SmokeLong Quarterly

Shannon sits cross-legged on the couch, picking at the hole in her sweatpants, watching the screen glow blue in the dark apartment as Ms. Pac-Man Maze Madness loops its demo mode. She’s not playing, just listening to the upbeat, electronic music fill the silent room. She lost the boss battle with Mesmerelda and quit the game in a huff, sending her back to the title screen.

Shannon watches the glowing red numbers on the VCR under the TV tick up to eleven-eleven, four lines straight like tally marks. It occurs to her that she should make a wish and that it would make sense for her to wish that her mom could be on time to pick her up, just once. But Shannon doesn’t mind, not really. She can try to beat Mesmerelda again. Plus, she gets to spend more time with Auntie June.

Auntie June is on the balcony facing the apartment complex’s West parking lot, staring into the cool spring night. She’s wearing red flannel pajama pants and her old Central Connecticut State School of Nursing sweatshirt, the same one she’s worn since Shannon was a kid. She’s sitting on an old, once-white plastic chair that strains with the weight of her. A Newport cigarette moves to her lips, ember flaring, then pulls away. Smoke drifts, disappearing into the brisk night.

Auntie June never rushes anything. She smokes slow. Peels potatoes slow. Stays kneeled a second longer than everyone else at Mass. Says things once and then never again. She’s the type of woman who gets her point across the first time. Shannon likes that about her.

The plastic chair creaks as Auntie June turns around and looks at Shannon. “Shan, you ever think about what you want to happen to your body after you die?”

Shannon blinks. “Uh, no. I haven’t.”

Auntie June exhales through her nose, nods like she expected Shannon’s answer. Shannon can’t help but feel like she said the wrong thing.

“Well, I’ll tell you what I want. I wanna be rolled up in this damn carpet and cremated.” She gestures at the living room, where the same large rectangle of flattened, brownish-gray fibers on dark hardwood have soaked up years of spills, bare feet, and heavy steps. Last Thanksgiving, Uncle Kevin’s new girlfriend spilled half a bottle of merlot on the carpet and Auntie June had just pulled the TV stand a few feet over to cover it. Auntie June could have made a big deal over the whole thing, thrown the both of them out of the house, called the new girlfriend a homewrecker or other mean and justified things. But she didn’t, because Auntie June was the coolest person Shannon knew. Sometimes, she wished Auntie June was her real mom but most of the time, she felt guilty for even having the thought.

“Feels right, you know?” Auntie June continues. “No one should have to deal with this carpet after I’m gone. If I’m gone, it’s gone too.” She laughs heartily. Auntie June only laughed heartily, not those polite, demure laughs or pity chuckles that other adults did. Shannon’s mom only laughed demurely, one hand usually poised over her mouth. She always told Shannon that she hated the gap between her front teeth, the very same gap that Shannon currently had braces to fix. The only time Shannon heard her mom really laugh from her belly was when she was alone on the sofa watching Late Night with Conan O’Brien. When she really laughed, her mom sounded just like Auntie June. It was the only time Shannon had ever noticed any resemblance between the two sisters.

Since Auntie June is laughing, Shannon laughs too but something about what she said and the way she said it — so easily, so matter-of-factly — sticks like tar. The idea of Auntie June not existing in this apartment — not sitting on the couch waiting for her when she gets home from school, not making Hamburger Helper while the QVC plays on low, not stepping over Nintendo 64 wires while Shannon is glued to the TV — aches.

Shannon presses a hand firmly into her stomach as she watches Ms. Pac-Man’s globular yellow form effortlessly glide across the screen. On the demo mode, the computer makes the game look easy, fluid. Shannon wants to be like this and doesn’t understand why she can’t, no matter what she does.

“Alright, I’ll make sure they burn the carpet with you,” Shannon says, because what else can you say to something like that?

Auntie June laughs as she turns back into the night. She takes a long drag on her Newport, then tips her head back and blows the smoke straight up into the air, like a geyser. It floats back down slowly, settling around her like a shroud.

“That’s my girl. I’m glad there’s someone in this family who gets me,” Auntie June says. Shannon thinks of correcting her, of telling her that she doesn’t understand her at all, doesn’t understand much of anything at all. Instead, she just nods silently. For a moment, someone’s brake lights briefly illuminate June in red. Then, the lights vanish into the night, leaving them both in the dark.