Hello Kitty Must Die (20 page)

I came home from Jack’s funeral rosy-cheeked with a stomach full of homemade meatloaf, potato salad, and key lime pie.

But Chinese funerals ruin all that for me.

The numerous superstitions sap all the fun out. They are enough to scare someone to death. That’s because improper funeral arrangements can bring bad luck and disaster on the decedent’s family and anyone else who attends the funeral.

“Remember to light some incense and bow deeply, Fiona,” said my father.

“When we get to the grave and the coffin is removed from the hearse and lowered into the ground, you must turn away,” warned my mother.

Or you will die.

Or someone in your family will die.

Do anything improper and bad luck will follow you. So will Death.

And you will die.

It’s dangerous business to attend a Chinese funeral.

“Don’t wear that nice suit, Fiona,” whispered my mother.

“Why? It’s black.”

“Because after the funeral, we’ll have to burn it.”

“What?”

“To avoid bad luck associated with death. Here, I bought you a cheap black suit from Ross.”

My mother handed me a brand new, ninety-dollar Tahari suit. A discounted black suit to be worn once and burned. All because of Don.

“And remember, Fiona, we have to stop off at Safeway before we come home.”

Because you don’t want Death following you home. You go to Safeway or Albertsons to confuse Death, to lose him at the supermarket in the cereal aisle, hoping that he will be too distracted by the Club Card special and the selection of Grape Nuts, Cheerios, and Special K.

“Dad, are you sure we should be going to Don’s funeral?”

“We have to. You were his fiancée.”

Right.

“Don’t you think his family might be a little mad at me?”

“For what? It was an accident. You tried to save him.”

Right.

When we arrived at the funeral home, the greeter shouted, “Guests have arrived.”

Don’s family was seated next to the coffin. They looked up. Traditionally, they should have worn white tunics and sackcloth headdresses as a sign of mourning. Instead, the family decided to go with the American part of Chinese-America and wore black suits and dresses.

“First bow,” said the greeter.

We bowed. Then we walked up towards the coffin.

“Second bow.”

We bowed.

I lit some incense and raised it up to my forehead before placing it in the holder in front of the altar.

“Third bow.”

We bowed.

“Family members thank the guests.”

Don’s family bowed to us in thanks. For braving Death itself by coming to Don’s funeral. We bowed back.

Everyone sat in silence after that. Don’s parents couldn’t offer prayers to their son. According to Chinese custom, an elder should never show respect to someone younger. So if you die young, unmarried, and childless, too bad. No prayers for you.

It’s even worse for dead babies. No funeral rites at all. Dead babies get tossed in the ground in silence because everyone’s their elder.

Don was lucky he was getting a proper funeral at all.

“Don’t we have to wear some kind of cloth or something?” I asked my father afterward, when we were standing in the dairy aisle at Safeway.

“No. Because he didn’t have any children.”

According to custom, the period of mourning by Don’s family must continue for another hundred days, signified by wearing a piece of colored cloth on the sleeve of each of the family members. Black is worn by the deceased’s children, blue by the grandchildren and green by the great-grandchildren. But Don didn’t have any children. So no one had to wear anything.

But a period of mourning is not required if the deceased is a child or a wife. No need to mourn anyone you can replace easily.

“Oh, Fiona, I almost forgot. Out of respect for Don, you cannot date for at least a year.”

“What?”

“You were his fiancée. That’s almost like a wife. So you can’t go on dates for a year.”

“A year?”

“A year.”

Hai, Daddy.

Because I would bring the shadow of death to other boys. It had nothing to do with respect for Don. But either way, I would be prearranged-date-free for a year. That’s the upside of Chinese funerals. If you do everything right and obey all the rules, good luck follows you.

It really does.

I WALKED INTO MY OFFICE
on Monday morning to find that all my files and books had disappeared. When I logged into my email, I noticed a new message from Human Resources.

Hi Fiona,

Doreen has asked us to move you closer to her for her convenience. We’ve moved all your files and books to office C3. That’s on the floor above yours. It’s the one on Doreen’s right. IT will be taking care of the phone and computer. No worries.

Any questions, please let me know, okay?

-Colleen, HR Manager

For Doreen’s convenience.

I went up to my new office, not knowing what to expect, but feeling relieved that I had not been laid off.

“Do you like it?”

I turned around to face Doreen.

“Yes, it’s beautiful. It’s so big.”

“I hope you’re not complaining that it’s too big.”

“No. No. This is great.”

It was. The office was much bigger than Keener’s office. It had a better view, being one floor higher. And a couch. A couch where I could read, put my tired, aching feet up after hours, and take a nap when I had to pull an all-nighter.

“Good, I’m glad you like it. You’ll be spending tonight here. I need these three agreements by tomorrow morning.” Doreen handed me three thick files and returned to her office.

“Sure.”

Anything you say, Doreen.

I settled into my new office, burying my head in Doreen’s contracts. I didn’t even have time to put up a new desktop picture. Countess Elizabeth Bathory would just have to wait.

Around ten-thirty at night, my cell phone rang, pulling me out of an agreement-induced trance.

“Fi, it’s me.”

“Hey, Sean. What’s up?”

“Can you come over tonight?”

“No can do, Sean. I got a new office. Right next to Doreen’s and she’s making me earn my keep. Why? What’s up?”

“You think you can come over tomorrow?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Is everything okay?”

“Can you at least take a break and swing by my place tomorrow evening? Please.”

“Sure. What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

“Sean?”

“Yeah, Fi?”

“Everything okay?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You know what they say about luck, that it eventually runs out?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s my problem. What time can you be here?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. How about six, six-thirty?”

“Thanks. See you then.”

The short conversation with Sean disturbed me, disrupting my concentration for the rest of the night. I had never known Sean to be worried, to lose his cool, to be anything but calm and totally under control.

Maybe Sean was losing it. Maybe his luck was indeed running out. Whatever it was, it had to be serious. His fear and unease stunk like human shit, like the time he crapped his tightie-whities when his father came and got him at school.

Sister Maria had caught Sean smoking behind his usual corner of the schoolyard. Except this time, Sean couldn’t lie and say that the stamped-out cigarette butts on the ground belonged to someone else. He had a cigarette between his lips when Sister Maria spun him around by the shoulder.

“Class, Sean has something to tell everyone.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. Tell everyone what I just caught you doing.”

“Jerking off.”

Our class burst out laughing. Sister Maria threatened us back into silence with detention slips.

“Sean, if you don’t tell everyone what you were just doing, you’ll be getting two weeks of detention instead of one.”

“Okay, Sister. Everyone, I was smoking. Yes, smoking.”

“And what did we learn about smoking, Sean?”

“That it’s bad. That we’ll go to hell for it.”

“And why is smoking bad?”

“Because it gives us lung cancer. And because getting lung cancer hurts Jesus.”

“That’s right. Now, go to the principal’s office.”

I pretended I needed to use the restroom so that I could get out of class. I found Sean sitting on the bench outside Sister Carmen’s office, where I had sat after thumping Jeremy.

Sean was pale. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sister Carmen called my father. He’s going to come and get me,” he said.

“Well, at least you get to go home early.”

“My father is going to kill me for stealing his cigarettes.”

“No, he’s not, Sean. He’s probably just going to ground you or make you clean up your room.”

“You don’t know my father, Fi. He’s going to beat the crap out of me.”

When his father arrived, Sean got up and I smelled shit emanating from his seat. But like a true friend, I pretended not to notice that he had messed his undies. Even back then, I understood people culture.

And I knew he was right about the beating awaiting him at home. No one craps his pants about suspended television and phone privileges.

Sean missed the next two days of school. Sister Maria marked him down as sick. When he returned to class, he had a note from his father which he showed me before giving it to Sister Maria.

Dear Sister,

Sean was sick for the last two days. My son had severe stomach pains, gas, and uncontrollable diarrhea. Please excuse him.

-Frank Deacon

Adding insult to injury. Frank was an asshole.

But Sean hadn’t asked me to come over the next day because he was afraid of getting another beating from his father—Frank was dead.

It sounded like Sean needed a major dose of good luck. He should have attended Don’s funeral with me.

E
VERYONE KNOWS THAT THE
best lie is a half-truth. Because a lie flavored with a kernel of truth makes the lie taste more like the real thing.

So long as the person you’re lying to never finds out which half is which.

Unfortunately, sometimes you’re the person being told the half-truth, and you’re left wondering which half is which.

I buzzed Sean’s apartment around six in the evening the next day, itching with curiosity and excitement. From his sense of urgency over the phone, I expected Sean to answer the door immediately.

But he didn’t.

I buzzed him again, keeping my thumb on the little white button long enough to be rude.

No answer.

I called Sean on his cell phone. After a couple of rings, he finally picked up. “Hey Sean, I half expected you to greet me in your feather boa. But I think I’d settle for you just to buzz me in.”

“Are you at my apartment, Fi?”

“Yes. You asked me to drop by last night, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. I remember. Listen, Fi, I’m a little busy at the moment. Can we meet up tomorrow instead?”

I heard seagulls crying in the background and suspected Sean was somewhere near the wharf or harbor.

“Sean, where are you?”

Sean ignored my question, which I took as a sign not to ask any further about his current whereabouts. To drive the point home, he changed the topic.

“How did Don’s funeral go?”

“Not as lovely as Jack’s. Holy Christ, you should have seen how much food people brought.”

“People always bring too much food to wakes. Keeping their eyes on the cherry pie makes them feel less awkward.”

“Like me.” I laughed. “And it was key lime pie.”

“So when are you going on your next date?”

“Not for another year, courtesy of Don’s tragic and untimely demise.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my father said custom is for the fiancée to mourn for a year. So no dating for me for 365 days.”

“The fiancee. That’s spectacular, Fi.”

“Sean, is everything okay?”

“I need to take care of some things. I’ll call you later.” Sean hung up. He didn’t even apologize for standing me up.

Part of me wanted to pry into whatever Sean was keeping back. Part of me wanted to utter the three magic words that allowed lawyers to be nosey-parkers and knowledge keepers without having to sleep with the fish.

“Attorney-client privilege. Anything you want to tell me, Sean?”

But I knew Sean too well. He would not have appreciated any insinuation that he needed to speak within the privilege.

Even with the privilege, most people lie to their attorneys. That’s where the half-truths come in. Mostly, they are afraid you won’t help them if they tell you everything. And they’re right.

“The first person to lie to you in a case will probably be your client,” said Dean Perry.

I started to walk home, but instead, I stepped out into the street and hailed a cab. That’s one fabulous thing about San Francisco. Cabs are everywhere so long as you are in a somewhat commercial area. And you can hail one with a wave of your arm.

“South Beach Harbor, please.”