Thumbsucker by Kyle Joseph Kennedy

Bleeding in the produce aisle of Aldi, I debate between containers of mushy pre-cut cantaloupe. At the bottom of one of the containers, a viscous orange liquid lolls around like swallowed phlegm. I put them back and suck my thumb, the blood settling into my taste buds like a houseguest sinking into a sofa bed. I grab bananas, apples, a large bag of granola bites and two mint chocolate bars. Mom’s favorite. 

“Oh, you look nice,” says the familiar cashier with the hoop nose ring. For weeks I’ve been waiting for a chance to chat her up. Instead, I raise my cheeks in a counterfeit smile and hide my blood-stained reusable grocery bag behind my back as she scans my items. 

Outside, the sun is blinding. The breeze irritates my ears. I put the sweltering car in reverse, then drive to the funeral home with the windows up and the air off. I suck my thumb.

*

I’ve never been good at the kind of conversation you have at water coolers and casual encounters. How are the kids? How is work? Looks like snow. Oh, did you hear what happened to so-and-so? Mercifully, the funeral home in Bluffton, South Carolina, all former-plantation white and southern gothic columns, has a family suite. It’s not solitude, but it’s as close as I can get while fulfilling my duty as son of the deceased.

When I enter the room, my nieces sprint over, oblivious to the solemnity of the occasion. “Uncle Robby,” they shout, wrapping my legs with their arms like crocs pulling me into the marsh. This time my smile is real.

“I got you something,” I say, poking Melanie in the belly. I fish the chocolate bars from the blood-stained bag and hand them over. 

I can see Cassie’s grip pressing into the packaging. She turns up her nose. “I think it’s melted,” she says. 

I scan the room. “We just need somewhere cold to put them for a few minutes,” I say. “Can you think of somewhere…”

Melanie taps her lips with her index finger like her mother does, like our mother did. “The freezer,” she shouts and runs to the complimentary kitchenette. With the combined strength of a hundred pounds, the girls pry the door open and place their chocolate bars on shelves corresponding to their height.

When I turn back, my sister is there. She’s dyed her hair dark, like Mom’s. “Chocolate? Seriously?” We hug longer than usual. Before she can admonish me further, a woman who smiles with her gums ushers us to the viewing area. The ceremony is about to begin.

Over the course of an hour, we mourn. Speeches are given. Prayers are offered. No one mentions Dad who, to no one’s surprise, didn’t show. During the eulogy, I escape to the family suite and eat an apple so slowly that it browns before I can finish it.

When the funeral ends, I say goodbye to no one and drive home. Passing the Aldi a few blocks from my house, I remember the chocolate bars, still in the funeral home freezer, little fingerprints pressed into them like fossils. I check the clock. It’s seven fifty-eight. The Aldi lights are still on. I pull into the empty parking lot. When I put it in park, the car sighs beneath me.

Through the window, I can see the cashier with the nose ring locking the register, then punching a code by the office door. She is alone. I watch as she grabs a backpack from under the register and exits through the front doors, locking the heavy sliding doors as she leaves. I turn the ignition key. The sound startles her and she glares at my car. I scramble to put it in drive, to flee before I have to explain myself, but her face alights with recognition. She offers a meek wave. I reach to roll the window down, but the smooth sole of my once-worn dress shoe slips off the brake and the car lurches forward. She winces. 

I raise my hand in apology and pull away too quickly. My tires squeal on the pavement. I don’t look in the rearview. I’ll have to find a new grocery store.

I turn left, then right, then right and I’m on my street, up my drive. My heart is pounding. I crawl into bed, the covers pulled to my waist like an open casket. I suck my thumb. It tastes like family.

Kyle Joseph Kennedy is a writer from Metro Detroit, Michigan. In a previous life, he performed sadsack midwest anti-folk to half-filled cafes, basements, and bars. Now he sings silly songs to two little monsters and writes during lunch breaks to ward off the demons of suburban Millennial ennui. He is currently seeking a home for a novel about a fascist takeover of a small midwest school. A list of publications can be found at kylejosephkennedy.com