Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

  Being in your house inspires some blind hope, a feeling that nothing bad could actually happen in that sacred space of familiarity and comfort. It’s a healthy delusion, giving you the false sense that you have some control over your fate.

  Not only that, but there are some places where you’re straight-up not allowed to be on your deathdate. Airplanes, for example. Sometime in the first few years after AstroThanatoGenetics went public, people began to realize that it was ludicrous to allow someone onto a plane on the day they were going to die. Suddenly the odds of that plane going down go way up. Even though the deathdated would be the only ones killed, there’d be plenty of potential for others to be injured, paralyzed, maimed, traumatized, etc., so the airlines in the US banded together and created a no-flying-on-your-deathdate policy.

  Insanely enough, the number of plane crashes in the country dropped dramatically. There have still been exceptions involving the undated or tourists (the US, UK, and Germany are the only countries in which learning your deathdate is mandatory), but all in all, it’s a smart policy. And a nice demonstration of why a Sitting makes sense.

  Though there’s danger aplenty at Sittings, too. There’s the story where the woman sat for a while with her family, then went outside to get a quick breath of fresh air, her husband accompanying her as a bodyguard of sorts. They weren’t outside longer than two minutes when a drunk driver swerved onto the sidewalk straight into them. And this was a sunny weekday afternoon. She died in the hospital three hours later, and her husband, whose deathdate wasn’t for another twenty-one years, went into a coma that I think he’s still in to this day. So. Yeah. You understand why you might err on the side of not leaving home at all.

  But ultimately to Sit or not to Sit is a very personal decision.

  Since I’m dying young, it means, technically, I still answer to my parents. And it’s hard to argue with your parents. At least, it’s hard for me to argue with mine. I feel bad; they’re losing a son. I don’t need to add the worry and anxiety of not knowing where it’ll happen.

  So that is why I will be having a Sitting.

  But I’m not looking forward to it.

  “Yo, dude, wanna head back to the dance floor?” Paolo asks. “Danica’s dancing alone, which is clearly her inviting me to jump on it.”

  “Clearly.” I should get back to Taryn, but I feel compelled to give my splotch a peek, see how my death is progressing. “I think I’m gonna take a quick jaunt to the bathroom, so I’ll just meet you over there.”

  “Oh, I gotta go, too. I’ll come with you.”

  “But I think it’s a one-person bathroom.”

  “I’ll just wait by the door. What’s the big deal, you gonna rub one out or something?”

  “No, no.” I haven’t told anyone about my death splotch yet, but Paolo may as well be the first. “I…uh…well, yeah, just come with me. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Okay…I don’t want to see your junk, if that’s what this is about.”

  Alone in the bathroom, I nervously unzip and lower my pants.

  It’s worse than I imagined.

  My entire right thigh down to my right knee looks like it’s been soaked in wine, and the electric red dots are everywhere. I run my hand up and down my thigh, and the cavalcade of dots rearranges itself in perfect formation. I peek under my boxers and see that the splotch extends all the way up my right hip, narrowing to a sharp point, like some jagged stalagmite.

  “Stay calm, Denton, stay calm,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s okay.”

  “You all right in there, brozer?” Paolo asks.

  “Eh” is all I can manage through the door.

  “Should I come in?”

  “I dunno,” I mumble.

  “Whoa, shit, man, has the dying started? The door’s locked, lemme in!”

  “Okay,” I say, starting to raise my pants and go for the handle.

  There’s a karate grunt, followed by a loud bang against the door.

  “Ow,” Paolo says.

  “Are you okay?” I open the door and usher Paolo quickly inside.

  “I was trying to kick it down,” he says, shaking the pain off his foot. “In case you were dead.”

  “Thanks, man. But this is what I was freaking out about.” I show him.

  “Oh wow, yeah.” I can tell he’s trying to downplay his reaction, but he’s shocked and fascinated by what he’s seeing. “Did you fall or something?”

  “No. I noticed it this morning. I have no idea. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  Paolo is looking closely at my leg, and even though it’s in the most clinical, doctorlike way, I can’t help but hear in my head the shout of “GAY!” from earlier.

  “No, definitely not. I mean, maybe it’s some sort of weird STD?”

  “No, it’s definitely not an STD,” I say, maybe a bit forcefully. But holy crap, is it? Did Veronica give me some rare disease that’s going to be the thing that kills me? Did we even use protection last night? I have to believe I would have used a condom, even drunk. Right? Moron, Denton, moron!

  “Ease up, Sparky, I was joking.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, trying to conjure up a chuckle.

  Sweaty DJ’s voice reverberates on the other side of the door: “Everybody, let’s get out here for one last song for Dante, really show him our love now.”

  “Last song,” Paolo says. “Shit, we gotta get you out there.”

  Amazingly enough, one of my favorite songs of all time starts playing, but I can’t fully take it in.

  “Okay,” I say, “but…do you think there are STDs like this, though?”

  “I don’t know, dude, maybe. Wait, why…? Did you have sex?”

  “What?” I’ve been caught off guard, and I’m doing a terrible job of playing it cool.

  “Oh my good golly, DUDE. You had sex? Last night? I thought you and Taryn didn’t have sex!”

  “Quiet down.”

  “But you totally did!” Paolo says in a loud whisper. “You be stealthy! Oh man, that is amazing. Congrats! I’m so happy for you guys.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “And it happened at my house, I’m honored.”

  “Right. Um. It wasn’t…”

  “It wasn’t at my house? Where did you do it? You guys are crazy!”

  “No, no, it wasn’t…”

  “It wasn’t good?”

  I want to tell him that it wasn’t with Taryn, but the words aren’t coming. I haven’t lied yet, though. Not exactly.

  “It’s never good the first time. Never. When I did it with Jasmine that time, it was like mice stuck in glue.” He gives an exaggerated shiver.

  “Ew, what?”

  “It was bad, dude, so don’t worry. But this thing on your leg, huh? Maybe Taryn did STD you, I don’t know.”

  “She didn’t STD me, okay?”

  “What’s with those dots?”

  “I don’t know. They move,” I say as I show him.

  “Whoa, cool! Can I try?”

  “I…No, stop stroking my leg.”

  Someone knocks on the door. “Dent…?” asks Taryn. “Are you in there?”

  My attention is distracted, because right as she knocked, the splotch began to expand before our very eyes.

  “Whoa,” Paolo says.

  “Oh, hey, Tar,” I say. “I am. Sorry, I’ll be out in a sec.”

  Like a bloodstain in the movies, the death mark blossoms down my calf in a way that would almost seem beautiful if it wasn’t so damn freaky.

  “Is…Paolo in there with you, too?”

  “Um…” This would be a stupid thing to lie about, as it will be pretty obvious once the door opens. “Yes. We were just…chatting in here.”

  “Oh,” she says, five long seconds later. “Well, we were all out here worried about you. Want to join us? I wanna dance with my boyfriend at his funeral.”

  “Of course, of course,” I say. I pull up my pants. Paolo is still staring at my leg, mesmerized.
>
  “That was incredible,” he says.

  We come out of the bathroom to find not just Taryn but my stepmom and dad, too.

  “Hey, guys, sorry about that,” I say. “We weren’t making out in there or anything.”

  Taryn’s face changes to one of surprise and mild shock. “What? Why would you be making out in there?”

  “What did he just say?” my stepmom says to my dad.

  “Oh. I thought…” I seem to have misjudged the situation.

  “It’s okay, Denton,” my dad says, with a look of such compassion and understanding it would break your heart. “We’re just glad you’re all right.”

  “Yeah, no, I know, but really, we were just talking in there. About movies.”

  “Lots of cool movies out right now,” Paolo agrees.

  I don’t want to tell my parents about the splotch yet. It would only make them worry more. (I realize that’s absurd, considering I’m dead either way. But.)

  “Okay, so…I think Taryn and I are gonna…” I gesture to the dance floor.

  Taryn is giving me a playful look with squinty eyes that is also kinda serious, like, Who are you?

  “Yes, fine,” my stepmom says, waving us off. “Go, go, but, Dent, people are starting to leave and they want to say goodbye to you, so make sure you do.”

  “You want me to say individual goodbyes to everyone that came?”

  “Well, they’re here for you!”

  “All right, all right,” I say, grabbing Taryn’s hand and steering us toward the scattered, bouncing bodies. I wonder if she can feel that I’m no longer a virgin, the guilt radiating off my skin.

  “Were you guys really talking about movies in there?” Taryn whispers into my ear.

  “Definitely not,” I whisper into hers. “I found something weird. I…I’ll show you later.”

  She pulls her head back, eyes big. “Is everything okay?”

  “Not sure, but don’t worry.”

  I give her a spin, then bring her close, just as the song key-changes into its final triumphant chorus.

  “I do worry,” she says. “I can’t help it.” Her hazel eyes are glassy and concerned.

  I think of what Phil said, that they’ll be getting back together once I die.

  “Hey,” I say. “Did…”

  “Did what?” Her eyebrows slope sweetly together.

  “Ah, never mind.”

  I go in for the kiss.

  A hand lands on my shoulder. “Excuse me. Denton?”

  I turn and I’m staring at the handsomish, pockmarked face of that man who was standing in the back during my eulogy. He seems nervous. I want him to leave.

  “Uh, yeah? I’m kinda in the middle of—”

  “Hi. Um…You don’t know me, right?”

  “I don’t…What?” I exchange a look with Taryn.

  “Sorry, that was a strange way to say that. I wasn’t sure if maybe your dad had told you about me or…showed you pictures.”

  “Oh. No, I’m sorry. Not that I remember.” WTF.

  “Right, right, okay. I’m Brian Blum.” He holds out his hand, and I reluctantly take my arm from around Taryn and shake it. “I, uh, knew your mother.”

  “She’s right over there, if you want to talk to her.” I point to Raquel across the room, in mid-conversation with Taryn’s mom.

  “Huh?” The man’s head spins really quickly to look. “Oh no, no, not— I mean your actual mother.”

  The music around me fades.

  The people around me disappear.

  Other than my dad and brother, I’ve never met a single soul who knew my mom. But this man says he did.

  “You knew my mom?”

  “Yes.”

  My biological mother. We are on sacred, uncharted terrain.

  I turn to Taryn. “Do you mind if I…”

  “No, of course, of course,” she says, which I know must be hard because this is our Last Dance Ever.

  “Come this way,” I say to him, and lead us to a less obvious corner of the room. The song has ended and people are entering that postparty milling-about phase. We don’t have much time to talk.

  “Sorry to pull you away from…,” Brian Blum says.

  “It’s okay. I mean…Well, so, what do you mean you knew my mom?”

  “Yeah. Right. So.” He looks around, then back at me. “I mean exactly that. Your mother, Cheryl, and I were very close.”

  What’s this guy getting at? “Like…you were her boyfriend?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. Well, actually, at one point, we…But, no, we had a very close friendship, is all. I was the doctor who delivered you, did you know that?”

  I beg your pardon?

  “When you were born, I was the ob-gyn. I thought your dad might’ve at least told you that. You’ve grown up a lot since then.” He lets out an awkward chuckle.

  So. Much. Information. Hold the bad jokes please, mister.

  “What…But…didn’t my mom die giving birth to me?”

  “Ah, I was there for that, too, yes, but look, obviously you know that at midnight tonight, your deathdate begins.”

  “Right.”

  “You need to be careful.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to say it other than that. There may be strange characters lurking about, people with bad intentions, and you should just keep your feelers on high alert. Trust no one, especially if they’re associated with the government. You get me?”

  “Not really. Are you saying you think I’ll be murdered?”

  “Here.” He reaches into a pocket of his jeans. “If anything happens, if you feel you’re being followed or you see anything weird, just call me at this number.”

  He extends a business card toward me, and I’m reaching out to grab it when a hand ushers me back.

  “Okay, no, no,” my stepmom says, steering me out of the card’s reach. “Please keep your cards away from my son.”

  “Oh, hi, I’m Brian.” He puts the card in his other hand and re-extends his right to shake. “I knew Denton’s mo—”

  “I know who you are, Brian, and that’s all well and good. But Lyle doesn’t want to see you, certainly not here.”

  Brian lowers his unshaken hand. “Okay, look, I understand where Lyle’s coming from, but can’t he walk over here to tell me that himself?”

  “No, he can’t,” my stepmom says.

  “What are you guys talking about?” I ask.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie.”

  “With all due respect,” Brian says, “it’s been almost eighteen years. And Lyle hasn’t forgiven me yet?”

  “Guess not. You should leave.”

  “This is for Denton’s own good!”

  “I really don’t want to have to call the cops.”

  Brian Blum looks desperately back and forth from me to my stepmom. His eyes hold on to me, like he’s trying to will some nonverbal message into my brain. I try to understand, but I don’t speak Silent Weirdo.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Brian’s eyes drop down to the ground. He looks back up. “All right,” he says, then turns and slowly walks out a back door of the celebration home.

  “Mom,” I say. “What the hell was that?”

  “Well,” she says, still watching the door Brian exited out of. “I think you should ask your father. And watch your language.”

  “Excuse me,” one of the celebration home staff members says, grabbing a chair from behind me and my stepmom so he can passive-aggressively fold it and stack it, oh so subtly hinting that it’s time for everyone to leave.

  You would think they might not do that for funerals, but they do.

  A river of people streams over to hug me final goodbyes. I go into autopilot, hugging everyone and saying sweet things, while the rest of my brain struggles to find some solid ground.

  Trust no one.

  This is for my own good.

  It’s been almost eighteen years, and my dad still hasn’t forgiven him.


  I try to extract some meaning from all this.

  Did Brian intentionally kill my mom? Because maybe that would be worthy of eighteen years of unforgiveness.

  I always imagined today would be a time for closure, for resolution, but instead, my head swarms with a million questions I would never have known to ask yesterday.

  “Trust no one?” Taryn asks as we sit in my small silver car, parked at “our spot,” a sandy hill that overlooks all the streets and lights of a neighboring town. We like that it’s kind of a funny throwback to the 1950s, when teenagers would park up at Make-Out Point or Lovers’ Lane or Sex Mountain or whatever.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “So you literally can’t trust anyone? Not even your mom and your dad?”

  “Well…”

  “Are you supposed to not trust me?” Taryn asks, pulling me closer.

  Phil’s words pop into my head: “She was with me.”

  “No, I think I can trust you,” I say.

  “You think you can?” Taryn scoffs, but her tone is playful. She puts her hands on either side of my face. I lean in closer and kiss her. Our tongues touch, and hers is strangely cold, like she’s been eating a Popsicle. I feel a tear land on my cheek. We stop for a moment.

  “This sucks so much,” Taryn says. “I hate that the day we finally say ‘I love you’ is the day before you dehhh.” The word die gets caught up in a sob. I pull Taryn close, over the gearshift thingy, as she quietly convulses. I’d forgotten about our I love yous.

  “I hate that, too,” I say.

  “You’re just my favorite guy.”

  I feel my heart beating through my shirt.

  “Thanks, Tar.”

  “And, I mean,” Taryn goes on, “who’s gonna come to this spot with me?”

  “Well. Hopefully no one.”

  “Ohmigod, of course,” she says, about ninety-eight percent convincingly. “No one.”

  Down below us, two cars nearly hit each other, their tires screeching.

  My pocket buzzes, and I see that my stepmom has texted: Sorrry about befor. Maybe youu and Dad wll have tume to talk lator>? Have fun w T and P. xoxoi.