101 Words

“Christ! She was a wild one,” Danny said.

“Weren’t you worried you would get caught?” the bartender asked.

“Nah. Who’d believe her? And it’s been months.”

“I don’t know. If I were you, I’d worry.”

“Fuck that. Who’s she gonna tell? Jesus, you pour them strong. Hit me again.”

“It’s not just the cops, you know. People can get all vengeful about their own.”

“She’s got a crippled drunk grandpa, and that’s it. Her brother’s away in whatsitsstan or some such place. Besides, it’d be my word against hers.”

“It’s Afghanistan.”

“What’s Afghanistan?”

“Where her brother was.”

“Was?”

The bartender smiled.

They huddle on the tree-lined street, clipboards in hand, gathered with the palpable earnest intent of making this feel somehow normal. I slow our car to a crawl along the curb abutting the school sidewalk. A woman, kind of voice, probably smiling underneath the colorful cloth mask (but who can really tell?) approaches the open passenger side window. “Name?” With gloved hands she places a cardboard box containing the hope of fresh textbooks and syllabi on the back seat. She hands a rose and PPE to my daughter. Before we slowly pull away, she kindly intones, “Have a great school year.”

Colleen stood alone in the front pew, holding tissues.

After the ‘mishap’ after the funeral, after the lawsuit, there was a check. “To fulfill our obligations,” The Company said.

Colleen shared the money with the children. Her son paid off student loans and bought a brand-new pickup. Her daughter planned the lavish wedding she’d always wanted. Six bridesmaids, designer gown, a jillion flowers, sit-down dinner, live band. Now the bridegroom and six tuxedoed friends waited.

Colleen’s were not tears of joy. The Company could never fulfill this moment, as her daughter marched down the aisle on the arm of her brother.

When the theater reopens, I go to a matinee. A comedy, I think.

I try to savor popcorn and greasy butter; the tub’s unwieldy. The seat to my right’s empty.

Once my older sister Nancy and I laughed in unison. Once, we fought over popcorn, hands diving into buttered seas.

We yelled out lines, smiled at each other, whispered our nicknames. Nicky, Nan, Nanny, Saint Nick.

People trickle in, rattling off virus statistics like baseball scores.

I get up to leave. Knock over the popcorn.

I try to pick up a kernel. It slips.

I can’t pick things up. Too soon.

“God is love.” The thought finally came while hidden in a church rectory, lip-locked with another girl, her mouth soft and kind.

And after, fresh memories of awkward hands ignorant of where to go for pleasure, hovering instead over tense shoulders. Next day, I sang church hymns with an extremist’s enthusiasm.

The virginal thrill faded, and I was haunted.

The sisters stared at me in the hallway—could they smell my secret? Nuns hovering outside the girl’s bathroom—waiting for me? My confidence betrayed by a sudden glance at my shaking hands.

Through paranoia, I learned that God is fear, too.

I glower at my human. Wet fur makes me look scrawny.

I’m ashamed that she could force me into this wretched sink, but to also take photos for her Instagram? I cannot endure this insult. I will kill her in her sleep tonight.

A bubble pops and tickles my nose. The colors in the room warm and her braying turns to laughter. My whiskers twitch in a most curious fashion. I remember pouncing other kittens, tussling and laughing. My indignation floats away like the air from within the soap bubble.

Upon further consideration, I think I’ll let her live another day.