positive.
(There was no use in pissing her off at the outset.)
“Ooohh! A rainbow! How pretty!” he gushed.
Cleo blushed a little. “I couldn’t decide what color, so I
just used all the ones I found in your box,” she said.
“You have an excellent eye,” said Santo. “Really, you should
be an artist.”
“Thanks,” she said, and they both admired her handiwork.
Feeling his opening, Santo spoke again. “Sooooo…death mask?
Shroud? Funeral? I’m a little short on the details….”
“Well, I was pretty sure I had killed you,” she said. “I
mean, there was a lot of blood, and you didn’t move for a whole hour.”
She moved down to begin painting his toenails, which
reminded Santo of another concern. “So, about the bag of ice…,” he began.
Without looking up, Cleo said, “I told you there was a lot
of blood, especially after I pulled out that piece of glass. Also, I was afraid
that you would start to rot, and your corpse-y smell would be so bad that I
couldn’t finish fixing you up for the funeral.”
Struggling to stay cheerful, Santo chuckled and said,
“Silly, bodies don’t rot right away. It would have taken days for me to smell
that bad.”
“Well, I’ve never made up a corpse before,” she said, with
perfect nine-year old sarcasm. “I didn’t know how long it would take.” She
painted another nail before adding, “It sure is taking longer now that you’re
not dead.” Santo didn’t like the little scowl that graced her features as she
said this, so he tried to lighten the mood.
“This is the best pedicure I’ve ever had,” he said. “Hey,
how about we take my other foot out of the bag of ice. I’m pretty sure there’s
no blood left down there anyway,” he said, while his brain flashed words like Hypothermia! Frostbite! Amputation! “Or, you know—you look kind of tired. Why
don’t you unwrap me, and I’ll finish the other foot?”
Incredulous, Cleo looked up from the floor and raised one
eyebrow. (It reminded Santo of his mother. He usually got punished when that
eyebrow went up, so naturally, this one made him nervous.) “Who ever heard of a
dead man doing his own pedicure?” she asked. “And right before his own funeral,
too!” Shaking her head, she concentrated on painting for a moment before
adding, “Man, the pinky toe is the hardest.”
She put the lid back on the bottle of polish and gently blew
on his toes. For some reason, it made him need to pee. Santo decided that it
was time to use a little cunning.
“I really need to pee,” he said.
“Tough noogies,” said Cleo.
“Okay,” he replied.
He watched her gently remove his foot from the bag of ice.
(If he hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have known. His entire leg was numb from the
thigh down.) “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite that color
before,” he said. “Me, either,” said Cleo, and they contemplated his foot in
silence.
Cleo poked his shin. “Can you feel that?” she asked. “No,”
he replied.
Sighing, she unscrewed the nail polish cap and went to work.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to convince her that he really
did need to be unwrapped. His hands were starting to tingle. He decided to try
to get more information about her plans, but he needed to be subtle.
“So, Cleo,” he said, “What are your plans?”
“What plans?” she asked as she started on his middle toe.
“Ummm….Your plans for that bag of ice. It’s starting to melt
and I don’t want it to ruin the carpet. Hey, why don’t you throw it outside
where the sun will take care of it?”
“I can’t do that. I need that ice. Hang on, I’ll just put it
back in the freezer.” She re-capped the bottle of nail polish and dragged the
wet bag of ice, two-handed, to the small chest freezer in the corner of the
kitchen. As he watched her heave the ice over the edge, Santo marveled at
(There was no use in pissing her off at the outset.)
“Ooohh! A rainbow! How pretty!” he gushed.
Cleo blushed a little. “I couldn’t decide what color, so I
just used all the ones I found in your box,” she said.
“You have an excellent eye,” said Santo. “Really, you should
be an artist.”
“Thanks,” she said, and they both admired her handiwork.
Feeling his opening, Santo spoke again. “Sooooo…death mask?
Shroud? Funeral? I’m a little short on the details….”
“Well, I was pretty sure I had killed you,” she said. “I
mean, there was a lot of blood, and you didn’t move for a whole hour.”
She moved down to begin painting his toenails, which
reminded Santo of another concern. “So, about the bag of ice…,” he began.
Without looking up, Cleo said, “I told you there was a lot
of blood, especially after I pulled out that piece of glass. Also, I was afraid
that you would start to rot, and your corpse-y smell would be so bad that I
couldn’t finish fixing you up for the funeral.”
Struggling to stay cheerful, Santo chuckled and said,
“Silly, bodies don’t rot right away. It would have taken days for me to smell
that bad.”
“Well, I’ve never made up a corpse before,” she said, with
perfect nine-year old sarcasm. “I didn’t know how long it would take.” She
painted another nail before adding, “It sure is taking longer now that you’re
not dead.” Santo didn’t like the little scowl that graced her features as she
said this, so he tried to lighten the mood.
“This is the best pedicure I’ve ever had,” he said. “Hey,
how about we take my other foot out of the bag of ice. I’m pretty sure there’s
no blood left down there anyway,” he said, while his brain flashed words like Hypothermia! Frostbite! Amputation! “Or, you know—you look kind of tired. Why
don’t you unwrap me, and I’ll finish the other foot?”
Incredulous, Cleo looked up from the floor and raised one
eyebrow. (It reminded Santo of his mother. He usually got punished when that
eyebrow went up, so naturally, this one made him nervous.) “Who ever heard of a
dead man doing his own pedicure?” she asked. “And right before his own funeral,
too!” Shaking her head, she concentrated on painting for a moment before
adding, “Man, the pinky toe is the hardest.”
She put the lid back on the bottle of polish and gently blew
on his toes. For some reason, it made him need to pee. Santo decided that it
was time to use a little cunning.
“I really need to pee,” he said.
“Tough noogies,” said Cleo.
“Okay,” he replied.
He watched her gently remove his foot from the bag of ice.
(If he hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have known. His entire leg was numb from the
thigh down.) “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite that color
before,” he said. “Me, either,” said Cleo, and they contemplated his foot in
silence.
Cleo poked his shin. “Can you feel that?” she asked. “No,”
he replied.
Sighing, she unscrewed the nail polish cap and went to work.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to convince her that he really
did need to be unwrapped. His hands were starting to tingle. He decided to try
to get more information about her plans, but he needed to be subtle.
“So, Cleo,” he said, “What are your plans?”
“What plans?” she asked as she started on his middle toe.
“Ummm….Your plans for that bag of ice. It’s starting to melt
and I don’t want it to ruin the carpet. Hey, why don’t you throw it outside
where the sun will take care of it?”
“I can’t do that. I need that ice. Hang on, I’ll just put it
back in the freezer.” She re-capped the bottle of nail polish and dragged the
wet bag of ice, two-handed, to the small chest freezer in the corner of the
kitchen. As he watched her heave the ice over the edge, Santo marveled at
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