Love Bites

by Annabelle Costa

“YOU NOTICED HOW BEAUTIFUL SHE WAS?”

  “No!” he says. “I noticed she had the biggest titties of any girl in the room!”

  “Mr. Teitelman!” I cover my mouth. I want to cover my ears.

  “It’s true,” he insists. “The other girls were all so skinny, like Olive Oyl. Who wants that? I hated it! But Beverly had a real figure.” He nods his head. “That’s when I knew I was going to marry her.”

  This is not the sweetest story I’ve ever heard.

  “And then we were married for forty years,” he sighs. “I never thought I’d be without her. I miss her so much, Brooky. Sometimes it feels like… like half of me is gone.”

  Despite the fact that he just told me a story about his late wife’s huge knockers, I feel a lump rising in my throat. It actually is a beautiful story.

  Chapter 13: Tom Blake

  September, 1906

  It is hard to concentrate on my dinner tonight. I didn’t notice until I sat down at the table that my mother has bruises all over her face. I was in my room for most of the evening yesterday, trying to get through my school assignments by candlelight, since I ended up staying late at the butcher shop. I heard some noises from downstairs, but hadn’t paid much mind at the time.

  But now I can see that when my father stumbled home from the saloon last night, he had taken out his drunken fury on my mother’s face. She has a black eye and her upper lip is swollen to twice its usual size. And when she gets up from the table to fetch more bread, she winces.

  I watch my father shoveling the slices of beef into his mouth—the meat that Mr. Sullivan gave me as a supplement to my meager wages. I hope he chokes on it. What sort of man lays his dirty meathooks on a woman a full head smaller than he is? He’s disgusting. When Mary and I are married, I will never lay a finger on her in anger.

  Pa glances at me and notices I’m pushing vegetables around my plate rather than eating them. “Eat your dinner, boy,” he says. “My work puts food on your plate and I don’t want to see it wasted.”

  I glare at him.

  Ma must have caught the look in my eyes, because she chirps brightly, “George, speaking of your work, maybe you can bring Tom with you to the shop again soon.”

  “Why should I?” Pa snorts. “He has no interest. He wants to hack up meat for a living.”

  “I’m sure if he gets to see more of what you do,” Ma says, “he’d be more interested.” She nods at me. “Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

  I can’t make myself answer. Not even for the sake of keeping the peace. Not anymore.

  The truth is that I want my father to get angry. I want him to stand up and threaten to whup me if I don’t comply with his wishes. I want to take him on.

  I’m ready.

  But my father just sits there, too exhausted from work and the large meal to pick a fight. “He doesn’t want to go, Meg. And I don’t want him hanging around the shop, grousing about how bored he is.”

  Unfortunately, Ma doesn’t know when to give up. “Surely he wants to follow in his father’s footsteps though! He just needs some encouragement.”

  “His father’s footsteps! Ha!” Pa squints at me with his beady brown eyes. “Fred Sullivan is as much his father as I am.”

  The fork I’d been toying with falls from my hand. I look up at my mother, whose face has gone white under the dark purple bruises.

  “George, stop it…” Ma murmurs.

  “Stop what?” Pa barks. “The boy’s seventeen years old. Don’t you think he’s old enough to know the truth?”

  I stare at the man who has raised me for the last seventeen years. My heart is thudding so loud my chest, everyone at the table can certainly hear it.

  “What?” I manage.

  “George, please,” Ma whispers, her voice nearly a sob.

  He stands from the table, wiping his big hands on his slacks. “You really think I could have fathered a lousy kid like you? Think again.”

  With those words, the man I’ve been calling my father stormed away from the table, toppling his chair in his wake. I just stare at the space he recently occupied, trying to make sense of what I just heard.

  “Is it true?” I finally ask my mother, a minute after the front door slams to announce George Blake has left for the saloon.

  She doesn’t answer right away. She takes her sweet time, and when she does, her voice is soft and shaky. “I’m sorry, Tom. It’s true.”

  I turn to look at her, wincing again at the sight of her bruises. “How could you not tell me?”

  “It was for your own good!” She sticks out her chin. “Everything was for you, Tom. When I found out that I was… expecting, I thought our lives would be over. But then George came along and he saved us. He married me before I was showing and he told everyone that you were his own.” She shakes her head. “Do you know what it would have been like if I had you out of wedlock? Do you know what our lives would have been like?”

  At least she wouldn’t be married to a man who puts bruises on her face on a regular basis. I wouldn’t have the scar on my palm from when he scalded me with metal from the fire.

  “Who is my real father?” I ask.

  Ma bites her bruised lip. “He wasn’t from around here. He was just… passing through. He was so charming and so… so very handsome.” She closes her eyes for a moment before opening them again. I can see blood in the white of her right eye. “You look just like him, Tom.”

  It all suddenly makes sense. My black hair and dark eyes that nobody can explain. The way George Blake treats me like an intruder in his home. Even as a child, I never felt anything resembling love for the man. Deep down, I must have known we were nothing to each other.

  “What’s his name?” I ask her.

  She continues to chew on her lip. “Stephen.”

  “Stephen what?”

  My mother averts her eyes. “He wouldn’t tell me. It was all very secretive. He was staying at the boarding house—he was only there a few months. Then he was gone.”

  “Do you have a photograph of him?”

  She shakes her head no.

  Stephen. His name is Stephen. That is all I will ever know about my real father. That and he looks like me and is charming enough to seduce a teenaged girl to do things that would permanently destroy her reputation.

  “I’m going to my room,” I say, nearly choking on the words.

  A line appears between Ma’s eyebrows. “You’ve hardly eaten…”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  When I get upstairs, I’m glad I barely ate dinner. I feel like throwing up, even though I hardly have any food in my belly.

  George Blake is not my father. Everything I ever knew or believed has been wrong.

  October, 1906

  Mr. Sullivan and I are walking to a farm in the next town. They have a steer for sale and Mr. Sullivan has borrowed a horse and wagon to bring it back to the butcher shop after we kill it. He dumped our equipment into the wagon, including two knives, a 12-gauge shotgun, and a hoist to help get the animal into and out of the wagon, since a grown cow or steer can weigh about a ton.

  We’ll do the butchering back at the shop, so all we’ve got to do is kill the animal and get him back with us—not necessarily an easy task. Mr. Sullivan has a man who usually helps him, and this is the first time he’s asked me to come along. “I think you’re ready for this, Tom,” he tells me as we lead the horse down the road to the farm.

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  It is early morning and quiet on the town’s main road. Mr. Sullivan says it’s good to do the killing early, before the flies come out. The sound of horseshoes clicking against the pavement is like gunshots.

  “You like working for me, Tom?” Mr. Sullivan asks me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. After a moment, I add, “Very much so.”

  “Good,” he replies. I thought he might say something more, but he doesn’t.

  Once we get to the farm, Mr. Sullivan haggles with the farmer for a few minutes over the arrangement.
The farmer wants to give us a cow—a female that has at least one calf—but I know Mr. Sullivan prefers meat from the male steer, which he says is higher quality. Finally, they shake hands, and Mr. Sullivan grabs the shotgun, motioning for me to follow him. The farmer leads us to a pen where a smallish steer is waiting inside. “I’ll leave you fellows to it,” the farmer tells us.

  Mr. Sullivan nudges my shoulder and holds out the shotgun to me. “You ever shoot a gun, Tom?”

  “Yes, sir.” Several years ago, George Blake (I can no longer think of him as my father) took me out back with his rifle, reasoning, A boy’s got to know how to shoot. We practiced on tin cans until he felt confident I could make a shot. “But not in a while.”

  “So here’s what you do,” Mr. Sullivan says. “You imagine a line drawn from the base of each ear to the opposite eye. Where the lines cross—that’s where you aim.”

  “Okay.” My legs feel rubbery. “Where should I stand?”

  Mr. Sullivan squints at the steer. “About ten feet away is good. Maybe take one step back.”

  I try to get my nerves under control. I point the shotgun at the steer, keeping both eyes open the way George taught me. I wait until my hands stop shaking, then I squeeze the trigger.

  It’s a perfect shot. A silver-dollar-sized hole appears in the animal’s skull, and it drops to the ground almost instantly. Mr. Sullivan claps me on the back.

  “Good job, Tom! You’re a natural.”

  We approach the steer together. Mr. Sullivan puts one foot against the animal’s forelegs and one against its head, exposing its short neck. He hands me the knife he’d been carrying.

  “You want to make a cut along the base of its neck, maybe ten inches long,” he instructs me. “First expose the windpipe, but you don’t want to cut through it.”

  I do as he instructed me. Blood oozes from the animal’s neck and my heart quickens.

  “Next you want to insert the knife to one side of the windpipe with the back of the blade against the breastbone,” he says. “Press the point of the blade down maybe four or five inches. That will cut the blood vessels.”

  This next cut results in a wave of blood that I hadn’t quite expected. It squirts out, drenching my hands and my clothes, which makes Mr. Sullivan laugh. But I’m not thinking about the fact that I’ll be walking home in blood-soaked clothing. All I can think about is the way that pig’s blood made me feel the other day, and how I want this so much more. I want to bury my face in it and drink until my stomach aches.

  And as I watch the blood pour from the animal, I feel that presence behind me. Someone watching. Someone who knows exactly what I’m thinking. And then I hear a voice whisper in my ear:

  Drink up, Tom.

  “Tom?” Mr. Sullivan’s voice sounds very far away. “You okay, Tom?”

  “Uh huh,” I manage.

  “You look pale.” He edges away from the steer and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sit down on the ground. Puts your head between your legs.”

  “I’m okay,” I manage, but I oblige by lowering my bottom to the ground. I close my eyes, trying not to think about all the blood. But it is no use—I can still smell it.

  After about ten minutes, the flow of blood has stopped and I’m able to think clearly again. I don’t know what came over me. If I had buried my face in that animal’s neck, Mr. Sullivan never would have allowed me in his shop ever again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I know I’ve got to get it under control before it wrecks my life.

  I help Mr. Sullivan hoist the steer up into the wagon for the horse to pull it back to town. We cover it with a tarp, load our equipment back into the wagon, and then we’re ready to go back to the shop.

  I walk quietly next to Mr. Sullivan as we travel back into town, ashamed by my behavior at the farm. It is only after we are halfway back that he breaks the silence.

  “You did good back there, Tom,” he says.

  I look away from him. “Not really.”

  “Yes, really,” he insists. “That was your first time slaughtering a steer. Truth be told, I got woozy myself when it was my first time. But you made a clean shot. You killed the animal fast, and… well, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  I venture a look at Mr. Sullivan, who is grinning at me with his yellowed teeth. He has no idea what I’d really been thinking. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Enough of this ‘sir’ nonsense,” he barks at me. “From now on, you call me Fred.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “I mean… Fred.”

  I can’t imagine calling him Fred. The word feels like glue on my tongue. But I appreciate what he is trying to do.

  “Soon you’ll be done with school, won’t you, Tom?” he asks thoughtfully.

  I nod.

  “So what if I hired you for full time?” he says. “I mean, after you graduate.”

  I stare at him. “Full time?”

  “I’m always paying people to help me with these animals or having to close up the shop so I can get to market,” he says. “I need another man on board with me. And you… I trust you.” He grins at me again. “You’ll need money if you’re going to buy a house for that girl you’re so keen on, Mary.”

  I didn’t realize that Mr. Sullivan knew about Mary. He is right—I have saved very little from my time working at the butcher shop. I turn over all my wages to George. Sometimes customers tip me though, and that money I save, hiding it under my mattress.

  “Are you sure?” I ask, hardly able to believe my luck.

  “Of course I’m sure!” he booms. He winks at me. “Besides, we do better business when you’re working the front of the store. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I frown at him.

  He laughs. “Don’t tell me you don’t notice how all the women in town come in just to flirt with you!”

  I look at him in surprise, but I do have some idea what he is talking about. I’m not just off the boat. I know the way women look at me, although it doesn’t matter. The only woman I want is Mary.

  Chapter 14: Brooke

  My last patient of the day, Mr. Vaughn, is being a real pain.

  The patient I had before him was a five-year-old child who was able to hold still while I drew three tubes of blood. That little girl was “like a statue,” as I always say to the children. But Mr. Vaughn, who is a full grown adult in his forties, will not stay still. He keeps shifting in his chair, kicking his legs out at exactly the right height to nail me in the shin.

  “I’m going to need you to stop moving, sir,” I tell him.

  He sighs and I can tell he’s making an effort, although his right leg is still bouncing.

  “Usually they go for that vein right there,” Mr. Vaughn informs me, as he points to a teeny tiny vein on his left arm.

  I tap on his antecubital space, watching a huge vein plump up next to the vein he wanted me to go for. “You’ve got a better vein next to it.”

  “Yes, but that other one is the one that works best.”

  I grit my teeth. I hate it when patients instruct me on which vein they want me to draw blood from. I’m a trained professional who does this eight hours a day, five days a week. Don’t think they I know the best vein to go for?

  “Let’s try the bigger vein,” I tell him. “Trust me on this.”

  Thank God, Mr. Vaughn doesn’t push it. I’ve had twenty minute arguments with patients who want me to draw blood from some vein that doesn’t even exist. Usually I have a little more patience for the last patient of the day, but I’m meeting Hunter for dinner after this and I’m eager to get out of here.

  The needle slides right into the big, juicy vein I selected, but the second I get inside, Mr. Vaughn lets out an ear-shattering yelp. I practically jump out of my skin, assuming that a wolf has gotten into the lab and is barreling towards us right now. But there is no wolf. There is only me and Mr. Vaughn—the big baby.

  “That hurt,” he says accusingly.

  Well, it’s a needle, Einstein. “Sorry,” I mutter.


  By some miracle, the needle is still in his vein. I manage to draw out a red top and a purple top test tube of blood, and then I label them to go to the lab for analysis. Mr. Vaughn cradles his injured arm as he watches me.

  “Do you like your job?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say. Not particularly at this moment, but I do like it. I feel like I’m performing an important service.

  “Because it seems like a weird thing to have to do all day,” he comments. “You know, taking blood from people.”

  I shrug. “I enjoy it.”

  He grins at me. “What are you—a vampire?”

  Ha ha. So funny. Nobody has ever made that comment to me before. It’s not like that didn’t get old six years ago.

  I send Mr. Vaughn on his way, finish up my paperwork, then head to the bathroom to change into something more respectable than scrubs for my dinner with Hunter. I wanted to go home before my date, but Hunter said he had to fly out first thing tomorrow morning for a business meeting in Boston, so I agreed on an early dinner.

  Hunter is outside waiting for me when I get out of the lab, which I like—my biggest pet peeve is tardiness. Despite the heat, he seems comfortable in his dress shirt and dress pants. I get the sense Hunter isn’t so much the outdoorsy type. He certainly doesn’t have much of a tan.

  “There you are,” he says as he walks over to greet me.

  I smile at him. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

  “Not at all.” He looks over my flower-printed dress and frowns. “Is this what you wore to work?”

  “Uh no,” I say. “I was wearing scrubs at work. I changed.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know why, but he seems disappointed. Did he really expect me to wear scrubs on our date? I wouldn’t think so. I don’t even have cute, fitted scrubs. I got the baggy ones because it keeps patients from hitting on me. “Where are the scrubs you were wearing?”

  Okay, this is an odd line of questioning. “I left them at work.”

  Hunter moves closer to me, and he seems to be inhaling deeply. Then he shuts his eyes like whatever he’s smelling is pleasing to him. Maybe he smells my favorite hot dog cart down the street. I can see the smoke billowing out of the cart.