’m really pissed! I spent years trying to get into Shannie’s pants and just like that, my dad’s banging Diane. Where’s the justice?”
Krista sat back in her chair. I was captured by a silver bracelet dangling from her wrist. She’s worn it since, but it never hypnotized me like that afternoon. “I think there’s more between Diane and your father than sex. It seems they’re in love.”
I fell into my chair.
“You mentioned justice. Where’s the justice in continually expecting Shannie to be in love with you?”
“Huh?”
“Where’s the justice in continually expecting Shannie to be in love with you?” she repeated.
“I never pressure Shannie - ever. I know she just wants to be friends. I give her what she wants. I’m just her friend.”
“I’m not talking about you pressuring Shannie.”
“You’re confusing the shit out of me.”
“I’m talking about you pressuring yourself. I’m talking about the cruelness of your own expectations. I talking about the cruelty of expecting her to wake one day a changed woman and suddenly be in love with you and beg you for marriage. Stop beating yourself up because Shannie isn’t interested in being your lover.” Shaping her hands into a megaphone Krista cried, “STOP THE MENTAL MASTURBATION! Shannie’s choices are beyond your control.”
“I guess,” I mumbled.
“Hey, guess what?”
“What?”
“Times up. Now go wax on the day.”
“Take on,” I corrected her. “It’s take on the day.”
“Whatever,” Krista shrugged. “I don’t listen to radio shrinks.”

During the days approaching my twenty-fifth birthday, I fell into a state as close to hibernation as humanly possible. Only in dreams could I sometimes escape despair. I mistook Shannie’s voice echoing through my house as a dream. “James! Are you here?” Smiling, I listened as her footfalls. Ellie bounded down the stairs. “James?” Shannie called from the base of the steps. “You up there?”
In my dream I didn’t answer.
“James!,” Shannie’s voice raced up the stairs.
My silence led her up the stairs and into my bedroom. From the corner of my eye I watched her undress and slip under the covers. I felt her softness upon my lips. Light rushed into my room crushing my fantasy.
“James,” Shannie cried. I woke embracing my pillow. “Wake up,” Shannie ordered from the doorway. Ellie jumped on the bed and licked my face.
“You have some nasty breath girlfriend.” I pushed Ellie away.
“We have a problem,” Shannie said.
“Yeah, the wrong blonde is in my bed.”
“Steve’s dad killed himself.”
“What?” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Steve found him about an hour ago. He shot himself in the embalming room.”
A silence settled over my bedroom. I scratched my head as I looked from Shannie to the floor to Ellie and back to Shannie again. “At least they didn’t have to take him far.”
“You’re such a prick! Our friend’s father killed himself and your making jokes! What the Hell is your problem?”
“Jesus Shannie, lighten up.”
“I don’t take death lightly.”
“You know…”I hesitated. If ever I had a chance to share my near-death experience it was now. I missed the best opportunity to share the most intimate detail of my life with the person I wished to be the most intimate with.
“You know what?” Shannie asked.
“Nothing.”
“Geezus Pete James. Who cares about the bastard. But Steve is a friend, Marcy and Janice are friends. What about them? Their world’s been thrown into flux.”
“Life is constant flux,” I stabbed.
Shannie walked out of my room, down the stairs and out the front door.
I pulled my covers over my head. I was safe in their embrace. Krista once said not making a decision is making a decision, by that logic I decided to hibernate. Hibernation was easier; there weren’t decisions to make. Sleep evaded me, in the warmth of my cocoon I remembered learning of Count’s death.
I fell into the habit of sleeping on the couch, I’d fall asleep to CNN’s round the clock coverage. The war was two days old when we learned Count’s fate. I was nodding off to the sound of jet engines when the phone rang. I rolled over and buried my face against the back of the couch. I had a cold thanks to my midnight tunnel run.
My cheerful voice came on with the answering machine. “Morrison’s Mortuary, you stab ‘em we slab ‘em. Leave a message and we’ll get back to ya. Late.”
A foreboding silence answered my salutation. “Joe, James, this is Leroy. Listen,” the voice paused, gathering strength. “Junior’s been killed; I don’t know what, how it happened. Still trying to find out. Flossy ain’t taking it too well. Diane knows. He’s a good boy. Pray for him.”
The phone went silent. I bolted upright. Trembling, I stared at the answering machine as it clicked off. I struggled to my feet and hobbled across the living room. I replayed the message.
“NOOOO!” I screamed. I yanked the answering machine from the wall and threw it across the room. “NOOOOO!” I repeated. The answering machine exploded into pieces.
“YOOOOO What’s the fuck is going on down there?” my father yelled from his room.
I stared at the shattered pieces: “Count’s dead.”
My father ranted his way down the stairs. “JESUS CHRIST JAMES, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”
“Count’s dead,” I mumbled.
His voice grew closer with every word until his breath clawed my back.
I turned. “Count’s dead,” I mumbled to his angry face. “Count’s been killed! HE’S FUCKING DEAD!” I yelled at my father. I shoved him. He landed on the floor. “THEY FUCKING KILLED HIM!” I moved towards my father.
“How? What happened?”
“He’s dead,” I said. From above, I saw my leg cock back to kick my father.
“James! Get hold of yourself.” My father scrambled to his feet. “You definitely got your temper from your mother,” he said later.
The front door shook under a barrage of knocks. “JAMES!” Shannie’s cried “JAMES!”
I opened the door. Shannie’s untamed hair framed bloodshot eyes. We fell into each other’s arms. For days Shannie and I didn’t leave each other’s company. It seemed weeks before we didn’t feel the need for each other’s assurance. It would be weeks before we’d learn when Count would make his final trip home.
Like the night we learned of Count’s death, I felt a longing for Shannie’s companionship. Sliding out from beneath my covers, I made my to the Ortolans.
Despite having no love lost for the deceased, his death was an ordeal for Shannie and myself. A self-inflicted gunshot sprayed the elder Lucas’s brains across the embalming room. Someone had to clean it up. “It’s not like there’s a suicide clean-up service in the Yellow pages,” Shannie said. In 1997, there wasn’t. “Somebody has to clean up the mess. It would be a crime if the family had to.”
Oh Christ, I thought.
“Nothing wrong with a little anesthesia,” Shannie said yanking the GTI’s parking brake. We stepped into JD’s Tavern. We watched television, slugged shots of bourbon and tipped mugs of beer. “I need a smoke,” Shannie said. I watched her glide to the cigarette machine.
“Listen, Marcy’s home, Janice is on her way. I don’t want Marcy and Steve coming down stairs. I want to be incognito as possible. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said.
By the time Shannie and I slithered through the funeral parlor’s back entrance, the coroner had already removed the body. “Thank God for small favors. At least we don’t have to work around him,” Shannie whispered as we stared at the complex web of blood and brains splattered across the white washed walls. “Jason Pollock would be proud,” Shannie muttered.
“Fuck, the walls needs to be repainted.”
“Tell me about it,” Shannie replied.
“Let’s get to it.”
I gathered the necessary cleaning supplies as Shannie drug a chair to the center of the room. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Disconnecting the smoke detector,” Shannie answered. I watched her sweatshirt rise above her jeans revealing a thin swath of stomach.
“Why?”
“I’m going to need a smoke and I don’t want to set it off.”
“Dumb ass, they’re going to smell the smoke.”
“Dumb ass, they’re smokers,” she said.
“Steve ain’t,” I complained.
Between the gagging, fresh air breaks, and the lengthy drags on our cigarettes, it took us hours to finish the job. Between the two of us, we killed a pack of cigarettes. “I’m a dumb ass,” Shannie said flushing the last bucket down the toilet.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“They can hear the hopper.”

“He fucked with us while he was alive and now that he’s dead, he’s still at it,” I told Shannie during his funeral. The day was raw and overcast, exhaust from the procession spiraled skyward. “I can’t sleep, every time I close my eyes – every time - I see his goddamn brains clinging to the wall like some kind of, of,” I stammered. “Of, Christ, I don’t know, but they hang there, taunting me. I can’t wait till he’s buried! I’m telling you I’m going to get even - I’m going to piss on his grave!”
“Whatever,” Shannie sighed.
“I’m serious!
“Just James, What you don’t do is more powerful than what you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I questioned.
“Oh young Grasshopper, the absence of the positive outweighs the negative.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t see me in any rush to whip up a mud pie and throw it on his grave. The absence of positive deeds outweighs committing negative ones.”
“You haven’t whipped one up since Count.” The procession turned into the Cemetery’s driveway. My comment got me thinking. “Would you have made one for me? You know, if I, if I had died?” I stammered as Shannie parked.
Shannie looked at me, kissed her fingers and touched my forehead. “You know it.”

“You know, if I would have known then what I know now, I would have pissed on his grave too, ” Shannie said. It was Memorial Day weekend ’97. Shannie and I ventured to Indian Point. The weather was perfect, the sky deep cobalt blue.
“I’ve pissed on it enough for the both of us.” I watched a jet birthing contrails as it raced westward.
“Really, abusing corpses. That’s disgusting!” Shannie pontificated. It was one of many rumors that surfaced as the departed cooled in his grave.
“Consider the source,” I mouthed as the jet disappeared.
“If I would have known, I would have pulled the trigger for the sicko. The sick fuck! Ewww, he still makes my skin crawl.”
“You don’t really believe that?” I turned my attention to Shannie. She sat Indian style on a rock overlooking the Schuylkill River. I smiled, gazing at the grown up version of the girl I knew so well. Gone was the seriousness that inhabited her features like an unwanted house guest over recent years. For the first time in ages she pulled her hair back into a French braid. A lose fitting T-shirt grazed against her nipples teasing me with their outline. I couldn’t remember the last time Shannie went without a bra.
“Why wouldn’t I?” She questioned.
“You? Miss Substantiated evidence believe mere hearsay?”
“I have considered the sources and I consider it worthy. Diane heard it from Mrs. Miller.”
“Mrs. Miller! That old bat is past due at the funeral parlor. How can you believe anything she says? Her gaggle of yentas are nuttier than a bag M and M’s.”
“How can you say that?” Shannie laughed.
“You’re laughing. You know I’m right.”
“Am not,” Shannie protested.
“Are too,” I insisted.
“No I’m not,” she said trying to hide a smile. “God,” Shannie said glancing at Angel Wind’s monument. “Do you remember when I went off up here?”
“Sure do.” Freshly whitewashed rocks circled the foot of monument. The old cross sported a fresh coat of paint.
Shannie smiled - it was a sad, nostalgic smile. “How can people live lies?”
I shrugged. “I guess it’s like Steve says. Live by the embalming needle, die by the embalming needle.”
Shannie chuckled under her breath before looking out over the river and the rolling hills beyond.
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“Miss who?” Shannie turned to me.
“Genise.”

That night, as Shannie raced down the Atlantic City Expressway, I sat with my father and Diane in the Ortolan’s kitchen speculating why the elder Lucas blew his brains out. It felt good to have my opinion valued. Since going to work for Steve at the parlor, people thought I had inside information on Beyford’s biggest scandal. I really didn’t work for Steve, his father’s partner owned the joint, but Steve was heir-apparent. At the parlor the topic was taboo, except when Steve broached the subject. “You know no matter how many time’s I whitewash that wall I still see his brains on it.” The next day, I repainted the wall, again.
“Mrs. Miller claims the old man was a necrophiliac,” Diane said - a hint of scandal woven in her voice.
“That old crow doesn’t know the difference between Necrophilia and Negrophobia," I answered.
“I’m surprised at you James, Mrs. Miller is a dear lady.”
“I’m surprised at you Diane, I thought you’d have better sense than to yenta it up with that crone.”
As always, my father said nothing. He watched the cream curdle in his iced coffee.
“She heard it from a reliable source,” Diane protested.
“Who? That fat pig Mrs. Grebler?”
“As a matter-of-fact,” Diane replied.
“She’s spreading that rumor like a farmer spreads shit. And you wanna know why?”
“Do tell,” Diane smiled.
“‘cause her ass got too big for old man Lucas’ taste.” It was well-known that Mr. Lucas and Mrs. Grebler were on again off again for years. Surprising when his widow was G.I.L.F. material. The deceased had a fatty fetish and the librarian recently outgrew his taste. “She’s a scorned woman. Of course she’s pissed. I don’t believe a word of it. The only fucking that happened there was when Count used to bang Marcy in the casket show room.”
My father looked up from his curdling coffee, looked at me, then Diane, snickered and returned to studying his quaff.
“You’re kidding me?” Diane laughed.
“See, you’re not as in the know as you think,” I said.
What I did know and wasn’t about to tell was the deceased ran into big time money problems. Steve said that the old man and the IRS were talking, or maybe I should say the IRS was talking and the old man was listening.
At the parlor, I was a professional mourner. One of the guys that when not driving the hearse or limo stood stuffed in a suit somberly greeting friends and family at the door – Walmart had nothing on us. “On average Beyford’s population is growing older. The funeral business is a growth industry in this town, glad you can be part of it,” Steve said shaking my hand the day I was hired. I recoiled, stunned by his cold, waxy touch. I wiped my hands on my pants when he turned away.
Considering that I still worked part time for Bear, I joked with Krista that I had a long, secure career ahead of me. Ironic, considering my childhood coimetrophobia. “You licked that one. I wish more of my patients did as well confronting their fears.”
“You kidding me? I’m the biggest pussy on two feet. If I had half the balls you say I have, I’d get the hell out of this place and start a new life.”
Krista sat back in her chair. “Go on,” she smiled.
“Like maybe I’d go to school or something. Sometimes I think I’m smart enough. Especially when I see some of the smucks that graduate. I’d like to move out west again, but not California; it’s way too crowded - this place is getting just as bad. I feel claustrophobic around here. I’m tired of living on a dead end.”
Krista remained quiet, her cue for me to continue thinking aloud.
“I mean I love Shannie and all, but she’s back with Genise. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat and move on.” Pausing, I looked at Krista and shook my head. “Damn, I can’t believe I talked her into going to Atlantic City. Why do I do things that are contrary to my best interest?”
“Do you?” Krista interjected.
“Do I what?”
Krista leaned forward in her chair. “Do you do things against your best interest?”
I laughed: “Ain’t it obvious?”
“Not necessarily,” Krista replied. “Maybe in your heart of hearts you know. Maybe you’re aware of your bliss path. Maybe talking Shannie into going to see Genise only seems counter-productive. Maybe there’s a part of you that knows what your next step is.”
I studied my sneakers. “That’s crazy,” I said.
Krista rested her head in her left hand. “How so?”
“I don’t know; it just sounds crazy,” I protested.
“I’m not leaving you of the hook James. Answer my question,” my sadistic shrink ordered.
“What was the question?”
“Why is my believe that you know what your next step is crazy? In other words, why is talking Shannie into going to Atlantic City against your best interest?”
“You can’t figure that out?”
“James, you just admitted it’s time to admit defeat and move on. I don’t quite see it as defeat, but never-the-less, you’re on to something.”
“Yeah, I’m convinced that I hate myself and will do anything to make myself miserable.”
Krista threw herself back into her chair.
“I mean, I not happy unless I’m miserable and if I’m miserable I’m happy; it’s a vicious circle.”
“It’s circular logic and it’s BULLSHIT!” Krista enunciated through the megaphone she made from her hands.
“It’s not bullshit.”
“I’ll tell you what’s not bullshit,” Krista said sternly. “You’re afraid to admit to yourself that if you placed any demands on Shannie, she’d push you away. You’re smart enough to realize a dead end when you see one. Let’s just say you somehow, some way, you managed to get Shannie to commit to you. You know that before long she would resent you. You would hate yourself for that. You couldn’t stand yourself if you were responsible for her unhappiness. That’s why you did what you did.”
I wonder if Mr. Lucas was smart enough to realize what he did? Did he realize the pain he would inflict upon his family? Other than contributing to Beyford’s biggest growth industry, what good did his bullet do? The parlor’s financial woes didn’t vanish. He cast his son prematurely into the profession. Not that my opinion matters, I still hate him, more so than when he was among the living.
Shannie was too smart to consider my pain. She knew I loved her for many things. She knew I loved her for her independence. If she gave my feelings any consideration, it didn’t show. God, how we come to hate in other’s what we love the most.
I think that’s one of my biggest problems: I consider too much. Though it’s hard not to consider Shannie’s smiling face. Over the next year and a half, Shannie wore a permanent smile. Life was going her way. “Things are really working out for me, Just James,” she told me the afternoon before Steve, Genise, her and I would get together for the last time. Even though I rarely saw Shannie, she occasionally spent a weekend in Beyford.
Since the couple reunited, I was wary to visit Atlantic City; nor were they quick to invite, when they finally did, I politely refused. When Genise and I finally crossed paths, we were cordial. Our secret was too volatile to mishandle. To our credit, we did well. Shannie never had the faintest notion, until the Friday before Christmas, 1998.
As oft as I scolded myself for considering too much, maybe just once, if I’d considered keeping my mouth shut I wouldn’t suffer this preoccupation of exercising the ghosts haunting my conscience.
The four of us met that evening at Dino and Luigis. Throughout dinner the conversation flowed as easily as the merlot. The loving couple found humor with the horror of both Steve and my dating stories. Neither of us had women swooning over us, but we weren’t living a priestly lifestyle either. Steve’s main interest was a married woman. I’m not sure he’s getting any and he’s not willing to tell. What I do know is she makes sport of bending his ear with her marital-crisis-of-the-moment. For his troubles, I sure hope he’s getting some, but I doubt it, like me Steve has a big mouth when it comes to carnal conquests. His silence bemoans the relationship’s platonic nature.
“I’m looking forward to going out with them,” Steve told me at the parlor the previous day. “God knows I can use some feminine insight. Who knows better about getting into a gal’s pants than a couple of dykes?”
“It’s getting so bad,” Steve said over dinner, “that I don’t tell a prospective date I’m an undertaker. It freaks ‘em out. Especially when I tell them my last name. One bitch asked me if I’m a necrophiliac. Can you believe that? That was the closest I’ve ever come to hitting a woman. I’m still living under the curse of my old man. I mean the bastard was a, well, he was a bastard; but he was no necrophiliac.”
“Did James tell you that he wanted to piss on your old man’s grave?” Shannie cried. She was drunk. Genise burst into laughter, spraying a mouthful of salad onto the table.
“I wish he would. The whole thing pisses me off.”
“It pisses him off,” Shannie howled. Laughing at Steve’s pun as only a drunk could.
“Want a woman’s insight? Genise asked. “You need to think like a porcupine. When you sniff around a piece, and she’s hot and bothered, start the fun by pissing on her.”
“Ewwwwww,” Shannie cried. “Golden showers aren’t for me. Maybe that’s why I don’t like being pricked.” The three of them laughed.
“What about you James?” Genise asked. “Piss and tell.”
Genise had guts going there. I stared into Genise’s deep brown eyes. She fidgeted before smiling at Shannie.
“I don’t piss and tell.” I noticed Steve glance from me to Genise and back again.
“Come on James,” Genise said. “You got to have a good story in there.”
“Nope.”
“What about that brunette?” Shannie asked. “The one you met on the Internet. You were getting hot and heavy. Come on, inquiring minds want to know!”
“Yeah, come on James,” Genise aped.
“Yeah Morrison,” Steve piled on.
“What’s there to know?” I stonewalled.
“If you’re still an item,” Shannie retorted.
“Nope, we were never an item.”
“You weren’t saying that when you were banging Nancy,” Steve accused.
“Clancy,” I corrected.
“She’s the one who said you’re in your thirteenth life,” Shannie giggled.
“Thirtieth,” I couldn’t hold back my smile. Just before Thanksgiving, Clancy said I was her cosmic white knight. That I showed up throughout her lifetimes in times of need. That it was my destiny to help her through her current lifetime’s crisis. “So let me get this straight, my sole purpose is to travel across the ages to help you through tough times.” “Something like that,” Clancy answered in her raspy voice. “You need meds,” I’d told Clancy matter-of-factly.
“Damn James, it’s people like you that keep people like me in business. Keep on dying brother. I could use your patronage.”
“Fuck you.”
“No,” Steve quipped, “ Fuck her.”
“Speaking of fucking her,” Shannie interjected. “Come on, be a sport; piss and tell. Was she as good in the sack in this lifetime as the others?”
“Better than Jenny Wade not as good as….” I hesitated. “Not as good as the others.” I stammered. Across the table Genise winced. Steve again looked from Genise to me and back again. Genise gave Steve a quick, dirty look before sinking her attention to her plate. To my left Shannie gave me a wide grin. “Silly James, I mean was she as good in the sack in this life as she was in previous lives?”
I was glad Shannie was drunk. She was missing cues. I played cool. “She’s slipping. She was best in my twenty-second life. That’s when she was my sex slave. I think that experience damaged her for many lifetimes. Even compared to the fifteen, she’s turned into a prude. She destined to be a missionary for a few lifetimes, if you know what I mean.”
“Excuse me a second, I have to go powder my nose.” Genise dropped her napkin on the table.
“You okay? You look pale,” Shannie questioned Genise.
“I’m fine dear,” Genise answered patting the top of Shannie’s out stretched hand.
“She looks pale!” Steve hooted as Genise faded through the smoke towards the restrooms. “That’s funny. That’s too funny! She looks pale.”
“You’re an asshole,” Shannie snickered.
Pointing at his chest, Steve continued: “I may be an asshole, but that’s still funny.” Steve pointed towards Genise.
Shannie’s eyes followed Genise. “Something’s bothering her. I’ll be right back.” Shannie ran a finger down my cheek. Steve and I watched her disappear into the hazy room.
“Don’t tell me you banged the Comanche,” Steve snickered.
“Shoshone,” I corrected.
“Come on buddy ole pal. Tell me, you slipped the Shoshone the bologna.”
I sat down my utensils and wiped my mouth. I smiled at my boss and said: “If you say a word, I will beat you with a stick. I’ll beat you so hard you’ll need your own services.”
“Yes!” Steve cried. We high-fived. “You’re the man! How was she?”
“How good can you imagine?”
Steve smiled.
“She was better! The best!”
“You banged two lesbians, fuck me. You’re the envy of every Howard Stern worshipping dude in America.”
“Remember… I’ll beat you senseless.”
“You’re God!” he continued.
“With a stick,” I reiterated.
Steve never said a word. He kept silent. Recently I’ve wondered how long he could have kept my secret. As events played out – I betrayed myself.
When Shannie and Genise returned I ordered another bottle of wine. The conversation resumed its earlier pitch. We seemed like two happy couples. Unknown to us, somewhere nearby, fate lurked, silently preparing its hand.
“You’re into photography, right Genise?” Steve questioned.
“Sure am,”
“Do you got your camera on you?”
“Sure don’t,” Genise answered.
“Damn, what a shame. I was hoping you could take a picture for me,” Steve put his arm around me and pulled me towards him. “If this guy had a vagina, I’d ask him to marry me. I wanted a picture of my proposal.”
“Why let a little thing like a vagina stop you?” Shannie questioned.
“If I had a vagina I’d still hate your guts.” I shoved Steve. “If I had a vagina I’d ask Shannie to marry me.” I wrapped an arm around her.
“Only if I could wear the pants in the family,” Shannie retorted.
Steve said: “If I had a vagina I’d spread my legs as wide as airplane wings and have Genise come in for a landing.”
Laughing, Shannie gibed, “That’s disgusting!”
“I can imagine worse,” Genise added.
“I’ve seen worse,” I commented.
“Worse than Steve’s pussy? I can’t imagine anything that horrid,” Shannie laughed.
“I’ve seen worse,” I said. “In one of you shots.”
Genise shook her head. “No,” she mouthed silently.
“Oh yeah?” Shannie asked. “I love her work, which one?” Shannie babbled slipping an arm around Genise.
“You know, the one with the hag spitting on the old man’s face. It’s such an incredible picture. How the loogie just hangs in front of his face. The old man’s eyes. The shocked expression. The drama.” Shannie’s expression imitated the pictures.
“How do you know about that picture?” Shannie questioned.
“Ah,” I stammered. Across the table Genise recoiled.
“How does he know about that picture?” Shannie turned to Genise, grilling her lover.
“James,” Shannie said leaning forward in her seat. “How the fuck do you know about that picture?” Shannie’s eyes were ablaze, her mind piecing together the details. Genise leapt up and made her way towards the front door.
“Where the fuck are you going?” Shannie cried after her. Ignoring Shannie, Genise made her way into the night.
Throwing her napkin upon the table Shannie leaned forward and grabbed my collar. “You fucking snake! I’m not done with you!” Letting go of my collar, Shannie walked out the front door and out of my life forever.
“Why do we insist on being carpenters of our own crosses?” Steve asked watching the door close behind Shannie.
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up!”


Chapter 20 Shannie’s Burble

The next morning I stared out my kitchen window expecting to see Shannie sitting in the elm tree. She wasn’t there, no matter how hard I willed her image the branches swayed without her. Gazing past the elm, beyond the single line of trees into Fernwood, I didn’t see any sign of her. “Merry Christmas,” I mumbled, exhaling a plume of smoke through my nose. Coughing, I snubbed out another cigarette into the growing mountain of butts. More tears stung my bloodshot eyes. I reached for another cigarette and was greeted by an empty pack. “FUCK!” I crumpled the empty pack and threw it across the kitchen. I barely missed Ellie. Poor Ellie, I thought returning her gaze. She knew. She gazed at me with sad eyes. She peered at me as she rested her snout on the floor between her extended legs.
Never have I felt such emptiness; never had I such a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not even during my accident, not even learning of Count’s death. “You should have let me die!” I cursed God. “She didn’t deserve to. I’m the wastoid; I’m an asshole; she had a life,” I pleaded. “It’s not fair,” I erupted into another flood of tears. I buried my head into my arms.
The phone rang. I bolted, heart racing. It’s Shannie, it’s just a nightmare, Shannie’s calling. It’s just a dream. Krista’s voice reminded me it really happened. “James,” her voice hesitated. “James,” she repeated, pausing to give me a chance to pick up, as if she sensed my presence. “I got your father’s message. I’m so sorry; I don’t know what to say. Listen, I’m out of town, but I want you to call me when you get this message.” She repeated the out-of-state number twice before continuing. “Call me collect if you have to. Call as soon as you get this message. I’m here for you; don’t feel like you have to go it alone.” She paused again, before repeating: “I don’t want you going it alone. Call me James.”
Outside, a light snow fell, just like last night when Steve Lucas and I walked out of Dino and Luigi’s. I walked to the kitchen window, watching heaven’s frozen tears as I replayed the horrid night over again in my head.
“Cool, it’s snowing,” Steve said as we walked across the parking lot to his car. “You think we’re finally gonna have a white Christmas?”
“Huh? Why should I care?” I questioned.
“You’re such a killjoy,” Steve bristled as sirens wailed across the still town.
“You know, you’re gay. You always think about gay things like a white Christmas.”
Laughing, Steve started his car. “Do you want this fag to take you home or do you wanna go get drunk?”
“I’m already hammered,” I complained.
“Who’s the faggot now?” Steve Lucas questioned.
“JD’s, here we come,” I high-fived my employer, relieved at the prospect of shelving my current Shannie drama. “Do me a favor?”
“What’s that?” Steve asked fumbling with the radio.
“Don’t mention the dynamic duo tonight,” I stared into the darkness. “I don’t want to hear a word about either of them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve joshed.
“I just wanna get my mind off of ‘em, if you know what I mean.”
“JD’s, bar sluts, here we come. Joke em if they can’t take a fuck,” Steve rambled.
“I was worried about you fucking up. I need to be beaten with a stick. I’m such a dumb ass. Fuck me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Steve consoled. “Once your girlfriend gives her girlfriend the boot, she will beat you with a stick.”
“Didn’t I ask you not to bring it up? Jesus Christ, I ask you to do me a simple favor and you fuck up.”
“Whatever,” Steve shrugged. He almost pulled into the path of a screaming fire truck.
“Watch out!” I curled into a ball in the front seat. I relived my accident. My heart pounded. I lost my breath.
Steve tapped the brakes. The fire truck bolted around us and continued its way.
“Jesus, how can you not see a fire truck?”
“You know, you nag just like a woman. No wonder lesbians adore you. You are a lesbian. Ugh oh,” Steve continued. “Looks like we ain’t going to JD’s.”
The lower section of Main Street was awash with emergency lights. “Go figure! The one night I wanna get hammered, really hammered, the bar burns down.”
“There’s always Giorgio’s,” Steve said.
“Screw that place.” I thought of old Luther, the freaky bartender.
“It ain’t the bar, it’s an accident.”
“Well, at least we can still drink,” I tried to make sense of the organized chaos before us.
“Oh man, it’s a train wreck. I hope it derailed. Hope it didn’t get a car, I’d hate to deal with that mess,” Steve said.
Scene lights illuminated the railroad crossing. Firefighters rushed back and forth between the cars. The falling snow, illuminated by the floodlights, cast a pall over the stopped freight train. Boxcars loomed like the scaly back of an injured dragon. I cringed at memories of dodging freights. “Poor bastards,” I said thinking of the people whose luck ran out.
Steve had pulled over and parked his car. “Come on, Let’s take a look.”
“We ain’t getting close,” I informed my friend. Fire-police held back the crowd.
“Professional privileges my friend,” Steve quipped. “Our services may be needed.”
“You greedy bastard,” I laughed. “They don’t need your services, they’d be better off cremated.”
“You’d be surprised,” Steve said hopping from the car.
The din of idling fire trucks, generators, and radio traffic overshadowed the buzz of speculation. My palms broke into a cold sweat as we approached the police car at the corner of Second and Main. Ever since Shannie’s Miss Dead America stunt, I feared Big Dick Bradigan and seeing him leaning over the top of the cruiser did nothing to calm the unsettling feeling washing over me. “Just the man for the job,” the cop said seeing Steve. “A double fatality. Volkswagen vs. Conrail, No positive ID on the victims. I’m running the tags now.”
“A black GTI?” I asked, throat tightening around my words.
Bradigan looked at me. “Yeah,” he answered. “You know ‘em?”
“Shit,” I cried. I bolted towards the railroad tracks calling her name. “SHANNIE!”
“Hey! Yo! Stop! Where do you think you’re going?”
“James!” Steve’s voice trailed. “Don’t!”
Ignoring them, I ran past a firefighter returning from the other side of the resting dragon. I climbed between boxcars and dashed upon the horrid scene. A hundred odd feet south of Main Street, in the artificial light of another fire truck, Saphix lay sheered in half. Four firefighters worked over the wreckage.
Slowly, disbelieving, I approached the twisted mass. I stumbled over something; I threw my hands in front of me. Pain raced up my arms. I looked to see what I fell over. A blue tarp covered her. I bellowed a mute scream. A small white hand clenched into a fist protruded from the tarp. Kneeling next to her body, I watched my hand seek Shannie’s. I wretched feeling its coldness. She couldn’t be dead! I reached above her head to remove the tarp.
“Don’t James!” A far away voice warned.
Suddenly a force drove me backward, flattening me against the ground. “Don’t do it James,” Steve’s voice cried out from above. “You don’t want to know.”
I struggled under the weight. Suddenly, I felt myself pulled upwards, off the ground and onto my feet. Shouting, cursing and crying I struggled to free myself from the powerful grip. From faraway, I heard Steve pleading with me to calm down. The more I struggled the tighter the grip became before I was yanked off my feet and restrained against Bradigan’s chest. “Relax buddy, relax,” the lummox’s voice coaxed. “It’ll be okay.”
“Put me down!” Somehow detached, I heard my pleading screams. My voice, like my thoughts seemed eerily removed – like a distant wolf’s howl on a fog-laden night.

“You okay?” my father’s voice asked.
I jumped, startled to hear his voice. My father stood inside the kitchen door, keeping a safe distance. He looked exhausted, dark rings were tattooed under bloodshot eyes. Recent developing jowls hung from his chin.
“Is it true dad? Please, please tell me it’s just a nightmare. Tell me it’ll all go away.”
My father shook his head. “I wish I could James. I wish I could.”
I turned my back to him. I gazed at the Ortolan’s house in the morning gloom. It was silly to be pissed at him, I knew he couldn’t do anything about Shannie, but I couldn’t help hating him for never being able to do anything about anything.
“Come over; stay with Diane and me for awhile.”
“I can’t.” I eyed his reflection in the window. His eyes swelled as I mouthed my answer. “I’m sorry. I can’t dad. There’s too much of her there. Shannie’s everywhere. I can’t be there now.” I pretended to study the tombstones while watching my father’s reflection. It approached me and placed its hand on my shoulder. I recoiled to his touch. He didn’t withdraw his hand.
“You know, you’re not the only one she abandoned.”
I knew he meant my mother. I faced my father. His eyes met my glare. Moments passed before I blinked. “How’s Diane?”
“Sedated,” he sighed. “We’ll see how she does later today.”
“She’s a strong woman,” I said stupidly, wincing at my platitude.
“Yes she is. She’s going to need every bit of it.” He placed his hand on my shoulder again. “James. It would mean a lot to her – it would mean a lot to me, it would mean a lot to the both of us if you spent time with us now. We need each other.” My father paused again. “Please?”
After my father left I stared at the phone, finding reasons not to return Krista’s call. I fought the temptation to hop into my car and drive. Where, I hadn’t an idea. As much as the idea appealed to me, I couldn’t, whatever remained of my family needed me. I was oblivious that the exact opposite was true.
I retreated to my room. I avoided looking over Shannie’s yard and Fernwood. I was tired of life at this dead end. Eyes closed, I pulled my window shades shut and climbed into bed. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced back to the accident.
“It’s definitely them,” Steve told Bradigan after identifying the bodies. “The Driver’s name is Genise Gray. The passenger’s name is Shannie Ortolan.”
“Any idea of next of kin for Ms. Gray?” Bradigan asked.
“She has a brother,” I broke my silence. I was leaning against the back of the police car. “If it helps, his name’s Calvin Gray. Used to be in the Army, 101st Airborne.”
“That’ll help,” Bradigan said.
Turning my head away from the cop, I noticed Russell standing on the steps of JD’s, towering above those on the sidewalk, his facial features obscured by a cloud of cigar smoke. I imagined him peering through his sunglasses, studying the scene. I scratched the idea of approaching him and breaking the news that his Butterfly lay broken on the far side of the tracks. I overheard a shaken voice identify himself as the train’s engineer. I turned towards the owner of the voice.
A combination of rage, compassion and pity struck me as my eyes fell upon him. Whatever I expected an engineer to look like, he wasn’t it. How could someone so frail operate such a powerful beast? In the years Shannie and I dodged freights, I’ve always harbored images of engineers being big, burley men –worthy of operating something so powerful. This man was suited for operating a card-catalogue at the public library. His haggard face was framed by small oval glasses, like my grandfather used to wear. Unlike my grandfather’s meaty, round face, the engineer’s face was thin and sickly, an oval with pencil marks for nose and lips, his eyes no more than slits topped by eyebrows as thick as forsythia. He looked incapable of accidentally killing an ant let alone someone as vital as Shannie.
“What did you see?” Bradigan asked.
The engineer paused, exhaling a long breath before speaking. “As we approached the crossing, the car pulled around the gate and stopped on the tracks. I’ve seen it before, you know, drunks playing chicken. Hell, I’ve had pedestrians at this very crossing stand in front of me, waiting till the last second before dodging me; damn imbeciles. I don’t know what possess them. Anyway, the car stops, I lay on the horn. It wasn’t till the passenger door opened and the blonde jumps out that I figured this one wasn’t playing. I immediately laid on the emergency breaks, but you know as well as anyone there’s no way the train was going to stop in time. The passenger, the blonde, I could see her in the headlights, she paused for a second, looking at the train, I swear she was studying it. She ran around to the driver’s side. I could see her yanking on the door, pounding on the window. She looked up at us again; I could see the fear on her face. I started to yell, screaming to her to clear the crossing, like she’d hear me. Instead she jumped over the hood, leaned into the car, across the driver and opened the door from the inside.”
The engineer paused, lowering his head. I watched him as he stared at snowflakes evaporating upon the street’s surface. Looking up, the engineer continued. “She tried to get out. She did, she tried to get out. She ran out of time. She just ran out of time. I closed my eyes when the car slipped under my sight line. I cringed when I felt the crash.” The engineer returned to his study of the melting snowflakes.
“What are we going to tell Diane?” Steve asked. We were sitting in his car at the intersection of Cemetery and Bainbridge Streets. We both stared at the darkened house at the end of Cemetery Street.
“Shannie burbled,” I said.
“She what?” Steve asked.
“She burbled. She did something too good. She was so good she got herself killed.” In short sequence, all the lights inside the house at the end of Cemetery Street sprung to life. I groaned.
“She knows,” Steve sighed. “Man, her life just changed. Fuck.”
I glanced at Steve as his car crept towards Diane’s driveway. I wasn’t comfortable with our charge, but Steve was right, besides providing whatever comfort we could, we had to stop Diane from seeing the carnage that claimed her daughter. God knows I regretted stumbling upon the scene.
“You know how she’s going to react,” I told Steve as we approached the front door. “I don’t know if I can handle this.” Pausing, I took a deep breath before knocking.
The door swung open. I fell upon my heels as I met Diane’s eyes. Hers was Shannie’s face, but aged, more weather beaten. Shock deepened the crow’s feet aside Diane’s green eyes, which were dull and bloodshot. “James,” she sighed, her dry lips quivering under her thin nose. As we embraced her blond hair cascaded over the front of her shoulders. Through my tears I noticed that even their hair smelled similar. Diane pulled me tighter to her chest, itself heaving with sobs. She rested her head upon my shoulder. In every way, mother and daughter seemed similar, even how they climbed the short flight of stairs and floated across the kitchen floor. Only in the eternal absence of one did I gain this understanding of the other. At that moment I realized I could no longer live in Beyford. I loved Diane like a mother, but I couldn’t exist near this living, breathing reminder of Shannie. She was already a haunting replica of who Shannie could have been.
It didn’t take much convincing on Steve’s part to dissuade Diane from journeying to the scene or viewing Shannie’s remains. “She wouldn’t have wanted me to see her like that,” Diane whispered hoarsely. “You know, I always had this feeling, this feeling that something would happen to her. She was always so carefree, terribly carefree. Reckless.”
I peered over the top of my coffee at Diane, surprised by her words. I never thought Shannie reckless. To the contrary, she was extraordinarily calculating when it came to risk. She was keenly aware of threats. She always had an escape route. That’s why the engineer’s account troubled me. If she wanted out, she would have stepped away. In her last moments, I wonder what she thought, I wonder if she regretted her choice?
The four of us talked into the night, sometimes painfully honest, sometimes not, the kitchen walls witnessed many tears, long moments of silence, and even a laugh or two. Steve assured Diane he would handle the smallest of details. As the first hint of morning flirted with the eastern sky, my father suggested that we try to get some rest, offering valium to any taker. My father, I thought, such the subtle diplomat, what better way to sedate Diane than offering us all a sedative. Maybe he isn’t the clod I know him to be.
I snuck out of Diane’s house as my father put Shannie’s grieving mother to bed, leaving behind the grueling details to Steve and my father. I wandered through the Ortolan’s yard, under the bare limbs of the tree line and into Fernwood. I stared at Count’s headstone. I glanced at the darkened old chapel before heading home. I’d break the news to the Lightman’s after they woke.

I bolted upright in my bed, rousing myself from a light sleep. “Russell,” I said aloud. I forgot to tell him last night. I didn’t want him learning about Shannie through the grapevine. It never occurred to me that he already knew. He and Bradigan wasted many a night drinking coffee and eating donuts at 7-11. I threw clothes on, leashed Ellie and stepped out into the gray December day.
I needn’t travel far before finding the sage. As Ellie and I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of my father’s house, I noticed Russell crossing Bainbridge Street. I shivered in the absence of relief and reassurance I sought from his company. As his white cane danced back and forth in front of him a deeper more profound grief cloaked me. From the tips of his greasy, graying curls to the toes of his worn sneakers, everything about him spoke of Shannie.
My mind wandered back to that long ago summer day when Shannie introduced us, her excitement seeing the man behind the cloud of cigar smoke. Appearances never obfuscated Shannie’s vision. I’m sure that if I’d only had my vision to guide me, Russell would be just another derelict from Main Street and not a surrogate grandfather. Shannie saved me from seeing the world through my mother’s eyes. As I neared Russell, the smell of stale cigars and rotten eggs brought a smile to my face, one that I’m sure he would call bittersweet.


Chapter 21 Good Byes

On December 23rd, Shannie was laid to rest. Her funeral, a straightforward Episcopalian affair, was elegant in its simplicity. The minister’s voice, echoing through the half-empty church, eulogized her saying that “Shannie’s last actions would define her forever; they attest that she gave so willingly of herself in life, to the extreme of giving her life attempting to save another. God smiles brightly on those who follow in his son’s footsteps.”
Holy platitudes, I thought, groaning audibly. I turned my attention to Shannie’s casket, as I studied its brass handrail, a tear puddled and ran down my cheek. The image of Shannie lying inside, without breath, seemed so unfathomable; so foreign, so wrong! I remembered the night that we made love and afterwards how I laid awake, watching her chest rise and fall in peaceful sleep, each breath a wave on a summertime sea.
Under my breath, I whispered to the casket, “I love you Shannie, you know I really love you, but God knows I hope you’re wrong.” I was pondering our conversation about life after death - we had it after our near miss on the Atlantic City Expressway.
“Dead is dead, dead means you’re not alive, that all awareness ceases,” Shannie argued.
I glared at the casket, images of my own near-death experience consuming me. God, I regret not sharing them with her. She said a near-death experience was our body’s way of tricking ourselves, that “it’s kinda like the ultimate survival instinct, you know, like making us believe we’re going to survive even though we’re in the very act of dying.”
“God,” I again prayed turning my gaze from her casket. “For Shannie’s sake, make her wrong.” Studying the cross behind the altar, I couldn’t shake the idea that Shannie’s influence over me squeezed the validity out of my own experiences.
Around me the congregation stood. As I eyed the casket I noticed Krista peering at me. Her big brown eyes, warm and full of empathy, held mine for a moment. Uncomfortable with the attention I turned away. I focused on the giant cross behind the altar as the congregation burst into hymn signifying the end of the service.
As the hymn closed I joined the other pallbearers along Shannie’s casket.
Despite my father’s protestations I demanded on being a pallbearer. “Why is it so important James?” my father questioned the day before the service. “Why at the head of the casket?”
“You just don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t.”
I didn’t explain that this would be the last chance I’d have to be close Shannie. To be so close to her heart.

We carried Shannie from the church into a clear, crisp December afternoon. The sun shined brilliantly in the southern sky. Vehicles raced up and down Main Street, their occupants, lost in the bustle of normality, were oblivious to my grief. I took a deep breath as we paused to balance Shannie’s weight. I’d rather die before suffering Shannie the final indignity of dropping her down the church steps. Slowly we descended, I studied my shoes, intently watching every footfall. My throat tightened and I struggled catching my breath as we crossed the sidewalk to the waiting hearse. I gasped for air as the six of us slid Shannie inside. Tears clouded my vision as I backed away, closing my eyes as Steve Lucas closed the door. I winced as it latched shut.
An arm wrapped around my shoulder. “Ride with me,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t feel right if it was only Shannie and me.”
I smiled, albeit a weak one, but it was a smile. “Thanks,” I mumbled before dropping my head.
In a matter of moments, Shannie, Steve and I led the small caravan on the thirty-odd mile jaunt to Laurel Hill cemetery in Philadelphia. Silence kept us company as we drove past places named King of Prussia, Gulph Mills and Conshohocken. It wasn’t until we exited the Schuylkill Expressway at Manayunk that silence abandoned us. “I hate it here,” I said leaning my head against the passenger window.
“I don’t like the city myself,” Steve answered.
“No, I mean I hate Beyford, I hate Philly, I hate Pennsylvania, I hate it all.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Steve sighed.
The funeral procession passed over the Schuylkill River before entering the walled cemetery through its gatehouse. “I quit Steve,” I said breaking another growing silence. “I’ll give you two weeks, but that’s it. I’m done. I can’t take it anymore.”
It wasn’t like Steve to protest. He accepted events as they happened. Even so, I was surprised, when he shook my hand and wished me good luck and without a word of objection or discouragement told me not to worry about two weeks.

A raw breeze skimmed off the Schuylkill River as we gathered around Shannie’s grave. I glanced past Shannie’s casket at the monuments where she and I once frolicked. Gone was their appeal – no longer were they the innocuous art forms that Shannie taught me to appreciate, instead they were cranky reminders of foregone pain, their former splendor eroded by the ghosts of mourners who forever stand shedding tears.
Nestled above and behind a small thicket of cherry and laurel trees, Shannie’s grave overlooked the Schuylkill River. Unlike the grand monuments that dominated the hillside, Shannie’s grave was simple, eventually to be marked by a granite headstone. “I always planned on using the plot for myself,” Diane commented in a composed moment. “I always loved that part of the cemetery. I never thought I’d need it for my little girl.”
I sat next to my father, who draped an arm around Diane who in turn Shanniesquely rested her head upon his shoulder. I turned away with the comparison. I thought about my mother, wondering if she was still incapable of the compassion that my father and Diane shared.
As the minister began prayer, I peered at my father and Diane. They were a good couple. They deserved each other; they deserved the best. With Shannie gone they didn’t need me lumbering around like a real life vampire, sucking the energy from whatever good feelings life had in store for them. They deserved a fresh start, not a reminder of what’s missing.
As if hearing my thoughts, Russell, who sat adjacent to Diane, faced me before turning his attention back to the minister. Fucking Russell, I thought. The things that man has been through. He was a perfect example of the resiliency of the human spirit.
“The way I look at it…” Russell said putting his arm around me the day after Shannie’s accident. We were walking down Main Street towards the railroad tracks. “…is that you gots this choice. Ya see life goes and serves you up this plate. If ya don’t wanna starve ya gotta eat what’s on yo plate. Who wants to go hungry? You don’t go and starve yourself just ‘cause someone went and put some liver on yo plate instead of ice cream. That’s what Butterfly’s little friend did. She didn’t want no liver, she had herself there a sweet tooth. Liver wasn’t gonna cut it for her, no sir. She’d rather starve and she did, she went hungry. Now Butterfly,” Russell went on as we continued towards the railroad crossing, “well she ate what be on her plate, she always cleaned her plate. Just a shame someone gone and poisoned her food.”
We stood in silence at the crossing where mere hours ago a wounded dragon languished, a wounded dragon that consumed my soul mate. In daylight this hallowed ground looked nothing like the nightmare in which I stumbled over Shannie’s body. “All that is transitory is temporary,” Shannie once told me.
“Hell boy,” Russell said breaking the silence, “when I die, I’m gonna die with a full stomach. You can bet yo ass on that. Yeah, I done see too many people go and die from hunger. And I don’t wanna see you be one. Eat up, boy,” he said patting my back. “Eat it up and never look back!”
I swallowed hard as a distant freight’s horn blew, startling me from my thoughts. Next to me, Diane gripped my father. From somewhere behind me, a groan escaped a mourner. Next to Diane, Russell again cleared his plate.
Russell, Diane, my father and I sat silently as each mourner filed past, laying a rose atop Shannie’s casket. When the last passed, Russell and my father stood and paid their final respects. My heart pounded as they stepped aside. My legs felt like led as I struggled to my feet. I stepped forward, my throat tightening around itself. There, in front of me, under dozens of roses rested a symbol of how coldly indifferent nature is. No amount of love, prayers, wishes would ever change that fact that Shannie is dead. No amount of good deeds would ever change the fact that she’ll eternally rest here, forever banished from our lives. Even if I wanted, I couldn’t cry; I was too angry to cry. As if watching myself from far away, my hand placed a rose atop Shannie’s casket. I watched my hand slide under the flowers and rest atop the cold metal. “I love you Bug,” I heard my voice utter before stepping away.
I stood with my back to the casket as Diane shared her last moment with her daughter. When Diane joined Russell, my father and myself, the four of us walked arm in arm up the narrow path to the cadence of Diane’s sobs. Atop the hill, I peered over my shoulder, between the monuments I saw the ground crew lower Shannie to her final resting spot. Russell would have been disappointed if he’d known I looked back.
After the internment, Diane said in a composed manner, “I’d forgotten that there are railroad tracks so close.” We had gathered in the cemetery’s gatehouse for the obligatory reception.
“Irony is alive and well,” a stuffy cohort of Diane’s responded. He was a double chinned, slender shouldered, potbellied pear of a man, his soft doughy hands and sharp tongue capable of only terrorizing students half his age within the halls of academia. The man was incapable of changing a flat tire and admitted so like a badge of honor; any type of manual labor was the duty of the ‘menial class,’ he pontificated.
“The guy is a walking suppository,” Shannie once complained. She suffered through a semester under his tutelage. “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 for the house key. I chuckled realizing how many times I wished that I had the key. Emboldened by the irony, I slithered into Shannie’s bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
It was still dark when I awoke. I rolled onto my side snuggling under Shannie’s blankets. I gathered her comforter to my nose. I inhaled. Lingering behind the fresh scent was an echo of a memory. I rolled over. A blue hue glowed from her alarm clock: 5:30. I slid out of bed and rummaged through Shannie’s drawers. I searched for a letter Shannie told me about years ago. I smiled when I came across it. My hands trembled holding Shannie’s self-addressed envelope.
I opened the envelope. On a piece of parchment paper was a hand drawn map – a treasure map - of her back yard and the nearest section of Fernwood, each detail drawn fastidiously. An X loomed centered in the offset between a tombstone that belonged to Joseph Meneget and the last elm tree on the right side of the Ortolan’s property line. “7 paces from the tombstone; 6 paces from the elm,” Shannie’s cursive read.
I hijacked a flashlight and shovel from Diane’s basement and slipped outside. The first hints of daylight kissed the sky as I found the tombstone. I located the offset’s center and began digging. The early-morning sky faded from black to purple to gray by the time the shovel unearthed Shannie’s treasure.
“You must really miss her,” a frail voice said behind my back.
I leapt to my feet from a sitting position. My eyes slammed against their opposite temple and my heart bound up and down my throat like a yo-yo.
“I know how you feel,” the voice continued, “I miss my baby terribly.”
“Flossy?” I struggled to regain my composure.
“You’ll always miss her. I really thought the pain would lesson with time. It never goes away. It keeps me company on my daily trips. I bet you don’t know that I walk through the cemetery every morning. It’s the best time of day. You can feel God’s touch. And when I feel his touch, I go visit Jr. I visit him every morning. Rain, snow, don’t matter. I visit my baby every day,” she said proudly. “He’s never too far away ‘cause he’s in the hand of God.”
She spoke as if we were old friends meeting on the street, not a bizarre chance meeting in a predawn cemetery. Her words were her first to me since Count’s death. She was completely at ease; she was completely in her element. For the briefest of moments she made me understand, that the world outside of Fernwood was diseased.
“I gotta go now,” She patted my arm as she shuffled by. “You wish good tidings to your father and Diane for me you hear. I won’t be able to attend that wedding of theirs, but I’ll be thinking ‘bout ‘em.”
I turned and watched Flossy meander through Fernwood, zigzagging about the tombstones waiting to feel the touch of God.
I filled the hole and retreated with Shannie’s treasure in hand, once inside her bedroom I opened her personalized time capsule. Still smiling after years underground, a faded Papa Smurf doll greeted me, its fur dank. Under him rested two sealed envelopes. Shannie’s print labeled each. The first read PICTURES; the second was addressed to Shannon Lynn Ortolan. “Do not open prior to my thirtieth birthday!” The instruction ordered.
Smiling, I once again obeyed, opting instead for the photographs. I was met by a smiling twelve year old Shannie, caught forever beaming thanks to her school’s photographer and her foresight. I doubled checked the lock on her bedroom door before sliding the picture into my wallet. I carry it today, guarding it with a weird sense of paternal pride.
Tears welled as I flipped through the others. I kept all of them, filing them in my backpack. In Missoula they serve as permanent reminders of previously forgotten memories. Mission accomplished, I curled up under Shannie’s blankets and drifted into a restful sleep.

As the world made last minute preparations for Y2K and Diane and my father made last minute preparations for their wedding, I slipped away to visit Shannie. It was her birthday and I had a special gift for her. A light snow fell as I made my way through Laurel Hill. I almost expected to see Shannie sitting atop her headstone, doodling in her sketchpad.
At her headstone, I closed my eyes. If I didn’t read it this entire nightmare might end and when I awoke, Shannie would be lying in my arms. I’m unsure how long I stood like this, swaying like another tree in the breeze.
There was no waking from this nightmare. A single snowflake told me so as it slid down the front of her headstone and crashed to the ground. Countless others rested atop her headstone. I watched the flakes accumulate like memories. When I grew tired of watching, I ran a hand over the smooth granite, wiping away heaven’s frozen tears.
A breeze rustled the trees, their bare limbs swaying to the sound of her voice. I turned quickly, praying she would be sitting on the sandstone bench, like she was thirteen years ago - Indian style, her wild mane speckled with snow flakes. I imagined her gaze staring across the dozing river, past the distant rushing traffic, into eternity. Only snow, dusted atop the bench met my gaze.
“Happy Birthday Bug,” I whispered. “I have a surprise. It’s your favorite.” Careful not to spill a drop, I poured the steaming coffee on the ground in front of her stone. “How did you guess?” I watched the snow evaporate. “Yes, you’re right. Of course I remembered. How could I forget? ” I tell her.
“If eyes are the gateway to the soul,” she wrote after my accident. “Our memories are its gatekeepers. Out of memory comes ritual. Out of ritual - meaning, out of meaning - warmth, out of warmth - love, out of love.”
“Us,” I whispered to the wind. “Beyond anyone – I remember you!”
“I didn’t forget,” I stroked the polished granite’s face. “It’s your recipe,” I confided as I placed a mud pie atop the coffee soaked soil. I retreated to the bench and sat casting my gaze out over the sleepy river and past the rushing traffic, listening for the echoes of her laughter in the wind.

The following day I again trekked down the Schuylkill Expressway, this time passing Laurel Hill on my way to Atlantic City. As angry as I thought I was with Genise, I felt obligated to visit her. Diane gave me directions to the cemetery and Genise and Jerome’s gravesites. I stared blankly at Genise’s grave. I thought of our afternoon. I remembered what she told me of Shannie’s expectations. I remembered her smile, her freckles, and her stricken expression as I betrayed our secret. I walked away. At Jerome’s grave, I remembered little, other than guilt for not being able to attend his funeral.
I decided to drive by Genise’s apartment in Lower Chelsea. This little corner of the city, tucked along the Intra-coastal waterway could pass for a ghost town. I parked my father’s car and stood on the sea wall across from Genise’s old brick apartment. A strong wind whipped across the bay stinging my face. I gazed across the water towards the setting sun. Although beautiful, I preferred the aesthetics of a Bitterroot sunset - mountains are wondrous, mysterious things. I jumped off the sea wall, climbed into the car and headed for Beyford. As I left Atlantic City I caught my last glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean in the rearview mirror.

On New Year’s Eve day as Diane took leave for a few hours to visit Shannie, my father and I watched the world greet the new millennium on the same television Shannie, Diane and I witnessed the opening of Desert Storm. There’s irony for you, I thought.
“Nervous?” I asked my father.
“Nope,” my father lied. “What’s there to be nervous about?”
“It’s only your wedding day,” I chided.
“Second time’s easier. Anyway, I’m not marrying the wicked witch of San Francisco.”
If you only knew how envious I am, I didn’t say; instead I opted to watch Sydney, Australia greet the new millennium. I’d give the world if today was Shannie and my big day.
“You know,” my father spoke. “I could have told everyone that this Y2K hype was much to do about nothing. Do you know that in the computer world it’s a status symbol if you have to work tonight. What a crock of shit. Serves ‘em right,” my father laughed. “I’d rather get married than sit in a stale, fart smelling office sipping cheap coffee. Idiots.”
“You are nervous,” I reproached my old man. “I never heard you talk so much.”
“Maybe excited,” my father snickered.
By afternoon the house was host to a flurry of activity. I escaped for a walk down Main Street and across the hallowed tracks. I spent the last day of the century much the way I did my first day with Shannie, eating candy while watching the river from atop the Main Street Bridge.
The wedding was elegant in its simplicity. The parlor which once saw Ms. Dead America laid out in her full splendor was again awash in candlelight. I stood next to my father as I watched Russell - himself dressed to the aces - escort Diane down the short hallway from her bedroom to the parlor. “This ole nigger never look so good,” Russell chortled as we celebrated Diane and Joseph’s marriage, the New Year, another decade, the turn of the century and a new millennium.
“To new beginnings,” Diane toasted at midnight.
“To new beginnings,” the small party replied amidst the chime of crystal.

New beginnings couldn’t start soon enough. With Diane and Dad departed for their honeymoon, I had to endure another full day of Beyford. I managed with the help of Russell. The two of us drank away New Year’s Day in JD’s tavern. When we finally closed JD’s, I walked Russell home. Still dressed in his tux, the old man invited me to his apartment. “Come on up boy, lets light one up for old time’s sake.”
“I’d love to old man but I got an early flight,” I lied.
“Ah come on. I got some good shit.”
“I can’t. I don’t want to miss my flight.”
“I see says this blind man,” Russell chuckled. “Well you take care of yourself boy, you hear?”
“You too old man.” I hugged him and watched him climb the stairs. He didn’t look back. “I love you, you old shit,” I whispered as Russell disappeared.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Steve Lucas cried. “Morrison how many times do I have to remind you about the first rule of working in a funeral home? Never! Ever! Never sneak up on the living, you never know who has a skull saw or an embalming needle in their hand.
“I don’t work here anymore,” I reminded my ex-employer.
“Shit, that’s right. I never noticed you were gone,” Steve smiled placing an embalming needle on the table before shaking my hand.
“Well, I’m out of here. Just wanted to say see ya and remind you that my offer still stands.”
“I’d love to come and visit you and your slack-jaw yokel friends. Maybe I could spike their moonshine with a little formaldehyde. It’s the only way I’ll ever be the life of a party.”
“Who says I have any friends?”
“What was I thinking?”
“If I did they’d hate your guts. Either way, come on out, I wouldn’t mind showing you around.”
A pregnant silence fell over us before I announced I had a flight to catch.
“Yo James,” Steve called after me.
“Yeah?”
“Listen, you know, don’t feel like you have to call or write or anything, just drop over.”
Shaking my head, I heeded Russell’s advice and didn’t look back. I slipped inside my father’s car, drove to the airport and my new beginning.


Chapter 23 Epilogue

The following September I learned of another tragedy. While I was on extended assignment for my new job – I broke free of the funeral industry in favor of firefighting – word came that Russell perished in a blaze. A pile of charred rubble was all that remained of Wally’s and the apartments above the variety store and lunch counter. I stared for hours at the newspaper photograph Diane mailed.
“I tried calling when it happened,” Diane told me over the phone. “But, I could only reach your voice mail.”
“Did he go quickly?”
“As far as anyone knows.”
“Where’d they bury him?”
“Fernwood,” Diane answered. “Listen James, I know you. I know how you feel about Russell. Don’t feel like you need to rush back. I’d rather you save your money and come back for the holidays.”
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. Three days later, I landed in Philadelphia. Driving through Beyford under the cover of darkness, I headed towards Indian Point, parking the rental car next to the railroad tracks where Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup.
I crossed the trestle, only this time instead of Shannie and Count at my sides, I carried a gallon of diesel and a shovel. Atop Indian Point I dismantled the bogus monument and set it ablaze.
The view from Indian Point that late summer night couldn’t compare to the view in front of me today. From atop Mount Sentinel, I peer over Missoula and the snow covered Bitterroots. Winter here is beautiful. I wish I could share it with Shannie. In a sense, that’s what I was about to do. In my hand I turn Shannie’s envelope round and round. With a sigh I opened the envelope marked: “Do not open prior to my thirtieth birthday!”

Shannie @ 30

We finally meet. The person I couldn’t wait to be. Are you as nervous looking back at me as I am imaging you? I guess I should tell you what I think you’re like, but I have so many questions for you. What’s your life like? Have you lived like I promised? Did you marry Just James? Ewwwwww! Okay, whatever, I still think he’s cute!
I think you’re a lawyer. I think you’ve written your first book. I don’t think you have any kids. You either still live in Beyford or you moved to Florida, you know all that fun in the sun. You didn’t make your first million yet, but you’re close. But most of all, I know you’re happy!

Answer honestly. Have you lived like I promised? Did you make a million dollars yet? Did you give it away? Remember that’s the deal! What’s it like to be an adult? Do you still think what father was like? Do you really think he’s dead? Are you in love? Are you married? Not to Just James? Ewwwwww! Do you give of yourself? Have you made the world a better place? Are you happy?

Shannie @ 15

I refolded the letter, placed it back in the envelope and stuffed the envelope back in my pocket. I marveled at Shannie’s self-expectations and couldn’t help drawing comparisons to my own. I glanced over the city in thought. Approaching my own thirtieth birthday, maybe it’s a good thing I’m not the man I’d thought I’d be. If I was, I know I wouldn’t be here. I’m happy here. Standing, taking a moment to enjoy the snow-covered beauty about me, I chuckled at the thought that maybe Diane’s pompous colleague was onto something; maybe it’s a good thing that in such a presumptuous world irony is alive and well.

The End


About the Author

John lives in Western Montana with his wife Tammy and their dog Shannie-Biscuit. John believes every man is entitled to one good dog and one good woman. He has both. Cemetery Street is his first E-book. His second, Shangri-La Trailer Park will be published in late 2011. Check out www.JohnZunski.com or look him up on Facebook.


Shangri-La Trailer Park
Chapter 1 Comes at Night

Eyes ablaze, a bear came at night. It lumbered into camp, earth shaking under claw. In the light of a crackling campfire its shadow flickered upon the trunks of conifers. Breath swirled about its snout before rising into the night. Fast asleep, Maistoinna (My-stween-a) Standing Bear was oblivious of the ursine’s presence - or maybe he wasn’t. Either way, he turned his back on the bear.
Maistoinna wasn’t concerned about a bear invading his camp. He was experienced camping in Bear Country and took precautions. The Blackfoot Indian was fond of saying: “If a bear’s crazy enough to slash his way into my tent, I’m crazy enough to have a nasty surprise waiting for him.” This night, Maistoinna didn’t pitch his tent, choosing instead to sleep under the stars.
The cinnamon bear nosed closer, firelight betraying a deep gash upon its shoulder. Around the wound dried blood matted its fur. A normal bear might pause to paw at this rock or that, maybe uncovering a tasty treat. This bear seemed different; slowly, deliberately, he moved toward Maistoinna. Hovering over the sleeping Blackfoot, the bear paused, studying his quarry as its steamy breath belched skyward.
When Maistoinna rolled onto his back, the bear pounced. With a primordial grunt, it nudged Maistoinna with a giant paw, startling him from sleep. Maistoinna screamed, the echoes of his bellow rolling over the treetops.
The bear pinned Maistoinna and lowered its snout. “Shut up!” the bear growled, engulfing Maistoinna with putrid breath. “Sweeny, Shut up! It’s me,” the bear shook Maistoinna’s shoulders.
Terror filled Maistoinna’s eyes as he struggled to free his arms, his breath rapid and shallow under the bear’s weight.
“Calm down, calm down, it’s me.”
Maistoinna squinted, recognition settling him.
“Sorry to scare you, my friend, but it’s the only way I can get your attention,” the bear said.
“It’s happening again,” it warned. “Do something about it. This time, do something. Don’t let another Eagle fall.”
Maistoinna awoke with a start, his heart pounding. Next to him, embers from the dying fire glowed weakly. “A dream, only a dream,” Maistoinna mumbled. Confused and weary, he sat motionless, scrutinizing the tree line. Far from his Browning, Montana, home, Maistoinna was camping along the Appalachian Trail in northeastern Pennsylvania, in the midst of a solo quest at conquering the two thousand-mile trail.
Shaken, Maistoinna snuggled into his sleeping bag. For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t feel at home in nature. He suddenly feared the dark and what lurked within; he wished to be in a motel room, in a comfortable bed, under a warm blanket, watching this week’s million-dollar movie.
Somewhere in the night an owl hooted. Maistoinna jumped. He gave up his attempt at sleep and climbed out of his bag. Sitting before the campfire, he watched morning light chase darkness across the sky. His mind grappled with the bear. What was he saying? The Eagle; the bear’s wound—what did they mean?
These things once would have been intelligible to Maistoinna, but lately—ever since his nephew’s accident —many things seemed incomprehensible. Maistoinna was frustrated that he didn’t understand the bear. He related to bears better than women. He knew bears—women, well… leave it at that.
As a boy, his grandfather told him that their clan was directly descended from the great bear. Even then Maistoinna admired the bear’s arrogant swagger. “They’re always smiling,” a young Maistoinna told his grandfather. Unknown to Maistoinna, his own smile resembled that insolent smirk.
Real-life encounters with bears didn’t shake him the way this dream had— not even the time a black bear caught Maistoinna with his pants down. The sun shined brilliantly upon the jagged Mission Mountains as Maistoinna answered nature’s call. He was squatting behind a stand of brush when he heard the bear lumber nearby. It swaggered across an opening in the trees, busily foraging, snout to the ground. Not until Maistoinna moved for his pepper spray - set upon a stump five feet away - did the bear notice him. With teeth clacking, the bear moved towards Maistoinna.
In his excitement, Maistoinna forgot to pull up his pants and fell over himself. He hit the ground with a thud—pepper spray out of reach. The bear closed, teeth clacking. It caught whiff of Maistoinna’s scat and lowered its snout. After investigating, the bear scampered away.
Maistoinna didn’t find the story funny, his screw ups were never the least bit humorous. That’s not to say that Maistoinna didn’t possess a blistering wit, he did, as long as others were the target.
As the sun rose above the Appalachian forest, Maistoinna dumped his remaining coffee on the fire and closed camp. He faced the long day ahead of him with a sigh. Hiking was a job in the mid-Atlantic summer time soup.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 23.07.2011

Alle Rechte vorbehalten