Killing Kate

by Lila Veen

  I need to take the El downtown, walk to Union Station and then catch a Metra train to Oakdale. I refuse Devin’s offer to catch a ride with him on his motorcycle because I need to be alone in my thoughts with Kate for as long as I can before I show up to the funeral and also because Devin’s seat isn’t padded well enough to be comfortable enough for a long ride. I only tell him my second reason because I know he wouldn’t really understand the first.

  Oakdale is near where I grew up and it’s a quaint little Irish neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. The train station at Oakdale is quaintly decorated for Memorial Day with red white and blue bows and lights and it’s a short four block walk down 95th Street to the funeral home. I pass by my reflection in the windows of bridal shops, flower stores and ice cream parlors and notice that my ballerina bun hasn’t held up very well in the heat. Loose tendrils are sticking to my neck, which is already wet with my own perspiration. The digital clock at the bank tells me it’s 86 degrees.

  Devin is outside waiting for me, looking very handsome in a suit and tie. I know he wants to smoke and so I open my purse and hand him my pack and we are outside silently smoking and sitting on a bench while we watch people file inside. We don’t know them, but we gather from the sign outside that our father’s funeral is not the only funeral going on. I brought a flask, and offer it to Devin. He gives me a look but takes it without comment, cringing from the harsh taste of whiskey. “How can you drink this shit?” he asks me. I shrug and take the flask from him and take a long chug. Kate is looking on at us, amused that we are getting drunk outside of our father’s funeral and being very “classy” about it. I can hear her disdain in my head but she is quiet near Devin. Devin finally puts out his cigarette and looks at his phone. “It’s 2:00,” he tells me. “I guess we should go in.” We walk inside and suddenly I am freezing from the blast of air conditioning. I swear I smell embalming fluid but I’m not really sure what that smells like.

  “Hello,” says a man who is as tall as Lurch from the Addams Family and has a soft honey voice, wearing a dark suit. I assume he is the funeral director. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Jack Parker,” Devin tells him. The man nods and leads us down a hallway to a room. Oh, wonderful, it’s open casket. There are less than ten people inside the room, strewn about and drinking coffee. It makes me wish I’d brought some Bailey’s Irish Cream, but in Oakdale, someone is bound to have a flask with some.

  I don’t recognize anyone until a man who is close to Devin’s and my age walks toward us. “Hi Devin, hi Jenna,” he says. He looks vaguely familiar.

  “Justin!” Devin exclaims and they do the masculine thing and shake hands and simultaneously pat each other on the back in a way that would probably make me start coughing. Devin turns to me. “Jenna, do you remember Justin at all?” He gives me a look that indicates that I probably should remember. “Justin Fiero?”

  The name rings a bell, and suddenly I am reminded of a moment in history. I am probably nine or ten years old, and we are playing street hockey, and everyone’s mom calls their children inside to come for dinner, except ours, of course. My memory is full of empty holes but little triggers sometimes help. Kate holds all of the missing pieces of the puzzle, but she knows what is safe for me to know and what isn’t. “Of course I do,” I say, smiling and accepting his handshake. He is a couple of inches taller than Devin with about twenty more pounds of muscle. His hair is dark brown and spiked in front and he has an earring with a green stone in it. The stone matches his eyes. I’m trying to remember what he used to look like. “It’s been a really long time.”

  “I guess it’s been, what, fifteen years?” Justin asks me. “I’ve seen Devin since then but not you. What have you been up to, Jenna?”

  “Um, not very much,” I confess. “In what context have you seen Devin?” It sounds like a strange question and I don’t really know another way to phrase it. Thankfully, Justin laughs at my question.

  “Justin is an artist,” Devin explains. “He and I showed at the same gallery a year ago.”

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly getting it. “You both probably used to deface property together with spray paint.” They both look sheepish which means I’m right. We all chuckle and then somber up, remembering where we are and how strange it seems to be laughing at a funeral. No one is looking our way, though, which is a good sign. I wonder who these people are, and decide I don’t care. A more relevant question is why Justin is here, but I assume he came for Devin and not Jack and I relax a bit in his presence. We take a seat in one of the chairs, all three of us in a row. I pull out my flask and offer it up to Devin and Justin but they refuse and so I finish the contents in one long gulp, even though it’s more than half full. I wish I could feel drunk but I’m just numb. I look at my dad who looks strangely orange and waxy. His hair is grayer than when I last saw him, which was just over five years ago. He had asked Devin and me if we could visit him in prison, and I didn’t say a word to him. Devin sat and talked to him at a table while I just stood and looked at my shoes. I recall Kate was there with me, just holding on to me tightly and it felt good to have her protecting me. “So, what do we do? Just sit here?”

  “This is the viewing,” Justin tells me. “Then we drive over to Oak Hill cemetery for the actual burial.” I look at him quizzically and he shrugs. “It’s on the program.” I suddenly realize that there’s a funeral with a process and schedule going on around me. I must be drunk, I think. My head is spinning a bit. I look back at Jack and wonder if it could be possible that it wasn’t actually him and he was still alive somewhere. Probably in a bar, sitting at the end getting drunk, just like I wanted to do. I could walk into that same bar and sit on the other end and we probably could just go on drinking and not even see each other but be in the same place at the same time. The thought gives me a chill.

  “I need to go outside,” I say, standing up. “Excuse me.” Both Devin and Justin stand and look concerned. I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. “Just leave me alone,” I say to Devin.

  Kate is waiting on the same bench Devin and I were sitting on before. No one is around, and I feel everything begin to bubble up inside of me and lean over and vomit everything that’s in my stomach into the bushes. I feel better, though strangely empty, and walk away a few steps. I sit down next to Kate and fish inside my purse for my cigarettes and a pack of matches and light one with shaky hands. “Justin lived on the same block as you,” she told me. “His mom used to cook Italian food by the bucket and you and Devin would go there for dinner. She was short and fat with white hair and red cheeks and always wore green shoes.”

  “Okay,” I say, remembering her from Kate’s description. We sit in silence and I smile. “He used to walk me to my classes in high school sometimes.”

  “Yeah,” Kate agrees. “He was nice. Kind of shy, but so were you.”

  Justin walks out and sits next to me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod, inhaling the smoke deeply. “I decided to come out and make sure. Devin seemed to need some time to himself with your dad.” Although I have no idea why Devin would care, I nod. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

  “I shouldn’t do a lot of things,” I say. I look at him and see he is likely teasing me with a slight smile on his face. “I definitely shouldn’t come to funerals of people who treated me like shit.” Justin nods and doesn’t say anything. “I mean, he was a fucking asshole to Devin, too.” I don’t want to focus on myself right now; I’m feeling too much. “So what about you?” I ask. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’m a wedding photographer by day and a starving artist by night,” Justin says. “The photography pays my bills. The art is what keeps me getting up in the morning.” He turns on the bench a bit, shifting away from me but facing his body toward me. It’s more conversational than sitting side by side and staring straight ahead. “What about you?”

  “I’m a cage dancer at the Appleseed,” I blurt out. “It’s a club over by Rush and Division, you know, where all o
f the Trixies and Douchebags hang out. I have no talent or skill to speak of so it pays the bills and gives me someplace to be so I don’t just stay home drunk in my shitty apartment.”

  Justin gives a half smile that could pass for a smirk. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t like to see that. Clothing optional?”

  “You can wear what you want,” I tell him. “I’m mostly unclothed.”

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

  “Most people don’t,” I say. “You could add it to your list of things to lecture me about. Smoking and cage dancing. I’m also a heavy drinker.”

  “Most south side Irish are,” Justin says. Devin walks outside, as well as some other people. It seems the viewing is over. A man walks up to us in a crisp, dark grey pinstriped suit that looks incredibly expensive and well-tailored.

  “Jenna Parker? My name is Drake Carroll. I’m so sorry about your father.” He takes my hand and holds it between his. They are dry and rough and strangely cold in the heat. His shirt is dark crimson and he wears no tie, which makes me wonder if he’s a member of the mafia or something.

  “Er, thank you,” I stutter. He is probably in his mid-thirties and extremely handsome in a smooth and masculine sense of the word. I’ve heard Devin described as “pretty” by other girls before, and I would say Justin could probably take holding on the word “cute”, but I feel handsome is really reserved for men of Drake Carroll’s stature. In fact, the more I take him in, the more I would associate the word “gorgeous” or “perfect”. He has dark blonde hair and light brown eyes with heavy lashes that remind me of the word “drapes”. They are strangely much darker than his blonde hair and I wonder if mascara is involved. He has the most chiseled face I’ve ever seen and is staring at me as though he can read my thoughts. His chin is strong and his jawline is square and perfectly shaved. I wonder if he is one of those people that go to the barber shop for a straight razor shave. He looks manicured from head to toe.

  Drake Carroll glances at Devin. “My condolences for your loss,” he says to us. “And a pleasure meeting you.” He puts a stress on the word “pleasure” that sounds out of place. He puts some dark Ray Ban sunglasses on and walks toward a black Mercedes Benz and gets in and drives away.

  “What the fuck just happened?” asks Devin.

  “It’s always helpful when people actually say how they know people,” Justin says. “But he chose to omit that important piece of information.”

  I shrug. “Perhaps he was making sure Jack is really dead. I’m guessing Jack owed him some money. Do loan sharks actually exist?” No one laughs at my pathetic attempt at humor. Maybe because they don’t think I’m joking. The guy was seriously unreal, like a character from some police drama show. “Are we really going to this burial?” I ask. “I have to work tonight.”

  “I don’t care,” Devin says. “I’ve said my goodbyes. I’m done.” I realize that his eyes are puffy. He was actually crying over our piece of shit father. I’m disgusted and uncomfortable by this but don’t say anything.

  “Why don’t we go get some food?” Justin suggests. “I haven’t seen you two in so long. It’d be nice to catch up.” I realize that I’m suddenly ravenous and likely drowning my internal organs in alcohol. Then I remember that my vomit is just behind the bushes, and my stomach gurgles at the thought. We all agree to go get pizza at Pisano’s, which is a south side institution that serves amazing cracker thin crust pizza with amazing Italian sausage, or “eye-talian” if you’re from the neighborhood. I eat far too much bread before our pizza arrives and pick at a small square while Justin and Devin catch up on what they’ve been up to lately. The conversation revolves mostly around art and photography and local gallery exhibits and I’m slightly bored but intrigued as to what kind of art Justin does. He sees that I am not involved in the conversation and graciously changes the subject. He mentions how his mother is still living in the same house he grew up in around Elm Forest.

  “Does she still cook pounds of food all at once?” I ask him. Justin looks impressed.

  “She does,” he told me. “You have a good memory.”

  “You can’t forget your mom’s cooking,” Devin agrees. “I miss those huge meals where I felt like I had to roll home.”

  “You two should come by for dinner sometime,” Justin tells us. “Mom would love to see you both. I’ve got to go after this and help her out with some things around the house but I’ll ask her about a date that would work. She can make her famous Bolognese sauce.”

  “Okay,” I tell him. We get the bill and Justin doesn’t let us pay. I get the impression he is far more financially stable than we are, which is likely why Devin and I don’t do much protesting. When he leaves I tell Devin “I should probably get back too. I have to work.”

  “That was nice to see Justin,” he says. I agree with him. “I know how much you hate to be reminded of the past, Jenna,” Devin begins to say. My heart thumps and I can feel it in my temples. “When I think about what I remember from that time I get freaked out. I was there, Jenna, same as you, and even though I didn’t go through what you did, I saw enough.”

  “Devin, don’t,” I plead. I don’t want to cry. He stops me.

  “No, hear me out, Jenna. I’ve never told you this but I still see a therapist, and it’s helped me with all of this shit. Maybe you could see her too?”

  I’ve had enough. I feel the words brimming to the surface and I can no longer swallow them and sit quietly. “Fuck you Devin,” I say. “I can’t fucking believe you are comparing what you saw to what I went through. This isn’t just some shit in my head I can talk through and move on from. Dad fucked me up beyond repair. He let men fuck me, Devin, before I even knew what fucking meant. That isn’t just some shit I can talk through with a therapist, its part of me. You hate Kate? Guess what? She was there for me through all of it. She is the only one in the world who experienced what I experienced. You think that listening to your sister screaming through a paper thin wall is the same thing as getting fucked at eight years old? Do you think watching it happen is just like having it happen to you? Fuck you.” I stand up and snatch my purse off the back of my chair. I walk away, leaving Devin sitting alone at the table with the most hurt expression on his face.

  I feel terrible about how I just bitched out Devin when he seemed already pretty upset and ultimately I just feel terrible about how fucked up my life is. I’m walking down 95th Street and fumbling in my purse for a cigarette and sobbing. It’s hot and awful outside, and I pass people on the street but I don’t really give a shit how I look. It feels like the worst day of my life but I know I’ve had it way worse than today actually is.

  The train ride is blurry, but somehow I find myself back at my apartment and getting ready to go dance. I shower and dress and put on makeup like a robot in a trance. Work is the only thing I’ve looked forward to all day long and I end up showing up forty minutes early and sit at the bar and let Carlos pour me drinks and talk to Alicia for a bit.

  “So there was a sexy mafia guy at your dad’s funeral?” she says. “What was that all about? How old was your dad?”

  “Fifty two,” I tell her, “And as for the mafia dude, I have no idea,” I reply. I’m drinking straight vodka tonight. I decide after a day of being drunk on Jameson I should switch to clear. I can’t really put a finger on my logic, but it seems crisper and less dirty than the whiskey. “He was just there, he gave his condolences, and then he left.”

  “What was his name?” she asks me. “What did he look like? Was he single?”

  “Dirk?” I say. “Dave Carroll? Christ, Alicia, I don’t know.”

  “Drake Carroll,” Carlos pipes in from behind the bar, refreshing my glass. “He’s involved in Chicago politics or something. His brother is running for something political down in Washington, I think. His father was a state senator back in the day.”

  “How do you know all of this?” I ask him. “I barely know who the vice president is.”

  C
arlos smirks. “Well, I do more besides run this bar. Sometimes I read the newspaper. You should try it sometime.”

  Alicia rolls her eyes. “I swear, Carlos hasn’t even heard of the Internet. Who reads a newspaper?”

  Carlos ignores her and goes back to wiping down glasses. It’s that weird time before the club opens where it’s empty but DJ Long is spinning haphazardly so chunks of music flip around and we rotate between speaking normally and shouting. It looks dirty in the pre-evening light, but today is so marred that I can’t imagine anything looks particularly good right now from my perspective. At least I’m somewhere I feel safe.

  Alicia and I finish a bottle between us. I’d like to think we split it but I know I drank more than my half, and she doesn’t say anything. She knows enough of my problems to piece together that alcoholism just comes with the territory. Or maybe she feels guilty that we don’t really have health insurance but we do get paid under the table. I pick my battles and so does she. I get sufficiently drunk enough to feel like I’ve fast forwarded to being in my cage. The music is an eerie jungle beat that makes the bars vibrate in my hands. The automatic lights are swirling pink, green, gold, red and they make my head spin. My hair is down and falling around my back, which is cold and wet. I can’t tell if there’s been a drink poured on me from above or if I’m sweating in air conditioning.

  People become a blur in Appleseed and every now and then I notice something stand out in the crowd. Red shirt. Blue hair. 400 pounds. Once I saw a gun tucked into some guy’s belt and flagged down Carlos to point him out. I got a nice bonus that day. No one wants weapons in the club or you might get the wrong publicity. Normally people ignore the atmosphere after they take it in for the first few minutes of being on the dance floor after they’ve had a few drinks in them. Tonight I feel like someone is watching me and I’m distracted, but I can’t stop. The only way I can stop and have a look is to grab onto one of the top bars and hang upside down and glance around, but I’m drunk and attempting it makes me dizzy, so I continue to sway and dance.