The World on Blood

by Jonathan Nasaw

  Mr. Santos, this is Reverend Shoemaker's office calling. You had a three o'clock appoint—

  He grabbed the receiver. "That you, Betty?"

  "Of course it's me. Are you all right?"

  "Except physically and emotionally—oh, and spiritually. Other than that, tip-top."

  "Nick, what happened?"

  "Long story. Can I come over?"

  "If you'll pick up dinner on the way—otherwise I'm going to have to go out."

  "What time is it?"

  "After eight-thirty."

  Sunset. He'd awakened at sunset. "K.F.C. okay?"

  "The roasted—if they don't have that, extra crispy."

  "Be over in half an hour."

  Trying to ignore his aching head, Nick typed a note to January, then while it was printing stooped down and from a lock-box welded to the back of a two-drawer file cabinet bolted to the floor, he peeled two bills from a roll of hundreds, then two more, then—the hell with it—a fifth, and clipped them to the note without rereading it. He knew himself—once he started editing it he'd be there for an hour. As it was, it was a masterpiece of compression:

  Thanks for everything, but I'm going to try to fight this thing anyway. If you want to fight it too, you're welcome to stay, but if you don't want to, here's money for a hotel. But please, give me your number when you have one—I care about you, but I can't help you unless I help myself first.

  When Nick returned to the bedroom, January was still asleep, snoring in a high-decibel adenoidal Quaalude honk. He dressed quietly, having a bad moment when he started transferring his keys and change from his black Levi's into his Dockers, and found Whistler's flask in the back pocket of the jeans. He unscrewed the top—fortunately the smell alone was enough to tell him it had gone bad in the past twenty-four hours, otherwise, he understood, he'd probably have taken a snort.

  Rather than leave the money on the dresser (where it might be misinterpreted by January—he knew that she'd tricked a few times in her young life), he placed it with the note in an envelope with her name on it, and left that on the kitchen table. Then he poured the contents of the flask down the sink, rinsed it out, and left it in the dish drainer with the cap off to dry.

  January opened one eye when she heard Nick let himself out the front door. She didn't like to wake up with people—didn't even care to see anybody before her first drink, much less talk to them. She felt around at the side of the bed for her thermos, then remembered that she'd put it in the refrigerator that morning before going to sleep.

  The elegant silk and satin quilted dressing gown she'd found in the back of the closet, and left at the foot of the bed, had somehow transported itself to the chair by the window. It wrapped one and a half times around her, and trailed on the floor; she secured it with the tasseled belt and trotted down to the kitchen.

  She opened the envelope while sipping from her thermos—there was about an inch left in the bottom. "I fucking hate notes," she said aloud when she'd finished reading. Notes on the kitchen table were something Glory left when she wouldn't be home for dinner. Or sometimes breakfast. In fact, given the choice, she'd probably have preferred being treated like a hooker than a child—Glory used to leave her money for pizza too.

  She was furious at Nick—still, five huns would buy a lot of pizza. She tucked the money into the pocket of the dressing gown, went back upstairs, and rummaged through Nick's clothes, donning a clean white T-shirt and a pair of jeans, both of which looked as if they'd been ironed, then rolling up the cuffs of the jeans a good four inches. A pair of wide red suspenders with clips completed the ensemble—and more importantly, kept the jeans up.

  He had a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She frowned. "Too downy." But there was a faded dungaree jacket in the closet—she slipped the T-shirt off, crossed the straps of the suspenders between her breasts (that effect by itself was pretty cool in the mirror), and put the T-shirt back on over that, untucked.

  Now, with the hem of the oversized T-shirt hanging out from under the oversized jacket, she had a respectable outfit. January stuffed the dressing gown over the dirty clothes in her monogrammed Vuitton suitcase, along with a cashmere sweater of Nick's and a few bandannas. Feeling a little better about him now, she called a taxi from the bedroom phone and went downstairs to wait for it.

  "Basically," Nick began, unloading the Colonel's red-striped bag onto the counter of the parsonage kitchen, "I was kidnapped, driven to Tahoe, forced to drink blood—you want cole slaw?—had my throat cut in some sort of satanic ritual—" He raised his chin to show her. "—and binged for thirty-six hours—mashed potatoes?—but as of—" He checked his watch. "—twenty minutes ago, I have twelve hours clean and sober, and every intention of remaining so. Gravy?"

  "Let me see that. No, come closer." She tilted his chin, turning it left and right to examine the thready line that ran across his throat from one ear to the other. "Selene?" she asked.

  He nodded. "But it's over now—she gave me her solemn word. We… shook hands on it—" The briefest hesitation before shook hands—of course, he and Selene had shaken a great deal more than hands. "—and agreed to let bygones be bygones. You want a leg or a breast?"

  "Suddenly I'm not very hungry for some reason. Breast. And what's that piece there?"

  "Either a thigh or a mutation."

  "Never mind." She found herself eating anyway, one hand shoveling it in, and the other resting on her belly as if to protect the baby. "You sure you're all right?"

  "Right as rain."

  "So that's all there is to it? Just oops? Witches and vampires and throat cuttings and binges, so-sorry-no-problem?"

  He shrugged. "It's the truth, what else can I say?"

  "But you're clean and sober now?"

  "As a judge. Listen, Betty, if I were still using, I wouldn't have told you any of that—I'd have given you a different story entirely." A story, he failed to mention, that he'd begun to prepare in the car on the way over, until he realized that he didn't need it—that the true circumstances of his weekend were all the exoneration he'd need.

  "And we're not in any danger?" This time she patted her belly, to show him which we she was referring to.

  "Your name never came up—they don't even know I've been seeing you. You're not involved in this—" He stilled her protest with an upraised plastic spork of mashed potatoes. "Yes yes yes: except insofar as I'm involved in it. But that's what I'm trying to tell you—I'm not involved anymore."

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, but she could sense him waiting for something—forgiveness? reassurance? She could have used some reassurance herself. She knew she'd take him back, insofar as he'd ever been hers, insofar as he'd ever been away. What she was less sure of was her motivation: she needed him too much, if only financially. Suddenly, with an inner lurch, she thought of all the couples she'd counseled—wives with abusive husbands, lesbians with philandering lovers—and how she used to wonder, unprofessionally, even as she was doing her professional best to repair the relationship, why on earth the aggrieved client didn't just leave the asshole?

  She wondered how much more she didn't know about relationships. M.F.C.C, heal thyself. "Hey Nick?"

  "Mmm?" Around a mouthful of three-bean salad.

  "Want to hear about my weekend? It wasn't quite as exciting as yours, but I think I found a crib."

  January checked into the Bierce, a mid-range residence hotel on Telegraph Avenue where she'd stayed before, tossed her suitcase on the bed, polished off the last of the thermos contents (apparently the Ecstasy had broken down overnight—nothing but Selene's own blood now, not that that was anything to sneeze at), and ten minutes later was back out on Telegraph.

  January didn't particularly enjoy prowling Telegraph—before V.A., People's Park had been her prime hunting grounds, but that was also before the riots, and the volleyball courts, and the lights and the attention. In those days it had been relatively easy to isolate a stray wino or junkie or wacko. Tonight, as she pas
sed by the boarded-up windows of a record store that had not survived the last round of riots, she sighed aloud, remembering just how easy it had been, and thinking that if she'd only confined herself to wino hunting, she'd never have been suckered into that twelve-step shit.

  But no-o-o-o, not January. Winos weren't good enough for me anymore. I had to get greedy, had to break into the blood bank…

  She could feel herself flushing as she thought of what a sucker she'd been not to just have killed Beverly the moment she came upon her there in the back office, snapped her neck before she could even open her mouth. But she'd been a goner the second Bev started talking—Wayne, the Chinese vampire who'd initiated her, after a manner of speaking, had never exactly had a chance to explain much about vampirism to her. She'd always assumed that being a vampire was, well, a state of being—the notion that it was an addiction that could be kicked was a revelation. Beverly had talked January into accompanying her to a meeting that very night.

  Still, it hadn't been a total loss: those last several months with Whistler had been as close to paradise as she'd known since the commune. Communes in Sebastapol are cool places when you're four—and come to think of it, being four is a lot like being on blood. But thinking about Whistler—his betrayal, her banishment—made her too angry. January needed a cool head to hunt, especially if she were going to try out some of the tricks Nick had taught her in the car.

  She patted the pockets of his Levi jacket, found the note, and uncrumpled it as she strode up Channing Way—the lights of People's Park were bright enough to read by, now. Fight this thing… yeah, sure, blah blah… there it was: I care about you. She shook her head—people were so fucking weird. They got to be a vampire, and they wanted to give it up. They say they care about you, and write you off with a note.

  Well it ain't that easy, Nick. You want blood as much as you want me—you just need a little encouragement. Besides, I'll make you proud, you'll see. The Glasgow Kiss, the Oops Ring—I'll get us both all the blood we need without hardly killing any—

  "Hey, watch where you're going!"

  "Sorry." She had walked smack into a high school kid. Good-looking kid, too. Backwards baseball cap. Baggy shorts, Berkeley High sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He was rubbing his nose, which gave her an idea. "You okay?"

  "I guess."

  "I'm such a space case—I'm always doing that." They'd each bounced back a step from the collision; she drew closer. He was all sweaty—probably on his way from the volleyball courts. How cool: those volleyball courts had cost her her favorite hunting grounds; only fair that they give something back. "You sure you're okay? I have a room right around the corner—I could put some ice on it."

  But something had spooked him—he danced back nervously again, staring at her eyes. Oh fuck, she thought, they must be scary red under the security lights. What a stupid thing to forget about. It had been so long since she'd been stoned out in the world. At Whistler Manor, of course, red eyes had been the norm. She rubbed them. "Fucking chlorine." Her best excuse. "I'm on the swim team."

  "At Cal? I'm starting in the fall."

  "Great. What are you gonna major in?"

  "Computer science."

  "So you're smart too—I mean, besides good looking." He blushed as dark as if he'd been the one drinking blood—she closed the distance between them again. "I lied—I don't really have any ice up in my room." She touched the front of his shorts. "Just a bed." A single drop of perspiration emerged from under the band of his backwards cap and rolled down his forehead. "C'mon. Don't be such a kid. It'll beat volleyball all to shit."

  January took him up the back stairs (no tricking at the Bierce, except with the assistant manager if you couldn't make the rent), closed the door behind them, threw the bolt, positioned him with his back to the door, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his gym shorts and underpants, and as she knelt before him, tugged them down around his ankles and grabbed his penis in her hand. He came almost immediately—before her mouth was anywhere near him.

  She stood up, wiping his limp penis clean on the hem of her T-shirt, then tilted her face up to his. "Lean down," she whispered, puckering her lips. As he did so, she drew her head back, then brought it forward violently, shattering the bridge of his nose with the top of her forehead: the Glasgow Kiss.

  He moaned and crumpled; before he could topple over sideways, she propped him up into a sitting position with his back against the door and the lip of her Star Trek thermos under his gushing nose.

  His bare legs were out in front of him, pants still around his ankles. He might or might not have been conscious; it was hard for her to tell, as his eyes had swelled shut almost immediately. He was groaning, but then, she'd known bleeders to groan when they were unconscious—even when they were almost dead.

  Not that she had any intention of letting him die—in honor of Nick, sort of. When the thermos was full she grabbed his nose between her thumb and forefinger and squeezed. He screamed—so you were conscious after all, you bad boy, she thought—and fainted again from the pain. Pinching his nostrils closed, she took a swig from the thermos, then another, let the nose go, topped off the thermos with the resulting spurt of blood, then with one hand pinched off the flow again while with the other she deftly capped the thermos. This was a lot more complicated than slitting winos' throats, she had to admit, but a lot more fun, too.

  She left the boy slumped against the door and darted into the kitchen. When she returned, he was groaning, and doing his best to see through his swollen eyes. What he saw—January approaching with a serrated knife—made him try to struggle to his feet, but he gave up when she sat across his legs and flicked his nose with her forefinger. He didn't pass out, this time, nor did she use the knife on him. Instead she lifted her sweatshirt and scraped the edge of the knife vertically against the top of her left chest a few times, from the collarbone down to the top of her breast. Then she ran the boy's fingertips under her shirt and along the path of the red shred marks.

  It hurt him more than it did her. When he groaned again she looked him in the eye. "You conscious now?"

  He nodded.

  "Get out. If you tell anybody about this, I'll tell them you tried to rape me. Who do you think they'll believe, with your come on my clothes, and the scratch marks and the bruises and all, and my blood and skin under your fingernails?" She started to climb off him, then sat back. "But you could wash your hands, couldn't you? I better call nine-one-one now, instead."

  "Nnn."

  "What's that?"

  "Nnn. Dnn."

  "Don't?"

  He nodded.

  "You just gonna leave and never tell anybody?"

  He nodded again.

  "Cool." She climbed off his lap, then reached down and helped him to his feet. She had to help support his weight for a minute, and took advantage of the opportunity to slip his wallet out of his pocket. He was feeling well enough to protest—she jabbed a finger toward his nose, and he yelped—she didn't even have to touch him. "I just want to see where you live, cutie. In case you do decide to tell somebody."

  True to her word, she replaced the wallet after checking his driver's license, then opened the door and shooed him out into the hall. "Stairs to the left."

  She closed the door, then opened it immediately; he was already gone. She laughed, but the laughter died away as she realized she should have taken some money from him after all—she was going to need money. Then she hefted her thermos—it was so full it didn't even slosh. What was it the Furry Freak Brothers in her mother's old hippie comix used to say? Blood will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no blood?

  Or something like that. Never mind. She had enough of both to last a day or two. Then it would be time to call on Nick again—he'd probably be glad to see her by then. Because never mind about what that Furry Freak Brother said: blood and money, that was the ticket. Money and blood.

  TWO

  The week after Midsummer p
assed with measured grace up at Whistler Manor. It appeared to Lourdes that pregnancy was as safe a charm against vampiric malaise as was baby-blood. Every evening she awoke while the sky to the west was still that pink-tinged gray, and after peeing (her bladder by now had the capacity of a golf ball) she would ring for Nanny Parish, then waddle over to the window seat to wait for her.

  It was not an ungraceful waddle: had there been troupes of pregnant ballerinas, Lourdes would have been prima among them. Nor did she need the plush padded railing and low cushioned step that Whistler had installed on Tuesday—but she'd thought of him and smiled fondly every time she'd used them since, so it was well worth it.

  She'd drink her thimbleful of blood in the window seat, while in the Nantucket rocker Nanny would nurse little Plum Rose—nine months old now, with cheeks fat and purple-black as plums.

  "Where'd the name come from?" Lourdes asked the shiny-faced Luzan midwife on Friday evening. She loved to watch Nanny Parish nursing her little girl, loved to watch the little mouth suck dreamily at the great brown breast. That was as close as she got to sexual desire lately: sometimes after drinking her hourly ration she'd fantasize about nursing from those swollen breasts herself. The aureolae were the size of the saucers in a doll's tea set; swallowing the warm spurting milk would be like drinking sweet blood from a fountain, she imagined. But whenever she thought about it too much, her own breasts would ache with fullness, and she'd have to look away.

  "Plum Rose? Dot's de Jambu tree, Miss Lourdes. Bears de golden apple dot Odam and Eve ate of in de Gyarden."

  "I think we've decided on a girl's name. Corazon, after my grandmother."

  "Dot's a good name, too."

  A boy was to be named Leon Stanton Whistler. A life for a life: advice on karmic maintenance from the High Priestess of the Coven. They would have considered the name Leona for a girl, had not that name been associated in recent years with a photo on the cover of Time magazine, under the legend: Rhymes With Rich.