Denton Little's Deathdate

by Lance Rubin

“I guess. But mine has the dots. The red dots.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Taryn finishes off her water. The bottle crackles in her hand.

  This conversation is the opposite of the word turn-on.

  “Sorry I brought it up. I thought it would make you feel better.”

  “Thanks, Tar,” I say, placing my hands on her hips.

  “And don’t worry, I wore this long dress to cover up my legs, so no one will see it.”

  “I thought you were wearing that dress because it’s my favorite.”

  “Oh yeah. That, too.”

  “You could have worn pants to cover your legs.”

  “You think I’d wear pants to your Sitting?”

  “I dunno. No?”

  “You’re funny.” Taryn hands me a card in a lavender envelope. “This is for you.”

  “Oh, thanks, should I read it now?”

  “Not now exactly, but nowish. When you have a sec.”

  “Nowish, got it.” I slide the card into my back pocket.

  “I really love you, Denton Little,” Taryn says, looking at me meaningfully.

  “I really love you, Taryn Brandt.” It comes out sounding less sincere than I intended, and Taryn looks disappointed. “I mean it,” I add, diminishing the power of the moment even more.

  “I know,” Taryn says, letting me off easy.

  Felix swoops in. “Hey, hey,” he says, patting me on the back. “You failed.”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  “I know you were trying to give Raquel a heart attack by showing up way late to your Sitting, but she really held in there. Everything okay?”

  This may be the first time Felix has asked me that and seemed to actually mean it. I’m half touched and half annoyed. He’s been around my whole life, barely paying any attention to me, and now he cares? But then it occurs to me: Felix has been around my whole life. He’s even been around since before I was born. So if that Brian Blum guy had any sort of relationship with my biological mom, maybe Felix might remember him.

  “Yeah, all good. Just, you know, a little late, lost track of time, and whatnot.”

  “Sure, of course,” Felix says, in a sweet but mildly sarcastic way that suggests I was late because I was doing a million inappropriate things. His tone is not lost on Taryn, who may be starting to wonder in more specific detail about why I was late. Oh, no big deal, Tar, I was just hanging out in the woods pantsless with Veronica. Good times.

  “But, hey, I have a question for yo—”

  “Oh shoot, I need to take this,” he says, looking at his phone and backing away. “School stuff, won’t take long.”

  There’s the Felix I know. Never mind that I might die any minute. A phone call comes first.

  “Yup. Sure. Nice,” I say to no one in particular. Taryn sees the stricken look on my face. She kisses me on the cheek and whispers: “You’re great.” I put my arm around her and squeeze tight, which is my brilliant, nonverbal way of saying, You’re great, too.

  “Please forgive me,” my dad says, startling us. “But I know your mother would like everyone to head inside at their, uh, earliest convenience.”

  “Sure, Dad. Hi, by the way,” I say. I haven’t seen him since the funeral, which feels like a long time ago.

  “Hey, Dent. Having a good night?”

  “Under the circumstances, yeah. I guess so. You?”

  “Yeah, you know. It’s been a little tense in these parts.” My dad adjusts his glasses, uncomfortable with this death stuff, which is getting harder and harder to brush aside. Though acknowledging the tenseness is a minor breakthrough for him. He looks like he’s about to say something important.

  “Caught some of the Knicks game on TV. Great game.”

  Or not.

  “Oh yeah, the play-offs started, right?”

  “Sure did.”

  “They win?”

  “Yup. In overtime.”

  “Great, great.”

  There’s a million things we should be talking about right now, and none of them involve basketball. But this is how we communicate, this is our comfort zone, and it’s going to take effort to steer us out of it.

  “Dad…I actually really need to talk with you, if you have a second. About Brian Blum. And about my m—”

  “I know, I know, that’s…Uh, we will talk about it.” My dad takes off his glasses and polishes the lenses on his shirt. “But for now let’s just get inside so we don’t keep your mother waiting.” He pops his glasses back on. “Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, I guess,” I say. “I just feel like the sooner—”

  “Great. So come on in.” My dad pats my shoulder and heads inside. Sometimes, I feel I know almost as little about him as I do about my biological mother.

  “You’ll get to talk, I know you will,” Taryn says.

  “Yo,” Paolo says, popping his head out the front door. His eyes are pink. “You lovebugs wanna take this par-tay inside?”

  I’ve been trying to delay the moment I have to walk through those doors and into the DeathRoom for as long as possible. I look up at the yellow moon—gray-cloud beard semi-covering its face—for what may be the last time and take a deep breath. “Good night, moon.”

  Taryn takes my hand.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s get our Sit on.”

  Walking into the room where I will die doesn’t feel the way I expected it to.

  It feels kinda fun.

  As I enter, everybody in the family room cheers and whoops and hollers in my direction. I release Taryn’s hand and move my arms up and down like I’m raising the proverbial roof. I do this ironically, but—much like the party accessories at my funeral—I find myself questioning if maybe everyone who ever raised the roof thought they were doing it ironically.

  There’s lots of purple everywhere. (It’s my favorite color.) Tablecloths, streamers, paper plates. And, of course, my purple body. It occurs to me that maybe I was genetically predisposed to love that color so my death by Purple Splotch would have a silver lining.

  “Okay, everybody, your attention, please!” My stepmom stands in the center of the room and bangs on a plastic cup with a plastic spoon. It makes a pitiful pattering noise. “I have some sparkling cider here, and if we could just—”

  “Sparkling cider?” Felix says. “Aw, Raquel, we can do better than that, can’t we? It’s Denton’s last hurrah, at least give the guy a little champagne.”

  “No, no,” my stepmom says, with the melodic lilt of a schoolmarm, “I think Denton’s had enough fun with substance abuse for one day. Right?”

  All eyes turn to me.

  “Yeah, the cider is fine.”

  “I love sparkling cider,” Paolo says.

  “So, if you would all raise your glasses,” my stepmom continues as Paolo’s mom and Taryn jump into action like two of the seven dwarfs, pouring and passing cider around the room, “I would like to raise a toast to my son Denton. Such a smart, funny, handsome, brave boy.” She’s on the verge of breaking down. “And good. Such a good person.” Am I? “Thank you for being you.” She started the toast looking at me, but now she’s having trouble making eye contact. “I’d say more, but I’ll just lose it. So, please—everybody have a cup?” The big, dangly green sleeve of my stepmom’s blouse billows as she raises her plastic goblet. “To Denton!”

  “To Denton!”

  “Denton!”

  “Hear, hear!” my dad says.

  And then: that brief moment of serenity and quiet as everyone drinks.

  “Ah, every bit as good as champagne,” Felix says, breaking the silence.

  “Right?” Paolo says, genuinely marveling at its taste.

  “Thanks, everybody,” I say.

  “And please, everyone, have something to eat.” My stepmom gestures to the amazing snack table across the room. “We have way too much food here.”

  The chatter picks back up, and I step out of the spotlight. I scan the room for my dad but can’t find him. I do, however, see my uncle Andre, aunt
Deana, and ten-year-old cousin Tiffany sitting on the couch looking bored. They live in New York City, and they’re not my favorites.

  Uncle Andre—my stepmom’s brother—is a large man of few words. And, yes, we often refer to him as Andre the Giant. Aunt Deana is thick, blond, and vaguely horse-like, with a way of talking about everything as if it has let her down. Tiffany is a stylish, round little girl who, despite being eight years younger than me, makes me feel überdefensive and judged every time we talk. I wave at them. That’ll do for now.

  On the far side of the room, Paolo is camped out near the snack table—dips, chips, nuts, veggies, cheese, cold cuts, and bread—eating a pretzel log with an unparalleled level of focus.

  My eyes fall upon Grandpa Sid, whose small frame looks comical in our big brown recliner. “Hey, Grandpa,” I say, realizing as I get closer that he may have been napping with his eyes open.

  He blinks three times and smooths down the four or five hairs he has left on top of his head. “Hello.”

  “It’s me, Denton.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh. Good. Well, it’s great to see you.”

  “Would you mind getting me another club soda?”

  “Uh. Sure, Grandpa.”

  “No ice!”

  I take his purple plastic cup and head toward the beverages, which are on a little rolling cart next to the snack table.

  I’m temporarily sidetracked by the framed pictures of me that are scattered all over the room:

  Five-year-old Denton plays on the beach with a pail and shovel.

  Thirteen-year-old Denton graduates from middle school, standing next to Paolo, both of them looking young and naive and dorky in graduation caps.

  Ten-year-old Denton and Raquel and Denton’s grandmother Eva (affectionately known as Mima), all dressed nicely, talk in a candid taken outside Mima’s funeral.

  Three-month-old Denton glares at the camera, the frame filled by his chubby, chubby cheeks.

  Six-year-old Denton and fifteen-year-old Felix stand in front of the entrance to the Magic Kingdom, Denton excited and sparkly-eyed, Felix in sunglasses and barely smiling, still in his awkward phase.

  My grandpa’s husky voice cuts through my nostalgic reverie. “That club soda ain’t gonna get itself!”

  “Right, right,” I say. “I’m on it, Grandpa!”

  “No ice!”

  I arrive at the beverage cart, where Paolo is now chomping on a celery stick.

  “Hey,” I say. “Hungry much?”

  “Just wanted a little snack.”

  Reaching past a huge urn of coffee, I scoop some ice out of a plastic bucket and put it in my grandpa’s cup.

  “What are you doing?!” my grandpa shouts across the room, as if I’ve just set the house on fire.

  “Whoops! Sorry, sorry!” I wish I could say I did that on purpose to mess with him, but I just forgot.

  I pour him a new ice-free club soda, pour some Dr Pepper for myself, and pull up a folding chair right next to my grandpa’s recliner.

  “Here you go,” I say, passing him his drink. “We missed you this afternoon at the funeral.”

  He sips his club soda. “I don’t do those.”

  “Yeah, I know, Grandpa. You tell me that a lot.”

  “How can it be a funeral when the deceased is standing right there watching?”

  “I know, it’s a crazy thing.”

  Grandpa gives a big sniff and lightly rocks back and forth on the recliner a few times. “I’ll celebrate your life once you’re gone.”

  “Well, that’s…sweet, I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  “But, you know, Grandpa, there won’t be another funeral once I die.”

  “You won’t get buried?”

  “No, I will get buried, but—”

  “And won’t there be some kind of memorial ceremony when you’re buried?”

  “Sure, a small one, with just the immediate family, but—”

  “That’s where I’ll do my mourning.” He rocks back and forth a few more times, as if to punctuate the end of the thought.

  “Okay.”

  “And for you, I’ll mourn a lot. You’re a good kid.”

  “Uh, well. Thanks, Grandpa.”

  We sit in silence as my grandfather continues his light rocking.

  It’s the first actual sitting I’ve done at my Sitting, and it’s nice.

  I breathe and look around the room, trying to identify potential causes of death.

  Nothing calls out to me.

  Carbon monoxide has no smell, right?

  I take in the people around me.

  Felix and Taryn talk about the AP chemistry teacher at our high school. They’re both semi-convinced that he doesn’t understand basic scientific concepts, and they wonder how he ever got tenure.

  Aunt Deana rubs Uncle Andre’s back while explaining why she’s not going to say sorry to Anya (whoever that is) and that it should be Anya calling and apologizing to her.

  My stepmom walks back in from the kitchen with a freshly bandaged Millie, who assures her that she doesn’t need money for a new bike.

  Paolo, still at the snack table, carefully guides a chip piled high with spinach dip into his mouth. Veronica watches, looking nauseated.

  Life is happening. All these moments, these small, inconsequential conversations. We all have thousands of these every week and don’t think twice about it. How many more will I have? Three? Six? Fourteen? One?

  I don’t have time for small and inconsequential.

  I put down my Dr Pepper and bolt up out of my chair into the kitchen, where my dad is standing by the stove, reading the New York Times.

  “Are you seriously in here reading?”

  “Oh, hi,” my dad says, looking up from the Arts section. “No, uh, making tea.” He gestures to a kettle on the stove. “Waiting for this to boil.”

  I do not understand what goes on in this man’s brain.

  “Okay, but…you’ve been in here awhile.”

  “Well, you know how I feel about crowds.”

  “There’s, like, eleven people in there, Dad.”

  My dad clears his throat and folds up the newspaper.

  “And I think this is sort of a unique circumstance.”

  “Of course, of course.” He stares at the teakettle.

  “I want you to tell me about my mother,” I say.

  For the first time in our conversation, my dad really sees me.

  He stares at me for a long moment, hundreds of unspoken thoughts spinning in his eyes.

  “All right,” he says. He gestures to a chair at the kitchen table.

  I sit.

  He sits.

  “What do you want to know?” he says from across the table.

  I’m caught off guard by his sudden willingness to talk about this. I thought there would be some more hemming and hawing.

  “I mean…Everything. Why didn’t you tell me about Brian Blum? What haven’t you forgiven him for?”

  The kettle whistles.

  My dad reaches out and turns off the stove without looking. Badass.

  “Your mother, she was, well, she got involved with some bad characters.”

  “Like Brian?”

  “Yeah, like Brian.”

  “Bad like criminals?”

  “No, not exactly. Bad like they were inspiring her to make choices I didn’t necessarily agree with. I started to feel like…” My dad stares at the table.

  “Yes…? Like what?”

  “I felt like I was losing her.”

  “Right…You were. She was going to die.”

  “Of course, and that was so painful, but also…Well, there’s lots of ways you can lose someone, Dent.”

  My dad looks at me like, Now do you understand? as if that explains everything.

  “Okay,” I say. “But what were her choices you didn’t agree with?”

  My dad rubs his neck. “Well, for starters, you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,
I, uh, didn’t think we should have another child if your mom was going to die.”

  “I thought I was an accident.”

  “It was easier to tell you that, but really, your mother wanted another kid, and I didn’t, and she, uh…”

  “She what?”

  “She went off, uh, birth control without telling me.”

  “What?” These words don’t make sense. “What are you saying? That you didn’t want me?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes, but—”

  “That’s so fucked up, Dad!” I feel like I’ve been smacked in the face.

  “No, no, now don’t misunderstand me. Once we had you, I loved you, I was so happy to have you in my life. I am so, so happy to…It was just the idea of you.”

  I can’t believe it. This explains everything about our relationship. My dad’s silence, his perpetual nonchalance about my life.

  He never wanted me.

  “Well, cool, Dad.” I am up on my feet, though I don’t remember deciding to stand. “So, guess it’s great that I’m dying any minute, right?” My voice breaks as I fight back tears. “You’ll finally get what you wanted.”

  My dad stands. “Dent, come on, you know it’s not like that. Please, let me—”

  “No, really, don’t worry about it. All your information is too vague to mean anything anyway. Just read your paper.”

  I leave my dad alone in the middle of the kitchen.

  Back in the family room, everyone’s laughing about something.

  “Hey, sweetie,” my stepmom says. “Did you get to talk to Dad?”

  When I first found out that my stepmom was not the woman who gave birth to me, I became obsessed with learning everything I could about the woman who did. Was she funny? Was she nice? What did she like to do? I was an eight-year-old on a mission. The problem was, my primary source of information was my father, and he gave me pretty much nothing. You’d think he would want my mom’s legacy to live on, for her sons to know as much about her as possible. Not the case.

  My stepmom, meanwhile, was as gracious about the subject as she could be, but she had her own blocks. I’m not sure if she was made uncomfortable by something in my dad’s behavior, or worried I’d love her less if I knew more about my real mother, but however you want to slice it, neither of them was as helpful to me as I think they should have been.