Hello Kitty Must Die (13 page)

I stared at his plate which was strewn with bits of demolished dumpling. Then at him.

“I’m allergic to nuts.”

“Oh, yeah, my son is allergic to nuts,” echoed his father.

Great.

“No, no nuts,” said the chef. He made these things. If anyone knew, he did.

Minus my parents, six people sat between me and what was probably my last billable-free, Don-free, Don-family-free Saturday afternoon. Six people and only one roofie tablet. I was hopelessly outnumbered. But then again, even Sean couldn’t anticipate that I would need to take out a whole family.

I wondered what Sean was doing, wishing that I was with him. Anywhere but there, until Don started to die.

Don’s eyes rolled back into his head. He grabbed his throat. His tongue, swollen and lumpy, poked out of his mouth like a diseased organ. A goateed mouth that looked like a vagina. He gasped for air, coughing, wheezing, spitting out a mouthful of dumpling.

“My son is choking!” Don’s mother screamed.

But Don was not choking. He was dying.

“Peanuts...,” Don gasped.

The wad of well-masticated pork and spinach that flew out of Don’s mouth had landed on the table, a few inches from my plate. Tiny, yellow granules peppered the wet mass. Finely-ground peanuts.

The chef had been wrong about the dumplings.

“Someone call an ambulance!”

An ambulance, a doctor, an EpiPen. The chef’s kingdom for an EpiPen.

Don slid right out of his chair onto the floor. His face turned a bright shade of purple, like spilt grape-flavored Kool-Aid. His mother kept slapping him on the face while his father shook his bloated, blubbery body hard from side to side, like a rag doll. His little sister pulled at his legs as he lay unconscious on the floor.

As if they could beat, shake, and pull the peanuts out of him. But the nuts were winning.

Poor Don.

Totally tuned out to life.

For life.

S
EAN’S SAILBOAT SMELLED
like decomposing squirrels.

During my last year at Yale, a couple of squirrels had scurried their way into an inaccessible part of the dormitory boiler room seeking warmth and shelter from a snowstorm. They starved to death, right next to the furnace.

For the entire spring semester, a heavy, sickly sweet smell permeated the air, causing headaches, vomiting, fevers. Every time I turned my head a certain way, I breathed it in. But like a too-often-worn perfume, pretty soon, I couldn’t smell it anymore. After a couple of weeks, I had to run outside, draw in a deep breath of fresh air and come back inside to enjoy it again.

The sweet smell of death. Thick, toxic, intoxicating. It made me giddy. It gave me weak orgasms.

Sean’s boat,
The Countess
(with the “o” curiously rubbed out), reeked of something else though, too, something that contaminated the aroma of death. It reminded me of dirty tuna cans.

“Nice name, Sean.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t name her. And it’s bad luck to change the name of a boat. So I’m stuck with it.”

“Guess you are. Sean, what on earth is that smell?”

“How the hell should I know? I can’t smell anything, remember?”

Right. Thanks to the pencil Darrell shoved up your nose.

I told myself that it was the smell of the sea. And all the sea creatures that took a crap in it.

“I think it’s the harbor, Sean.”

Sean shrugged as he adjusted the main sail. “Here, hold the tiller and keep us on course. Aim for that little peak on Angel Island, Fi.”

Angel Island. The largest island in San Francisco Bay, it is located about a mile from the Peninsula. Grass and forest cover seven hundred and forty acres of the island, which tops out at seven hundred and eighty-eight feet at the summit of Mt. Livermore, providing spectacular views of Marin County, San Francisco, the Golden Gate, the entire Bay Area.

The Miwok Indians liked it too. They fished and hunted there for over six thousand years until European settlers discovered what a great place it was to anchor and repair their ships. So the Indians had to go.

Now, it was a great place for a picnic lunch on a boat.

Sean took me sailing on his J-33 sailboat to celebrate my new job at Beamer Hodgins LLP. Land of Lucky Persons. Grabbing the tiller, I looked up at the main sail and wished that I had gone into the hymen restoration business. No way a mid-level associate could afford to keep a boat like this.

“Christ, nice boat, Sean. I should have listened to my parents about medical school.”

“And deliver babies?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“This boat actually belonged to someone I knew.”

“He sold it to you?”

“Not exactly. He died.”

I didn’t ask how or why. Like Sean said, everyone has to die. And you can’t take it with you, contrary to what the Egyptians believed.

Dead people can’t want things.

Want not, waste not.

We sailed out into the Bay, waving at everyone who cruised past us. Like polite sailors.

Everyone waves at everyone else standing on the deck of a boat. Part of proper etiquette in fish culture. It’s like pilots giving other pilots the thumbs up and saying “Have a good flight” because they want to hear the same thing. No one wants to have a bad flight. And no, there’s no aerosolized Prozac in the cockpit. It’s just a part of bird culture.

Under the Golden Gate Bridge, a yacht sailed past. The small group of people on its deck were all dressed in black.

“Oh, look, Fi. It’s our lucky day. We get to inhale the dead.”

“What?”

“That yacht.
The Naiad.
It belongs to the Neptune Society. They use it to take people out here to scatter ashes at sea.”

“How ironic.”

“What?”

“The name, Sean. Naiad was the Greek Goddess charged with protecting life in the waters. And now she’s bringing folks out here to choke her fish with death.”

“Guess she got tired of her fish.”

Guess she got tired of telling her fish that they were the best little fish in the world. Like Pepito was the best little bird in the world. Got tired of coddling them, protecting them.

Naiad. What a bitch.

“Do you want to be cremated, Sean?”

“Hell, yeah. Better than raising a worm farm six feet under.”

“And scattered under the Bridge from the deck of
The Naiad
?”

“Fuck no. I want to be scattered in my neighborhood. So Betty can choke on me. It’ll give that old girl a kick start.”

Sean didn’t want to be wasted on glassy-eyed fish swimming in their own muck. Always thinking of others.

We smiled and waved at the passengers on
The Naiad
a la fish culture. They didn’t wave back. Rude bastards.

Sean disappeared down below. I heard him rummaging around. After a few minutes, he pulled several oddly-shaped packages wrapped in Glad garbage bags from a medium-sized cooler. He waited until we sailed farther away from
The Naiad
and shoved them over the starboard side. They bobbed on the surface for a second or two before disappearing beneath the waves.

Sean looked at me, the way a friend looks at you when he or she has just farted at the dinner table.

“Don’t worry, Fi. It’s all biodegradable.”

That was the same thing he told Sister Maria when she caught him defecating in Father Mallory’s flowerbeds next to the school-yard at St. Sebastian’s. Someone had flushed a cherry bomb down a toilet in the boys’ bathroom and flooded it. So as punishment, Sister Maria forced the boys to use the girls’ bathroom. They had to wait until all the girls were out. But there was always one girl who had to wash her hands, fix her hair, retouch her lipgloss, smoke a cigarette.

And Sean had to go.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go, Sister.”

Just ask the Reaper.

“What were you thinking, Sean?” asked Sister Maria.

“Of Jesus. Of giving back to the Earth what Jesus had given me last night at dinner. It’s recycling, Sister. Don’t worry. It’s biodegradable.”

Always thinking of Mother Earth, Sean was.

“As long as the fish find it tastier than ashes,” I replied, turning my attention momentarily port side as the main sail caught a strong wind. I kept my eyes on the Angel Island peak I was aiming us toward, ignoring the packages as they slipped down into the water.

The way you pretend not to notice the smell of your friend’s fart filling the room even though you can hardly breathe. People culture.

Sean’s boat smelled less like dead squirrels.

Per Sean’s instructions, I had brought a hefty supply of sushi, sashimi, and pot stickers. Complete with a small Tupperware full of soy sauce and wasabi. And disposable chopsticks.

Sean supplied the drinks. Water, apple-cranberry juice, vodka, and more vodka. And Jim Beam and Johnny Walker. Sean’s boat was a floating bar.

“Alcohol and boating go hand in hand, Fi.”

Of course they do. You have MADD. Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Not Drunk Boating. No one gets mad about that. Part of fish culture.

In Ayala Cove, we sailed past a number of boats moored at buoys. Young, tanned bodies sunbathing out on the deck, shaded by Gucci sunglasses. Drinking chilled wines in metal buckets. Nibbling on finger sandwiches. Fit, muscular bodies executing perfect dives off the bow and stern into the calmer waters of the harbor.

“Congratulations, Fi. You must have
killed
in your interview,” said Sean, after we docked at a slip next to a sailboat that was much smaller than Sean’s. It made his look bigger. Much bigger. Better.

Sean fixed us drinks while I laid out the food.

“Thanks. Guess they deemed me a good fit for the firm.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll do a spectacular job for whats-his-name.”

“Jack.”

“Jack.”

Sean popped a California roll into his mouth while he studied the smaller sailboat and its occupants aboard, a March-December couple.

The sexy young Asian woman glanced at Sean, flipping her long, black hair over her shoulder before looking back at her older companion who faced away from us. Very young—like seventeen or eighteen trying to go on thirty. Salon tanned, not whitened like Cousin Katie. Long and slinky, clad in a striped bikini. Face caked with MAC makeup. Red manicured acrylic nails. She epitomized what Sean hated.

I felt uneasy, praying that she would not come over. She was pretending not to notice him staring at her with his fixed, unnerving gaze.

“Forget it, Sean.”

“Forget what? She started it.”

Ten minutes later she came over, unaware of the danger. Can’t blame the wolf if the lamb insists on saying hello.

“Hey there, nice boat!” she said, batting her lashes with vigor.

“Thank you,” Sean replied.

The woman’s companion pulled himself up from where he had been lounging on the deck and turned around to face us. I wished he hadn’t.

Jack Betner. My new senior partner, clad in an island shirt with giant toucans and shorts, on his sailboat with his sweet honey.

I turned red, hoping that he would not recognize me in my polo shirt and shorts. But he did.

“She sure is a beauty,” he said to Sean, referring to the boat. “Why, Fiona! Isn’t this a nice surprise.”

No, it wasn’t.

Running into your new boss on the weekend is never a nice surprise. I would have preferred a Jack-free weekend, especially when all my future weekends at Beamer Hodgins LLP were destined to be Jack-filled.

“Mr. Betner. Jack. Hi, didn’t think I would see you until tomorrow. Sean, this is my boss at the new firm I told you about. Jack Betner.”

“Hi, I’m Sean.”

“Nice to meet you, Sean. Fiona, you never told me you liked to sail.”

“Only when Sean has time to take me sailing.”

“This is my girlfriend, Mei,” said Jack, putting his arm around Mei. So Jack had an Asian fetish. He liked Hello Kitties.

“So Fiona, is this your—”

“Overprotective big brother, yes,” interjected Sean.

Jack and Mei looked at me. And laughed.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m his sister. Don’t you see the family resemblance?” I joked, holding out my hand to Mei.

“Of course. Absolutely,” she said.

“Would you guys care for a drink? We brought way too much vodka and apple-cranberry juice. Care for a cosmo, Mei?” asked Sean.

“Oh my God, I love cosmos.”

“Yes, she does,” said Jack. “She’ll drink you out of house and home, this one can.”

“Sean, can you make me one too? I love cosmos too,” I said.

“Sure thing, Sis,” he replied, giving me a wink.

Sean went down below to the cooler. A few minutes later, he emerged with the drinks in his hand. He reached over the walkway and handed the drinks to Jack and Mei. Jack suddenly wrinkled his nose and sniffed at the air.

The dead squirrel smell was still there.

The sick, sweet scent of putrefaction. The smell to which I had grown accustomed on the way over to the island. The smell which faded somewhat when Sean unloaded his biodegradable cargo into the Bay, but was still discernable. My stomach lurched. I looked at Jack, the way that Sean had looked at me, like I had just farted loudly in the middle of an important client conference.

But Jack only coughed and sipped his cosmo.

“Good drink. Chopin vodka, Sean?”

“But of course. Everything else is crap.”

Jack laughed, ignoring the smell of fart, the smell of death and decay. Mei giggled along, downing her drink in a few gulps.

“Sir, may I have some more?” she asked, trying to control her giggles.

“More?” Sean answered, cocking his eyebrow. “Why, yes, Oliver. Of course, you may have some
more
.” He took her cup and got up to go down to the cooler.

“Make it more part vodka, please,” Mei said. “God, what is that awful smell?”

“Smell, what smell?” Sean stopped, turning around to look at her.

“Oh, honey, that’s just the harbor. Probably some garbage tourists have chucked overboard. No regard for the environment, some people,” Jack said. “And you probably had too much vodka. Look at you. You’re all red.”