Hello Kitty Must Die

by Angela S. Choi

  Overconfidence, overreaching arrogance, pride, refusal to heed warnings. That’s why Icarus fell.

  I told myself Sean would be fine. No one was smarter, more careful, calculating. He would be all right.

  I HAD SOMETHING NEW to face at home.

  “That is terrible. Why would she ask him to do such a thing?” my mother said as I walked through the door.

  My parents were huddled together at the dining table, deep in discussion. My father turned when I came in.

  “Who do what thing, Mom?”

  “Your cousin, Katie. Who lives in L.A.”

  “Yes, I remember Katie.” Katie who told me I needed to bleach my face and to lose weight. Katie who flaunted her young Chinese husband in my face the last time I visited her. “What about her?”

  “She doesn’t want to have children.”

  “So Katie isn’t that dumb after all.”

  “Fiona, I’m serious. She wants Peter to be unable to have kids.”

  “She wants him to have an operation,” clarified my father.

  Snip snip. Poor Peter. Guess he didn’t fancy the idea of being neutered. “Just tell them to stock up on rubbers.”

  “Fiona! Don’t be crude!” my mother said.

  “I’m not. I’m being practical.”

  “We don’t understand why she doesn’t want kids. Katie is Chinese. Hong Kong born. I don’t understand why she would ask him to do such a thing. He’s such a nice boy,” moaned my mother.

  Because Katie has had a taste of America.

  Because she likes her life the way it is and doesn’t want it to change. And Hello Kitty didn’t want a kitten turning her firm boobs into swinging pendulums.

  I understood my mother’s confusion. Chinese folks love children. After all, that’s why they scatter peanuts all over the bedspread of the wedding bed. As many descendants as there are peanuts. And the Cantonese word for “peanuts” even sounds like the word for “giving birth.”

  Children are wonderful. Especially male children. Sons, sons, sons. Even though there can be no sons without daughters, everyone still prefers sons. They don’t think about who their sons are going to marry when they grow up.

  Logical gymnastics.

  According to some customs, a wife can’t even eat dinner at the dinner table with the family unless she has given birth to a son. She has not made herself worthy to them.

  “Mom, Dad, it’s simple. Katie’s getting ready to divorce Peter.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Divorce! Don’t even say it.”

  “Let’s face it. Peter needed a green card. Katie wanted the money. That’s the only reason he put up with Katie’s crap. And why she put up with his. She’s not going to stay married to him forever.”

  “Katie is a good girl. She wants to have children.”

  No she doesn’t. She wants to send Peter under the knife. Because she knows that that kids would just chain her to him forever. I never liked Peter. I thought of him as little better than a green card whore, which he was. His family paid Katie’s mom forty thousand dollars to put him up for a semester when he got into UC Berkeley. Or so she said.

  I never liked Katie. I thought of her as little better than a money whore, which she was. A money whore who was obsessed with skin whiteners and diet pills.

  A few months later, Peter and Katie got married at a Las Vegas wedding chapel. No disgruntled bridesmaids. No reception. No three-tiered wedding cake. No engagement ring. But Katie got a brand new eighty-thousand-dollar Lexus.

  After spending some time with the newlyweds, I found that I actually felt sorry for the both of them. I realized they had to put up with each other.

  “So what do you guys do on the weekends?” I asked Peter one afternoon when Katie was out.

  “We go shopping at Target, clean up the apartment, go shopping downtown. That kind of thing.”

  “Why don’t you go on romantic vacations together?”

  “No money. Katie went to Europe by herself.”

  “What?”

  “Katie took a tour of Europe.”

  “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “We didn’t have the money for two people to go, so she went by herself.”

  Okay.

  “So what did you do at home, Peter?”

  “Fixed up the house, waited for her.”

  Christ.

  Then Peter had to deal with Katie’s temper tantrums and her mother’s endless demands around the house, rides to and from here and there, grocery trips. He became the designated grocery boy, chaffeur, cook, handyman. And now he wanted to be a father.

  But Katie wasn’t interested in motherhood. She wanted other things.

  No wonder the poor guy wanted out.

  “Mom, Katie treats him like crap. She’s a bully.”

  “She has a temper, I know.”

  “And now she wants him to get snipped.”

  My mother didn’t say anything for a moment. She mulled her thoughts over and finally threw her hands up in frustration.

  “You know, forget it! Don’t listen to your father’s silliness anymore, Fiona.”

  “What?”

  “Getting married and all that. Go live your life. Buy yourself some more Dior shoes, kiss Pepito, have a great life.”

  Hai, Mom.

  “It’s not worth it. Look at Katie. Young people these days! A good Chinese girl telling her husband to make himself unable to have babies at his age. You’re right, Fiona. She wants to divorce him.”

  “Divorce is better than ending up headless in some ditch, Mom.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true. Tell Katie to get herself a good attorney.”

  But Peter ended up being the one who needed a lawyer.

  About a month later, the LAPD arrested Peter when my aunt found Katie lying at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck. The couple had been arguing upstairs. About having babies. About not having babies.

  The neighbors heard them. My aunt heard them. Next thing everyone knew, Katie tumbled down the stairs. Peter claimed she had tripped over her nightgown. My aunt said he pushed her.

  So LAPD arrested him for murder.

  Welcome to America. Peter would be staying. And he didn’t even need a green card.

  As for Katie, she got a free trip to the morgue. Because that’s what happens to Hello Kitties who don’t play by the rules. You don’t do what your parents tell you, you get put out. You don’t have children when your husband wants children, you end up with a broken neck.

  And Katie’s CPA degree and designer shoe collection didn’t do shit to prevent her trip down the stairs.

  Katie’s death made me think about Don. About how I had saved myself from a similar fate. It was him or me. There was no other way, unless I wanted to join my cousin at the Medical Examiner’s office. Not a good place. They don’t serve fifteen-dollar bellinis there.

  “See, Dad? Katie should have just divorced him. It would have been better than a broken neck.”

  “You were right.”

  “What?”

  “You were right about Peter. Poor Katie.”

  “See? Stop trying to set me up with Peters. I like my neck the way it is.”

  I thought my father was going to chastize me for my comment, but he didn’t. Instead, he laughed.

  “Me too, Fiona.”

  Me three.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  SEAN’S CAR SMELLED FUNNY. Not like dead squirrels, but like peach orchards, pine cones, vanilla mint, ocean breeze, citrus medley. An olfactory rainbow of air fresheners.

  But not even the combined efforts of Glade, Lysol, and Fe-breeze could mask the cheap perfumes worn by Sean’s recently deceased passengers.

  “Dude, pick one scent and stick with it,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “Your car. It smells like vanilla citrus ocean breeze.”

  “That’s good.”

  As long as it didn’t smell like dead squir
rels or dead hookers, Sean didn’t care. Because he couldn’t smell it anyway.

  Sean began picking up a lot of prostitutes in his fancy Mercedes. They took one look at him and the car and went to their doom willingly. It became too easy.

  I hoped he would get sick of his new pastime. Instead, he became addicted.

  I learned this when he took me with him on the weekends, after I had finished Doreen’s work. We went to bars, had fifteen-dollar drinks, and went for drives through hooker country.

  “How’s Doreen?”

  “Still alive and giving me assignments.”

  “Too bad. You can’t come along for more fun with your buddy.”

  “More fun?”

  Sean said nothing. We drove by several women in mini-mini skirts and platform fuck-me shoes. They jeered at us, waving their arms.

  “I do couples, honey!” one yelled after us.

  I turned and looked at Sean, who kept his eyes on the road like a good driver. Always thinking of the safety of others, Sean was.

  “Hear that? She sounds like your kind of fun.”

  “Nah.”

  “Why not?”

  “The last one was black. Two days ago.”

  “Two days ago?”

  “Yeah, sorry, Fi. Couldn’t wait for you to come along.”

  “So this one is no good?”

  “She’s black too. Never develop too much of a type or pattern. Just cuts your career short.”

  Right.

  So we drove around some more until Sean spotted a redhead in a black leather skirt and pink boa scarf with a big hair-sprayed updo. She was cussing at a car that refused to pick her up. “Go home and suck your momma’s titties,” she yelled, shaking her heavy chest.

  “Now that’s my type of girl, Fi.”

  “A redhead?”

  “Mean and nasty.”

  Sean pulled over to the curb right in front of her, but before he lowered the passenger side window he said, “No worries, Fi. I’ll drop you off at Big Four. Wait for me there?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “No worries, Fi. Trust me. Tonight will be a blast.”

  The girl bent over and peered in at us through the lowered window, giving me a dirty look. I ignored her, staring straight ahead.

  “Sorry, guys. I don’t do couples,” she said, winding her gum around her finger before popping it back in her mouth.

  “Nah, I’m dropping this one off. How would you like to spend a night at the Mark Hopkins?”

  “Mark Hopkins?”

  “Yeah, get in.”

  And she did.

  Sean dropped me off a block away from the bar and winked as I slammed the door closed. The hooker sneered at me from the back seat. I felt uneasy, especially because Sean had passed me off as a prostitute.

  I wondered what Sean had in mind. Taking the girl to a place like the Mark Hopkins where the doorman or bellhop would remember them. Risky, stupid, out of character for Sean.

  I watched as they drove off. I watched the car go right past the Mark Hopkins, disappearing down a hill towards the bay. The red tail lights of his Mercedes flashed like demonic eyes from the movies.

  I wasn’t so sure that this girl deserved what she was going to get. She just wanted to make a living. It was her body, her life, her choice of profession. In California, if you’ve got it, you flaunt it, market it, sell it. All to the highest bidder. Just ask the folks in Hollywood. It’s West Coast culture.

  I suspected that it no longer mattered to Sean. Whether someone was asking for it or not. He was in it for the thrill now. I prayed that he was not devolving, throwing caution to the wind, giving in completely to the darkness. Because that would lead him straight to San Quentin State Prison.

  I walked into the Big Four and sat down at a small table. I took out my cell phone and kept it in front of me.

  “What can I get you?” asked a waitress with a Russian accent.

  “A glass of riesling, please.”

  And a glass of cabernet.

  About an hour and a half later, Sean called. I jumped when my cell phone began flashing and vibrating.

  “Ever been sailing at night?”

  “Do people even go sailing at night, Sean?”

  “Pick you up in a bit.”

  He hung up without waiting for my answer.

  Being on the water at night seemed creepy and unnatural to me. Almost like flying a kite at night in the rain. So of course, I had to go.

  “Want anything else, miss?”

  “Yes, a strong cup of coffee.”

  Whatever Sean had in mind, I wanted to be clear-minded and awake, in case I needed to be. The waitress brought me coffee. I drank it black in quick little sips, hoping to get all the caffeine in me I could before Sean pulled up.

  We drove down to South Beach Harbor. It was deserted. But walking with Sean, I was fearless. Nothing feels safer than walking around with the most dangerous man in town.

  “It’s a calm night, Fi. Thought you’d like to go for a midnight sail.”

  “So long as you don’t steer us into a bridge.”

  Sean laughed.

  When we sailed past Ghirardelli Square, he handed the tiller over to me. Ghirardelli Square is home to the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory and the Ghirardelli Soda Fountain Chocolate Shop, known for its world famous ice cream sundaes which I have never tried, believing, like many residents, that I can do so at any time. But tourists flock to it at Fisherman’s Wharf in droves.

  “Isn’t Ghirardelli Square spectacular at nighttime?” Sean asked, his eyes sparkling.

  “I’ve never seen it look so pretty before. I can’t take my eyes off of it.”

  And I didn’t.

  I kept my eyes on the glittering lights of the Wharf, the dark shapes of houses, trees, cars below the huge Ghirardelli sign, while Sean shuffled around in the shadows behind me. He was moving objects on the starboard side, partially hidden by the main sail.

  Splash.

  Sean had pushed something over the side of the boat.

  I ignored the sound. “Have you ever been to that restaurant at the top of Ghirardelli Square, Sean?”

  “No, is it any good?”

  Splash.

  “Remember Laurie from my old firm? She said that place has the best strawberry milkshakes.”

  “You like milkshakes, Fi?”

  Sean kicked at something with his foot. It rolled over and fell into the water. Splash.

  “No, I hate milkshakes. It’s like drinking snot. Strawberry ones are the worst. They’re Liquid Tylenol-flavored snot.”

  He laughed. “Then we won’t go to that restaurant.”

  “Sean, I’m hungry. I had too much wine at the Big Four. I need some food.”

  “What’s open this hour?”

  “Chinatown restaurants. I know a great one.”

  “Cool. I’m getting cold anyway. Let’s turn back into the harbor.”

  So we did.

  COLD AND WET, WE arrived at Yuet Lee, a cheap seafood restaurant in Chinatown that stayed open into the wee hours of the night.

  I ordered jook, Chinese breakfast rice soup. But this savory rice porridge is not only for breakfast. It’s perfect for a midnight meal and for curing the common cold. It’s our version of chicken soup. It’s soul food, especially if you add a little seafood, pork, and slices of pickled egg.

  A satisfying meal for anyone after a hard night of doing God’s work.

  “So what do you have planned for the holidays, Fi?”

  “Well, next week, I have Katie’s funeral in L.A. Then I might stay down there to see what becomes of poor Peter.”

  “Sounds like fun. But who’s going to take care of your bird?”

  If I was away from Pepito for too long, he would feed me his doughnuts as punishment for ditching him. Or worse yet, he would die of neglect. “Crap. Nevermind. I’ll just go for the funeral. Knowing my aunt, it’ll be a full-blown Chinese affair. In other words, it’ll just suck.”

&nbs
p; “Don’t they serve Peking duck or shark fin soup at the wake?”

  “You wish. It’s cheap Chinese food.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky and they’ll do it American style.”

  I RETURNED HOME LATE. My parents had left the hallway light on for me. I love them.

  “You want some hot water?” my mother asked. She had heard me come in.

  Boiled water. Healthy boiled water with only dead bacteria.

  “No thanks, Mom. I’m going to bed.”

  “Okay.”

  She didn’t even ask where I had been or whether I was drunk. Guess Katie’s death convinced her to let me have some fun.

  Because poor Katie didn’t. She got married and got killed.

  No fun.

  Too bad Katie didn’t live here and use our Laundromat. I could have done her and Peter a big favor. I could have saved her life with a pair of lacy panties or a cherry lipstick smear.

  But thanks to her, I would get a couple of days in Los Angeles.

  “Remember not to mention anything about Peter, Fiona,” my father instructed me on the plane.

  Duh. Like he really needed to tell me not to talk about Peter at Katie’s funeral. A total no-brainer.

  “And don’t speak to Peter’s family,” my mother said.

  “Peter’s family is going to be there?”

  “Yes, they flew over from Hong Kong yesterday.”

  To be with their son while he went on trial for murdering his wife.

  “Is Peter going to be there, Mom?”

  “I don’t think so. I think the police still have him.”

  Oh.

  “Fiona, did you bring one of your nice suits?”

  “No, Mom. I brought a cheap skirt and blouse.” In case we had to torch my outfit so Death didn’t come home with us.

  “Did you bring shoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And hose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good girl.”

  My father remained quiet until the plane landed. When we got off the plane, he turned to me, looking as if he just remembered something.

  “And Fiona.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember to wear lipstick.”