The Drayton Chronicles
Page 19
“This is not a joke,” he says.
And the icy legs return. “You can leave now. No charge.”
“You know this is true.”
“Look, get the hell out of here before I call the cops.” Big-boy voice, activated. “And tell whoever the fuck sent you to knock it off or I’ll have them arrested.”
Not sure what I was going to do if he just sat there. Suppose I was going to pick up the phone. But then he stands up, looks around the office. He doesn’t nod or even acknowledge me. Come to think of it, he never even looked threatening. He just came in, said I was going to die, and then he walks out like some goddamn bike messenger.
The hallway door closes, his boots echo through the front room. The bell rings.
And I can’t move.
Just fucking weird, man. I’ve had threats before, but nothing like this. I rub my forehead. It feels just fine. And five days? Whoever paid this kid got their money’s worth.
It’s 10:30 by the time I get up.
My wife and I stand outside Grill 225. Not my favorite place on a Friday night. The streets smell sour and the sidewalks are crowded with college students and tourists and vendors. I stare through the large plate glass. My reflection is gaunt. I chalk it up to the dark window, not lingering thoughts. I keep my arms folded, avoid the temptation to rub my forehead where a foretold vein (or is it an artery?) is ready to burst, hosing my brain down like a bloody—
Stop.
Runaway thoughts, all day long. I sat in the therapist’s chair, riding out three more appointments after Drayton left. The fact that I still remember his name upsets me. I’ve got to give props to whoever dreamed that goof up. Kid was convincing. It wasn’t what he said, just the way he filled the room when he walked in, delivered the message, deadpan. Next time I see Tommy, I’ll shake his hand, smack him in the balls.
Good one, Tommy. Got me good.
“Honey.” Brenda grabs my arm. “You’re staring.”
The couple at the table nearest the window snicker at me. I look like a mindless zombie watching them eat. I turn away, one last glimpse of the shadows across my reflection.
“Hannah said they’d be here at 7:00,” Brenda says. “What time is it?”
The case isn’t on my belt. “Left my phone at the office.”
“Oh, there they are.” Brenda waves.
Pete and Hannah Edwards cross through the market. Brenda greets them at the corner. I put my hands in my pocket – slightly annoyed they’re late for everything – and find something. At first, I think maybe it’s my phone, maybe I didn’t forget it. It’s a stack of hundred dollar bills, crisp and neatly folded with a crease. Ten of them.
I don’t remember packing cash. In fact, I almost never carry, and certainly not in my pocket—
A white card flutters out.
It falls on the cracked bluestone, a black-ink number facing up.
5
I’m afraid to bend over, afraid I’ll fall over if I do. Afraid to touch the card, that’ll make it real. That’ll mean today is day number 5, if I pick it up. Instead, I just look away, pretend this joke is going too far.
“Hey, killer. You paying tonight?” Pete shakes my empty hand, his Clemson class ring grinding into my finger.
“Honey, what are you doing with all that money?” Brenda asks.
I’m speechless, really. I’d drop the bills right on top the card, cover that number if it wouldn’t make a scene. Instead, I put them back in my pocket, feel it dirty my palm when I let go, like I just accepted the Devil’s terms.
I leave the 5 on the pavement.
We go in the restaurant. We eat the finest steak in town.
I don’t taste a single bite.
DAY 4
Day four is Saturday.
No clients today. No problems to solve. Just me and the truck and a handful of projects at the rental houses. I could sub the repairs out, but I like to clean out fountains and fix irrigation. I like pruning shrubs and planting flowers because they don’t talk back.
My travel mug of coffee is near empty but all that caffeine isn’t helping. I slept very little the night before, lying in bed and watching the cobwebs waver near the vents. The mind has a tremendous ability to make sense out of illogical events.
I’m no different.
How did the card get in my pocket? And the money? If it’s a goof, it’s a goddamn good one. I’m genuinely freaking out. But I’ve seen Chris Angel pop a basketball and pull out a card with someone’s number on it. That sort of shit can be done. I don’t know how, but it’s not magic.
And someone is pulling a Chris Angel on me.
I had an explanation before I fell asleep somewhere in the three o’clock hour. Tommy had to be in on it, but that goon doesn’t have the brains for something like this. Phil does, though. We used to goof on that asshole all through high school. How many times did we leave his ass in the woods? I would’ve called him at 4:00 AM if I had my phone.
The cash sits on my dash. But if you’re going to goof, you don’t give some stooge $1000.
My fragile house of rationalization begins to crumble.
It completely falls when I pull up to the office. There’s a boy at the front door. A claw clenches my chest, doesn’t let go.
I turn the truck off.
We stare.
He stands with hands behind his back, tilts his head as if questioning what I’m doing. The engine ticks beneath the hood. And my pulse thuds behind my eardrums. I reach into the glove box, grab the pepper spray.
I open the door open, drop one foot on the ground. “What are you doing?”
“I paid for five sessions.”
“The hell you talking about?”
I didn’t even make him pay for the first— $1000. At $200 a pop, that’s five sessions.
“Phil put you up to this? Tommy? Tell those bastards this isn’t funny.”
“I’d simply like to talk.”
“I’m closed. You come back on Monday.” I reach inside the truck and fling the money. Green bills flutter to the ground. “In fact, don’t come back Monday. Here’s your refund. Tell whoever put you up to this I’m done.”
“That’s your money, James. I paid for five sessions, you accepted.”
“That supposed to scare me?”
“I only want my hour. I’ll be on my way.”
He’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. But he’s not filthy, doubt he slept in a homeless shelter. Doesn’t look like he has $1000 for counseling. He’s calm, though. So calm.
And peace trickles through me, warm and soft. Washing away the tension, the cold fear. And it’s me and him. With nowhere else to be.
The coffee machine pops and kicks on the kitchen counter. “You want some?” I ask.
“Tea, if you have it.”
I just so happen to have tea in the cabinet. What good Southerner would not? I pour a cup of coffee and he walks into the kitchen, spooks me.
“I’ll get it,” he says, taking the box of tea from the counter.
My phone is in the office, right where I left it. I put it in my pocket so I won’t have to return again. He may have paid for five sessions, but he’ll get them on my time. Not his. The fountain bubbles in the front room. He must’ve turned it on. I take small sips, listen to his boots rap the kitchen floor, the microwave bing and notice the bird feeders are full.
And I forgot to fill them yesterday.
He walks into the back office, surprisingly light-footed with heavy boots. He sits on the duvet, carefully balancing a fine china teacup and saucer that must have been in the back of the cabinet. A funny look, really. This very dark-skinned young man sitting with his legs elegantly crossed, a dainty cup beneath his nose. He inhales the steam, eyes closed.
We sit in silence, not really looking at each other. I usually let the client begin the session. I don’t know what the fuck this kid wants, though. What do I say to a jerkoff that’s counting down my life?
The silence stretches.
“I was born sometime before Christ.” He says it softly. Matter-a-factly. Like maybe he just asked if I thought it would rain tomorrow.
The absurd statement hangs between us. It goes along with the rest of this ridiculous show. When he doesn’t follow it, I say, “So you’re 2000 years old?”
“Much older.”
“How much?”
“I recall invading Greece as an Achean.”
“Greece?” I raise my eyebrows, stifling a reaction. “That would make you 4000 years old, if I remember ancient history. And anyway, I would’ve guessed you were from Africa, not Greece.”
He strokes the back of his hand, the skin smooth and unblemished. “I was much fairer during the Bronze Age. Thousands of years in the sun has altered my appearance.”
“Bronze Age? So now you’re talking 7000 or 8000 years old.”
“Perhaps older.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I do not.” He sips again, pinky out, places the cup on the table in front of him. “The early days are quite obscure.”
He seems content with the exchange. We sit in another prolonged silence. Perhaps it would’ve stayed that way, but now I’m entertained.
“Do you have a mother and father?”
“I don’t know that. Quite honestly, James, I don’t know how I came to be.”
“You just appeared?”
“Do you remember sliding from the birth canal? Can you recall your first years of existence?”
“I grew up with parents, that much I know.”
“I had no such luxury.” He closes his eyes, folds his hands on his lap. “The early years were very difficult. It took quite some time to learn who I am.”
Something tugs the corner of his mouth. Perhaps a memory.
“This is fascinating, Drayton. I mean, it’s your money or someone’s money so you can spend it however you want, but if you want to tell me stories, I’ll be honest, I’m not interested. There are plenty of people that need help, far more interested in real growth than you. You’re 18 years old and you tell me you’re 8000. You tell me I’m going to die of a stroke. You need help, son, but the help you need is beyond my ability. You need to check yourself into MUSC’s psych ward. I’ll drive you there, if you don’t have a ride—”
“Let me explain.”
I stop from rising out of the chair. Perhaps it’s the urgency in his tone or the chill I feel on the back of my neck. I sit. Drayton stands. I reach into my pocket, grasp the pepper spray, but he walks over to the window where the birds are busy. Squirrels are nosing around the ground, grabbing scraps.
“I remember hunger,” he says.
He seems to recall something in history, perhaps triggered by the desperate scavenging squirrels.
“It was deep and consuming. A blinding hunger.” His voice is even and calm, but an edge commands me to stay. To listen. “It was a hunger that no breast would satisfy, nothing plucked from the earth or gathered from stems could satiate. It was all-consuming, James.”
He taps the glass, his pink nail framed in black flesh. The squirrels scatter.
“A predator, I was. A very good predator.” He looks back, pupils engorged.
Vertigo twirls in my groin. I press my feet against the floor. When he looks out the window, the fear of falling dissipates. “Humans don’t live thousands of years,” I mutter.
“As I’ve said, I know not what I am. Or why.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
He smudges the glass with his fingertips. I wonder if he’ll leave fingerprints behind. I don’t know why I care.
The squirrels creep back.
“Humans are warm-blooded,” he says. “They contain red blood cells. They age. They die.”
“And you don’t?”
“A human is nearly 25% red blood cells. They depend on these erythrocytes to bind oxygen, to circulate through the body at 97.9 degrees. Red blood cells are the life of an animal. Would you agree?”
“I see,” I say because I see where he’s going. He’s thousands of years old and he drinks blood. Everyone wants to be a fucking vampire. Twilight ruined these delusional kids. Whatever fear that shivered through me quickly sloughs away.
He thinks he’s one of them. He’s a vampire.
“I don’t think that, James. I don’t know what I am.”
What?
“I can only tell you that I hunted the animals in the forest. At first it was the smaller ones, the weaker prey. I relied on my senses and cunning, setting traps and running them until they were exhausted. I tore the meat from the bone like a jackal, but mostly I savored the iron-rich hemoglobin. The salty tang satiated the ache that howled in the back of my throat, the richness fulfilling the emptiness of my being. I lived like that for centuries.”
His hand slides off the window.
Fear returns like a ghostly hand trembling over my skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Goddamn, this kid is killing me. I check the clock. Only twenty minutes left and I’ll clock him out, call Dr. Franklin at MUSC for a possible admittance. He doesn’t feel threatening, but the delusion is frightening.
But the last twenty minutes of the session change everything.
Drayton comes back to the couch, sits across from me. Crosses his legs.
“You still doubt,” he says. “I understand.”
I try to look away but his eyes are so deep and black and bottomless, holding me with the gravity of a black hole. I’m catatonic, imprisoned in my own body.
“It was Greece.” His voice is silk, sliding into my ears, entering my brain. “I first tasted a human.”
And I see.
I am in the streets of Ancient Greece, the cobbled stones slick with rain. The moon illuminates puddles and distant dogs whine. I see her ahead, lurking in the doorway. No, I smell her. Beneath the cloud of perfume and sour alcohol, I sense the rich flow of her blood pulsing through the carotid artery.
She steps into the street. Her fingers curl like dancers, beckoning me forth. She knows I lust but not for what. The flesh holds no power over my groin. It’s the red blood that grips my throat, pulls me into its embrace. She cackles with laughter, stumbling into my arms. Her neck – sticky with saliva and wine – is exposed. I drag the tip of my tongue across it, taste the sweat. Feel the pulse. It vibrates in my own throat.
She moans.
Limp in my embrace, she gives herself to me. Her neck breaks easily. Her head flops over, stretching the skin. The artery thumps like a temptress. And I resist no more.
I tear the flesh like rice paper, my jaws strengthened on the hide of animals, the incisors long and eviscerating. Blood spills over my chin and I dig into the open meat, searching with my tongue until I find the severed artery, pulling it between my lips.
I suck the blood from it. So much lighter than an animal’s, the blood infused with something… different. Intoxicating.
Essential.
I empty her of life.
And it fills me. I am whole. Present.
Alive.
The sensation follows me back to the chair. I find myself in my office, cold and stiff. Unblinking, tears stream from my burning eyes. I snatch a deep breath, lunge forward, onto my feet.
It takes time to recognize my surroundings. The windows and the birds. The empty couch. Drayton’s gone.
The salty tang of iron lingers.
It’s the third time I’ve washed my body, scrubbing with a bar soap, suds pooling around my feet. Still, I can’t rid the sense of dread that’s thick and heavy, coating me like an oily film.
I step out, wrap a towel around my waist and stand in front of the mirror. My hair is thick, but it’s gray and slapped against my forehead. I push it back, water bea
ding on my shoulders. How many times have I stood in front the mirror, never really paying attention to who looks back?
I lean closer, pull down the bottom eyelids. The irises blue, but the whites are red. The pupils shrink down to tiny holes as I near the lights. The mirror fogs with my breath, slowly obscuring my face. My finger squeaks across the glass and I stand back, observe the number 4 freshly etched in the cloudy mirror.
I rub my head, imagining an artery bursting open, my brain drowning in blood.
Four days.
I pull the knot loose, the towel gathers around my ankles. I step back, look at what 50 years has done to my body. The slight pooch above my waist, the sag beneath my breasts. The sag elsewhere. My ass dimpled with cottage cheese texture. I never thought I’d look like this. Youth is forever hopeful, eternally blind. And here I am, watching the number 4 fade from the mirror, wondering how this kid got ass-deep inside my fucking head.
“Honey?”
“Whoa!” I jerk at the sound of the voice.
Brenda doesn’t hide her smile. “Caught you looking, huh?”
“Just assessing the damage.”
“Jamie and I are about to start a movie. You coming?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“All right.” She starts away. I pull open the drawer, push around tubes of toothpaste and combs, trying to look normal. Trying to look like I’m not staring at the number 4.
“You okay?” she asks. “You’ve been a little quiet today.”
I consider lying. That never works. That’s what happens when psychiatrists marry.
“Yeah. Just… there’s this new client that got to me today.”
“Since when did you take on new clients?”
“Long story.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No big deal.” I run a comb through my hair. “I’m working through it, you go on. I’ll be down in a second.”
Brenda watches me slick my hair back, looks through me with x-ray vision. She finally gives up. I’ll talk if it’s still bothering me, she knows that.