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 - 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 lid 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.