Philip Bram

THE KITTENS We could barely make ‘em out. But they were there alright. Five little blobs at the bottom of a murky pool. That’s all they were. A big C-5 roared overhead, and a blast of hot wind came along and made us fight for our footing. The ripples finally disappeared, and Scott said with a scared, frail voice, “Why would they do that?” “I don’t know,” I said. And we knew exactly who did it. Everyone did. But you wouldn’t dare say a fucking word. No one in their right mind would. You’d be fucked for good. Not even my brother would’ve been able to save me. A few hours later, I was sitting at the dinner table. My mother was back from the hospital. She looked like hell. A big blue network of veins throbbed across her temple. “So what’d you do today, Philby?” she asked as her trembling hand reached for the salad bowl. She still had her hospital band on. “Philby?” she said again. I was staring at our two dogs, breathing against the window, fogging the glass. It was only then that I was able to piece together exactly what had happened to those poor little kittens, what had to have taken place for them to wind up at the bottom of that pool. They were probably laughing while they did it. Someone had to have gone and gotten the duck tape. These were star athletes, giants of football and wrestling, the envy of us all, the prime focus of desire for all the girls. What were the sounds like of those kittens? Did that not even bother them? “PHILBY!” yelled my father. “Huh?” “Your mother asked you a question!” I turned and looked at her. She had a strange look on her face. It was her smile. Her lips looked like they were about to crack apart. And her entire head seemed to bobble to her pulse. “How was your day? What did you do?” “Nothing,” I said. “Oh, you must’ve done something?” “Not really. I just hung out with Scott.”