Midnight Brunch

by Marta Acosta

  When I left with my bundle, I could smell rich aromas coming from a cozy Mexican restaurant. I had one of the dinner platas and lingered over my book, trying to puzzle out the author’s intentions about the romance. When I looked up from the page, it was late and evening had fallen. I got back on the lonely road.

  In a case of life imitating art, I felt like the main character of Uno, Dos, Terror! I’d been in control when I had written about a Latina heroine escaping fascists and the monster she had created. The bitter irony was that I was my own monster and I could never outrun myself.

  The highway through the desert was lonely. My headlights picked out the flat, dry terrain. I could see the creatures moving in the darkness: small rodents and insects. Something dashed swiftly in the dark and I nearly slammed on my breaks. It was a lithe gray fox with a black-tipped tail, the first real fox I had ever seen. The brown shrubs shivered in a slight wind, and Joshua trees stood like sentinels. Mountain ranges, riven from the earth and thrust up by major fault lines, were solid black masses on the horizon.

  A huge white moth splattered on my windshield and I turned on my windshield wipers to scrape it away. To my right I saw a turn onto a paved road with a discreet sign saying PARAGON WAY.

  The lane was bordered by Canary Island palms dramatically up-lit with spotlights. At the end of the road was a sprawling, low pale yellow modern building with a circular drive around a fountain made from massive sandstone blocks.

  Carved into a wall behind spiky agaves were the words PARAGON SPRING—SANCTUARY, SPA, & RESORT. It took me a moment to recognize a pop-pop-pop sound as a tennis ball being hit, and I thought I could spy courts beyond the building. I drove into the guest parking lot and sat for a few minutes.

  This was as good a place as any to wait and see if my skin grew scales, my hair fell out in clumps, and I began running with packs of wild dogs at night, feasting on the flesh of jackrabbits and rattlesnakes.

  I heard a crunch-crunch-crunch on the gravel outside, so I got out of my truck.

  A valet was walking toward the truck with the smile of someone who is well paid to be pleasant.

  “Evening, miss. Welcome to the Paragon. May I be of assistance?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a reservation here.”

  He blew a whistle and a bellhop trotted over to haul my luggage. A raked gravel and boulder courtyard led to a vast lobby with walls frescoed in soothing ocher hues. To one side was a long slate reception desk. The staff, dressed in dark burgundy tunics, were as lean and immaculate as Tibetan monks.

  A bar was on the other side of the lobby. Next to the bar were tall, copper-paneled doors to a restaurant. The place smelled like expensive places do, absolutely clean with the faintest scent of woody aromatics, like sandalwood, and delicate florals, like orange blossoms.

  The spa’s patrons seemed to be a homogenous bunch of tanned and rested nonethnic rich people who enjoyed colorful cocktails. I was definitely out of my comfort zone. At least the staff was a mixed bunch.

  I gave my name at the desk, and the receptionist signaled to the concierge, who came over with a smile.

  “Ms. De Los Santos, welcome to the Paragon,” he said. “My name is Charles Arthur and I’m here to ensure that your stay is serene and rejuvenating.” He was a big, meaty man with a thick, neatly trimmed brown beard and kind blue eyes. His suit was well tailored, but he reminded me of those guys in the City who wore flannel shirts, built stuff with power tools, and had brunch every Sunday with their boyfriends. I liked him instantly.

  “Thanks. I’d just like to go to my room. Also, is there a café here?”

  “Yes, but if you would like to unwind in the privacy of your casita, our restaurant will prepare anything on the menu. Mr. Taylor has taken care of everything for you.” He dropped his voice and said, “He also included service, so there is no need to tip the staff.”

  Charles then escorted me out a side entrance to a small yard with golf carts. We got in one and he drove down a path that led beyond the back of the main building to cottages that were hidden behind fences, shrubbery, and dark red bougainvillea. He parked in front of the last casita.

  We went through a small garden and into the casita. “Most of our guests enjoy the open layout,” he said, waving like a game show hostess to display a wide room that served as a living room and dining area. The back wall had floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a private courtyard with a small pool that glowed blue. There was a sort of minimalist/desert theme, as if an ambivalent hermit had decorated and his taste ran to animal skins, adobe, and stainless steel.

  “That door leads to a kitchenette, which is stocked with some Paragon favorites. There’s a guest bath here.” His soft leather shoes made no noise as he crossed the stone pavers to a hallway. “The bedroom suite is through here.” A huge platform bed was covered in elegant mushroom-colored linens, and a large TV screen was set above the fireplace. The Saltillo-tiled bathroom had a step-up bathtub that was large enough for a party.

  On the other side of the casita was a roomy office that had all the necessities for a modern scriptwriter. On the desk were a black granite plaque engraved with my name and a gift basket.

  The bellhop arrived with my bags. I handed him a tip before I remembered not to make physical contact.

  Charles noticed my shocked expression, and when the bellhop left he said, “Oh, you forgot that tips were included—but don’t worry, they are always appreciated.”

  When he handed me the card key, I took it carefully by the edge. After he said good night, I locked the door and gave a sigh of relief; in this vampire-free zone, I could reflect and recover.

  I called Skip and gave him my new number. We arranged to meet the next morning. Then I tried Oswald, but he didn’t answer. “Oswald, it’s me. Here’s my new number. I know you’re busy, and it’s not an emergency, but I miss you.” I hated sounding so needy and pathetic.

  I phoned the ranch and Sam picked up. “Hi, Sam, I’ve decided to stay a few extra days with Mercedes.” I told him I had a new phone and gave him the number. “Please don’t give it out, because, you know, the psychos.”

  “I am not in the habit of releasing personal information,” Sam said, all lawyer-y. “Libby said ‘da-da’ today!”

  “Really? Isn’t she a little young to be talking?”

  “Grandmama says that I imagined it, but I think Libby is an especially advanced child. You can tell, can’t you?”

  I agreed that she was exceptional. I felt a sharp pang at the thought that I couldn’t hold her until I was well. I missed her warm babyness. “I’m going to try to teach her to say ‘Milagro’ when I come back,” I said lightly, as if my life was nothing but parties and buying ribbons for my hair. “Sam, you know what? I ran into this old schoolmate, and he’s a producer and wants me to do a rewrite of a screenplay.”

  “That’s great news, Young Lady. Send me a copy of your contract and I’ll look it over,” Sam said. “If there are any red flags, I can check with an acquaintance in entertainment law.”

  “No contract, yet, Sam, but it’s a flat fee, and it can’t be that complicated.”

  “People without attorneys always say that,” he said. “Get something in writing and don’t sign it until I review it, okay?”

  I said that I would and asked about the family. I edged the conversation to Gabriel. “I tried to call Gabriel and got an odd message. Is he there by any chance?”

  “No,” he said much too quickly. “Why do you want to talk to him?”

  “I just want to gossip with him about my new clothes and things. If he calls, tell him I’m absolutely frantic to dish.” I hung up thinking that all was not right in the wide, wacky world of vampires.

  I opened the gift basket, which contained Paragon lotions and soaps. I ate some fruit from an arrangement on the sideboard, took a quick shower, and examined my body for any outward evidence of my disturbing internal changes.

  I slipped between the cool, high-thread-count sheets of the bed and list
ened to the night. I missed Oswald beside me and my dog sleeping on the bedside rug. At some point the muted sounds of the spa guests faded and only the insects could be heard.

  I wanted desperately to be with Oswald, ask him a hundred questions, and make him answer each one in exhausting detail. I hadn’t asked before because I didn’t want to be a nagging girlfriend. I’d wanted him to open up on his own. If the family had only been honest with me, I wouldn’t be here now with a strange condition, once again pursued by lunatics.

  I couldn’t pretend the family was anything other than what they were: vampires.

  What was I?

  Thirteen

  Lights, Camera, Tension

  S kip Taylor was late for our meeting the next morning. I waited for him in the office, familiarizing myself with the screenplay program and making a backup of the “Teeth of Sharpness” file.

  As the minutes passed, I called Mercedes in a panic.

  “Mercedes, I was so wrong. The mugger wasn’t someone from the hood. He was one of Silas’s people waiting to attack Ian.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I gave her a brief rundown of the last two days. “I feel awful calling you about my troubles, it’s just…it’s just…”

  “It’s okay, Mil. That’s what friends are for.”

  “But you never share your troubles with me.”

  “I vent to you all the time. You don’t mind because you like hearing about the club,” she said. “What have your friends said about all this?”

  “I’m not at the ranch. I am mutating into some grotesque, bloodthirsty creature. That guy I told you about, Skip Taylor, offered me a job rewriting a screenplay, so I’m at the Paragon Springs Sanctuary, Spa, and Resort, which is just outside La Basura.”

  “You would find yourself in la basura.”

  “Ha, ha, and ha. My friends think I’m with you, but I feel safer here.”

  “Are you making this up?”

  “No, I really am having strobe-light visions of bloody flesh every time I touch someone.”

  “No, I meant about the screenwriting job,” she said with exasperation. “That’s a very expensive hotel.”

  “It’s also a sanctuary. Me and the Hunchback of Notre Dame both need one,” I said, then cried, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” I glanced at the clock. “The producer is really late for our meeting.”

  “It’s a Hollywood power thing, making someone wait. What did Gabriel say?”

  I told her that I couldn’t get in touch with him and elaborated on the freak show going on in my head: “Have you ever seen a David Cronenberg film? It’s like that, but without any artistic content.”

  “I’m having a hard time believing your condition is serious when you talk like this.”

  “Mercedes, if I stop kidding, I’ll start screaming and I’ll never stop.”

  She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “I’d worry about you more, but I know you’re strong, mujer.”

  “I wish strong was synonymous with sane.”

  She was telling me that she’d try to track Gabriel down online through a hacker connection when the doorbell rang.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  Skip came in, saying, “Glad you’re on my team.” He reached his hand toward me.

  I braced myself for the contact. As he gripped my hand, I saw an image that glistened with carmine rivulets; I saw white teeth scraping against white bone as they ripped away flesh.

  He’d already walked past me into the large room. “Settled in? Good, good. Nice place. Hope you’re ready to rock and roll.”

  He was already sitting at the dining table, unpacking papers from his leather satchel and jittering a knee, before I closed the door.

  When we’d first met, I hadn’t noticed how smooth and pink Skip’s complexion was. I found it mesmerizing. “Millie, here’s the current version of ‘Teeth of Sharpness.’” He dropped a huge manuscript on the table.

  I flipped open the front page and was shocked to see the writer’s name. He had been a wunderkind, paid enormous figures for action-packed, violent movies. I said the first thing that came into my head. “You didn’t tell me I’m rewriting his screenplay.”

  “Everyone’s got to start somewhere.” He pointed at the screenplay as if accusing it of heinous war crimes. “You see the problem here?”

  The screenplay was 324 pages long. Each page would be roughly one minute of screen time. I did a quick calculation and said, “As it is, the script is over five hours long.”

  “He thinks he’s an artist, but it’s a mess, completely unproduceable. You’re a good fit for this material because it’s about a chupacabra attacking a small town.”

  “The goat-killing flying demon of Latin American lore?”

  “Yes, I hoped it would work as both a horror film and an allegory, but he’s too heavy-handed. He’s got scenes that work as horror, and scenes that work as allegory, but nothing that works as both. There’s no synergy.”

  “What is the allegory?”

  “The chupacabra symbolizes our fear of the anonymous consumer culture and how it sucks away our souls. We’re left as mere husks of real people.”

  “That’s an amazing theme,” I said, feeling a rush of excitement. “Do you have any specific instructions?”

  When he rummaged in his satchel and pulled out a few pages that were clipped together, a pen rolled out. I grabbed it before it hit the floor.

  “Good reactions,” he said. “Here are my notes. Cut it down to a fast one hundred minutes. Show, don’t tell. Nuke the whole business in the middle—you’ll see what I mean.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah, keep one or two of his poetic ramblings to make him happy. Otherwise, use your own creative talent.”

  I realized that I’d stopped writing and was staring dreamily at Skip, imagining all the fragile capillaries that brought a bloom to his cheeks.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Uh, I was just noticing your fantastic complexion. It’s so healthy and richly colored.”

  “Huh? Thanks, I guess,” he said, confused. “So you ready to go?”

  “Time frame?” I asked.

  “We’re scheduled to start shooting in four weeks. If you can get it to me sooner, there’s a bonus of an additional ten percent.”

  My father, Jerry D (“Let Jerry D-light you with a wonderful lawn!”), had not imparted much wisdom to his only child, but he did stress the importance of settling money issues up front. I tried to sound calm and confident as I said, “Do you have a contract for me? Just so we’re clear on the terms.”

  Skip shrugged. “I do a lot of my business on a handshake. If there’s no trust, why bother?”

  He put out his hand. I took his hand and breathed slowly as a horror show played in my head.

  “Good to have you on board, Millie.”

  “My name is Milagro.”

  “Hey, don’t rip my head off,” Skip said, and threw up his hands.

  Laughing, I replied, “I’m really trying not to.” The thought of Skip’s exposed throat spewing blood like a hydrant made me ache with desire.

  Skip glanced at his wristwatch. “Gotta go meet Thomas Cook. He just agreed to do ‘Teeth,’ but we gotta get him into shape for the role.”

  “Thomas Cook is here?” I asked, my voice breaking on a high note. Thomas Cook, named by his Central American mother after the travel agency, had vanished from the A-list as quickly as he’d appeared. I’d adored him, and I still watched his movies whenever they were shown on late-night television.

  Skip shook his head and said, “Hiring him is a risk, but my director thinks he’s still got It.”

  I didn’t have to ask what It was, because memories of It were making me feel all squiggly inside. “I always liked his acting.”

  “You haven’t seen him lately, have you?” Skip said. “Forget I said that. I’ll touch base later in the week.” His phone rang and he walked away with a wave.

  I thought, holy cow, Thomas Cook is at
the Paragon! I should have been thinking, holy cow, my boyfriend, who won’t call me, neglected to tell me about a group of crazy neovamps, or, holy cow, I yearn to drain people of their bodily fluids, but sometimes you’re not as sincere and serious as you’d like to be.

  I went out to the private pool and sat at the edge. An iridescent blue dragonfly darted over the surface of the water. I was grateful that I could be in the sun without my skin frying, as it had done during my first infection.

  At least my career had taken a marked turn for the better. Being a blood-swilling beast was probably not a hindrance to a screenwriting career. The thought of blood made my stomach cramp with hunger. I needed to find a source of the stuff.

  I padded inside the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints, and found the menu for the spa. The Paragon offered various raw fish dishes, but no raw beef. I ordered a very, very rare burger and fresh tomato and red pepper juice in the hope that I could wean myself off the hard stuff.

  A plump waiter brought my meal. When I tipped the waiter and his moist, chubby fingers touched mine, I had a mad urge to throw him on the tile floor and bite him all over like a rabid ferret. Obviously, I was going to have to work on self-discipline.

  The food held me over as I began going through the manuscript. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it was inspired by Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. The narrator’s voice-over told of a midlevel manager who is sent to a desert town to find out what’s happened to a legendary land developer, Kiltz. The land developer has “gone native”—shacking up with a barmaid, hiring a shaman, ingesting hallucinogens, and forgetting his responsibilities to the home office.

  “Teeth of Sharpness” was a disaster of major proportions. Sections of dialogue were written in iambic pentameter for no reason. The chupacabra spoke in riddles. Characters occasionally burst into songs that were more Lerner and Lowe than Brecht. I couldn’t stop reading until I had turned the final page. There was a beauty to its insanity.

  I read it through twice, marking dialogue and scenes that seemed extraneous. Evening came and my craving resurged, stronger than before. La Basura would surely have a grocery store, where I could buy meat. I slipped on my tennis shoes and trod off to my truck in the guest parking lot. The temperature had dropped and a breeze carried interesting, unfamiliar scents.