I remember: Gravel underfoot. A cold goddam wind and an overcast so thick and black it is invisible, it is the night itself. Leon turning the boy onto his stomach, pulling a sheathed scalpel from the towel roll at his waist. Cunning sheath: hand-worked calfskin. Choosing a small vein at the back of the knee. Lecturing in a whisper: "Choose a different vessel every time. Don't need a major vein, don't want a major artery." Not a slash with the scalpel, but a push and a slide, then a downward swoop of the head; the stringy muscles at the back of his neck strain; his fingers knead the firm thigh-flesh like a baby at the breast.
When he pulls back his eyes are dream-smudged. His lips are black: he licks them pale again. "Your turn, baby-heart." I look down: black blood wells in the hollow of the boy's knee. In the space of a pulse I understand that nothing will ever be the same for me again.
I dip my head to the soft bowl brimming black: the taste is salt and rust. It's like having an out-of-body experience while I'm still in my body. I gather my feet under me and stand, vaguely surprised: it feels as if I could just keep rising, floating into that glorious black fog like an untethered float in the Hudson's Parade.
When I come back to myself, only a few seconds have passed. Leon has wedged the boy's discarded towel against the back of the knee, then bent the leg back to stanch the flow of blood. "Vam-pies are not necessarily sentimental," he explains. "Or unnecessarily. We jus' abhor to waste blood."
When the bleeding has stopped we clean the boy up with his own towel, toss it over the edge of the roof, carry him back inside and down the stairs as easily as if he were a sack of dog chow, and deposit him in a cubicle. We leave the door open: he'll be safe: no place on earth is safer than the tubs. I love the tubs. I will weep when they are, at long last, closed.
Nick sighed, felt around under his seat and hit the lever to tilt his magical chair forward, then replaced the keyboard on the counter in front of the overheated XT and reached for another sip of coffee. To his surprise, it was cold in the Wedgwood cup, and the cup was cold in the saucer.
He looked down at his watch: 3:00 a.m. He thought of Betty, wondering whether she was awake, and whether she'd changed her mind.
Chapter 5
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ONE
Sherman Bailey was the featured speaker at the next Sunday night meeting of Vampires Anonymous. In honor of the occasion, he had worn his favorite vintage 1930s Pineapple Joe Hawaiian shirt—a chocolate brown beauty with green coconut palms.
"Hi, my name is Sherman—"
Eleven voices: "Hi Sherman!"
"—and I'm a very nervous recovering vampire." Chuckles from the circle. "I can't believe I still get nervous when it's my turn to tell my story. By the way, happy December seventh, which as everybody knows lives in infamy as the day the Japanese attacked Pearl Bailey. I guess everybody here has heard my story at least once except for Lourdes, so stop me if you get bored."
"Oh, that you meant that," murmured Whistler.
"No cross-talk, James." Beverly called him back to order in a hurry.
"I don't mind," said Sherman.
"Well I do." Beverly folded her arms. "Just the possibility of cross-talk makes this less of a safe space for some—"
Whistler interrupted her with a languidly upraised palm. "I apologize—to you, m'dear, as well to our speaker. Sherman, please continue."
Sherman inclined his head after Whistler's own gracious manner, then opened his hands wide, palms up, as if presenting himself as an exhibit. He was a teddy-bearish man, balding, with an assertive reddish brown mustache. "Well here I am, Lourdes. What you see is what you get: in twenty years—my wife Catherine says ten—I'll be Wilford Brimley selling oatmeal. I don't know at what point it gets decided that an innocent little fetus is going to grow up looking like me, but I do know there are a lot of tubby little guys walking around looking exactly like this, mustache, bald spot, round glasses and all.
"And I'm no different than any of the others. Oh, I've done enough therapy—since I was eleven, in fact—to know that I should be saying I'm unique and glorious. But then, by the same reasoning so are all the tubby little guys, so where does that leave us?
"And probably lots of them are addicts too. The only real difference is that I can get high on blood." He looked up at the corner of the ceiling as though a thought had just occurred to him—in fact it had not, it had occurred years ago: he'd liked it and filed it away for his twelve-step autobiography: "Come to think of it, we don't even know how many of them can also get high on blood—most people never find out.
"As for me, I found out—the hard way. I was an Orphan, which means I discovered my addiction on my own, as opposed to being Awakened by another vampire. I'd been fascinated by vampires when I was a kid—obsessed by the time I was an adolescent—if I hadn't had the good sense to keep those fantasies from my shrinks, I'm sure I'd have been locked up years before I ever tasted my first drop.
"And even then, it took an accident. I was in college—psychology, of course—I thought it might help me figure out whether I was insane—when one night—one momentous night, as they say—my girlfriend happened to cut her wrist pretty badly—" The vampires in recovery leaned forward hungrily: this was everyone's favorite part of everyone else's story. "—playing with the coke razor."
Sherman raised his forefinger professorially. "Now at a moment like that, someone else might have tried to stop the bleeding first. Someone else might have called for help. Not me: I dumped the crumbs out of an empty bowl of pretzels and held it under her wrist, and then we stopped the bleeding."
He looked around the circle, smiling slyly. "I told myself at the time I was trying to save the rug—it was white—but I'm sure it was really my addict taking over even then—somehow it knew before I did. Because, if it was the rug, why did I bother—"
He took a breath for the big finish. Whistler caught Lourdes's eye again—it was such an oft-told tale he could lip-synch the next words along with Sherman:
"—dumping the pretzel crumbs out of the bowl first!"
The rest of Sherman's share was somewhat less detailed. He was more interested in talking about his current situation with his wife Catherine—how she was far more interested lately in her Wicca practice than in him, and appeared to be harboring some unspoken discontent. He seemed to be saying that he was afraid she was going to leave him, but his declarations were sandwiched, twelve-step style, between qualifications and negations.
"What's coming up for me, if I let myself really feel my feelings, is that I'm afraid it's me she's so unhappy with. Of course, I know I'm probably projecting that. Because, not to take her inventory for her, but I know it's really herself she's unhappy with. So what's probably really happening is that my inner child is afraid that I'm inadequate, and it projects that out on her, that of course it's me she's unhappy with. Or rather, my inner child."
A turgid silence followed. Sherman broke it with a pleased laugh. "I feel better already. Just getting to talk about it—sometimes that helps more than anything." Beverly got up to get herself a cup of coffee from the stainless steel cart at the back of the room. "I guess I'm done," Sherman concluded, to polite applause. "For a topic, I suggest your life on blood—what you miss most, what you have instead. Or whatever's up for you, as usual." He looked around the circle—the heavy woman in the wool poncho caught his eye. "Ch—I mean, Louise?"
"You nearly said Cheese Louise, didn't you?" She chuckled. "Hi, my name is Cheese Louise, and I'm a deli." The circle of vampires broke up laughing. "Actually, my name is Louise, and I'm a recovering vampire. Thanks for the topic, Sherm. The thing I miss most is that feeling of being invulnerable that you get on blood. Speaking as a woman, particularly—sometimes walking to the deli to open up, in the winter particularly—it can be pretty scary, walking down College in the dark. I remember, when I was working nights as a vampire, not only wasn't I ever afraid when I was high on blood, I used to enjoy it if somebody gave me trouble. So I guess I miss that, too—kicking ass."
She chuckled again. "As for what I have instead—I guess mostly it's where I'm walking to—to my own shop. Getting clean and sober, and finding my Higher Power, is what enabled me to have my own store in the first place. If I was still using—especially if I was still using blood—there's no way I'd have that."
Louise rubbed her palms together briskly. "That's all I have to say—except that I'm grateful for this fellowship, and for all of you." She sat back as several hands shot into the air. "Henderson?"
This proved to be an impossibly tall musician with thin lank hair pulled back into a ponytail, who introduced himself in a lazy Texas drawl, and allowed as how he'd lost 'bout half his chops on the git-tar. "Useta play faster'n Stevie Ray, and sweeter'n Johnny. 'Course, I'm still faster'n Stevie Ray, but that's only 'cause he splashed hissef all over that mountain. Now how 'bout you, Augie?"
A stout, imposing man with a fleshy nose and dark hair brushed back at the sides adjusted the crease of his wool slacks, and identified himself without looking up. "Hello again everyone. My name is August, and I'm a recovering vampire, and what I miss most about drinking blood is…" When he lifted his head and scanned the circle of friends there was a beaten look in his eyes, despite his evident prosperity. "Everything! From the waking up at sunset with a desperate thirst, to the scoring itself. The clean way the blood floods the chamber of the hypodermic; the first dark welling of a clean vein cut; the floppy rolling squoosh of a full bag from the blood bank—"
Several of the vampires were nodding: Tell it, brother. "And of course the sex. Don't let me get started on that—I haven't had sex with a minor in so long I've nearly forgotten what it's like. But most of all I miss… Can you miss an absence? If so, I miss the absence of the… Sherman, what's the psychiatric term for the part of your mind that's always judging yourself?"
"The superego. It restrains and censors the ego. An internalization of the moral standards of your parents and society."
"That's the fellow. I miss his absence." He puffed out his already convex cheeks, and blew out a sigh. "Who wants to go next, I'm tired of the sound of my own voice. Toshi?"
The Asian, of course. A Japanese who flushed brick red under a delicate ivory complexion. "My name is Toshiro, and I am a recovering addict to a great many substances, including blood… Yes, hi back to all of you. I cannot allow myself to miss any of my drugs. You see, just the other day I received word that I have been given the opportunity of a lifetime—a position of chef has opened up at Chez Panisse—only a fill-in shift on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and only for the cafe upstairs, but still…" There was a smattering of applause. "Thank you. So as you can see, even to think about blood would be a disaster for me at this time." He looked around the circle. "What about yourself, James?"
Whistler, who hadn't had any blood for hours, had nearly nodded off—his chin was halfway to his chest—but he came out of it brightly. "Don't miss a thing about it," he said, looking earnestly around the circle. "Not a single thing, and that's the Higher Power's honest truth."
Beverly was waiting avidly, watching not his face but his body language, listening not to his words but to their pitch and cadence. Like many practiced twelve-steppers, she had learned to sense when a share was ending. That way she could have her hand shooting up into the air just as the sharer started looking around for someone to call on.
But Whistler's abruptness caught her warming both hands around the styrofoam cup in her lap—when she looked up to catch his eye, she saw he was already nodding in her direction. She wondered if he had read her thoughts. He used to do that all the time, back when they had been lovers, on baby-blood.
On baby-blood. The thought—and the memory evoked by it—came to her so suddenly that it might well have been his thought first. Another trick of his. Not that it mattered: she knew now what she wanted—needed—to talk about that night. "Hi, I'm still Beverly, and I'm still an addict. This isn't exactly on the topic, but it's what's up for me. I was doing my Fourth Step in N.A. last week, making a Searching and Fearless Moral Inventory of myself, but it's my second time through, and I was having trouble getting any energy into it. So my sponsor suggested I think of the single most immoral thing I had ever done in my life, and when I thought back I remembered a time that my friend and I—I'll protect his anonymity—befriended this newlywed couple we'd met. She was a secretary—mousy little thing—and I was the office manager. From the day she announced she was pregnant we cultivated her and her husband. Had 'em over for dinner, bought 'em expensive presents—I think we even bought the crib."
"Carriage," Whistler interrupted.
"So much for my friend's anonymity," Beverly said dryly. "But you're right—I remember now, it was one of those expensive yuppie baby carriages. Anyway, we kept it up for five months. Every time we saw them, we'd drive home just howling about how stupid and boring and dull they were. Then after she gave birth we visited her in the hospital, and after she'd had the baby home for a few weeks we bought the new parents a night out on the town—dinner, tickets to a show. And ourselves, of course, their dear trusted friends, to baby-sit."
Beverly paused for a sip of wretched coffee—even in a styrofoam cup, it managed to taste of cardboard. "Ten minutes after they were out the door we had the baby on the dining-room table with a needle in its foot."
She put the cup down on the floor, careful to slide it way underneath the folding chair so she wouldn't knock it over. When she looked up, Lourdes had a hand raised tentatively. "Lourdes, you had a question?"
"Yeah—if you were done. I don't want to cross-talk."
"I'm done—what'd you want to know?"
"Just, I keep hearing people mention baby-blood. I mean, what's the story there, why would you go to all that trouble for like, six months, just for a few drops of baby-blood?"
"Bev, if I may?" She nodded, and Whistler took the floor. "We went to all that trouble, Lourdes, because that's how much trouble it took to get it—if it had taken more, we'd have done more. But as for the head, it's as impossible to describe as sex to a virgin. Baby-blood provides an extreme clarity of thought. Very little difference between that and madness, mind you—ask Nicolas sometime."
Whistler smiled blandly across the circle, and observed the tightening of Nick's lips with some satisfaction. He wasn't sure why he was needling his old compatriot at this moment—probably just sheer perversity. But then, sheer perversity had always been good enough for Whistler. "Although oddly enough, the nearest thing I've ever experienced was tripping on acid while drinking blood, which is in a way exactly the opposite head. But again, Nicolas can tell you more about that than I can."
This time Nick's reaction was immediate and unthinking: he started to flip Whistler the bird. It wouldn't have been the first finger to have been raised in anger at a V.A. meeting, but out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Beverly about to go ballistic, so instead he used the offending digit to brush the carefully disarrayed comma of hair back from his forehead. "Thank you James." The sarcastic Lawrence Welk cadence had not disguised the angry quaver in his voice. "I'm sure you could tell the story about acid and blood as well as I could. But it is getting late—perhaps Lourdes would rather hear the story after the meeting. I've noticed you two have been spending a lot of time together lately, anyway."
Whistler only grinned, but in a flash Lourdes was halfway out of her chair. "He's my goddamn sponsor, Nick—you got a problem with that?" Nick rose to confront Lourdes, Whistler jumped up to defend her, Beverly leapt to her feet beside Nick shrieking about cross-talk, and Sherman hurried into the center of the circle to interpose himself between the two factions, crying, "Everybody sit down! What is this—Geraldo?"
Suddenly a folding chair flew entirely across the circle, narrowly missing Sherman, clearing Ethiopian Sally's head by a few feet, and smashing into the black schoolroom clock on the opposite wall before crashing to the floor, followed by the clock.
The room lapsed into shocked silence, broken only by the death r
attle of the clock, which had landed on edge and rolled halfway across the room before spinning onto its face with a steadily slowing, rhythmic clatter. All eyes turned to January, standing in a gap of the circle of chairs with her fists clenched, bent forward slightly from the waist as if the muscles of her tight belly were clenched as well.
"You selfish selfish fuckers," she screamed. The silver studs in her ear reflected the purple of her hair; an overlarge black U.C. sweatshirt revealed the straps of a sleeveless undershirt; black leggings and square-toed knockoff Doc Martens boots completed the ensemble.
"What?" Sherman was the first to speak—the other four had all sat back down, mouths agape.
"You guys are going on and on about some fucking history, some shit that was over years ago, and not one of you even remembered that tonight was my one-year anniversary. Not one single person in the meeting." She glared around the circle—not an eye met hers. When she reached Whistler, he turned all the way around in his chair—when he turned back, his slim magician's fingers had extracted a small, plush box from the pocket of his leather jacket.
"We usually wait until the end of the meeting to give out chips, January," he said, crossing the circle with the box held out in front of him. "But this seems to be the time for an exception."
January accepted the box numbly, having shifted from overwhelming rage to overwhelming gratitude so swiftly that she seemed to have stripped some emotional gear. Whistler had to open the box for her—inside lay a silver poker chip with one day at a time inscribed on one side. He lifted it from the box by the gold chain to show her the 365 inscribed on the other side. His duties as treasurer were the only V.A. responsibilities he took seriously—and his jewelry broker took them even more seriously, at a 60-percent markup.
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