Dracula's Children

by Richard Lortz

  The skin of her mouth becomes taut, pulling back from her teeth in a snarling grimace. With her black hair wildly disarrayed, her hands clawed, every muscle of her body contracted and ready, she begins to sway slightly, displaying much of the contained power and magnificence of the cobra.

  So! All is not as simple as it seemed. The rat hesitates, and for the first time gives just a bit of ground, retreating a few feet, but immediately coming back halfway, not to be intimidated.

  On the other hand, Julia does not give ground but takes it, moving forward the instant the rat retreats. As she does so, the ghost-image of the forest impinges, dissolving away the buildings, the rubble; it has the quality of a wave of the sea crashing over her, draining back, leaving her without human senses; rather—ultraalive, ultrareal, all of her body and mind seething with a primordial ecstasy.

  She is able to smell the rat now, sharp and exquisite. Her teeth chatter, her body strains forward.

  Had he a choice, perhaps the rat would now flee, seeing that his adversary is more dangerous than he dreamed, but it is much too late. He must attack.

  He curls his legs secretly beneath him, a low, snarling growl vibrates from his throat. The wretched teeth are bared to their fullest; the eyes gleam their deadliest warning.

  He springs, but is stopped in midair, for Julia also has leaped, and her strike is a second sooner. The bleeding, helpless, squealing rat has been caught by the throat from behind and hangs between Julia’s teeth, its pale belly quivering, its claws futilely raking the air.

  Julia grinds down her teeth, burying them deep in the furry flesh, and with rapid twists of her head, shakes and tosses the victim violently. Once . . . twice . . . the teeth sinking deeper each time; the third time the rat surrenders, hanging limply, the blood oozing and bubbling from its open mouth, the shrill, pathetic squeals of its dying becoming fainter and fainter—until all is still.

  JAMIE

  THE BOY in the cracked, steamed mirror over the bathroom sink was tall for his twelve years, well-muscled and lean—perhaps too thin: the shoulder bones on either side of his neck sticking out embarrassingly, and although it probably had nothing to do with weight, his Adam’s apple was indeed the size of a small apple.

  Otherwise he was good-looking, with the good looks of character and uniqueness rather than regular or beautiful features, the skin fine-grained and smooth—a dark, ochered olive, the black wavy hair so thick on his head he sometimes went to a barber just to have it thinned out, seldom cut, since he wore it long.

  Jamie swallowed several times to watch the bone in his throat move up and down, then squinted close to the mirror to see what progress was being made in the peach-skin fuzz that shadowed his upper lip. None really, it seemed the same as last week, even the week before, and he was disappointed.

  What else, what else was there to see?—seizing the rare moment when his depression had left him and he was feeling not too bad. He stepped closer to the mirror to look down at his sex; but he looked at that so often! with no other conclusion than it was neither big nor small, probably normal enough, so he shouldn’t complain, but the dark downy growth of pubic hair was doing very well indeed, and this somehow pleased him.

  Of more and particular concern—he’d noticed it with real shock when he’d first taken off his clothes—were the six, seven, no eight, no nine! long, sharp scratches across his chest and back, one so deep it was virtually a cut and still sticky with congealed blood.

  The warm water of the shower had the sting of acid and he’d winced at the pain, afterward toweling himself dry with great care, pasting up the deep scratch which still bled with several layers of toilet tissue.

  He’d been amazed! Where had he gotten them? How? How could one get so badly, surely painfully scratched and not know it was happening; worse: not remember afterward? Was something happening to his mind?—part of the sickening black moods he so often had to suffer?

  Astonished and dazed for the second time that evening, once before, now after his shower, he dropped the broken seat on the toilet and sat down, trying hard to think back.

  He’d been with Julia and Angel and the others the night before—at the river first and the boat basin, fooling around, and then later at the park. There had been . . . nothing, nothing at all he could recall that. . . . Yet—something troubled him, began to edge into consciousness.

  He remembered . . . a sound; yes . . . a voice! —plaintive, high-pitched, so far away, faintly, like a half-heard echo—

  Little boy . . . ? Little boy . . . ?

  What did it mean? Why did the words some-how frighten him and return his depression? Why did his heart hammer and his tongue go dry?

  Jamie’s eyes rolled upward, half into his head; he rose, staggering slightly, almost fainting, and had to steady himself against the door, his head thrown back, twisting slowly, while, as with Julia, the ghost-image of the forest crashed over him in a wave—as glittering and cool as the sea, seething, laced with foam, spangled with moonlight, draining back, and away, leaving him stunned and breathless. And with this much memory—at least this much: a ragged wall of bramble—a thicket, sharp with thorns, through which he’d flung his naked body, pursued or pursuing . . . Just that; no more.

  Little boy . . . ? Little boy . . . ?

  The doorknob rattled, someone knocked rapidly. A woman’s cranky voice—“Who’s in there? Who is it? Come out. Don’t be in there forever.”

  Jamie waited, having not quite finished, hoping the woman would go away, perhaps use the bathroom on one of the other floors, but whoever it was, she simply stayed there. God damn . . . !

  He climbed into the clean Levi’s he’d hung on the door, then carefully pulled the tissue from the deep scratch which had now stopped its bleeding, and flushed it away.

  Was he leaving anything? The hand mirror, his brother’s razor which he’d hopefully brought and then not used, his toothbrush and powder, the towel and soap? He dumped everything into the wet towel, gathered it up. Then he paused, his hand on the hook-and-eye latch, for a last glance around.

  The look back made him see what was there, and his depression deepened, his eyes for a moment becoming like those of a housing inspector listing violations in a building about to be condemned: the chipped porcelain and dark rust stains in the bathtub, the soaked-in dirt that made it a permanent gray, the broken faucet with its eternal drip, the great patches of plaster gone from the walls, the sagging window behind the toilet with no glass at all overlooking a fire escape stacked with yellowed newspapers, empty wine bottles and beer cans; above all the incredible stink of the place: from the rotted plumbing, the roach killers and rat poisons, the barrage of powders and sprays and cheap perfumes and lotions its twenty-odd, thirty-odd users who lived on the floor, and tens of strangers besides, brought with them when they bathed and showered and shit and pissed and douched and powdered and plucked and picked and vomited and jacked-off and turned on with coke or acid or smoke or horse. . . .

  The door rattled and shook.

  It is only old Crazy Juanita, Mrs. Valdez if you please, wrapped in Kelly-green satin, her almost fluorescent red hair wound in curlers, her eyes so blackened with mascara and blue paint it looks like someone has clouted her with a baseball bat. She carries a tiny pink-eyed poodle done up in blue ribbons and a rhinestone collar from which most of the glass has fallen.

  Getting inches close so she can see him, her breath flower-sweet with gin—“So it’s you! I might have known.” Hating him—“Get out of my way—” real elbow rough, pushing past him into the wretched bathroom. “We’ve been waiting an hour for our bath, and Sarah don’t like to wait.”

  And as if that isn’t enough to brighten his first night home all week, the fat middle-aged woman in 402 opens her door a crack as he passes.

  “Jamie—”

  Even in the half-light of the hall her face is strange, painted a thick, dead white, the lips too, over which she has outlined pinkly a cupid’s bow. There is a black wig piled on her h
ead stuck through with a few long knitting needles.

  Seeing his look of astonishment—“Oh, I was just trying things. You know how it is when you’re bored. And lonely. —My makeup, and wigs.” Pleased—“This is my geisha outfit.” And without pause—“Would you do me a favor? I need help”—consternation so wrinkling her forehead that the white paint begins to flake, falling like crystals of snow.

  “My bedroom window’s stuck. I can’t open it—in this stifling heat! Truly, I’m wringing wet; you can feel”—offering herself, any part whatsoever. “I had to close it last night when it rained. Wasn’t that storm awful? I think the wood swelled. Be a dear. Come now.” So absurdly coy and openly seductive, he knows she is high or drunk—“You wouldn’t want to turn down a damsel in distress, now would you?”

  In the glaring, unshaded lights of her main room, he sees her pink flowered kimono, and the small red pillow she’s got tied above her ass with what appears to be a cord from a Venetian blind.

  He’d seen the room before, a few months ago, when it was virtually empty; in fact, he’d helped her move some things from a cab, and she’d given him a dollar.

  Now that he sees it lived in, it’s fantastic! Not dirty; at least not the kind of dirt that needs scrubbing and mopping up, but so cluttered with things—junk, from kinky dolls to empty beer bottles, it’s a wonder she can find her way through.

  One filthy thing: on the floor by the radiator, spread out over newspapers, in no container at all, is a pile of pebbly white cat litter so shot through with lumps of shit it looks like chocolate chip ice cream.

  Now he remembers: when she’s not spoken of in the building as simply “402,” or “that blond whore,” it’s “the cat lady,” reputed to own anywhere from five to twenty, varying with the intensity of the smell in the hall. He sees only four: two Siamese, on the table, licking an empty cat-food can, the others on the couch, one gray, one black.

  Her Japanese-made eyes follow his, pleased. “Do you like cats?” Pointing to the biggest Siamese—“His name is ‘Stop-That!’—because he’s ruining my furniture. And the other is ‘You-Too!’” —guffawing as if it were the best of jokes. “And this one—” ruffling the black cat’s fur, “this here’s ‘II n’y a pas de quoi.’ Isn’t that cute? That’s French. —For ‘don’t bother.’—Or something like that.”

  There is a single stalk of celery on a plate smeared with dried egg yolk which she picks up.

  “And this one—” the gray cat “—oh, let me think—” the end of the celery touching her forehead in pained perplexity. “I have so many names, I have more names. . . . It will come to me in a minute”—her teeth grinding down on the celery, chomping off a good four inches, stuffing her cheeks.

  Muffled— “What . . . is . . . his . . . name? —‘Boop-a-kins?’ No, that one died. He got a bone in his throat and choked to death—a splinter; you know? —From a chicken leg—which he stole from my plate. God knows I’m smart enough not to give a cat a chicken leg. I have never, in my whole life, given a cat of mine, a chicken leg . . . because do you know what they do? Jamie? You are sweet”—stroking his cheek; “that skin!—like a coffee egg cream; I tell you— you Spicks—have got it made: at least in the skin department, and maybe—” with a sly glance at his crotch “—just maybe, somewhere else.” A guffaw. “My sister used to say, ‘Show me a Spick with a little dick and I’ll show you a Wop with a whooper,” again the raucous laugh. Whatever is in her, dope or booze, it’s hitting her harder now. “Meaning—let’s face it, friends, the Italians grow them small—too much wine and spaghetti; though I always say—” another chomp on the celery “—I always say, the exception proves the rule. I have come across a number . . . of big-dicked Italians. But about skin —My mother had it, I mean like yours; not dark—” laughter “—God, no; she was as white as alabaster, which I am told is very white, but fine-grained, like—well, marble; no pores at all, not a single pore on her whole goddamn body. . . .” —Glaring at him, as if he were disputing the fact.

  “About your window—”

  “What?!”

  “The window.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Recovered, and gentle—“Well I guess you know where the bedroom is—” the pink cupid mouth curving coyly “—most of my good friends do. Besides, since I’ve got only two fuckin’ rooms . . . that—” a gesture to an open door “—must be it.”

  He has no trouble at all with the window; a little lift and it’s up, bringing an explosion of fake surprise and laughter from 402. “Well good heavens! It wouldn’t budge for me! It takes a man—right? My, you’re strong!”

  She is framed in the doorway, blocking his exit, sicker now, sex sick, with heavy eyes and wet smiles, her kimono half open, one hand fingering a breast.

  Softly, small-voiced—“I don’t see you . . . around, Jamie. Just that once, when I first moved in. I’ll bet you don’t even remember my name. Do you?”

  A shake of his head.

  “Well it’s Ellen.” As if he were stupid or hard of hearing—“El-len. Will you always remember that?”

  He feels teased, tormented: the woman has persisted so, crowding him until he can hardly breathe.

  “Yes. I gotta go.”

  “I thought you liked me—helping and all, that first time. I thought we were going to become friends.”

  More than crowded: confined, trapped. If she doesn’t get out of his way . . .

  “My Ma just called me.”

  Listening—“I didn’t hear anything.”

  “No. I mean before. She’s got an errand I gotta do. It’s important.”

  Ellen had expected and now accepts the rejection, but is nevertheless offended.

  “Important! Like what?” Virtually sneering, making fun—“‘Jamie, take down the garbage’?”

  In a rush of pique, she pulls off the black wig and throws it aside. Unpinned, her own blond hair tumbles down in golden waves. It is thick and beautiful but improves nothing; she is still sick and ridiculous and a clown—with the pillow tied to her ass and her patchy white face and pink baby mouth.

  But a tongue in her head?—yes. And she uses it.

  “Jamie Jamie Jamie!” —imitating his mother— sarcastically, with sneers. “Jamie this, Jamie that! Someone ought to tape up her mouth. Permanently. No wonder you’re never home. Boy, I’d put a mile between me and that woman too. Where do you sleep?—in the park? And that older brother of yours—what’s his name?—David—that glassy-eyed junkie—when are they going to throw the net over him?”

  She has hit her mark squarely, and with clear satisfaction watches the slow fire burn in his eyes, giving another turn to the screw.

  With exaggerated, phony apology—“Oh! I’m sorry. I guess I’m not supposed to admit I even know what goes on next door. I ain’t got no eyes— right? Or ears. Only I do, little boy.”

  Little boy. . . . ! Little boy. . . . !

  “. . . I do. These walls are thinner than cardboard. Why a man with half a hardon could shove his dick through with no trouble at all.”

  So! Has she humiliated and destroyed him? She rips the pillow from her back, claps on a pair of thick black plastic-rimmed glasses, and turns to view the damage.

  Seeing clearly for the first time all evening, she now sees the long angry scratches on Jamie’s body, one of them, near the left nipple, shining with a drop of blood.

  “Well!”—instantly entertained. The explanation has just got to be sexual. “Been rolling in the bushes with our best girl? I’ll just bet you have!” —reaching for but not quite touching the wound that is bleeding.

  In a taunting, baby voice, slowly lowering her head toward his body—“Ahhh. Is baby-kins hurt? Let Mama kiss it and make it better. . . .”

  Watching Ellen’s head move against him, the boy is momentarily helpless. Her tongue flicks out, removing the drop of blood, then, above the wound, her mouth circles a nipple, giving it a soft, warm tug.

  It is almost over before it’s begun: he has struck down at her with such
swiftness and éclat that his name might be Count Dracula, and with a shriek she pulls back and away, a hand clapped to a shoulder, the bite so severe blood is already oozing out between her fingers and trailing in forked streams down her arm.

  Her astonishment couldn’t be more absolute. She is stunned, the mouth gaping, the lower jaw shuddering up and down in a half-paralyzed effort to shape words. When they finally come—

  “Why you freaked-out, fucked-up kid . . . ! You . . . animal!” Staggering back—“You bit me!” And back even more—“You bit me . . . !”

  A glance at her shoulder brings another shriek together with a clawy scamper of cat feet. “Stop-That!” and “You-Too!” arch their backs, their fur electrified, dancing and spitting at nothing they can see.

  Some of Ellen’s golden hair falls over her eyes and, too beside herself to control what she does, a bloodied hand flings it back, soaking it, streaking her nose and forehead with instant red, bringing another shriek, this one filled with revulsion.

  Half the things on the table clatter to the floor as she grabs for the tablecloth. Scrounging a handful, she blots at the wound, whimpering in panic and disbelief.

  She is astounded to see him still standing there, frozen into place by the door, his towel of bath things hugged to his chest with both arms.

  Her voice crashes into his head, half splitting it open.

  “Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out! Get ooooooooouuuuuuuuuttttttt!”

  The light bulb at the end of the windowless hall had burned out, and in the deep shadow, Jamie could just make out 404, his own door. He stood for a while trying to calm himself, smoothing back the wild hair that overhung his face. His chest was heaving, and he could still taste the woman’s blood, actually taste it, experience its strange silky texture, for his teeth, sinking into her shoulder, had evidently opened a vein and it had spurted up in a tiny gushing fountain.

  He was trembling with excitement and a mixture of exhilaration and shame. What had made him do it? He couldn’t get it into his head. He had bitten her, bitten her, and from the amount of blood it was no small wound. Somehow, the whole thing wasn’t—real. It was like. . . .