Killing Kate (8 page)

“Thanks,” I mumble and slip the
t-shirt on.  It’s an undershirt and very obvious I’m not wearing a bra but it’s
better than going home topless.  The jeans fit better than I expected and I
realize that although Drake is well built on top, he’s very narrow from the
waist down.  I give them a roll at the waist and they stay up.  I don’t ask for
my underwear back and Drake doesn’t offer them.  I would rather not put dirty
underwear on anyway.

Drake drives me home.  We are
silent the whole way back and I am nodding off to sleep, completely spent from
the evening’s activities.  Drake plays music through the stereo and I realize
we are listening to The Velvet Underground, which was one of Jack’s favorite
bands, I remember.  Weird and not at all something I’m pleased about, although
I still like the band.  The song playing is “Heroin”, and it’s somewhat of a
perfect depiction of how I feel, which is strung out.

When we get to my building, I thank
Drake and let him squeeze my leg, but we don’t kiss.  Only the one kiss in the
shower for the whole night, I think.  At this point I can barely see straight,
and stumble up the stairs to my apartment, cigarette in my mouth the moment I
step out of the Audi and lit the moment I walk in the door.  I fall asleep with
it burned out between the fingers of my right hand hanging off the mattress,
still wearing Drake’s clothes.

Drake’s worn out jeans and t-shirt
are perfect for moving day, but I add underwear this time.  Devin has recruited
Justin to help me load boxes onto the moving truck, which is already loaded
with Devin’s things, showing me up as the huge procrastinator that I am.  I
haven’t seen him since Jack’s funeral, and find that seeing him outside of the
previous context is a lot more pleasant.  Kate hasn’t helped me with packing at
all this week, which is my lame excuse to myself.  All she’s done is sit around
smoking my cigarettes and ask me if I’ve taken my birth control pills, which is
a good reminder to maybe get a new prescription for some.  It’s her way of
being sarcastic and simultaneously reminding me that sex gets you pregnant. 
Luckily I’ve never found that out the hard way, but the last thing I needed in
my fucked up life was a baby.  I can’t even take care of myself, obviously,
which was why I was moving in with my big brother.  I haven’t spoken to Drake
much since our “date” night at Crimson which ended up in the throes of passion
at his apartment except to drop the finalized paperwork for the property tax
transfer on Jack’s house.  I had Devin sign it and then it took a week to
finalize everything on Drake’s end.  He called to tell me that we could move in
anytime, so I took three days to pack up.  I probably could have done it in
three hours but I’m slow and I tend to forget what I’m supposed to be doing and
end up sleeping or wandering to the liquor store to refresh my supply, since
Kate has been binge drinking lately and I always seem to be out.  Surprisingly,
I’ve cut back on my alcohol intake since my date with Drake.  I guess I just
needed to get laid.

Kate disagrees.  She has been
pissed at me ever since the morning after that night.  She won’t say why, but I
assume it’s because she feels like I don’t need her right now and I summoned
her back, yet she still lingers.  I’m handling things rather well lately.  I go
to work, I come home.  I had a few lunches with Devin that went well and came
over to help him pack up his things.  Devin’s apartment is much more grown up
and lived in than mine is, so it takes longer to pack.  First of all, he can
actually cook and seems to have every kitchen gadget and appliance known to
man.  The kitchen took the longest to pack, and then I helped him box up his
impressive collection of vinyl records, canvases and art supplies.

“Devin, some of this is amazing,” I
tell him.  “I mean really good.  If you’re not going to put it in a gallery we
should get this framed and decorate the house with it.”  I’ve stopped calling
it “Jack’s house” and have progressed to saying “the house”.  Maybe one day
it’ll be “our house” but I’m not there yet.

Devin is modest.  “Some of that
stuff is old, and some of it I painted when I was strung out on heroin.  I try
not to make that stuff my signature.”  I just give him a “you’re crazy” look
because his artwork really is amazing.  “It’s hard to explain,” he finishes.

I kind of get it.  I guess I
wouldn’t want to be known for anything I do when I’m Kate.  Not that she paints
or anything, but she’s been known to be a bit…promiscuous when she’s out and
about.  The things I did with Drake were nothing compared to what she’s done
when she takes me over.  I’ve had men come up to me in the past and address me
as Kate and it creeps me out.  I’ve found myself in sex dungeons, orgies, on camera
and in alleys behind clubs without knowing how I got there, sometimes in the
act.  It’s hard to get out of those situations gracefully.  Sometimes I have to
finish up and go home, sometimes I run.  Once I got a knife pulled on me for
trying to run and had to stay and let the guy finish.  What the fuck was I
supposed to do?  Sometimes it sucks being me.  No, I take that back, sometimes
it sucks turning back into me, particularly when your alter ego is a
nymphomaniac slut with no taste in men.

Justin and Devin do all of the
heavy lifting, and I am grateful that I live on the first floor and not the
fourth, since my apartment is a walkup and there isn’t an elevator.  Even
though there isn’t much, it takes a few hours to get everything loaded up. 
Looking around where I’ve lived for four years without anything in it gives me
the creeps, and so I don’t linger.  Devin drives the U-Haul truck we rented. 
He drove his motorcycle over to the house this morning and Justin picked him
up.  Justin gives me a ride to the house in his Honda Civic.  I note how it’s
no Mercedes, but of course don’t say a word.  Why am I comparing?

“I’m glad you and Devin are going
to live closer,” Justin says as we merge from Lake Shore Drive onto 55.  “If
you guys are up for it, my mom says to come by tonight for dinner.  I mean, if
you’re not too tired.”

“That’s sweet of her,” I say
sincerely.  “I feel like we should bring something, though, and we really
aren’t going to be able to find anything for at least a week.  Can we stop and
at least grab a bottle of wine to bring over?”  And a bottle of Jack Daniels
for when we’re done moving, I think to myself.

“She knows you’re moving, Jenna,
she just wants to fill your bellies and then subsequently fill your fridge,”
Justin says, smiling.  “She’ll probably send you home with a microwave to go
with the leftovers she’s planning to unload on you if you tell her you haven’t
unpacked yours yet.”

“I’m pretty sure Jack’s microwave
is still intact,” I say, “Though it’s probably from 1968 and full of radiation
or something toxic.”  He laughs and I look out the window at the old sights.  I
haven’t been down 55 in forever.  Maybe since I was a teenager.  We get off at
Cicero and as usual, the homeless guys are out panhandling and some are selling
roses that are wilting in the ridiculous heat.  “You know what I never
understand?” I say, “Why the hell do these guys sell cotton candy when it’s
freezing out and socks when it’s 100 degrees?”

Justin shrugs.  “No idea.  About a
month ago I pulled up here at this light and this lady knocks on my window and
asks to use my cell phone.  She pointed to that same car right over there,” he
points to a car parked under the overpass with the hazard lights on, “and tells
me that her car broke down and she needs to call Triple A.  I said no, of
course.”

“Of course,” I agree.  I wouldn’t
have rolled down my window either.  Which might sound rude to someone who
doesn’t live in the city, but you never know.

“Anyway,” Justin continues, “Last
week here I am again, same spot.  Same lady knocks on my window and points to
the same car and says the same shit.”

“Of course!” I laugh.  “I guess she
expected you to believe that she’s been waiting all week for someone to help
her.”

“Right,” Justin agrees.  “At least
they tore those projects down.  I’m thinking eventually it might get a little
better over here.”  We pass by the gaping area where the projects once were and
I see what he means.  There used to be people all over the place, but now just
a random bum or prostitute.  Some of the gas stations I used to pull into to
pick up a quick pack of smokes are abandoned.  The same “four hour nap” motels
are still in business, I note, along with fast food places and small quick
marts and a barbershop that specializes in “fades and perms”.  After Midway
Airport, things start to get a little bit better as we head to Oakdale.  I see
Judy’s restaurant and Marlin’s Pub and feel like I’m back home, although it’s
not exactly a heartwarming feeling, but it’s not filled with dread either just
yet.  We wind down a few streets and get to Central and turn down 99
^th
and then left to Menard.  Justin and I pull up to the house and Devin isn’t
there yet.

“I’ll give him a call,” I say and
pull out my phone and dial Devin.  He tells me that he stopped for some fast
food and will be at the house with something for us to eat in about five
minutes.  I relay the information to Justin and I get out of the car and look
at what is now my new home.  The house is a bungalow, built in the 30’s, with
one and a half stories and a full basement.  The outside is red brick and well
landscaped with bushes that Devin or I will need to learn to maintain.  Trees
line the street.  I notice that there are a few more new constructions in the
neighborhood than the last time I was here, which somewhat comforts me.  Things
aren’t the same as they were.

I was only here once after I
finalized the transfer of property tax forms and received the key from Drake’s
office, not even from Drake, but from Debbie, his secretary.  Upon closer
inspection, the house looks worn out, despite the freshly mowed lawn and
trimmed bushes.  It’s fitting, and kind of how Jack looked at the funeral
inside of his casket.  Even though I quit my job at Appleseed last week, much
to Alicia’s dismay, there was still $50,000 at Devin’s and my disposal which
would go toward some renovations in the house.  I plan to find a part time job
and go to school with the rest of the money. Or at least that’s what Devin is
under the impression I’m going to do.  I’m not sold on the idea of school just
yet, and I’m afraid I might freak out or jump out a window or something in the
middle of a lecture.  Devin was trying to help me find a job by telling me
about local daycares and malls that were looking for help, but I was more
inclined to apply at Polekatz, the local strip club.  We’d already had an
argument over it.

“Fuck, Jenna, why do you insist on
doing such degrading things to yourself?”

“Because I’m unskilled and will
make more money that way,” I told him.

Devin arrives with burgers and
fries and we scarf them down like lions after a kill.  Then we get to work and
spend another three hours unloading the truck, even though after my meal I just
want to nap.  I take frequent smoke breaks and Devin joins me a few times. 
“The worst part about moving in with you is that I’m going to start chain
smoking again,” Devin says and I punch him on the arm.  “But it’s totally worth
it to hang out with my cheerful and sweet sister,” he adds sarcastically for
Justin’s hearing benefit.  Justin grins at us and I find myself glancing at his
arms as he lifts a heavy box.  Damn, he’s strong, I think.

Since we have the truck for another
day and we’re losing daylight we decide to call it a night, having spent the
bulk of our day loading and unloading a truck. I’m exhausted and just want to
crawl into bed and die, but I know I am expected to follow through with the
dinner plan.  Justin drives us over to his mother’s house, another bungalow
that is much better maintained than the house and about ten minutes from us. 
The minute the three of us walk in the door we are bombarded with Louisa Fiero,
who is five feet nothing, with white hair piled on her head in a huge bun.  She
smells like bread and garlic, which I inhale as she hugs and kisses me on both
cheeks.  I adore her immediately.  She graciously accepts the bottle of mediocre
red wine we purchased last minute and ushers us into her kitchen to goad us
into feasting upon fresh baked rolls and butter.  I swear she churned it
herself; it’s like no butter I’ve ever purchased before at the grocery store,
which has probably happened twice in my life, but still.

Justin looks odd and out of place in
his own childhood home.  His parents are both short and stocky while he is tall
and extremely fit.  He’s not skinny and bony like Devin and me and looks like
he actually bothers to work out and take care of himself.  The home is modest
and lived in while he is clean cut and fresh.  But the family resemblance is
obvious.  He has his mother’s bright green eyes and his father’s strong jaw and
straight, kind of long nose.  His father, Joe Fiero, is retired from working
for forty two years as a Chicago Police detective and says very little but
smiles a lot.  Louisa does all of the talking for him and even though I can’t
cook, she immediately accepts me into her kitchen and has me chopping zucchini
and tomatoes and garlic for a quick bruschetta.

“So are you glad to be back in the
neighborhood?” Louisa asks Devin and me over copious amounts of pasta and yet
more bread and a huge green salad.  I can barely breathe I’m so stuffed full of
food, but for some reason I keep eating because everything tastes so good. 
“It’s been so long since you’ve been back.”