Felix
Okay, Ty,” I say. “I need you to try to help me open the case, okay?”
“Did you forget how?” Ty asks.
“No. But your shirt is caught in the latch and it’s stuck. Can you try to pull it out?”
“I can’t see my shirt. It’s dark in here.”
“Okay,” I say. “But you can feel it, right? Because you’re wearing it?”
He squirms inside the case. “It’s fuzzy in here.”
“Okay. Find the fabric that’s not fuzzy. That’s your shirt.”
“I feel my pants,” he says, “but my arms are stuck to the sides.”
He’s weirdly calm about that, and I hope he stays that way, because if he starts crying inside there I might join him. Jenna trusted me with him, and I let this happen. “Slide one up a little and reach the bottom of your shirt, okay?”
There’s a thump in the case. It isn’t anywhere near the place where his shirt is caught in the latch.
I look around. These cases are built to withstand blows, but I could probably cut the latch off if I went at it hard enough. But then I’d risk gouging the child inside, and I really don’t want to have to explain to Jenna why I stabbed her kid in the arm with a knife.
“Shit,” I say again.
“That’s not a nice word,” Ty says.
“I’ll watch out for Superpope. I wish I could call him to get you out of here.” Who would I even call about this? A locksmith? They’d probably take forever and I have no idea how long it takes to suffocate in a cello case. “Ty, do you know where your mom keeps the screwdrivers?” If I can’t cut the locks off, maybe I can get better leverage with a flathead than with my fingers.
“I don’t know. Maybe the garage.”
“Okay. You wait here.” As if he can do anything else. “Don’t be scared, okay?”
“I’m not scared,” Ty says, as if the thought is ridiculous. “I like it in here.” He pauses. “But my face is getting sweaty.”
Shit. His isn’t the only one.
I run out to the garage and search around until I find a Rubbermaid container marked tools, and I can’t help but think that I definitely belong in that box. Jenna apparently isn’t much more of a handyman than I am, because the container doesn’t have much in it. I do find a screwdriver, though, and a utility knife, which I take just in case.
When I return, the cello case has moved a good foot from where it was. I hesitate, and inside the case Ty squirms, edging the thing another inch.
“Hey,” I say. “I thought I told you not to go anywhere.”
Another giggle.
I kneel beside the case again and work at the latch with the screwdriver, but it doesn’t budge. I swear again. “Okay, Ty. I’m going to cut some holes so you can breathe, okay? I need you to cooperate, so that I don’t hurt you.”
“Okay,” he says. I move to the wide end of the case. I know his feet are down there, because he’s talking from the skinny side. His head must be wedged in there too tight to turn. I tap on the side of the case with the hinges. Those areas are reinforced, but the top isn’t. I can probably cut through there, if I work at it. “I need you to move your feet over here,” I say. “All the way over until they hit the side.”
Ty squirms inside the case. “Okay,” he says.
I wish I could see inside to be sure he’s done it. I knock on the case again. “Your feet are on this side? Toward me?”
“I can’t see you.”
“But you can hear me, right?” I knock again. “Are your feet over here?”
“Yes!” Ty shouts. “I know what my feet are!”
Fair enough. At the far other side of the case, I gently cut through the top of the plastic with the utility knife. I get enough of the case cut away to stick all of my fingers through. Inside, I can see the hem of Ty’s jeans, and the tops of his sneakers.
“Okay,” I say. “You should get some air in there now.”
Ty pauses. “My feet don’t breathe,” he says. “What about my face? That’s where I breathe.”
I sigh. He has a point, and I imagine two holes are better than one, but I really don’t want to cut his face with a utility knife.
I eye the skinny end of the case. He is shorter than the cello, but I don’t trust him to tell me how far down he’s scooted. “All right, Ty,” I say. “I’m going to stand you up, and I want you to let yourself slide until you’re standing with your feet flat, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, and I stand at the skinny end of the case and lift it with the flat side toward me until it’s standing on end.
“Whee!” Ty shouts, and then the case rocks back and forth as he throws his weight from side to side.
“Stop rocking!”
He stops. “But it’s fun!”
“It won’t be fun if I drop you.” Still, I shake the case a bit, as if to settle him down to the bottom. “Are your feet flat?”
“No. They have arches.”
“I mean—Oh, never mind.” I wrap my arm around the case to keep it still and then gouge a hole in the end only slightly smaller than the one at the bottom. “Okay. Now you should be able to breathe.”
Ty heaves a few breaths inside the case. “I’m giving you a thumbs up,” Ty says. “But I can’t get my arm up that high, so you can’t see it.”
I sit on the floor. The holes help the immediate problem, but I’m not confident I can cut enough of the case to get him out without hurting him, especially because most of the structural parts are reinforced. I could still call the locksmith, but I’m pretty sure of what they would say.
“Okay, Ty,” I say. “I’m going to carry you out to my car, and buckle you in. And then we’re going to go to the emergency room and get you out of here, all right?”
Ty is quiet. “But that’s for emergencies. This isn’t an emergency.”
I’m glad he’s still thinking of it that way. “It’s for when you need help right away. Which we definitely do.”
I try to call Jenna, but she doesn’t answer. They’ve probably reached the club by now, and it’s loud. I really don’t want to explain what’s happened by text message, but she’ll probably get back to me when she sees she’s missed my call.
I go to lift the cello case, but Ty tells me to wait. “I never got a snack.”
I stare at the hole in the top of the case. I can see Ty’s blond hair poking up in tufts against the soft lining.
“Ty,” I say. “How am I supposed to get you a snack when you’re stuck in a cello case?”
“You could put something through the air hole. Like Cheetos.”
I want to refuse, but I really don’t want him getting scared or crying in there. It’s all fine while it’s fun, but at some point he’s going to realize he’s wedged inside a box from which there is no escape.
“Do you have any Cheetos?” I ask. I can’t for the life of me remember all the snacks I called out before.
“Not in here.”
I can’t argue with that. I go back to the kitchen and in the pantry. Inside I find a half-full bag of jalapeno Cheetos.
I head back to the case. “Okay, I have Cheetos. But if I drop them in there, I think you’re going to get dust in your eyes. Can you reach up by your face?”
A thump sounds from halfway up the case. “No,” he says. “My hands are stuck.”
I put my hands at my sides and try to figure out how to maneuver them above my head while keeping them against my body. “Can you move your hand up to your stomach?” I ask. “And then across to your hip?”
There’s some rustling. “Yes.”
“Okay, then up to your shoulder and onto your face. You got it?”
“This is a fun game,” Ty says. “I’m touching myself in all the places.”
I choke. “Don’t tell your mom we played that game.”
Immediately, I hate myself. Now he’s going to tell her we played games about touching ourselves and then I told him not to tell her. Jenna’s probably had a talk with him that he should always tell when some adult doesn’t want him to.
“Or tell her,” I say. “Just don’t call it that.”
“Why?”
I am not going to explain that to a kid in a cello case. “Never mind. Wiggle your fingers.” I peer through the air hole and I can see his fingers wiggling. “Good. Stretch your arm up a little bit more and I can give you some Cheetos.” He does and I take a handful and try to get them into his fingers. Most of them scatter, but he gets a few. His hand disappears, and a crunching rises from their air hole. “Thanks,” he says. “Can I have some more?”
He eats for so long I feel like Jenna is going to come home and I’m still going to be here feeding Ty Cheetos through a slot, but he’s finally happy, and before I’ve completely drained the bag.
“Felix?” Ty says.
“Yes?”
“I’m thirsty.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t pour water on you. You’ll drown.”
“I can swim!”
“Not in a cello case. You can’t even move your arms.”
Ty thinks about that. “What about a juice box?”
I don’t think a juice box will fit through the hole I’ve made, but back in the pantry, I find a package of Capri Suns. I have to put the straw into it before I ease it through the hole, because I know he can’t do that while squished in the dark. Juice squirts from the straw as Ty grabs it, soaking his hair, but he manages to pull it down toward his face.
He slurps.
“All right,” I say. “Are we ready?”
Silence. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
“We are going,” I say, bracing the case and lifting it again. “Now.”
“But—”
“Pee yourself if you must, but we are not coordinating some kind of fluid removal.” I hoist both case and boy out to my dad’s spare car and flatten the passenger seat as low as it can go. Ty rocks minimally, and I manage to get the case in skinny-end up, so at least if he wets himself it won’t run toward his face. I buckle the case in, even though I’m frankly not sure how much good that would do in a crash.
I set my GPS for the nearest ER. Jenna still hasn’t called me back, so I send her a text telling her where we’re going and why. The pit is my stomach is back and larger than ever.
After this, there’s no way she’s letting me watch her kid again.