Fiction: Sweet Air

By Jacqueline Chou

 

PROLOGUE
17 Years Ago

John Katsevelos, D.D.S. shook his older son, who was lying on the living room floor. On that ugly red carpet whose textured pattern looks like a skin disease. Hand on the boy’s shoulder, he shook him again.

“Denny, wake up.” Denny was curled up on his side, in a fetal position. Despite the gravity of the situation, it occurred to John that the curved outline of his son’s 8-year-old body made him look like a human lima bean. Lima beanesque, he thought to himself.

The front door of the condo was open, and Mrs. Walker from 3L was standing in the doorway, arms folded. “I’m going to call the cops.”

John didn’t turn around. “No need. Everything is fine.”

“John, are you kidding? The air is thick with gas.”

He called over his shoulder, not looking at her. “I turned off the oven and the burners as soon as I got in. I think the air is already clearing, don’t you?”

“God, John, how long was the gas running? We don’t know how long they’ve been like this. Is Denny even breathing?” She hesitated, then forged into the apartment. Into the living room, right in between the two other unconscious bodies that were on the floor. Her head pivots from John’s wife then to Kit, their younger son. Kit was lying on his stomach, face-planted into the hideous carpet. Mrs. Walker knelt next to him, and patted his back. “Kit? Kit, are you okay?”

Kit was motionless.

“John, I don’t care what you say. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Don’t! Everything is fine.” His voice was even. Cheery, almost. “I think I can see Denny’s chest moving. I bet Kit is breathing, too.” He gestured toward his wife, who was lying on her back, legs splayed, the crotch of her fuchsia panties peeking out from her black corduroy mini skirt. Her wavy blond hair was a spill around her face. Lips parted, her teeth were displayed – straight, white and perfect, courtesy of her husband.

A sound came through those teeth. Cadent, something between a whistle and a wheeze.

“And see?” John continued with a cock of his head. “Janet is perfectly fine.”

Mrs. Walker’s eyes widened. 

“John, Janet tried to kill the kids again.” She enunciated each word as if it were a complete sentence.

John’s expression didn’t change. “This was clearly just an accident. Janet was probably trying to bake cookies. She didn’t realize the pilot lights were out. But I’ve turned off the burners, and everything will be right as rain.”

Mrs. Walker stood up and walked to the windows. She drew back the curtains, revealing the panes of glass. “John, she duct-taped the windows. Just like she did the last time.”

He didn’t blink. “Janet can be quirky, for sure. You’ll get no argument from me.” His hand rested on Denny’s back. “He’s breathing. I can feel it.” Then he flipped Denny over. Leaning over him, he used his thumb and index finger to pry Denny’s left eye open.

“You okay, little buddy?” Denny coughed and opened his eyes.

“There you are! See! I knew you were okay.”

Denny sat up, eyes glazed. “Dad?”

John squeezed his shoulder. Then John walked over to Kit, then picked up his younger son’s floppy body. Despite the fact that Kit was four years old, John bounced him like a baby.

“Wake up, Kit. Wakey wakey.”

Mrs. Walker watched, fairly certain she was in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

“Mmm.” That was Kit. He, too, was regaining consciousness.

“There you are, little guy. O –”

His words were cut off, as just then Janet bolted up with a wail. Disoriented, she looked at her husband with Kit in his arms, and then to Mrs. Walker.

“Hi, Beautiful.” John walked over to her. “You and the boys fell asleep on the floor.” He looked at Mrs. Walker. “Everything is okay, you see? You can go now.”

Mrs. Walker shook her head. “John, could I speak to you alone?”

“No. You can go now, but I sure do appreciate you calling me to come home.”

“John, at least take the kids to the hospital to make s–”

“Everything is fine.” He stood behind her, and started walking toward the door, forcing her to walk. “Thanks again.”

“But –”

“You take care,” he said, closing the door in her face.

Janet and Denny were still on the floor, dazed.

John walked back over to them. He deposited Kit next to Denny, and Kit automatically leaned into his big brother’s body. John knelt in front of them, looking at one then the other, gazing into their little faces. He held up his index finger in front of Denny’s eyes.

“Denny, follow my finger.” Denny’s eyes followed as he waved his finger to and fro. Satisfied, John turned to Kit.

“Now you, Kit.” Kit’s eyes followed the motion of his father’s finger.

“Denny, what grade are you in?”

“Third.”

“What is eight times eight?”

“Sixty-three. No! Sixty-four.” John nodded. He turned toward his younger son.

“Kit, how old are you?”

Kit held up four fingers, tucking his thumb into his chubby palm.

“Good boys.” John crawled over to his wife, who was crying. She lifted up the front of her button-down shirt with the flowered print to wipe her nose, exposing an expanse of white, smooth belly.

“You okay, Sweetheart?” She didn’t answer. He reached over and stroked her hair.

“You must be so tired. Everything is going to be okay.”

John stood up, put his hands on his hips and beamed. “Who wants pizza?”

***

John tried to make it a special night. Pizza with meatballs on it, salad and zeppolis for dessert. He didn’t even scold the boys for not eating any salad. And after dinner he let them stay up and watch the Simpsons and Family Guy.

“I should give them baths,” Janet said, starting to get up from the sofa, but John bolted up.

“No!” His eyes were bright with panic.

“I can –” 

He pressed on her shoulder, making her lean back into the sofa. “I’ll give them their bath. It’s fine.”

As she hesitated, he rushed over to the tv, switching the channel to HBO. “True Blood is about to start,” he told her. Janet relented, easing into the sofa. John exhaled with relief.

“Come on, boys.”

***

Fresh and clean, hair still damp, and in their blue flannel pajamas, John had already tucked Kit into bed, where Kit promptly drifted off. Then he went to Denny’s bed. He pulled the covers to just under Denny’s chin, and stroked his hair.

“Did you have a nice day, Denny?”

Nice day? The Spiderman night light was plugged into the outlet, as it always was. The beams of light from Spiderman’s eyes were just enough to illuminate the furrow of Denny’s brow.

“But Mommy put the gas –”

“Mommy was just trying to bake cookies.” John’s tone was firm.

Mommy hadn’t taken out the baking tray, hadn’t taken tubes with the Pillsbury Dough Boy out from the fridge. No cookie cutters. All Mommy did was turn on the oven and open the oven door. She turned all the burners on, too.

“Sometimes Mommy gets tired and makes mistakes,” John told him, trying to make Denny’s confused look go away.

“When Mommy gets tired, call me at the office, okay? Call me as soon as you see that she’s tired.”

Denny nodded.

“I’ll come home as fast as I can. And until I get home, look after your little brother. Can you do that, Denny?”

Denny nodded again.

“Okay, big guy. Good night.”

***************

TODAY

Kit is dead and it’s my fault. God help me, I’m a shitty brother. A shitty brother and an increasingly bad dental hygienist. Kit’s lying in the dentist’s chair – eyes closed, the nosepiece and hose still in place. The nitrous oxide is still running. I can hear it, and I can smell it. Strawberry. Kit was always partial to fruit flavors. When we were kids, he liked Skittles, Starburst. Me, I always liked candy bars. And when Kit came back home a week ago, I brought him into the office to try the sweet air. Nitrous oxide, laughing gas . . . I never called it laughing gas. That term sounded dated to me, like something out of an old sitcom. With patients, I referred to it as nitrous oxide, but to myself, I call it by its alternate moniker. Sweet air. That name rang truest to me. Yeah, it was called that because of its natural odor that was tinged with sweetness, but I called it sweet because of my fondness for it. My companion, my comfort, my escape. It was perfect exactly as it was. At Grinberg and Mats Dental Practice, we offered vanilla, strawberry, mint and unflavored to patients. Unflavored was my preference. That natural scent was heaven. I need a hit right now. Accidentally killing my baby brother is freaking me out.

Wait. Maybe he’s not really dead. Maybe he’s just passed out.

“Kit?” I shake his arm. Stiff. I touch his hand. Cold.

“Kit?” Sense reaches a nether part of my brain and I reach over his body, to the notched dial of the dispensing unit. My fingers slip, taking several tries to bring it to the “Off” position.

“Kit?” Maybe if I keep saying his name, he will undead himself. Please, Kit. A little more sense seeps into the important parts of my brain. Take the nosepiece off him.

My hapless fingers slip again as I pull the nosepiece up, and off his face. For a moment, the elastic crowns the top of his head, like a schoolgirl’s headband. I lean over him, and my thumb and index finger prying one of his eyes open. The pupil is dilated, and unseeing. The eyeball is sunken in, too. Jesus.

I’m still holding the hose in my other hand. Now I slip it over my head, adjust the nosepiece, and without switching out the canister, I adjust the dial to a 6. Strawberry be damned, I just need a hit right now.

Inhalation. Exquisite. Deep. It would take more to reach euphoria, but I can’t afford to do that given the present circumstance. The perversity of leaning over my dead brother’s body to get a hit is not lost on me, but I need the sweet air to calm down. Thank God Dad isn’t alive to see this. Although he was always good with spin. With the proverbial lemonade, so to speak. And Mom? God only knows where Mom is now. Last I knew she was in Nevada, with Asshole Bob, but it’s been years since I’ve spoken to her. I take another hit.

***************

ONE WEEK EARLIER

“Damn, Kit, why didn’t you call?”

Kit’s standing outside my front door, and I’m standing just inside of it, holding it open, the threshold separating us. Well, technically, it’s not my front door. It’s our front door. It’s only mine because I never left after Dad died and Mom moved away. Squatter’s rights are my only claim, I guess.

Wearing a down jacket and ski hat, Kit’s standing there, looking dejected. He has a backpack on his back, and on the front of him, God. He’s wearing one of those cat carriers. The kind with the bubble window, so the cat can look out. And yeah, a cat is in there, staring straight at me with saucer eyes. Round-faced cat. British shorthair, I think. Mostly white with orange and black patches, like a cow. The cat seemed a lot better off than Kit.

“Are you okay?”

“Nicole and I broke up. She kicked me out.”

“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Kit. That’s really rough.”

“Can I stay with you?”

“Of course you can.” I opened the door wide and stepped back so he could enter. “It’s your place, too.” I was saying and doing the right things, but I was bummed. It had been years, and I was used to having the place all to myself. I felt selfish for feeling like that. But, hey, if I feel guilty for being selfish, I can’t be a total jerk, right? 

“I’m in Dad and Mom’s room, but you can take our old room. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” he said, as he walked toward the room we shared as kids.

“You want a sandwich or something?”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

I went to the kitchen and opened up the fridge. Still had the ham and American cheese that I was saving to use for an omelet in the morning,

“Ham and cheese sandwich?” I called out. “Or ham, egg and cheese?”

“Ham, egg and cheese,” He called back. “With heavy mayo.”

“I know,” I said, jar of mayo already in hand.

Kit came into the kitchen as I was scrambling the eggs.

“When did you guys break up?”

“This morning.” He’d already taken a bottle of coke from the fridge. Now he was sitting at the table, and he took a sip. “But things haven’t been good for a while. We’ve been fighting a lot.” He sighed. “I’m sorry that I’ve lost touch, man. How long has it been?”

The eggs were almost done. I opened the waxed paper package and took the last slices of the ham and put them in the pan. “I dunno. A couple of years? It’s alright. I just figured your career was going well.”

Kit pounded on his chest and burped. Then he shook his head. “Nothing since the body spray commercial, and that was close to two years ago. Loads of auditions. Callbacks. Sometimes I get really close. But nothing. I’m mostly bartending and waiting tables. But Nicole was getting gigs here and there.” He paused. “Things already weren’t good between us, and then she started taking this Intro to Mime class, and met some guy. She said they were just friends, but something wasn’t right. I could feel it.”

I slid the plate with the sandwich in front of him. He took a bite and said, “This morning we had a big blow-up. The biggest fight we ever had. She told me to get out. So I packed some of my things, took Caboodle and left.”

“You took what?”

“Caboodle, my cat.” On cue, his chubby cat with the cow markings walked into the kitchen.

“You named your cat Caboodle?”

“Kit,” he said, pointing to his chest, “and Caboodle,” he continued, pointing to the kitty cow, who had jumped onto a chair, eyes just over the rim of the table, peering at Kit’s sandwich.

‘Your wit slays me.”

Kit pulled a shred of ham from his sandwich, and leaned over to Caboodle. Caboodle gobbled it up. “So you going to take me out tonight, to cheer me up? What do you do for fun?”

I paused. Some weeknights, I would hang out with Billy Sisto, my oldest – well, my only – friend, and when I had a day or two off, I would go up to Philly to see Jeanie. We’d have sex, and spend pretty much the rest of the time trying to figure out if we actually had a relationship. But today was Saturday, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to tell Kit how I spent my Saturday nights. And my Sunday nights, too.

***************

TWO AND HALF WEEKS AGO,
10 DAYS BEFORE KIT ARRIVED

“No, I’m not.” That was me, sitting in Uncle Alan’s office. I’m looking at him blankly. He pulled me in there just after this new patient Stella Park had finally calmed down and left. She had been in hysterics because my hand slipped when I was using the tartar instrument and I cut her gums.

“Denny, we know you are.”

“Am not.”

Uncle Alan grimaced, and pulled off his glasses. He had a pleasing face, kind of like that old economist guy who was always on political shows. Short guy. What was his name?

“Denny, look, we love you. You’re like family.” I nodded. Dad had shared a practice with Dr. Alan Grinberg (aka Uncle Alan) and Dr. Lina Mats (aka Aunt Lina) for over 12 years, right up until his heart attack. I guess I was counting on that strong bond to help me coast through my fuck-ups. Maybe taking advantage of it.

“All the signs are there,” he continued. “We’re going through two to three times as much nitrous oxide since you started here. You stumble when you walk. You drop things, lose control of dental instruments. You’ve been injuring patients. Denny, we know that numbness in the hands and feet occur with nitrous oxide abuse. It’s obvious what’s going on.”

I tried to think of something to say. I had nothing.

“Denny? You still with me?”

“Huh?”

“We’re thinking maybe you should take a break and go into a rehab program. Alice can cover for you while you’re out. We won’t leave you in the lurch. Your job will still be here for you when you get clean.”

Saying “okay” would be an admission of guilt. So I won’t say it.

“Denny.”

“I’m really okay, but if you want me to take a break from doing cleanings for a couple of weeks, I can do that. I can just do phones, filing, billing. Take that part over from Alice for a while. While she takes the whole load of dental cleaning.” That way I would still have access to my sweet air. 

The look on Uncle Al’s face told me that he saw right through me.

“I think it’s better if you stay out of the office altogether for a couple of weeks. Let’s start with that. Take some time off to get your head straight.”

“Okay,” I said as I stood up. Heading for the door, I pushed my hand into my right pocket, squeezing my jangle of keys. I’d come back on Saturday night when no one was there. As I always did.

As I swung the door open, Uncle Al’s voice rang out one more time.

“Denny, give me the office key.”

***

Sometimes never getting around to things pays off. Or at least it can. I’m hoping that I’m right. I’m on my knees in my bedroom walk-in closet. I had thrown out a lot of Dad and Mom’s clothes ages ago, but there were 2 or 3 boxes of their stuff shoved in the back. I pulled them all out.

The first box was Mom’s stuff. A couple of jewelry boxes loaded with costume jewelry. A clay print of a kid’s hand, the kind of thing you make in kindergarten for Mother’s Day. I couldn’t tell if it was my hand or Kit’s, but I guess it didn’t matter much either way. What I pulled out next startled me. That wooden plaque that was in the shape of a shield. The metal plate on its front was embossed with a fancy script. 

Robert Costanzo
Amden Medical Supplies Salesman of the Month
June 2012

The metal part was bent, and its wooden backing was broken in two and glued back together. I held the plaque in my hands, and damn, boy, did I remember how it broke. Asshole Bob had just moved in, and he had taken down all the pictures that had Dad in them. And on one of the newly available nails, Bob hung that stupid plaque. You could still see the clean rectangle of paint behind Bob’s wooden plaque, where the picture of Dad and us had been. I don’t even remember which family photo it was, but it was us with Dad, you know? Dad and our crazy ass Mom. I went to the utility closet in the kitchen, where the toolbox was. I pulled out the hammer, and pounded on Bob’s salesman plaque. It only took one hit: all at once, the metal plate bent, the wood backing cracked in two, and the nail bounced out of the wall. All the pieces fell to the floor. And I left it like that.

When Asshole Bob came home, he made us stand in front of him as he sat on our sofa. One piece of wood in one hand, and the other piece of the wood with the dangling metal plate in the other.

“Which one of you did it?” 

Kit and I both looked at Bob, and then we looked at each other, Kit all wide-eyed and innocent. I looked straight back at Kit and tried to make my eyes as big as his. And then we both looked at Bob. And Mom just stood there alongside Bob with her arms folded across her chest.

“I want a confession and an apology.”

Neither Kit or I said a single goddamn word. It felt like forever.

Then Bob said, “I already know who did it. And now it’s time for a punishment.” With that, he picked up a startled-looking Kit, and brought him into the bedroom and closed the door. And then I heard the sound of the belt whip and Kit shriek in pain. Once, twice, three times. There was a stretch of silence, and then another series of three. With each slap of the whip and Kit’s shrieks, I flinched. I never felt so bad in my whole life. I was too stubborn to try to stop the beating. I didn’t want to give Bob the satisfaction of a confession, but I promised myself then and there to never do anything ever again to put Kit in such a shitty position.

I closed the box without putting the plaque back inside. I was going to throw that fucking thing out. Then I moved to the next box. First thing I saw was Dad’s framed dentistry degree. Underneath that were a couple of certificates, awards for excellence. There was a cigar-sized box, and I opened it. A chunky glass ashtray. A black coffee mug with a cartoon tooth wearing a crown. The caption read, Tooth King! The mug made me smile. Dad was such a goof. Pens in the box, and –

A ring of keys. Hot damn. One was the key to his old Camry. Three other keys. I was 99% sure two of the keys were for the apartment, and if I was right, that last key had to be for the front door of Grinberg & Mats. I took the keys to the front door, and tested the two keys on the top and bottom locks. They slid in and turned easily, moving the bolts in and out. The crazy thing was that just using those keys took me back in time. Dad’s keys in my hand, using them in the door, and I was transported. I could see him, coming in the front door, Kit and me sitting on the living room floor, jumping up to greet him.

Dad.

I pulled the bottom key out of the keyhole, and looked at that last remaining key. Yeah, it looked just like the key that Uncle Alan had confiscated from me just an hour before. I would have kissed that remaining key, but I bet it was filthy. I squeezed it hard, feeling relieved to the point of tears. My Saturday and Sunday ritual would proceed as usual.

***************

SEVEN DAYS AGO AGAIN, BUT LATER THAT NIGHT (KIT’s FIRST NIGHT BACK)

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Shh. Keep your voice down.” I turned Dad’s office key in the door, and we were in. Kit was carrying a plastic bag of chips, pretzels, Chips Ahoy cookies and 2 one-liter bottles of coke. He had wanted to bring beer. “No beer,” I told him. “Mixing beer with nitrous oxide could really mess a person up. “And we have to take some of these,” I pulled out a bottle of Vitamin B12 supplements. “Sweet air messes up the levels of B12 in the body.”

We walked into the waiting room, and I turned on the lights. Kit exhaled, and did a slow turn, taking in the room. “I haven’t been here in such a long time.”

I looked around, trying to experience it as he was, but couldn’t. I mean, I had been coming to this place since I was at college, when Uncle Alan had talked me into getting my dental hygienist certification. That was just five years after Dad died. All the memories of Dad at his office had never really left my consciousness.

“Looks the same, right?

Kit looked at the walls. “Dad’s diplomas are gone.”

“They’re in a box at home,” I told him. “Anyway, let’s go into one of the dental rooms.” He followed me as I went into the one on the left.

“Both rooms are set up with nitrous, but let’s share a unit to start off with.” I motioned with my arm. You take the patient chair.” I grabbed the plastic chair that was at the far wall, and pulled it along the cushioned, hydraulic chair that Kit was settling into.

“It’s so comfortable, isn’t it? It’s like a recliner.” Kit made a sound of assent, as I pressed on the left foot pedal to raise him up. Then I pressed the right pedal to make him recline. I walked over to the light plate and dimmed the lights to a nice twilight.

“Man, this is so comfortable.”

“Right? I love coming here alone at night, bring my iPod. I cozy up in that chair, put on some music, take some drags. Best thing in the world.”

“Did Dad use nitrous on us when we were kids?”

“I think so. When he did fillings.”

Kit tilted his head. “Why can’t I remember?”

I leaned over him and grabbed the hose and nosepiece. He was motionless, compliant, as I slid the elastic band across the back of his head, and adjusted the nosepiece squarely in the middle of his face, ensuring a tight seal.

Kit nodded. “This is fun.”

“It’s about to get a lot more fun.” I reached over him to the machine, checking to see which flavor was hosed in. “There’s strawberry, vanilla, mint and plain. You want strawberry, right?”

“You know it!” I was already switching to the strawberry canister as he was answering.

Then the question of strength level. My hand rested on the knob as I assessed him. At that moment, I was struck by how much he resembled Mom. I mean, we both had Dad’s dark coloring, but he had Mom’s clean, even features, that perfect symmetry. His expression was entirely different, though. Open, with a wide-eyed sweetness. Nothing of Mom’s expressions, of which the prevailing ones were blankness and unhingedness. Kit was shorter and slighter than me, and it was his first time using nitrous oxide, since forever. Notch 3 on the dial, I decided. No wait, let’s go with 4. I wanted him to get a thrill. And then I flipped the switch on, and waited for his reaction.

Eyes closed, he inhaled. Then: “Whoaaaaaaaaa.”

I watched him take in the experience. How the gas floods you, the sweetness soaking into every cell of your body. Saturating your brain. Relaxation like velvet.

Even with his eyes closed, his wonderment was evident. I sat in the plastic chair and waited a bit, wanting to give him a full turn. Kit was giggling to himself.

“I’m going to take a turn, okay?”

Kit sighed, and pulled the apparatus off. In my uncomfortable plastic chair, I slid the hose over my head, and adjusted the nosepiece, and – Ahhh . . . 

He waited patiently through my turn. The effects last for around ten minutes after you stop inhalation, so we were able to take turns, and never lose our high.

“Man, I am loving this.”

“Right?” I pulled the nosepiece off and put it in his outstretched hand. “Kit, take some inhales and tell me what you see.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes I see a tunnel. Like, it’s a whirl of darkness, but there’s a tunnel of light.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and then I see that the tunnel is paved with floating rectangles all the way through. They’re all at different angles, just floating, and I’m travelling through the tunnel … and then I realize that the rectangles are actually windows, and each one peers into . . .” I got lost in the thought of it.

“Peers into what?”

“Sometimes it seems like the windows look into different realities. Like a multiverse, or something. Then other times, it seems like the windows open into scenes from the past.”

“That’s pretty freaky. Do you see things from our past? Like, from our childhood?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you see Dad?”

“Sometimes.”

“That’s cool. I would love to see Dad. I miss that sweet, crazy guy.”

The word “crazy” to describe Dad jolted me out of my mellow.

“Dad wasn’t crazy. He was –” God, what was Dad? “Capable.”

“Huh?”

“Dad was so capable,” I repeated. “Think about all he did. Full-time job, making good money. Running interference with Mom.” Too much talking. I reached out for the hose, for my next turn. And we let the silence be for a bit, passing the hose between us, each zoning out in our private euphoria.

Then I broke the silence. “Sometimes I see Mom sometimes in the tunnel.”

Kit laughed, and the motion pushed the nosepiece off-kilter. “Do you see the time she tried to kill us?”

“Which time?”

Kit’s face scrunched. “She tried to kill us more than once?”

“Aw, hell yeah. Three times, I think. And then there were all the times she tried to abandon us.”

Kit’s face lit up, remembering. “She left us at Macy’s! I totally forgot about that. The security guard had to call Dad to come pick us up.” He fell silent, as the memory rolled through his mind. “That crazy old broad,” he chuckled. “She tried to kill us more than once? I only remember the time she tried to gas us.”

“She did the gas thing twice, don’t you remember?” I was laughing, too. “And Dad -” I couldn’t finish the sentence, I was laughing so hard.

Kit was cracking up, too.

“Dad tried to –” paroxysms of laughter – “convince us that she was just trying to bake cookies.”

“God, she was so crazy.” He paused, considering it. “But that’s what I mean about Dad. He was his own kind of crazy, right? Pretending that she wasn’t. Telling us things like she was just trying to bake cookies.”

“He just said that to protect us. He couldn’t tell us the truth because we were just kids.”

“Yeah, but –” Kit hesitated, not because he was afraid to tell me what he was thinking. He knew he could tell me anything. 

“What?”

Kit tried to figure it out as he spoke. “I think he needed to pretend the baking cookies thing was real, you know? Not just for us, but for him, too. He couldn’t handle what was happening, so he had to pretend it wasn’t happening. He blocked out the truth to survive. There’s a word for it. Geez, what’s the word?”

That was the most I had ever heard Kit say at all once. “You’re getting too deep. It’s making my head hurt,” I told him.

“Sometimes I get like that,” he said agreeably. 

I gestured for the hose again.

“What was the third time?” he asked, as he handed it to me.

“Huh?”

“You said she tried to kill us three times. What was the third time?”

“She tried to drown us in the bathtub.”

Kit squinted, his gaze turning inward. “I think I remember that. But we were so wet and slippery, she had a hard time holding us down. And you pushed her off me and got me out of the tub. You always looked out for me.” He laughed. “Except for that time with Asshole Bob.”

“What time?” I asked, even though I knew full well what he was talking about.

“When you broke Bob’s plaque.”

Shame filled my insides. “I –”

His right hand reached out and slapped me in the arm. “He pretended to whip me, to get you to confess. Even with my fake screaming you wouldn’t fess up. You dick.”

“Holy shit. He didn’t really hit you?”

“Of course not. He was an asshole, but he never hit us.”

Wow. “I felt so bad about that, Kit. I swear. I don’t know why I didn’t fess up.”

“It’s okay. We were just kids.”

***************

BACK TO TODAY,
TEN MINUTES AFTER I DISCOVERED KIT’S DEAD BODY
IN THE DENTIST CHAIR

I’m standing alongside him, trying to piece it all together. Last Saturday and Sunday we were here at Dad’s old office. Wednesday through Friday night I was up in Philly visiting Jeanie. I came back late Friday night – yesterday, and he wasn’t home, but I figured maybe he and Nicole reconciled and he spent the night with her. Which brings us to now, Saturday night. I only noticed that Dad’s keys were missing when I was leaving the apartment, to come down here myself. When I got here, the front door was unlocked. If Kit came here last night, he’s been dead for a whole day.

The sweet air was at an 9. Did he commit suicide? A Mickey D’s paper bag was on the floor. The plastic chair was pulled alongside the dentist chair. Along with Dad’s keys, an empty cardboard Big Mac container and an empty french fry container rested on the seat of it. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he just meant to get high and pig out. It was an accidental overdose.

This is all my fault.

Think, Denny. Think. Just then, my ringtone went off. A number that wasn’t in my contacts.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Kit’s brother?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Nicole, Kit’s ex-girlfriend.”

Shit. “Yes?”

“I’ve been trying to reach him, and he’s not picking up.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t even want to talk to him. I just want Caboodle back.”

My mind went blank. It went blanker than blank. A vacuum. No, an abyss. Maybe a black hole. What’s blanker, an abyss or a black hole? Is a vacuum even emptier than the other two?

“Hello? You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“I want Caboodle. He had no right taking him. I didn’t agree to that.”

“Mm.”

“What’s your address? I’ll come up now and get him.”

“NO!” 

I could feel her startle at my tone.

“I’ll bring him down to you.” 

“When? I miss Caboodle.”

“Today. Later. What’s your address? Text it to me.”

Okay, so now two things on my To Do list for tonight. Figure out what to do with my brother’s dead body, and then bring my brother’s cat to his ex-girlfriend’s place without letting her know that he’s dead.

I put my warm, live hand on my brother’s cold, dead one.

“Kit, I’m so sorry.”

I suck as a brother, of this much I am sure. My sludgy brain tried to assess all options. The most appealing one was to run off to Canada immediately and change my name, leaving Kit in the dentist chair for Uncle Alan and Aunt Lina to find on Monday morning. I recognized almost immediately that this wasn’t a viable option. They’d figure out right quick I had something to do with the dead body in the dentist chair.

My phone was still in my left hand. I raised it, and took my right hand off Kit’s. Most people would have called 911.

My index finger pressed the “Contacts” icon. All I had to type in was “B-I” and the autocomplete pulled up “Billy.” Damn, all those years ago when Billy and I sat next to each other in Mrs. Bacharach’s 5th grade class, bonding over Transformers action figures and an ongoing discussion about who was prettier – Michelle Santiago or Emily Sulzberg, who would have ever thought we’d still be best friends 15 years later?

And who’d have ever thought that his family business, Sisto Funeral Home and Crematory Service would come in handy?

***

Later that night, around 1:00 AM

My boy Billy looks like a character in a movie about Italians. A lazy eye, and at 25 years old, an already receding hairline. Good guy, and a great friend. I never realized how far he’d go for a friend, until now. (“I would lose my dental hygienist license. I could go to prison,” I explained.) We’re in the basement, in the crematory room of his granddad’s funeral parlor. Kit’s lying on the metal tray, fully clothed. (“You don’t have to strip them, We cremate them with their clothes on,” Billy explained.) I did take Kit’s phone, though. The second I pulled it from his pocket, the panel lit up with a stream of notifications – calls from Nicole. With the fluorescent lights and the white porcelain tile on the floor and walls, I guess a person could have easily mistaken where we were for an embalming room. Except for the very conspicuous oven.

“You sure you want to do this?” Billy’s good eye looked at me somberly. The other one – well, you know, didn’t.

I looked at Billy, then at Kit on the tray. Then to Caboodle, who was in his cat carrier, peering out the bubble window. I had to bring Caboodle, to save time. Nicole wouldn’t stop calling me. “I’m running late, taking care of a few things,” I told her.

“I don’t think I have any choice.”

Billy started to push the tray toward the oven.

“Wait.” I looked down at Kit’s face, and I squeezed his upper arm. I said sorry to him one more time.

Billy bowed his head respectfully. “This super sucks.” His tone was sympathetic.

With the wheeled table right at the edge of the oven, Billy looked over at me. “Help me push him in.” My body was weak from sweet air abuse, but weak-muscled help was better than no help at all. I must say, though, moving Kit’s body from the dentist chair to Billy’s car, then to the basement of Sisto’s Funeral Parlor was goddamn godawful. I really hope I never have to do anything like that ever again.

“Good bye, Kit,” Billy said, with one last push. Billy closed the oven door, then turned the dial that was on the adjacent wall. A “voom” and a “whoosh,” and then, my God. The sound of the heat and flames blew so loud. On the other side of that door, Kit’s body was being engulfed in flames. “Good bye, Kit. I love you.” Even as I was saying it, the smell of burning clothes and flesh and hair was hitting our nostrils.

We stood there, honoring Kit with a moment of silence. Then –

“How long does it take?” 

“Two to three hours. Three to be safe.”

“Wow, I didn’t know it took that long.”

More silence.

“You hungry?” That was me.

Billy exhaled with relief. “I didn’t want to say. I’m starving. Freddie & Pepper’s is only two blocks away. 24 hours. They make the best Margarita slice.”

“Let’s do it,” I said, picking up Caboodle’s carrier.

“You’re bringing the cat?”

“I can’t leave him in these fumes.”

***

At Freddie & Pepper’s

It really was a good Margarita slice. Slices. I had 3. The crust was thin, but not too thin, and it was nice and crispy. The sauce was zesty, and just the right amount of fresh basil was sprinkled on top. Caboodle’s golden eyes watched me as I ate. I looked at him through his plastic bubble window, and he opened his mouth in a silent meow. Poor thing, when was the last time he ate?

I pulled some cheese off my remaining slice, broke it into pieces. Then I opened the top of the carrier, which folded over on a hinge.

“Hey, little guy. You must be so hungry.” I put the cheese on my palm. Caboodle sniffed it, and then he started licking at it. Lick, lick, lick.

“Just eat it,” I told him. But he didn’t. He licked it a couple more times then lost interest. I guess it was okay. He’d be at Nicole’s soon.

“I’m going to get another slice. You want one?” That was Billy, getting up.

“No, I’m full. Maybe something to drink though. Let me see what they have.” I walked over to the beverage fridge. All of a sudden I wanted a grape soda. Kit and I used to love that when we were kids. I slid the fridge door open and pulled out a bottle. Then it occurred to me that Caboodle might like some meat from one of the pizzas. I called out to the pizza guy.

“Could you heat up a meatball slice for me?”

I swear to God, it all couldn’t have taken more than 5 minutes – waiting for the pizza to heat up and paying for everything, but when we got back to the rickety table, Billy said,

“Where’s the cat?”

Caboodle’s carrier was still on the chair, but it was empty.

“Oh shit.” There were a couple of guys standing there looking at the menu on the wall. They hadn’t been there five minutes ago.

“Did you guys just open the door?”

They looked at us quizzically. “That’s how we got in.”

“Did you see a cat leave?”

“No.”

Goddammit. “Stay here,” I told Billy. I went outside, looked to my left, then to my right. Caboodle wasn’t on either side of the block. I knelt down, looking under cars.

“Caboodle! Caboodle?”

Billy came out, eating his slice with one hand, and holding a paper plate with my meatball slice in the other. My bottle of grape soda was sticking out of his jacket pocket.

“Is the carrier still inside?”

Billy nodded. “I’ll get it.”

He came back out with the carrier strapped to his front. We walked around the block, whisper-yelling “Caboodle! Caboodle!” trying for that perfect decibel level that would get the cat’s attention, but nobody else’s, because we sure as shit didn’t want anyone questioning why we were up by the crematorium long after midnight on a Saturday. We walked pretty far, circling around in broader and broader perimeters around the pizza place.

“Denny, it’s after 3 a.m. I don’t think we’re going to find him.”

Man, I felt bad. The thought of Caboodle wandering alone and lost! But we couldn’t look for him all night. “I guess we should head back.”

With all our walking, as far as we went, the smell of Kit burning was everywhere. And the acrid fumes grew stronger as we neared the funeral parlor.

“Is it supposed to smell like that?”

Billy shook his head. “There’s something wrong with the second vent. We need to get it fixed.”

***

One Hour and Twenty Minutes Later

Kit’s ashes cooled, I watched Billy use a spatula to scrape them all up, and put them in a thick plastic bag. He folded the top, then puts the bag into a metal container. It has a screw-on top. He twisted it tightly and then hands it to me.

“Thank you.” I kissed the container and then pressed it against my chest, not caring that Billy is watching me. I’ll miss you, little brother. Maybe the next time I get high, I’ll see that tunnel with the floating windows. I’ll peer through one and Kit will be there. I’ll lean through the window and talk to him. Kit won’t ever really be gone.

But I don’t know if I can go back to Grinberg & Mats ever again. I might have to get sweet air on my own, those little canisters of nitrous oxide they sell at the supermarket. I’ll figure that out later. I am certain of one thing, though. I’m going to go home, get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll come back and look for Caboodle again. I bet I’ll find him.

Everything’s fine.

 

 

 

 

 

Jacqueline Chou, a native New Yorker, is a short story writer whose work has been published by Dark Lane Digest, Dark Moon Publishing and is scheduled to be published by Piker Press's online journal on March 17 of this year. She is currently working on a collection of short stories.