“Who?” I ask, but then I know. “The machine will get it, Pumpkin,” I lie. “We’ll check it as soon as we get back to the room.”
And the look on her face—even with the sunglasses, even with all the Wite-Out, trying to hide my mistake—the look on her face tells me she knows. Knows that her mom is dead. Knows that I covered it up. We haven’t talked about it since that night I brought her home. I’ve wondered about her curious lack of curiosity but didn’t say anything. I guess I was too relieved at being spared that conversation.
Had been, at least. Relieved. Spared.
But not anymore.
“Do you want me to say it?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, facing me with those dark glasses, making me look at two little mes staring back at me—tiny, trapped.
“She…,” I begin, and Isuzu flinches.
“Okay,” she says. She nods as if I’ve actually said it, or maybe to stop me from actually saying it. “Okay,” she says again, still nodding. “I thought so.”
“How?” I begin.
“She never called,” Isuzu says. “Not even during the day.”
And just like that, I saw all my little Trooper’s invisible, unimagined days, spent doing whatever, but also (always) listening for a phone call that would never come. You can’t see that when you’re sleeping through it. You can’t see it when you play back the videotape later, or when you’re watching from your PC at work. You can’tsee someone listening for a phone that doesn’t ring.
And it’s all my fault.
“You wanna pick out somebody else to yell at?” I ask.
“Nah…”
“You wanna yell at me?”
Isuzu looks up, making me look at me again, shrunk down and in stereo.
“Nah.”
After our little mall adventure, the new cover story is that Isuzu’s a Screamer who can’t scream—or even speak, for that matter. Vampirism cured some physical deficits, some forms of blindness, some forms of deafness, but it couldn’t make twisted limbs untwist, and it couldn’t make stunted ones grow. So:
Isuzu was born without a voice box. She can hear, smile, or pout, as she seems inclined to do. But she can’t speak. My little Harpo Marx, in Wite-Out, sunglasses, and fake fangs. I write out a stack of three-by-five cards for her to keep in her pocket and hand out as needed, each reading: “Fuck you and the bat you flew in on.” For verisimilitude.
Of course, the new cover story fits nicely with the fact that Isuzu isn’t speaking much at all lately, especially to yours truly. The two “nahs” after I confessed (or almost confessed, was fully prepared to confess) her mother’s death are pretty much all I’ve gotten out of her since.
It’s amazing how much of our everyday trivial exchanges can be gotten around without words. Especially when one of you is pouting. Especially when one of you doesn’t care. For Isuzu and me, for instance, our post-almost-confession conversations quickly take the following form: me, gesturing a choice of some sort—teeter-tottering two different cans of pet food, for example, one in each hand like the scales of justice, or nudging and pointing at a passing sign—followed by Isuzu’s shrugging, and showing me what the back of her head looks like.
Back at the hotel room I sit, painting some leftover Wite-Out on alternating nails—the thumb, the fuck-you, the pinky. Why? I have no idea. Maybe the constant quiet is making me a little goofy. Maybe I’m hoping Isuzu will be forced to ask. I blow, fan, blow again.
Isuzu looks at me idly. She steps up, takes the bottle and my hand. Wordlessly, she fills the blanks—the index and ring—and then goes back to watchingThe Little Bobby Little Show with the mute still on.
Missing the sound of her voice, I’ve taken to sitting in our hotel room in the dark, listening to Isuzu snore—my little idling sports ute—watching the weird reflections of the aurora play over her sleeping face, watching the weird shadows of hotel things stretch across the walls and ceiling. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m sitting in the dark, watching, wondering if you can really call it kidnapping if you kidnap your own kid. What if it’s for her own good? What if the only ransom you want is for things to go back to the way they were before you stopped talking to each other?
There’s no need to bother getting her ready for outdoors. She’s already wearing her parka and mittens, has been sleeping in them since we got here. It seems the hotel we’re staying at doesn’t make its thermostatic decisions with mortal clientele in mind. If you want it warmer for, say, sex, there’s a surcharge. Seeing as I’ve checked in with what appears to be a four-foot-tall Screamer/burn victim, I thought it best not to bother. After all, there are some things that are even too creepy for vampires.
Those polystyrene ties, by the way, make abduction a lot easier than it was when I was still hunting in packs. Back then, duct tape was the way to go, but any efficiency expert will tell you, there was a lot of wasted motion involved. Getting the roll started, wrapping it around the wrists two, three times, ripping it off, and then starting all over on the ankles. With the ties, you get them started ahead of time, making these bigO s—or maybeQ s, really, factoring in the tail thing. And when it’s showtime, you just slip yourQ over their wrists and yank the tab all the way down, no fuss, no muss, no room to wiggle. Cops have been using these things for crowd control for years, and I can see why. Cheap. Effective. Just painful enough if the joker decides to struggle.
With sleeping mortals of a certain length, you can tighten the ankles and wrists at the same time, provided you don’t wake them slipping on yourQ s. That’s how it works this time, with Isuzu—sneak, sneak, slip, slip, stereo zip, and bingo! She’s bound and portable before she’s even had a chance to open those dead-giveaway eyes of hers. And when shedoes wake, she doesn’t scream, or question, or say a goddam thing. Maybe it’s because she’s still pissed, or maybe this is just the noiseless way she always wakes, the way she was trained to, back when the walls around her smelled like worms when it rained.
I wait. Let her focus. Assure herself that whatever’s being done is being done by a face she recognizes. And then I lift her out of bed and throw her over my shoulder like a rolled-up rug. She doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t squirm. Her body’s utterly limp, as if it’s so used to the idea of death, it doesn’t know how else to be.
This makes me sadder than her being quiet does.
I take the back steps to the rental car a bit harder than absolutely necessary, jostling the trussed-up rag doll over my shoulder, hoping for a peep, burp, fart. A “Fuck you,” a “Drop dead,” a “Watch it.” Nothing. I respond with the same nothing, lowering her body into the trunk and then closing the hood.
I take the shopping bag full of supplies with me, setting it down on the passenger side before unplugging the engine heater from the parking kiosk. I start up the car and pull out.
None of this is necessary, of course. I could have taken her where I’m taking her without all this creepy subterfuge. What can I say? I’m a Catholic, deep down. Redemptioncosts. Between Good Friday and Easter, there’s hell to harrow. Plus, Iam just the teensiest bit pissed at the way she’s been treating me lately. This wassupposed to be a vacation, but it’s become a guilt trip instead.
Sure, I lied about her mom getting away, but there’s got to be a statute of limitations, mitigating factors,something to let me off this meat hook I’m dangling from. Like my not killing her. Like my raising her from that point on—thatshould shave a couple of years off my sentence. Hell, she’s ten and I’m over a hundred. On the basis of seniority alone, I deserve a break.
But none of this is putting me in the right frame of mind for what I’ve got planned. I should be thinking happy thoughts. I should be thinking about the look on Isuzu’s face. And so I drive, imagining her pout dissolving into a smile. Imagining her little arms wrapped around my neck, hugging, forgiving, welcoming me back from hell with an Easter egg and a chocolate bunny.
On second thought, maybe I’m putting too many eggs in this basket. When all is said and d
one, it’s just ice. Not justice. Not payback. Not even just deserts.
Justice.
We arrive. I grab the bag of supplies. Pop the hood. Help Isuzu up, let her take a look.
“Yes?” I ask, my entire world balanced on that pinhead, the first word either of us has spoken in days.
Isuzu blinks, would rub her mortal eyes if her hands weren’t bound. I’ll snip the ties soon enough, but first, I need an answer. She tries getting away with a nod.
“Not good enough,” I say. “I need words. Sonic energy traveling through the air in waves. From your lips to my ears.”
“Okay,” Isuzu says, softly, so softly.
“Excuse me?” I say. “What was that?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Cool,” I say, snipping her free and then handing her the face paint, fangs, and glasses.
This just might be what hell looks like when it freezes over. When you think about it, when you think about the kinds of people who are probably there—the party people, the artists, the nonconformists. It’s probably heresy to imagine that hell on ice could be fun, could be beautiful, could be a hell of a lot like the Fairbanks Ice Carnival.
To which I say: So what?
I’m an ex-murderer who’s started taking Communion again, from my friend the nonpracticing-pedophile priest. We’re both vampires, and we’re both taking care of mortals—he, a dog named Judas, I, a little girl named for an SUV. Heresy’s not exactly something I’m troubling myself about.
I’ve checked out the carnival ahead of time. In this world of ours—where knives are sex toys and five bucks buys you a postcard of a pole covered in tongue tips—you’ve got to be careful with anything that sounds that close to “carnivore.” But it’s okay. Nothing you wouldn’t see in a PG-rated movie from before the change. There’s skating, ice sculpting, your average rigged carnival games, and rides like that Ferris wheel over there, lighting up the sky, spinning in the dark lenses of Isuzu’s glasses.
I’ll bet her dead mom never took her any placethis cool, I think, fishing the skates out of the shopping bag—a pair for her, a pair for me. I offer her my hand.
“Shall we?”
Isuzu takes my gloved hand in her mittened one, and just like that, I’m forgiven.
We pass through the entrance with our skates slung over our shoulders, buy a ribbon of tickets, head straight for the rink. The ice—just ice—is as smooth as a brass casket lid. It’s also lousy with Screamers who aren’t screaming—just like a strip club in the lower forty-eight. They’re laughing, instead, with their tight, prepubescent vocal cords, delighted, utterly delighted—for once, and for the time being.
“Can I talk?” Isuzu whispers.
“You can laugh,” I say. “You can have a good time. In fact, that’s an order.” Pause. “Just don’t go telling anybody our life story, okay?”
“Okay,” Isuzu says, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before heading out on the ice in her flat-bottomed boots. She’s got her arms spread like a bird and seems a little surprised that she’s not gliding quite as well as the others zipping around her.
I whistle for her attention. “Hey, Slick,” I say, lacing up my own skates. “Forget something?”
Isuzu takes her tinier pair from around her neck and looks at them as if she’s wondering what they’re for. I finish lacing, and she’s still holding them in her mittens, staring at them, staring at the insane thinness of the blades.
“C’mere, kiddo,” I say. “Let me help you with those.” I sit her on my knee, pull one on, then the other, lace both up good and tight for my little first-timer. Taking both her hands, I lead her out on to the ice.
“Okay,” I say. “First thing let’s do, let’s fall on our butts.” I let go of her hands slowly, making sure she’s steady, making sure her ankles don’t buckle. “Okay. Ready?” I drop to the ice, seat first, spinning a half turn. I screw my face up in an exaggerated grimace—open one eye, then the other. “That wasn’t so bad. Now, your turn.”
Isuzu looks at me with a face full of serious doubts. Perhaps she was a bit hasty with that whole forgiving-me business.
“Listen, it’s not that bad. Your butt’s all padding.” Isuzu smiles every time I say “butt.” “Plus, you don’t have that far to fall.” Smirk. “If you break anything, we’ll get a butt doctor.” Smile. “A butt specialist.” Bigger smile. “The foremost butt surgeon in the world. He’ll do a buttectomy. You can pick out a new butt. Any butt you want.”
Isuzu starts laughing, starts hiccuping, loses her balance, and doesn’t break her butt.
“Wheeee…,” I say, grabbing one of her skates and spinning her like a roulette wheel.
The spinning makes her laugh more, and the laughing fuels more hiccups. And me? I’m already grinning so wide, my fangs almost meet in the back of my head.
If the Vatican could have seen us like this, I think it migt have stopped killing us a lot sooner. By “us” I mean vampires, of course, and by “this” I mean skating. No one on skates seems evil; I’m sorry, it’s just a fact. You can look evil in high heels and jackboots, in muddy sneakers and centurion sandals, butskates ? No. Same’s true for those Dutch-made wooden clogs, but that’s another story (calledHeidi, I believe). And I know what you’re thinking: What about hockey players? Sorry. It’s the sticks and the masks and maybe the missing teeth—notthe skates.
It’s taken Isuzu a couple of brushes with the dreaded buttectomy, but she’s starting to get the hang of it. Right now, she’s doing short glides of a couple of yards, her arms out straight as if crucified, until she loses confidence and starts rotating them faster and faster as if this is the way you stop when you’ve gone too far. Then she walks back to where she started—bowlegged, using the sides of her feet—and does it again.
Meanwhile, laughing Screamers and laughing non-Screamers zip around her at a respectful distance, doing their figure eights, their arabesques, their pirouettes, axels, and icy rooster-tail stops. Vampires can’t turn into anything—not wolves, not bats, not spooky, spooky mist—but here, at least, they canfly.
Laughter happens. It spreads like the shaved ice, gathering in random doodles, here and there.
Isuzu spots a smaller vampire who seems to be ice skiing behind a taller one, holding on to the long tails of a ridiculous scarf, being towed around the rink, faster and faster, fishtailing at turns but still hanging on, the steam of the little one’s pure joy scratching itself across the cold night air like a jet’s vapor trail. Isuzu just freezes there, mesmerized, her breath leaking out in a contemplative trickle. And then, in the snap that decisions are made at her age, she takes both my hands in hers.
“C’mon,” she pleads, tugging on my hand with more strength than I remember her having.
“But Izzy,” I try, “I don’t have a scarf.”
Yeah, right. Likethat’s gonna work. This is the guy who also couldn’t find any white greasepaint, or a pumpkin for Halloween, who right now, back at their hotel room, has the yellow pages, white pages, and Gideon Bible ringing the bathroom sink, playing toilet seat for her still unbroken butt.This isMr. Make-Do, the master of improvisation.
Okay. Okay. You got me. There’s jumper cables in the trunk of the rental car. I’m not exactly sure this is what the Hertz people had in mind when they put them there, but what the heck? Anything in the name of reckless joy. And so we trudge back to the car, and then back to the rink, me with the Hertz cables tied around my waist like a towline.
“Hold on, kiddo,” I say, making sure Isuzu has a firm grip with both hands and is steady on her feet before moving out to take up any slack in the line. And then we’re off. Isuzu laughs. She doesn’t giggle much anymore. She laughs, instead. A deeper, older kid’s laugh.
At first, she’s perfectly happy with the moderate pace I’ve chosen. This does not last. Of course. Soon:
“Faster,” she calls.
Okay. Fine. I was holding back, making sure she had the hang of it, which it seems she does; so, faster it is.
Laughing again, but shorter-lived, this time. This time, the bark of “Faster” comes faster.
Okay. Still doable. You want faster, I’ll give you fast.
“Faster!”
You can see where this is going, right? She’s developing a tolerance, like a junky.
“Faster!”
Isuzu—I want to say, if I could catch my breath, if she could hear me through the wind rushing in her ears—Isuzu, there are certain laws of physics we were not meant to tamper…
“Faster!”
Do you know how spacecraft gain the momentum they need to leave the solar system? They use the gravity of Jupiter to slingshot them out. I mention this now because, when I finally decide to stop, Isuzu just keeps right on going, creating slack as she gets closer to me, and then taking it up again, once she passes. There are several things that can happen at this point. For example, once the slack runs out, Isuzu’s forward momentum could (1) pull me down on my butt, (2) pull her down on her butt, or (3) pull us both down upon our respective butts.
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