He stepped forward and knelt to run his fingers over the scarred wood. "Shouldn't take much—some filler here, another inset in that panel there, then restain both doors a little darker to cover."
Resentment won. "Let me rephrase that: we don't have any cushion—in fact, we don't have any facility budget."
For Nick, there was no mistaking her peeved tone, and though years of therapy had made him well aware of his two guiding needs—to be approved by women, to dominate men—he still found himself overcompensating with charm. "Oh, no charge," he said, smiling so disarmingly that she was immediately ashamed.
"You mean you… I didn't realize… You were offering to fix it yourself?"
"If you wouldn't mind letting an amateur take a whack at it."
"Mind? I'd be forever grateful." Betty tried to figure out whom he reminded her of when he smiled. Something about the mischievous lift at the corners of his dark brush of a mustache. Some old friend or lover still capable of sending a faint, barely remembered flutter rippling somewhere deep down inside her. Then she got it—Magnum P.I.—and felt even more foolish. Television actors and gay men. Definite pattern emerging here, Rev, she told herself. No wonder I'm having such a hard time finding a sperm donor.
"Great. I'll stop by tomorrow, take a look at it in the daylight."
He followed her up the aisle and through the door to the steps that led down to the meeting rooms in the basement. She opened the first door on the right with a key and led him in. "It's not much, but it's all yours for an hour and a half. Set up the chairs any way you like, stack 'em when you're done. Leave it unlocked—I'll lock up when I make the rounds. No smoking, of course."
"Of course. And thank you, it'll be perfect. I can't imagine a nicer home for our meeting. Just one thing, though—" He pointed to a black cross made of halved hollow bark hanging on the cinderblock wall across from the round black schoolroom clock. "Would you mind terribly if we took that cross down from the wall? Just for the meeting—we'll put it back before we leave."
"Suit yourself—by charter, the Church of the Higher Power is strictly nondenominational."
"It's only that some of our members are a little oversensitive about crosses."
"Jews, Muslims, atheists," she remarked on her way up the stairs. "I understand."
Somehow I doubt that, thought Nick, nodding politely to her retreating back.
THREE
Lourdes had spent the first few minutes of the ride to El Cerrito fumbling through her purse for her coke stash, and the last few contriving to put enough distance between herself and the Volvo she was following to manage a toot. Or two. Luckily, it was one of those high-tech little Safe-T-Snort bottles where you could turn it upside down, then flip a lever to measure out a convenient dose without taking your eyes off the road. Legend was that it had been invented by an airline pilot.
At the corner of Jackson and Darling, two wide, quiet, tree-shaded streets, Beverly leaned out the window of the Volvo to point out the church for Lourdes, then waved her manicured hand in a vague circling gesture that Lourdes took to mean Park where you can.
Taking advantage of this brief moment of freedom to whip her pink Chevy Caprice into a space around the corner of the church, just out of sight of the Volvo, Lourdes barely had time to slouch down low in her seat for one last toot of coke to ease the blood crash she knew was on the way. Then, to ease the crash from the coke, she broke a yellow Percodan in half and swallowed it dry, brushed her forefinger under her nose to remove any telltale Peruvian marching powder, and stepped out of the car just as Beverly and the other woman came trotting around the corner in search of her.
A dead-white gibbous moon hanging high over the hills to the east threw their foreshortened shadows across the churchyard grass as Lourdes followed the two women through the gate and up the walk; their sneakers squeaked up the hardwood aisle and the slap of her white sandals echoed behind them; in the cool stairwell she could hear voices drifting up from the basement.
At the bottom of the stairs Lourdes paused before the only open door, trying to gather herself. She straightened her skirt, tugged her sweater a little tighter across her breasts, and raised her chin like a dancer. March in there like it was your own idea, girl, she told herself, but it was not until she felt the first warm glow from the Percodan rising up to fill the void left by the dying coke rush that Lourdes found the strength to cross the threshold.
And inside? Not much: a bare room with eleven people—nine white, one black, one Asian—sitting around in a circle. Someone closed the door behind her as she edged her way around the circle to the only vacant chair. She heard the click of the lock as she took her seat.
"I guess we can get started," said the man seated across from her, looking directly into her eyes. His mustache reminded her of the Marlboro Man. No, the Marlboro Lite Man. "Hello, everybody. Lourdes, we're especially glad that you could join us tonight for the first meeting of V.A. in our new home."
She could feel the terror coming over her, but it was mixed with a curious sense of relief. The Marlboro Man leaned forward, concern all over his handsome face. "Are you all right?" Their glances had locked across the circle; unable to tear her eyes away from him, she managed a nod.
"Here we go, then."
Here we go, her mind echoed numbly.
"My name is Nick, and I'm a vampire."
"Hi Nick," responded ten voices in cheery unison. Lourdes moaned—there was a roaring in her ears, and she felt the room slipping away from her.
A remarkable face swam into focus when Lourdes next opened her eyes: long solemn upper lip; deep vertical creases in the cheeks; wide-set gray eyes that were cold and amused, the color of solder; and a high forehead crowned with a remarkable head of chrome yellow hair, brushed up into a soft, relaxed butch cut. The color, while clearly not natural, was exquisitely chosen.
Perhaps the most remarkable thing of all about the face, other than its pallor, was that it was upside down—only gradually did Lourdes become aware that her head was resting in a lap, and that other people were applauding. Then it all came back to her—the blood bank, Bev, the meeting, the—oh my god, the vampires.
The yellow-haired man ignored the applause (which was for his James-Brown-sliding-kneedrop/Willie-Mays-basket-catch of her head, only inches from the concrete floor) and turned the full force of his attention on Lourdes. "Going to live, are we?"
She tried to stare back, but her eyes insisted on turning him into Upside-Down Man, the noseless, mouthless, bearded monster that appears to children staring too long at an upside-down face. The eyebrows under the eyes were particularly awful—she turned her head away and he helped her back up onto her chair.
"How do you feel?" The other man, Nick, smiled at her reassuringly across the circle. His incisors appeared to be normal, which she found even more reassuring.
"I'm okay—just embarrassed—I never fainted before in my life."
"No need to be embarrassed about anything—not in these rooms. Just let me know if you start feeling shaky again." He leaned back and crossed his legs. "Most of our meetings are speaker/discussion: a speaker tells his or her story, sharing his or her strength, hope, and experience, then picks a topic, and whoever wants to can speak to that topic, or just talk about whatever's up for them.
"But tonight we have a newcomer for the first time in—Jan, how long have you been coming to meetings?"
The youngest of the vampires, a gangly narrow-skulled girl of twenty or so, edged forward in her chair. Lavender streaks slashed through black hair cut in an angular punk wedge. A torn black leather bomber jacket. Left ear pierced with a half dozen studs, some jagged stars, others irregular splashes of silver. "Eleven mon—oops. I mean, hi, my name is January and I'm a recovering vampire. Eleven months, three weeks." She raised both hands over her head in a victory clasp, but there was in her eyes something of the look of a cat bristling in an empty room, and Lourdes found herself unwilling to meet them.
Nick turned back to Lo
urdes. "I'll start by reminding us all that the reason we call ourselves vampires, instead of simply blood addicts, which is what we are, is that it helps us remember just how serious this addiction is.
"So serious, in fact, that up until a few years ago, the idea of a vampire going into recovery was nearly unimaginable. Then a man named Leon S. achieved his sobriety by attending other meetings, and saying 'booze' or 'pot' or 'crack' when he meant 'blood.' One night when I had reached my absolute bottom, he showed up out of nowhere and saved my life, and we then dedicated ourselves to reaching as many of our old blood brothers and sisters as we could. One by one, as they bottomed out, we'd be there for them, if only just to serve as examples, to prove it was possible."
Nick shook his head sadly. "In the end, though, it wasn't enough. What we learned from going to other meetings was that there is no true recovery without honesty, not even for Leon, who ended up taking that Thirteenth Step: the one that leads over the side of the Golden Gate Bridge.
"That's when we realized we were going to need our own meeting, where we could call blood, blood, and deal with our own issues. V.S. started with six of us in Sherman's living room—" He indicated that worthy with his glance, then paused dramatically before turning back to Lourdes. "And now we are twelve. Lourdes, welcome.
"Now for the reading of the literature—we do this every meeting, Lourdes. So who wants to read the Steps?" His eyes scanned the circle, settling on the stocky woman with the woolen poncho and the Gertrude Stein hair who had accompanied Beverly to the blood bank.
"Hi, my name is Louise," she proclaimed, "and I'm addicted to blood." Pulling an A.A. pamphlet out from under her poncho, she began reciting, adapting the words where appropriate: "Step One: We came to realize we were powerless over blood, and that our lives had become unmanageable. Step Two: We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity…"
When she had finished, another woman read the Twelve Traditions, then Nick took the floor again. "In a way, I envy you, Lourdes—you've got the adventure of your life ahead of you. You're getting off the merry-go-round—"
Most of the others recited the rest along with him: "—and onto the roller coaster." They had a group chuckle; Nick continued. "But we do have a few rules that you'll need to know about. Beverly, I believe you're the secretary this month—go ahead."
"Awright, number one: cross-talk. No cross-talk." Numbeh… cvrawss-tawk—Beverly had once been described by a native as one of those New Yorkers who seemed to have moved to California in order to complain about the food. You cowl this a bagel? This is not a bagel. "That means no criticizing or responding directly to somebody's share.
"Number two: attendance. You attend three meetings a week for three months, then a minimum of one meeting a week after that. If you're out of town, arrange to call somebody.
"Number three: service. They need somebody else on the refreshment committee—sign up with Louise over there.
"Number four: dues. We don't have any. What we do have is Tradition Seven, which says V.A. ought to be fully self-supporting, declining outside contributions. What that translates to is a minimum of five bucks a person a meeting. If you can't afford it, see the treasurer—who's the treasurer?"
The yellow-haired man who had caught Lourdes tapped her on the shoulder. "That would be—" he began, but the others nagged him:
"Hiiii, James…"
"Sorry. My name is James. Vampire. Treasurer." He wore a black soft-collared shirt, Lourdes sniffed perfumed licorice on his breath. What was that stuff? Her father had used it. Of course: Sen-Sen.
Beverly picked it up again. "James, then. See James after the meeting. That's about it for the rules. Any questions?"
"You said three meetings a week for three months, then one meeting a week after that, but you didn't say for how long after that." There was no answer at first. Lourdes glanced around the circle—a few of the vampires were smiling. "What, did I say something funny?"
Nick finally responded. "No, not at all," he said gently. "It's just that we don't look at it as 'how long.' We prefer to think of it as 'one day at a time—forever.' "
Lourdes remembered the bag of blood in her purse; suddenly she wanted to be high so much it almost hurt. She crossed her legs and clenched her thighs tightly. "What if I don't want to… recover?" She tried not to spit the word out, but did not succeed entirely.
Nick again: "Of course you want to. You just don't know it yet—you can't know it until you're detoxed. Now we're going to let you keep the bag you stole tonight. What we recommend is, tonight when you get home, pour about a shotglassful, and sip it over the course of the night to keep the crash off. Then all you have to do is cut the amount down by a teaspoon every night for a week. Taper off—you don't have to do it cold turkey. And remember you're not alone—we've all been through it. You'll have our phone numbers—call us if you need us, someone'll be right over. Twenty-four hours a day."
"But what if I just can't?" Lourdes asked hopelessly—not hopeless about giving up blood, hopeless about communicating with these people.
"If you want to, you will. Ask for Higher Power's help, bring your fanny to the meetings, and take it one day at a time."
The rest of the meeting passed slowly—excruciatingly slowly, as far as Lourdes was concerned. She found it somehow surprising that a vampire twelve-step meeting could be just as deadly and boring as the Alateen meetings her counselor at Modesto High had forced her to attend during her senior year, for spending a few too many three-period lunches in Gracedia Park smoking dope under the trees, or tripping on hundred-mike mini-doses of violet acid, and watching the river flow purple through the valley.
At one point Lourdes even dozed off from the combination of the crash and the Percodan. When she awakened, January had the floor. "… so I wake up this morning and do my affirmations, and then I go off to work." January turned to Lourdes and explained in an aside that she worked at the Copy Shoppe on Telegraph Avenue. "It's like, this is supposedly my big reward to myself for giving up blood—finally getting to work days after two years on the night shift." She turned back to the circle at large. "Only, as a big reward, it's a total fucking bust. The main difference, working days is more stress, more assholes yapping at me, hurry up, copy this, collate that, staple these, not that way, this way, no this way…" Visibly worked up, she took a breath to calm herself.
"So anyway, on my lunch break I go up to People's Park, and I'm sitting on a bench by the volleyball court, and I see this one wino heading up to the bushes at the far end of the park to pass out."
"That was my primo supply, rolling winos and shit," she confided to Lourdes in another aside. This time, Lourdes had to force herself not to draw back. "And while I'm watching him with my eyes, not moving, forcing myself not to get up from that bench, in my mind I'm following him—I see just how I'm gonna do it—I can picture kneeling next to him, a quick slash, dip my face down—I swear, sitting on the bench I can feel the hot blood, the way it smears across your mouth if you catch it still spurting, drips down your neck, you know how it's funny, you might not have a single drop on your chin, but you always manage to get some on your neck anyway—"
She stopped abruptly. "Anyway, that's about it—it was like the pressure to drink was so incredible it came out like that, just like a using dream, only I was wide awake." January thought about that for a moment with her wolfish face cocked slightly to the side. "And I didn't do anything about it, I didn't follow him. I couldn't even make it one day at a time—I took it one minute at a time—just for this minute I'm not going to drink blood—now just for this minute, this minute—until all the minutes made up a half hour, and it was time to go back to work."
The group, obviously moved, broke into spontaneous applause, and January sat back down, squirming like a puppy under their approval. Lourdes forced herself to applaud along, but her head was spinning. She'd followed January's gory musings with a rapt fascination, repulsed and titillated in equal measure, and it t
ook every ounce of willpower she could summon not to reach into her purse and at least fondle the cool plump bag of blood waiting for her there.
After the last of the vampires had his or her turn to speak, Nick turned to Lourdes again and asked her if she had anything she wanted to share.
"No, not really."
"But we'll see you on Monday night, same time, same place?" It was not a question, so she didn't bother to answer. "Okay then," he continued, "who's going to lead us in the closing prayer?"
Everybody stood up then, and they all joined hands while a short, round-headed, Howdy Doody-faced vampire named Sandy led them in the closing prayer that many twelve-step groups had adapted to their own circumstances from Overeaters Anonymous.
As we stand in this sacred circle, with my hand in yours I know that we can do together what we could never do alone. No longer must I depend upon my own weak will to resist the call of blood, but together we can reach out our hands and find a power and strength, a love and understanding beyond our wildest dreams.
Seconds later, Lourdes was rushing out the door and up the stairs, purse swinging, sandals flapping, without waiting around for the hugs or the cookies or the phone numbers the other vampires were trying to press upon her.
At the church door she heard her name being called, and turned to see James ambling down the aisle after her, his hands jammed casually into the front pockets of his pleated slacks. How had he caught up so quickly, she wondered, when he didn't seem to be hurrying at all? "Lourdes? A word?" His voice was soft and dry, his accent barely British.
"What—"
He took one hand out of his pocket long enough to bring the forefinger to his lips—shhh.
She waited in the doorway until he was close enough to whisper to. "What do you want?"
The World on Blood Page 3