The Vampire Henry

by Michael S. Walker

  As my mother sings the song to me, her features begin to cloud and dissolve, like in some stupid movie. I must be…must be dreaming. Don’t go, Mama. Don’t…

  She’s gone.

  And suddenly, my father is there in her place, his hand raised to strike his only son. How many times have I seen him just like this, his face short-circuited by rage? How many times? He’s saying something, shouting it over and over again as he goes to hit:

  “He’s drunk…he’s drunk…he’s drunk…”

  Damn straight I am Daddy. It’s the only way.

  And then…well I must be dreaming because I am somewhere else…not in my bed at all anymore. I am in a bar. I am in that bar where I met that stripper Marie. Junior the bartender is there again, running around like usual, stressing out as he pours the drinks. And people are shouting out their orders as he sprints back and forth behind the bar.

  “AB over here, Junior.”

  “I’ll have a Type O with lime, Junior.”

  “B Negative, straight, Junior.”

  Blood

  For the blood is the life. The blood is the life.

  And there’s a man sitting at one corner of the bar, sitting by himself. He’s pretty nondescript. Glasses in gold wire frames. Short sandy hair. He’s wearing dark brown slacks and a white short-sleeve shirt. Looks like a damned accountant. He waves me over and I go to him, pushing my way through the crowd of blood drinkers and hell raisers.

  “Have a seat,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Do I know you?” I say.

  “In a way,” he replies. “I’m Charles Robinson Serling.”

  Sara’s maker. Charles Robinson Serling. The one she fears. And he doesn’t look like a vampire at all.

  He looks like he should be doing my taxes.

  “You turned Sara,” I say, simply.

  “Yes, I did. Thank you for noticing. A momentary weakness. Have a seat. What are you drinking?”

  Junior is suddenly there in front of us, ready to take our drink orders. I notice that he is still wearing ear plugs, the ones he was wearing the last time I was here, when that godawful band was playing.

  “Can I…can I have some water, Junior?” I say.

  Charles Serling laughs. His laugh sends cold currents up and down my spine. It’s the laugh of the devil, untempered by compassion or empathy. The laugh of a cruel master.

  “They don’t serve water in here, Henry,” he says. “You’ve known that. You’ve always known that.”

  And with that, Charles Robinson Serling leaps from his bar stool. He grabs a girl that’s just passing by us, on her way to the head I think. I just catch a glimpse of her. She’s young, probably college age. Looks like some Iowa farmer’s daughter: blonde hair, apple-tinged cheeks. And Charles Robinson Serling is on her like a beast, tearing at her throat like a shark or jackal, shredding her smooth smooth flesh as she tries to scream.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When I awaken, Sara is leaning over me, pressing a cold cloth to my forehead, just like my mother in my dream. Sara. Dear sweet Sara. My lost little girl.

  “How long…?” I try to say. My throat is dry, constricted. It’s hard to talk, hard to swallow.

  “Henry…Henry. Are you O.K. honey?”

  “How long was I out, Sara?” I manage to sputter.

  “What?”

  “How long have I been sick?”

  “Three nights now, Henry. Oh I was so worried you were going to die. I didn’t know what to do. I actually thought about calling 911 and…”

  That would not have been wise, of course. The fact that they would not have been able to get a pulse or a heart rate from me would probably have caused a bit of a frenzy among the paramedics.

  “I think…I think I’m going to be OK. I need some blood, Sara. Is there any?”

  She has some for me, in the same chipped coffee cup that I brought to her when she was really down. I manage to prop myself up and take a small sip. Already feeling better.

  “Henry, are you sure you are all right?” Sara says, sitting down next to me on the bed and feeling my forehead. “You’re not as feverish as you were before.”

  “I think…I think I’m going to pull through,” I say, taking another drink of blood, feeling it send tendrils of warmth through my belly.

  “What happened?” Sara says.

  “I think…well, here’s what I think Sara. Juan was on his way to becoming a vampire. You didn’t kill him when you drained him. And then I tried to finish the job and…I guess a vampire can’t drink from another vampire. My maker never told me that. Maybe she didn’t know. Did Serling…?”

  “Serling never told me anything, Henry. Oh, Henry, I’m so glad you are better.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. Her kiss is sweeter than blood. I touch her face, run my fingertips over the curve of one cheekbone. So beautiful.

  “I feel like I was hit by a fuckin’ truck, but I think I am already on the mend. What did you do with the bodies? Juan’s? The girl’s?”

  “I put ‘em down in the basement like you told me to, Henry.”

  The basement. I don’t even remember telling her to do that. That night, that disastrous night feels like it happened a long long time ago, to someone else entirely.

  “Did you…see anyone snooping around at Juan’s place? Cops? Anybody?”

  “No. To tell you the truth, I really haven’t left your side in three days, Henry. I haven’t drunk. Haven’t slept. I was so scared you were going to die.” She starts to cry. There are circles under her eyes, like smudges of ash.

  I manage to sit up, pull her to me. Caress her long red hair.

  “It’s going to be OK, Sara,” I say.

  “Are you…sure, Henry?”

  “Yes.” But I’m not certain at all. Just saying it for her sake. Being as strong as I can be under the circumstances.

  “I love you Sara,” I say. It’s the first time in my life I have ever said those words to anyone. My mother. Emily. No one has ever heard me say those three words before.

  “I love you too, Henry,” she says, her chin nestled on my shoulder.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Henry? Henry Lovell? This is Dr. Eric Dawes calling again from Kindle College. I would really like too…”

  I go and pick up the phone. I usually let my crappy answering machine get the calls, because it’s usually just a bill collector or somebody trying to sell me some damn thing. But this motherfucker has been extremely persistent. He’s called like three times this week about doing a reading at his university.

  “Henry, is it…?” Sara asks. She is in the living room drinking a bit of blood, watching some damn movie on the TV.

  “Shhh…Hello?” I say into the receiver. I really hate talking on the phone, especially to PhDs whom I have never met. Rather be talking to a bum in a bar somewhere.

  “Hello. Is this Henry Lovell, the poet?”

  Pleasant voice, a voice that sounds like it’s just on the verge of springing the best punch line of all time on you. I like it.

  “Yeah,” I say, coughing.

  “Henry,” Dawes says, beaming warmth and goodwill through two thousand miles of telephone lines. “You are a hard man to reach. Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “I did,” I say. I have no intention of going all the way to California to do a reading. Have them suck out my soul. Like I do when I feed on someone. Just don’t feel like it.

  “And?” Dr. Eric Dawes says. I try to imagine what he looks like and come up with a stereotypical vision of a tall hunched man smoking a pipe, one hand thrust casually into a tweed jacket with patches at the sleeves. Damn, I’m really not much of a writer, am I?

  “I don’t think I can do it,” I say. “A reading. I’m pretty busy right now.”

  “Sure sure. We are all busy. Lots to do,” Dr. Dawes says.

  “Maybe some other time.” He’s such a good-natured man, I feel kind of sorry about not being able to meet his request.

&nbs
p; “Doubtful. See, this is the last reading we are going to be giving of this kind. The chair feels that the money could be spent better elsewhere. And once again, poetry dies an ignominious death.”

  There’s a moment’s pause. I can’t think of anything to say. The idea of standing on a stage reading my stuff to a crowd of people (well probably not a crowd given the popularity of poetry--but living breathing yawning people) seems more daunting to me then venturing out of the house at high noon on a cloudless summer’s day. No no no…

  “Did I mention…did I mention that if you come and read for us, I’ll be able to double that fee I quoted to you before? 500 rather than 250? Because I want you out here that bad.”

  500 dollars? That’s nothing to sneeze at now. For maybe an hour or so of work? I’ve never made money like that before. The most I’ve ever made for a single short story was three hundred tops. And that took a lot of hours and revisions and rejections.

  500 dollars.

  “500 dollars?” I say, stupidly. This man talking to me on the phone now must think a ghostwriter does all my stuff for me. I’m not being very erudite.

  “Yes. 500 dollars. The rest had to come out of my own personal bank account. But hey, what’s the problem? I’m a tenured professor, right?”

  “Well, still…” I say.

  “Listen, don’t worry about it. The money’s all good. I just wish you would think about it. You have a lot of fans here in northern California who would probably shit to hear you read.”

  “I do?” I say. The idea of me having “fans” of any kind anywhere sends mixed feelings coursing through me. I’m glad someone is reading. But are they really READING?

  “Certainly. I teach your poetry in my class all the time, especially when I’m trying to get across stuff about concrete imagery. They really like that one poem you wrote, “Death Walk,” you know, the one where you are walking home late at night from your job as a janitor in that fast food place, and your thinking about all those famous people from the past who are dead.”

  Did I write a poem called “Death Walk”? Damn, I churn out so much stuff. If I ever get staked, God forbid, they’ll be pulling poems and stories out of the woodwork here, going, “Oh no…another bunch…”

  “Well, that’s great,” I say.

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “Will you think about it please, Mr. Henry Lovell? Like I said in my letter, Lancaster CA is the exact armpit of the universe. I’m doing all I can to get the hell out of here, head south or something. But before I do, I would love to have Henry Lovell here for a few days reading his stuff. C’mon, what do you think?”

  I stare up at the ceiling, pursing my lips. 500 bucks is 500 bucks. And this man seems so friendly. And he really digs my work.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. “When would you have to know?”

  “Hallelujah!” Dawes shouts into the receiver. “Well today is Thursday. You would have to give me a call back and let me know by Monday. Tuesday at the latest. Think you can handle that?”

  “Ok,” I say.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Hey you!” a voice shouts after me.

  I am walking down Lanehurst, holding Sara’s hand. We are on the way to the convenient store to get my smokes. I recognize the voice immediately. It’s George Hailey. He’s this older guy, probably in his mid 70s or so. He’s lived in the neighborhood since I was a little kid.

  He’s also Juan’s landlord.

  “Who’s…?” Sara asks, squeezing my hand.

  “Shh…” I say.

  Hailey catches up with us. He’s a stern-looking guy, always dressed in neat khaki pants and flannel work shirts. His wife, who’s been dead for like twenty years or so, used to be nice to me when I was a little kid, feed me Tootsie Rolls that she just seemed to magically produce from a gingham apron she was always wearing.

  “Hey…you,” Hailey says. He gives Sara a surreptitious glance, his milky blue eyes skirting the length of her white legs. Dirty old man.

  “Yes?” I say. “Mr. Hailey?”

  “I was wondering…you live across the street here. Have you seen that spic…that Juan Perez around here recently?”

  Sara gives my hand another sharp squeeze.

  “No, I haven’t, Mr. Hailey,” I say, as calmly as I can. A picture comes to my mind of the very last time I saw Juan, his lifeless head slumped against the shoulder of that girl Daneeka, both of them just rotting there in my cellar. Before I destroyed the bodies. “Why?”

  “Motherfucker. ‘Cause he seems to have skipped town, that’s why.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. And he owes me like 600 bucks in rent.”

  “No. I haven’t seen him in quite a while.”

  Hailey runs a pudgy hand across his forehead, gives Sara another quick lecherous glance.

  “Strange that he left everything he owned in the damn house. Must have had to leave in a hurry. Probably INS on his ass or somethin’.”

  “Could be. I didn’t know him that well, Mr. Hailey,” I say.

  “Now I have to cart all his shit out so I can rent the place out again. Probably gonna take me forever. Still, he did leave some nice electronics behind.” Now he looks at me like he’s seeing me for the very first time. “You’re Fred Lovell’s kid,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “Your dad was a great man. Never saw such a hard worker in all my life. And always ready to do for people.”

  I grit my teeth. I always hate it when people talk about my father. He kept his dark soul very well hidden. He kept it at home.

  “You should be proud of your Dad. Much better than the damn spics and niggers that live around here now. Well, I’m gonna go get my truck, start carting some of this shit out. Tell me if you see that Perez lurking around here any time.”

  Another glance at Sara. He almost licks his lips.

  I have to get my two cents in.

  “And tell me, Mr. Hailey, how do you feel about vampires moving into the neighborhood?”

  Hailey’s eyes roll up and he frowns at me.

  “Vampires?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Vampires? Like Bela Lugosi?”

  “Yeah.”

  Hailey stares at me like I have gone off my nut or something. Then he starts to chuckle.

  “Vampires. That’s a good one. Let ‘em move in. I don’t care. As long as they pay their rent on time and keep quiet, I’m OK with it.”

  And with that, he walks away from us.

  Sara thinks I should go do that reading in California. She thinks it’s a great idea.

  “And I’ll come along too. Think about it. The two of us walking together in the moonlight, under the palm trees. Won’t that be fun…?”

  I don’t tell her that, since the reading is in northern California, there aren’t any palm trees.

  “How come you haven’t written any poems about me?” she asks, pouting. We are lying in bed, in the early morning. After a bout of pretty satisfactory love making. I’ve done what I can to douse the flames of her red hair.

  “Oh believe me, they are up here percolating,” I say, pointing an index finger at my balding head.

  “Just think…you might end up immortalizing me,” she says, smiling.

  “You are already immortal.”

  “Yeah,” she says. The smile is suddenly gone. “Does that bother you any, Henry?”

  “What? Being immortal?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t really think about it too much Sara. If it’s in the cards, then it happens. Could end up dying tomorrow for all we know.”

  “Yeah.” She turns her head down for a second, then looks into my face very earnestly. “I just keep thinking about Serling.”

  “What about him? He’s long gone by now.”

  “No. Just the way he was. How all those many years of living…well he just wasn’t human anymore, Henry. I just don’t want to end up like that. Ever.”

  I cup her chin, kiss he
r just as earnestly.

  “That’ll never happen to us baby. Trust me. Ever. Just as long as we can lie together like this. Never.”

  “Do you promise, Henry?”

  “I promise.”

  “It’s just that…have you ever read Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “Well I read that book when I was teenager. And there were these characters…they always stayed in my mind. They were born immortal…?”

  “Struldbrugs.”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Struldbrugs. They were immortal. And rather then it being a blessing, it was a curse. Because they got old. They got senile. They got sick. They just didn’t…die. I always thought Serling was like that. And I DON’T want to be like that.”

  I take her in my arms, run my stubbly cheek against her smooth one.

  “It’s not going to happen, Sara. Believe me. It’s not going to happen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  (Thoughts of A Dirty Old Vampire—On Writing)

  At the moment, I am sitting in my writing room, staring at the wall where I have plastered all of my rejection slips for the past two years. There have to be 50 or 60 of them. For every sale I make (and by sale I mean sometimes just the opportunity to see my stuff in print) there’s about ten rejections.

  It’s a hard fucking way to work. To live.

  Really, if I was teaching a creative writing class, the very first thing I would say to all those hopeful young scribes would be: If there is anything else you can do to make a living, get on it and do it now.

  ‘Cause you ain’t gonna make buttkiss with all this scribbling.

  Sometime, early in my life, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. And nothing has been able to deter me from doing that. Not poverty. Not evictions. Not rejections. Not even being turned into a vampire. When it’s happening, when I’m sitting down at the typer and the words, those magical things, are flowing from me like blood from an open vein--well nothing tops that.