Jose, or JJ as he was often called, was the eldest. Although he had returned nearly two hours ago from work – a recording studio where he read and recorded books, poetry, and newspaper and magazine articles – he was still wearing his suit and tie.
Kiki Luhon ran up from the first floor of the basement, diving up the stairs, sliding into the kitchen and hiding behind the dinner table for safety; her twin sister Katelynn was directly behind her, screaming the high-pitched shriek of an enraged twelve-year-old. “Give me back my lipstick!” she demanded, stomping her pin-like high heels, piercing both the linoleum floor and her fathers’ nerve.
Jose Sr. gazed into the kitchen, his eyes recently glazed from the beers he had been drinking. Following the trail of dents on the floor, he spotted Katelynn. “Get out of there with your high-heels. How many times do I have to tell you? The last thing I wanna do is replace another floor.” He was reclining on an adjacent sofa, catching up on current events as he always did after work. He pressed a few keys on his computer watch, took it off his wrist and set it on the coffee table.
On white walls, his wrist unit projected a telecast of world events. His hand, scarred from years of carpentry, held a stein of ale. Taking a sip, he read the captions of the telecast, tuning out the commotion in the kitchen.
Jose worked as a carpenter. Scattered throughout the city, he worked on his boss’s five apartment complexes, providing the Luhon Family’s primary source of income as well as affordable housing. Jose and his boss had made an arrangement where Jose would have control of one complex in return for the maintenance of the other six. He was constantly making repairs and, with the six unit style of his buildings, the work seemed endless. At ground level, the two-story house was the largest of the six structures. The five basement apartments, one below the other, each penetrated ten feet deeper into the earth’s crust. Fifty feet in all.
“Give me back my lipstick,” Katelynn repeated.
Kiki looked at the sliding glass door, a mirror to the setting sun and dimness outside. “Just a sec,” she said, taking out the lipstick and looking at her reflection.
But there was no time; Katelynn was chasing her again. Around the table they went, the smell of roasting turkey wafting around the room and the sound of their mother scolding them, her back turned and preparing the feast. “Girls! Girls, calm down. Your father’s had a long day at work.”
Kiki slid a chair in front of her sister, paused for an instant in front of the makeshift mirror – just enough time to smudge some lipstick on her lips. Katelynn jumped onto the chair, leapt onto Kiki and grabbed her by the throat. Kiki kicked wildly.
The sound of glass shattering, the sight of an overturned chair, and Katelynn bellowing in pain as she lie on her back, blood dripping from her leg.
“God damn it! I just had that door put in,” said Jose.
“She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. Call 911,” cried Esmarelda.
“Son of a… Where’s the phone?” he said, pacing back and forth. He pressed the intercom button, shouted into the microphone, “Ricardo!”
At fifteen, Ricardo was the youngest son. His voice had recently begun to change and he spent much time on the phone speaking with girls. He jogged up the stairs, tossed his father the phone with a smile, a wink, and a raised thumb. His mood soon changed when he saw his sister lying on the floor and bleeding. “What happened?” he asked, looking at Kiki.
“It was an accident. She was chasing me. She’ll be all right.”
Jose pressed the emergency button on the phone, added the emergency description code, 420, and the computer told the dispatchers there was a level two bleeding incident at 451 Oak Drive, which involved broken glass. He tossed the phone back to Ricardo and cleaned meticulously the glass fragments imbedded in Katelynn’s leg. When all visible pieces were removed, Jose looked up, raced to the door and into the street. Although the dispatcher’s phones instantly sent maps and descriptions to the ambulance computers, he was not taking any chances; he waited for the ambulance, searching through the unseasonable blizzard-like conditions.
Inside, dinner had finished cooking and the electronic gong of the timer reverberated throughout the five-floor basement, summoning the remaining Luhon family members.
The other three each paraded up from their basement apartments, taking the stairs because the elevator had been broken for years. Jose Junior, or JJ as he was often called, was the eldest, and was the first up the stairs. Although he had returned nearly two hours ago from work – a recording studio where he read and recorded books, poetry, and newspaper and magazine articles – he was still wearing his suit and tie. One stairwell behind were Amelia and Manuel.
Amelia had lost her hearing almost ten years ago, at the age of nine. She had compensated for this loss by heightening her other senses. Noticing the dimming of the lights caused by the one-thousand watt dinner bell, feeling the vibrations of the bass within the thin wooden walls, and seeing the elated look on her brother Manuel’s face, knew it was time for dinner. They ceased signing to each other and walked up the stairs. Amelia followed behind and to his side. Ever aware, she noticed the text on his watch screen. Manuel had been studying a book on his computer-watch. Amelia also noticed the familiar shape of his back pocket. It was a deck of cards for the traditional poker game. He was hoping he could get in a few games after they ate.
There was a rap at the door and four paramedics moved swiftly into the house. The fierce breeze and bitter weather whipped into their home, rousing the siblings’ sense of smell. With visions of a feast in their heads, they filed into the kitchen. Jaws dropped, panting mildly, the clouds of coldness formed at their salivating mouths. Seeing emergency personnel rather than turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and chicken, they were uncertain.
“Okay, don’t you worry now,” Esmarelda said, greeting her children as they approached, and looking at each of them, “Everything’s gonna be alright. She’ll just need a few stitches. Jose, you’re the eldest, you’re in charge.”
Manuel looked up from his computer-watch and rolled his eyes. In the openness of the kitchen he now stepped, turned off the oven and swept up the glass. Working efficiently and with speed, he picked up the big pieces and dumped them into the garbage. Then he got the shopvac to suck up the remaining fragments. Ezmarelda and Jose watched in the other room as two paramedics disinfected and bandaged Kiki’s leg. She cried out as the red-brown liquid was applied. The men rolled her onto a stretcher and carried her out. The vacuum, clogged and gasping for breath, drowned out Ezmarelda’s cries of empathy, muted her goodbye. She and Jose Sr. followed the ambulance to the hospital and Manuel put the vacuum away in the closet.
The remainder of the Luhon family huddled around the dinner table and waited to be served. Manuel turned on the news and all attention, save Amelia’s, was drawn to the telecast. Amelia sat in her usual spot, head of the elliptical table, opposite her father’s seat. With the absence of their father, JJ had assumed this seat. Here, in the catchers’ positions as Amelia called it, she could rely on sight rather than sound. She watched JJ, who was engrossed in the telecast. He looked at Kiki with a disapproving eye and Amelia knew the topic of the broadcast: English Only
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