Drayton_Evolution of a Vampire

by Tony Bertauski

  “Not your business, Hal. Kindly get your truck off my property.”

  “Annie.”

  Hal worked his lips as if chewing on which words to spit. He hiked up his belt, shifted his weight like he had to fart. He plucked a strand of foxtail from the ground and minced it between his front teeth. He took a deep breath, looked into the trees as if to tell God to turn down the thermostat. He twisted the foxtail between his fingers. Bo stepped back and Hal kept walking, would’ve knocked right into him had he not.

  “My boy came home with a load of shit in his pants.” Hal looked down on Annie, the foxtail dangling toward her nose. “That is my business.”

  “He-he started it,” Bo said. “Aaron wanted to fight.”

  “Well did you?”

  “He wouldn’t listen.”

  “You saying my boy shit his pants for fun? Is that what this is all about?” He looked around and made sure to make eye contact with each one of them. “Let me tell you something, I can take this property from you in the morning if I want. Now when my boy comes home like that and you tell me it was because he was fighting, well that ain’t the answer I’m looking for. I want to know who is here.” Another round of hard looking and he ripped the stalk from his teeth. “Answer me!”

  “That’s enough!” Annie shouted. “Your boy makes plenty of trouble and if he got a little back.”

  “Your mama fight your fights, boy?”

  Annie shoved but his massive frame didn’t budge. “Don’t start making threats, Hal.”

  He stared a while longer. The silence was even worse. He appeared to weigh his options and there were plenty of them. No option was off the table and they knew it. He finally pointed at the feed room.

  “Come.”

  Drayton did not respond. He observed the moment, then casually pushed off the doorframe and started across the grass. He walked like a person with all the time in the world. A person that had no beginning. That had no end. Just walking. Bahiagrass stalks whipped his legs. Hal’s tongue ran back and forth along his mustache. When he could wait no more, he took the last two steps. Drayton stopped before they collided.

  “You from around here, boy?”

  Drayton kept his eyes cast down. The racist tone was as clear as a written word. Hal moved closer, his voice rattled deeply.

  “Here in the South we have manners. When an adult speaks, you answer ‘yes, sir’. So let’s try this again.” He enunciated very slowly. “You from around here?”

  There was no bitterness or edge in Drayton’s voice. He simply said, “No.”

  “I’m sorry? You want to try that again?”

  Drayton didn’t respond. He didn’t shake his head or provide an answer. Emotions ran thick through Hal, pusling in waves that Drayton could taste.

  “My boy tells me you were interfering with business. Now boys will be boys, that is a fact. But you got no business in my business, you understand? I forgive once. There is no seconds here, boy. I am a gentleman after all. If I have to come out here again, everything gets hurt. Do you understand?”

  Hal backed up a step, hard eyes bearing down. He looked around and considered whether a second chance was in his best interest.

  “Lift your eyes, boy, and answer me.”

  Drayton focused on the third roll of Hal’s neck, the red bumps where he shaved. Hal’s heart pulsed beneath the collared shirt sticking to his chest. Drayton closed his eyes, took a deep breath and breathed in the man’s essence, tasted the pain that hid deep inside. His forgotten memories were heavy and toxic. His anger an iron maiden.

  Hal’s father beat him. He felt his father’s rings often. He learned to patch himself up and he learned not to cry. His father was raising a man, not a pussy. He watched him beat his mother, too. He stomped her in the kitchen. Called her a whore. An ambulance took her away while he sat in the living room with a scotch and water.

  No pussies here.

  Hal’s anger hid his sadness, a layer that would take centuries to melt. Drayton did not judge this man. After all, it took Drayton that long to resolve his own madness and rage. Drayton opened his eyes, lifted his gaze to Hal’s. With a thought, he removed the ice, exposed Hal’s pain and fear all at once. Showed him the depth of his neglect. Revealed the insatiable sadness he had pushed into a dark, deep corner. The things he did not remember. The things he did not feel.

  The things he cared not to see.

  Hal’s tongue stopped working. The color on his cheeks drained beneath a sheet of sweat. Hal took a step back, clutched his chest.

  Aaron jumped out of the truck.

  Hal concentrated on breathing, yanked his arm away from his son. Aaron retreated slowly, unsure if his father would fall over in the next second. Hal wiped his whole head and all his chins. His mouth worked rapidly, but words could not make their way out, only the gummy sound of his tongue. He felt his way along the hood. His pasty, colorless complexion was evident through the tinted window. He backed the truck up, nice and easy. He didn’t spin the wheels and throw rocks. They watched him roll out of sight in disbelief.

  Hal Towgard had never left without the last word.

  XVI

  Hal stopped at the end of the drive, stared at the reflective blue marker pinned to the water oak. The truck idled. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands. He just needed to catch his breath, but no matter how hard he tried, the next breath came a little faster, a littler shallower.

  The boy’s eyes... they were...

  Once, when Hal was seven, he went to open the pasture. One of the wires was hot, but they weren’t all hot. He’d seen his father grabbed them all the time. But when Hal touched that wire, a jolt rattled through him, shook fingers, toes and nuts all at the same time. He tried to let go but the wire had him. It grabbed back, sucked his fingers around it tight.

  The boy’s eyes were like that.

  Sickness rolled in his stomach. It reached up and clenched his heart. He tried to look away, but couldn’t. He felt colder and ugly.

  Rotten.

  XVII

  Drayton cleaned the last steel bucket and placed it in line with the others. He dried his hands and hung the towel. Everything was in place. The sun was down and the sky dimming. Drayton stepped outside the feed room. The horses were at the fence, watching him. Each of them nuzzled his outstretched hand as he passed, bowed their heads.

  Drayton watched darkness settle while dishes clattered inside the house. The light cast out from the kitchen. Annie was busy at the sink. They’d asked him to join them for dinner, but Drayton politely declined. He needed to move on. Food did nothing to quell the hunger and it had been several months since he fed. There was plenty of dying in the city.

  Bo was coming from the house. Drayton sensed the cool silkiness of his essence flowing as he neared. He kept himself centered to avoid absorbing it. But it tasted so good. The horses felt the flare of his instincts, reared up and fled. Drayton gripped the fence.

  “What’s with them?” Bo rested the heel of his boot on the lowest rail.

  “A little spooked.”

  “Yeah, well, supper’s still waiting. Mama told me not to ask this time. She wants to apologize for Mr. Towgard’s or something.”

  “No need. Your hospitality is much appreciated, but I must excuse myself, once again.”

  “She ain’t going to like that much. She’ll come out here and feed you like a baby if you keep resisting.”

  The horses had settled down in the far corner, keeping a wary eye out for predators. Drayton smiled. “You’ll make a fine gentleman, Bo.”

  Bo’s laughter so punctual it gave the horses a start. “Gentleman? If you’re inviting me for tea, ain’t going to happen.”

  He smacked Drayton on the shoulder, started back for the house.

  “I’ll tell Mama you ain’t coming,” he called. “You best hide.”

  XVIII

  Young’s room was dark except for the glow of his computer. He was tapping the keys, muttering to himself. Sometimes argu
ing with himself. He ran his finger down a list of names, mumbling in supersonic speed. He unfolded a lined sheet of paper and jotted some down. The lead broke. He wheeled around.

  Drayton was on his bed.

  “Fuck!” He grabbed his chest. “You going to give me a heart attack. How’d you get in here?”

  “You were busy.”

  “Yeah, well you win. I can’t find you anywhere. You’re a man of mystery. I don’t have a prize for you, if that’s what you came for.”

  Young went through all the searches he’d done, and they included CIA agents, past and present, and witness protection candidates. He had his doubts how thorough or accurate those databases were but they came up blank anyway.

  “I did find a Nassfaurauttu. It was one name, though. He was a Civil War veteran. But unless you’re a hundred and fifty, I think that’s a miss. You don’t look a day over a hundred.”

  Great party, the Civil War.

  Drayton was looking at the shelf above his bed. Mostly books, a few trophies from Spelling Bees and Academic competitions, a Lego Challenge and one picture. His mother framed it. They were at the beach. Bo had built a huge castle for a sand sculpting contest. He got third in his category. In the picture, Bo was lying in the hole in front of the castle. Young was only a few years old. He sat on it like a throne. His mother was on his left.

  Drayton took the picture down and touched the white space that had been cut out. He traced the outline of a man now reduced to an empty space.

  “What was he like?” Drayton said.

  “How should I know?” He took the picture from Drayton. “He left.”

  He wiped the dust. Drayton felt his pulse. Energy bent the space around him. Young stared at the photo and absently thumped his hand against the armrest of his chair in time to his heartbeat. He moved to thumping his thigh, beat it with the same steady rhythm.

  He left.

  Drayton squatted next to him. Young stared ahead, resolute. Drayton could feel the blue vein just under his skin as if it were on the tip of his tongue. He placed his hand over Young’s forehead, let him look deep into his eyes. Drayton took Blake Barnes’s life. He held his memories. Young saw the extent of his father’s life, the haunting thoughts, the divided personality. The insanity that ate him up.

  Blake Barnes did not abandon his family, he abandoned life. He did not leave because his son was broken, he ran because he was frightened. He ran because he lacked courage. Because he was lost.

  Not because of Young.

  In those few moments, Young absorbed his father’s life and understood. He finally knew what his mother had been telling him all his life. More than that, the last few words of his father’s life absolved much of the pain and heartache Young carried like a string of rocks. Drayton delivered the message.

  I’m sorry.

  Young was still holding the picture. Drayton wasn’t there. He was down the long, winding driveway. Young was slumped in his chair when he left. Annie came into his room and held him. Drayton heard the wailing. Felt the tenderness of his mother’s touch. Heard her tell him for the thousandth time. This time, Young heard it.

  It’s not your fault.

  XVIIV

  Drayton stood in the pasture late that night.

  Annie was in the kitchen. Young was asleep. Bo was watching a Braves game. They thought Drayton was upstairs doing his silent thing. They would come up the next morning to find the door ajar and the bed sheets without wrinkles. They would also find enough money to pay next month’s rent.

  When Annie next checked her bank account, she would discover she would have enough to cover more than next month. It only took a few keystrokes on Young’s laptop for Drayton to transfer a sum that would take care of them the rest of their lives.

  Annie needed something more than money. She wanted things to be right. Blake Barnes broke her heart, but she’d moved on from that. Her pain and regret were the kids she let get in his way. That would be resolved. And in two years, she would leave in peace.

  Drayton would come back for that.

  XX

  Hal skipped dinner.

  He sat on the edge of his bed. The shower ran in the bathroom. Steam flooded from the open door. There was a knock on the bedroom door.

  “Are you all right?” his wife called.

  Hal was not fine. A sickness had settled in his stomach. Something spread throughout his mid-section. The stench of his insides permeated his senses. He had hovered over the toilet with his finger in his throat, but he couldn’t make go away. He’d had viruses that kept him puking through the night, but never had he felt sickness this deep. A sadness that was bottomless, treacherous.

  He was a pussy.

  He retrieved the Pepto-Bismol from the bathroom, fumbled with the lid. He lifted the bottle to his lips, ignored the crusty flakes that slogged down his throat. But it didn’t coat the sickness. Didn’t dispel the sadness. He lifted the bottle again then suddenly dropped it. The pink liquid glugged over the floral bedspread. Hal clutched his chest. He tried to breathe. He hit the corner of the bed and rolled onto the floor. The world washed past his senses, dark and blurry.

  “Hal? Are you all right?” The door knob rattled.

  The boy stood at his feet. His skin was as black as the sky outside the window, drawn tightly over his cheeks. He slid his cold fingers over Hal’s sternum, making little circles. Hal moved his lips. He knew he invited this monster into his house many years ago, the day he took over all of Blake Barnes’s debt. The day he began taking money from his family.

  He deserved this.

  Hal felt something draining from his chest. It was smooth, like a vaporous stream of wintry air. The boy closed his eyes and tipped his head back. His skin loosened. And as it did, the pressure released Hal. The room started to dim. The last thing he saw was Death’s face looking down on him. Suddenly, he felt the urge to confess his sorrow for the things he’d done. There were so many of them, but he didn’t have the strength. He just wanted to cry.

  Big sleep fell on Hal. As he parted, he heard the boy’s final words and took them into the darkness. He left his body as the boy spoke.

  Thank you.

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  WHAT TO READ NEXT?

  Get more short stories in The Drayton Chronicles.

  And the first full-length novel, The Roots of Drayton.

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  Copyright © 2010 by Tony Bertauski

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  This book is a work of fiction. The use of real people or real locations is used fictitiously. Any resemblance of characters to real persons is purely coincidental

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