by Frank Zafiro
"Have you seen the Great Lakes?" she asked.
I hadn't, but I nodded. "Big as an ocean."
"I've never been to the ocean," she said. "Never left Deer Park, really."
"You don't get into River City?" I asked. "It's only a twenty minute drive."
She shrugged. "Sometimes, but not much. I work here in town. And since they put in a Walmart, I haven't had much need."
I told her about the coastlines in northern California. I'd visited my sister there once, years ago.
Her eyes shone.
"I can almost smell the salt in the air," she said.
"That's the rum," I said and she laughed like I'd said something terribly funny. I watched the rise and fall of her breasts and felt the warmth of her leg next to mine.
When she finished laughing, she asked, "Why do you stay in Deer Park instead of one of the nicer hotels in River City?"
"I'm on my way up to Ione. Besides, the Pines Motel is nice," I said.
She wrinkled her nose.
I shrugged. "I like the small town feel. Don't you?"
A shadow passed over her face momentarily and she shook her head in short jerks. "It's all I know, but no, I don't like it."
I didn't answer.
Her face brightened and she asked, "Where else have you been?"
"Lots of places."
Back in my dingy motel room, she asked me that question again. I'd never been out of the country, never even been to New York, but I told her stories anyway. I don't know if it was her elegance, her sadness or my lust, but I told her. Probably it was all three.
I told her about Italy and the Coliseum in Rome. I described the gladiator shows they put on for the tourists that looked as good as the movies. I lay down on the bed, stared at the ceiling and took us both places we'd never been and would never be and I hoped to hell I got most of the details right.
She sat on the edge of the bed, next to me, looking off at the wall and listening. I stole glances at her as I spoke. Even in the muddled yellow light of the room, I could see how her eyes sparkled.
Eventually, my voice trailed off and I ran out of imagined facts about the Eternal City. I reached up and touched the zipper at the base of her neck.
"Rome," she breathed, but her shoulders slumped a little.
I unzipped the back and she slipped off her party dress.
"Where else?" she whispered, but now her voice had the ring of surrender.
I didn't answer. I sat up, cupped her breasts and leaned in to kiss her. The last thing I saw in her eyes was sadness and resignation and then I felt her tongue in my mouth.
Labor in Vain
by
Frank Scalise
It is not a hurried trip. There is no urgency. Even so, I rail at each stoplight because that it what I feel I am supposed to do. I curse every delay and then, in the next moment, I am grateful for it. I don’t want to ever arrive.
But we have an appointment.
Later, the room is not what I imagined. It is stark. It seems cold and clinical.
She settles onto the bed without complaint.
Neither of us speaks, but I sit beside her and hold her hand. We wait for the nurse.
Later, she squeezes my hand as the needle goes into her arm.
Little pinch, the nurse says. My wife winces, but does not cry out. Not even later when the Pitocin kicks in and the labor pains start.
The nurse remains in the cold, sterile room, monitoring, encouraging her in subdued tones. There are no smiles, no brimming expectation. I put my lips to my wife’s brow and kiss her. I tell her she is doing so good. I say how proud I am of her. How beautiful she is.
She does not answer me.
I close my eyes and taste the salt from her sweat upon my lips.
Her hand clutches mine again.
And again.
Later, her breath comes in gasps. The nurse’s encouragements are more urgent but her voice remains low. She tells us that it is almost time, almost finished now.
I can no longer speak. It is all I can do to hold her hand, to absorb her pain as best I can. With each unnatural contraction, she squeezes. Her grip is crushing but I welcome the pain.
The nurse presses on her belly. The doctor has been paged, she tells us. But still she pushes and encourages and my wife squeezes my hand but does not cry out. Her breath plumes against my cheek, hot and rapid.
Almost there, the nurse tells us.
The doctor never comes.
My wife holds her breath for a long, agonizing push. When she lets that breath out at last, it is with a guttural scream.
After that, silence.
I know then that it is over.
My wife sobs softly. The nurse works with swift, sure movements at the foot of the bed. Another nurse has appeared beside her. They bundle up our silent treasure.
We’ll be just a few minutes, one says.
My wife says nothing.
And I cannot.
We’ll just clean things up, the nurse says. Unless you don’t want—
That’s fine, I say in a croaking whisper.
She leaves without a word.
We are silent. The other nurse inspects my wife but we are oblivious to her. My forehead rests against hers. Her cheeks tremble, wet with tears.
After a few minutes or a few lifetimes, the first nurse returns. She has the bundle in the crook of her arm.
My wife reaches out her arms. The nurse lays the bundle gently into them.
Take as much time as you want, she says to me.
There’s no rush, she says to me.
It’s a boy, she says to me.
When I do not answer, both nurses leave.
My wife stares down at the bundle. She rocks and coos and smiles and weeps. She whispers a name over and over.
I sit quietly beside her. I watch her and see her as a mother for the first time.
Time passes. I don’t even try to imagine how long. Finally, she turns her eyes to me. I see a thousand and ten thousand words in those eyes, but she doesn’t utter a single one of them. I love her for that. For everything.
She extends the bundle to me.
I hold out my arms and gather it in.
It is far too light, even for an infant. I stare down at the tiny, pallid face in peaceful repose. I see a perfect nose that is so obviously hers. I see my grandfather’s chin.
Beside me, my wife is crying again.
I lower my head to his. I kiss his smooth, cold skin. My tears run hot, washing across his face.
My son’s face.
My son.
My son.
Oh, my son.
In Your Warm And Darkened Grave
Darkness was full when she returned. I didn’t hear her enter, but her sudden presence didn’t startle me. I was used to her nature.
“How is the night?” I asked.
“Clear,” she replied. “Is the CD in?”
I nodded. We rarely spoke of her needs.
“Wonderful. I’ll start it, if you light the fire.”
The opera began as I lit the newspaper below the kindling. I watched the flames hungrily devour the paper.
“Wine?” she asked. “Beloved, thank you.”
We sat in silence for a while; she absorbed in the music, I absorbed in her. I sipped my wine. The taste was crisp, the music thunderous, the fire comforting.
“Such brilliance,” she breathed quietly.
She caught my eye as I watched her. Smiling, she rose and kissed me on the mouth. I tasted the slightest coppery tang on her lips. I held her cool hands and looked into her green eyes.
“I want to be with you, Sara.”
“But you are.”
“No, not like this.” I shook my head. “I want to be with you forever.”
She frowned and disengaged herself from me. “No, Beloved,” she said, sitting down. “I won’t do that. It is not eternal life, as you think. It is a long death, and it is evil.”
She glanced away. After a
quiet moment, she whispered, “It is a curse.”
“Then let me share it with you!”
She didn’t reply.
“I want to be your groom,” I told her, my voice ardent and pleading.
“Beloved, we have discussed this before.”
I stared intently at her. “Please,” I begged. “I love you.”
There was a silence as the CD ended. The crackle of the fire seemed a roar. I didn’t move, but only watched her.
Finally, she spoke. “If I were to do this, you would not love me any longer. You would soon wish for the return of your mortality and for death.”
“No.”
She nodded. “Yes, you would. The minute you were born into my world, you would recall every aspect of the mortal world and every moment of your past. Everything would appear so vivid, so tantalizing, and you would hate me. You would hate me for the mortal time that I had stolen from you and for the mortal death that I denied you.”
“I don’t believe any of this. Why would I care about some small past when I had forever to spend with you?”
She leaned forward and touched my hands. A cool shiver ran through my arms. “You are sweet, Beloved. But, please . . . accept my answer, and simply love me.”
“I will always love you,” I whispered.
I rose and started the CD over again and we lost ourselves in Mozart’s thunder.
The next night, he came.
I didn’t hear him enter, but felt his presence immediately. I turned from the cabinet I was repairing and saw him standing in the hallway. He struck an impressive figure, his slender limbs set off by a barreled chest and a shock of black hair. For the single second that I could bear to look into his eyes, I recognized the danger that lurked there.
“Your mistress?” He asked me, his voice a silky growl.
“Who are you?”
I saw a blur, felt a powerful jolt and slammed into the wall.
“Sara!” I croaked weakly.
A moment later, a piercing scream rose from her chamber, filled with fear and a fierce anger.
I stood and staggered toward her cries. The chamber door was bolted tight. I pounded on it uselessly with my fists before I picked up a chair from the hallway and blasted the door open.
Her large window was flung open wide. The curtains swayed with the night breeze. Her overturned casket layon the floor, the lid askew.
“Beloved . . .” she whispered from beneath the open window. Her body was slack and she held her head up with effort. I went to her.
“My wounds?” she asked me.
I examined her quickly. Huge gashes on her leg and mid-section bled profusely. Her mouth and cheeks were spotted with blood. Her breath came in shallow pants.
Blood . . . but not hers.
“I think my ribs are broken,” she grunted with pain, poking her fingers at her side. “Two of them, at least.”
I bound her wounds and taped her ribs. When I had replaced her coffin on the altar and laid her gently into it, she gave me a soft smile. “You are a true love, my beloved.”
I wiped a smear of blood from her face. “I wish for a day when I will share your coffin, and your sleep.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Pray that you do not.”
I held the tavern door open for my newfound companion. He staggered outside, clasping onto my shoulder to keep from falling.
He laughed at his own drunken clumsiness. “Booze and women, you said?”
“Yes,” I told him. “More than you can imagine.”
When she finished with him, I wrapped him in a sheet.
She watched me work. “I am deeply ashamed.”
“Why?”
“That you must provide such things for me. That you would view such evil.”
“Necessity is not evil,” I assured her. “How long will it take you to heal?”
She shrugged. “Another day or two. I do not have the restorative powers that your legends attribute to me.”
“And the other? Will he come back?”
“Not if I leave.”
“Why did he attack you?”
She smiled, but it was not beautiful. “We are very territorial creatures, Beloved. It is . . . well, it is as you say —necessity. This attack was a warning. If he had wanted to kill me, he would have risen as early as the dying sun would permit and he would have set fire to this house.”
“Could he have risen earlier than you?”
“Perhaps. He is an old vampire, this one, and very powerful.”
The thought of her destruction burned in my chest. “I would protect you, even if it cost me my life,” I told her.
Her smile shifted and the beauty returned to it. “It already has.”
I threaded a rope through barbell weights and wrapped it around the shrouded body. I worked quickly, finally pushing the body off the small dock and into the deep waters of the still lake. It sank in a flare of white, disappearing.
When I turned, a man stood at the shore end of the dock, watching me.
I slid a knife from my boot and strode toward him. His face was weathered and deeply lined. Though his shoulders were stooped, his stance remained firm and unwavering. When I neared him, he held up his hand.
“Stop. Go home to your mistress. I have no dealings with the police.”
I slowed and considered him.
He smiled knowingly, but sadness rimmed his eyes. “I have too many secrets of my own to bother with yours, friend.”
I didn’t like the knowing stare he held, but I sheathed my knife. “If you tell a soul, death will visit you.”
His smile turned bitter. “I wish she would.”
He turned and walked away.
When she felt strong again, I told her what had happened at the dock.
“He was old?” she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.
I nodded.
She described his features to me. Her description was better than my own memory. I nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes. That’s him.”
She leaned back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “I should have known.”
“Sara, who is this man? How do you know him?”
She stirred, turning her eyes on me. “He is a former retainer, Beloved. He served me for twenty-eight years before he left.”
“Why did he leave?”
“We fought. He left in anger.
I paused. Thoughts pounded in my head. My heart raced with adrenaline, with jealousy, with realization.
“Was he . . . a lover?”
“As much as I take a lover,” she answered without hesitation. “As much as you are a lover.”
I couldn’t reply.
She went on. “He must have betrayed my place to Vaclav.”
“Vaclav?”
“The one who attacked me.”
I waited, watching her.
Her voice became hard. “If he would betray me to Vaclav, he will betray me to mortals. And if they find me out, they would destroy me, even today. I saw it happen before.” She gave me an accusing look, as if I bore the sins of my race. “They burned Ishka alive in Klastav. That was six hundred years ago. She was careless, too trusting.”
She pressed her lips together in cold anger. “And they burned her.”
“Sara . . .”
But she was gone.
I didn’t sleep, only waited for her. When she returned, dawn threatened in the east, but she showed no fear.
“Did you find him?” I asked softly.
“I hunted him, Beloved. And I killed him.” She stared at me, forcing me to look away. “Do you find that evil?”
“No,” I whispered. “Necessity.”
“It was,” she agreed. “I cannot allow myself to be discovered. I cannot die now.” Her voice lowered slightly. “I have lost my soul.”
I looked up and she cast me a softer, teary glance.
“Don’t you see, Beloved? This dark immortality has cost me my soul. Death would be nothingness to me now. No reward, no p
unishment. No consciousness. Just . . .nothing.”
“There are men who believe that is the fate of all who die.”
She scoffed. “Those men are fools.”
I didn’t reply. A vision of the old man’s deep, sad eyes flashed before me.
“Would you still ask me to give you this long, soulless death, Beloved?”
I shook my head.
She sighed gratefully. “I am glad. That is what Phillip and I fought over and why he left me. I would not want us to come to that same end.” She leaned forward to kiss me, and I felt the hardness of her sharp teeth as she pushed her mouth against my cheek.
“Goodnight, Beloved.”
When dawn broke, I struck the match. The flame licked at the thick curtain, burning the material greedily. I tossed the half-burned match onto a chair soaked in gasoline. With a deep puff, it caught flame. Fire rushed along the liquid paths I’d laid, then began to stray, hungrily devouring the furniture, the carpet and climbing the walls. I stood in the center of the room. Smoke burned my eyes.
Sara . . .
I staggered to the front door and flung it open.
Memories besieged me, thoughts of a life that had been imprisoned inside of me. I had a wife once, and a daughter. They died in a plane crash, years ago. I savored the knowledge and the grief.
Ten years ago . . . she was right. I would have hated her.
I made my way to the street and into the morning, alone save for the memories of blood and love.
For the Sake of Art
New Hampshire, 1991.
“So what are my options?”
“At this point, not many.”
Upir sat in the chair with nether-worldly stillness, gazing at his fingertips. He didn’t reply to Mason, only waited for the lawyer to go on.
Mason sighed. “Why did you wait so long? Things could have been handled quite simply if you’d have come to me a month ago.”
“I wasn’t aware of the situation a month ago.”
“Where were you?”
“I went home,” Upir told him. “To Czechoslovakia. It has been many years since the way was open, Mason.”
Mason nodded. “Yes, I suppose it has. Maybe it would have been better for you if you had stayed there.”