Vials of Juliet

When Eliza and Danny Whitlock first took their own lives they were giddy. Danny said with a smile, I'm nervous, and Eliza told him, Don't be so soft. And they tangled their arms like they'd seen older kids do, but instead of saying bottoms up and drinking alcohol they said bottums up and each child drank a small clear vial of Juliet.

One minute later they took their first breaths and their hearts spontaneously thumped, singular and hard, like an underwater detonation. Their sleeping muscles kneaded blood back through their dried veins, and when their eyes fluttered open they looked at each other. Still nervous? said Eliza. Danny said, I don't remember anything. Eliza said, Me too, except everything was purple. Like closing your eyes and opening them up again, Danny said. They both sat up and Eliza guided her black course hair over her right shoulder and sat stroking it, and Danny tugged on his shirt which ate at his small chest. I don't think I would want to do that forever, Danny said. You're such a weenie, Eliza said, but she was looking down at her hair. Maybe, said Danny, but I still wouldn't want to do it.

It became ritual, this brother and sister, in the hours before afternoon service every Sunday, their parents busy drinking the mimosas they'd let sit out overnight, marinating. Juliet was not hard for the children to get. It was expensive, but they piled their allowances for a taste of the clear liquid vials, for a taste of the dark coolness of death and then the sudden explosion of the heart, and the warm blood creeping back like roots reaching through dirt. The blood seeping back, Eliza said once. That part makes my toes curl.

On Easter Uncle Bob came from out of town with his wife, Beatrice, and his son, Kurt. Kurt was ten—one year younger than Danny and two years less than Eliza—and he wore a blue clip-on tie decorated with dyed eggs wrapped under the collar of a thin, white, short-sleeved dress shirt from the boys section.

In the play room Eliza said, We'll all take half—you won't be out ten seconds. It's purple, Danny said. Kind of like sleeping but not exactly. The vial was big compared to Kurt's hand, the exact size of the stretch between the base of his palm and the end of his middle finger. I don't want to, Kurt said. We'll get in trouble. No one's gonna know, said Eliza. They're partying, don't be so soft. Kurt looked to Danny and Danny nodded, though he wasn't sure why, and so Kurt watched as Eliza and Danny did the familiar dance of arms and said bottoms up and brought the vials to their lips. Eliza slid a glance at Kurt, who was obligated to put the half-vial of Juliet to his mouth. Eliza said, Tastes sweet, too, and then they were out.

Sound seeped warm into Kurt's ears like melted chocolate. His eyes flitted open. After a moment his vision faded in and he saw Danny and Eliza were already sitting. Eliza was grinning down at Kurt, and Danny was turned away searching the blank wall and tugging at his shirt. Told you, Eliza said. Like butter cream.

Kurt lay on his side, didn't get up. He said weakly into the carpet, I don't get it. He rolled up his legs into his gut and pressed his clip-on Easter tie to his eyes. He cried, quiet and bald. I hate it, he said. Yeah, Eliza said, but now you know.

Mr. Whitlock called from the kitchen, Ready for takeoff! and Eliza jumped up. Alone, Danny said to Kurt, It gets easier. Kurt said, It felt like dying. That's because it was dying, Danny said. Kurt's small soft face twisted up like it was trying to catch an idea. But I don't get it, Kurt said. It was nothing. Danny said, I hate it too. And then they left for afternoon service.

The next time was at Danny's twelfth birthday party. Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock rented a bouncy castle, which Danny and his friends were just barely young enough to still enjoy. It was a family affair—each kid came wrapped with two parents, all of whom joined Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock for cool screwdrivers. It was hot out, bathing suits ran around attached to kids and bundled down the Slip 'N Slide. At one point Mr. Whitlock, who because of his job at NASA was always stuck in aero speak, hoisted Danny from the armpits, threw him up into the bouncy castle, and shouted, Liftoff! As Danny flew through the air laughing he thought how neat it would be to build rockets like his dad.

Later all the kids gathered in Danny's room and taped a note to the door that read, Boys Only, to which all the parents chuckled. Eliza was in there, too, but when one of the boys protested she slid him a look that said, Oh no you don't. Eliza had made Danny spend all the birthday money his grandparents sent on vials of Juliet.

Kurt was there in big Hawaiian trunks with palm trees that swallowed his rear. I'll watch, said Kurt. Eliza was lifting vials from a small brown bag. Fine, she said. No one's forcing you. Sissy, someone said.

The boys talked. I heard it was purple, someone said looking at Danny. Danny nodded, staring into the opposite wall. Tommy Meyer got grounded for a whole year, someone else offered. Like he'd leave his room anyway, said another boy. Eliza passed vials around—ten clear wraps of glass in all. She emptied Kurt's vial into her own. Good, Kurt said.

Danny was still staring into the wall. I don't want to anymore, he said, and poured his share of Juliet in Eliza's vial. Eliza grabbed the boy next to her, Jimmy Studebaker, and wrapped her arm around his. Jimmy's eyes jumped out of his head and he smiled right into Eliza's chest. Jimmy had never touched a girl before—not like this. Eliza said, Bottoms up, and Jimmy would have said anything to her so he said, Bottoms up, and Danny said—Don't. Eliza looked Danny firm in the face. Well I'm trying to be prepared, she said, and then she and Jimmy were gone.

Kurt got up and left the room. Danny had never watched someone turn off. It was like the taut strings that hold a person up were suddenly and permanently cut. Danny could almost hear a sound, deep and dark like the bottom chords of a piano, punctuate the moment his sister slumped over.

Jimmy Studebaker came to sixty seconds later with an erection. He looked all around and when his vision finally faded in he stared at Eliza. The boys stared at Jimmy. Jimmy couldn't stop smiling, looking down at the girl who entangled her arms with him. What was it like? one boy asked. Jimmy stared and stared. Who cares, he said—did you see her grab me? After a while another boy said, Man she took a lot.

The door opened and there was Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock, screwdrivers in hand, with Kurt hiding behind Mrs. Whitlock's yellow summer dress peeking in. Mr. Whitlock looked down at Eliza and said, How many? And Danny said, Three. Mine and Kurt's. Mr. Whitlock handed his drink to his wife and picked up his wasted daughter and carried her into the master bedroom. Danny heard him through the walls talking to his mother. Mr. Whitlock sighed and said, Houston, we have a problem.

Kurt was still drippy from the Slip 'N Slide, his curly black hair stuck to his forehead like electrician's tape. Jimmy Studebaker's eyes drifted dreamily onto Danny. Your sister has a thing for me, he said. This is stupid, Danny said, and he grabbed his young cousin's hand and he and Kurt left the whole thing.

You guys saw, Jimmy said, turning back to the group. She wanted it. The kids were entrenched in leftover hose water, circled on the floor around the empty brown paper sack. No man, someone said, pouring out his vial of Juliet on the dry bag, you didn't see her. She was really out.