So we get married—Rose and I. I figure, what the hell? I’m the son of a cherry pit swallower. I’ve swallowed snot; I’ve swallowed blood; I’ve swallowed worse-tasting things than my own silly fear. And so I ask, and she accepts, and we end the evening with a double feature—just like a comedy by Shakespeare.
“Do you?” Father Jack asks, and Rose, my sweetie, my love, says, “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Don’t answer that,” I warn Isuzu, who’s still kind of light-headed from her vamping and is liable to say anything. Like the truth.
Isuzu mimes twisting a key between her lips and then stands there looking at the invisible key, wondering how she’s supposed to swallow it, with her lips already locked. She decides tossing it over her shoulder is good enough. She wipes the dust from her palms, then, and gives me the big okay. She tips up her dark glasses just long enough to wink one of her new eyes.
“Do you…,” Father Jack begins, and I hardly let him finish before spitting out my “Hell, yes!”
The priest slaps me up the back of the head. He points at the crucifix hanging over the altar and assorted other holy things.
“Language,” he warns.
“Sorry…”
“Get used to saying that,” Robbie says, nudging me like we’re buddies or something. His idea of male bonding, I guess, but more forced. Maybe “male riveting” would be the better term. “Male spot-welding.”
Rose and Isuzu both let him have it, of course, applying the flats of their palms to the back of his head. Smack. Smack.
Twit, meanwhile, kicks in her two cents—andRobbie’s shins.
He yelps, grabbing his leg in both hands, hamming it up. He’s making a play for our sympathy but he’s playing to the wrong crowd. It’s just us vampires, after all. Now and forever.
Amen.
If I had to guess what Father Jack and Twit have in common, I guess I’d guess this:
They’ve both had it up to here.
Twit’shere isn’t as high as Father Jack’shere, of course, but they’ve both had it, right up to and just slightly past that space over their heads. They’ve both been screwed by Fate, and little else. They’ve both been humiliated by people who claim to love them—Twit with a can of Azure Sky, Father Jack with all my precautions. And neither is crazy about happy endings that don’t include them.
I’m guessing that’s what they’re talking about back there, at the back of the church, while Isuzu and Rose take turns taking pictures of the new couples. They’re probably smirking at our smiles, making snide comments about our happiness.
They’re saving thehere s they’ve had it up to. That’s what they’ll talk about, later—over the coffee they say they’re going to get. Over the “coffee” that’s their excuse for not joining us in a little celebration back at my place.
“Coffee?” Isuzu says. “But I thought…”
“Don’t be thick, kiddo,” I whisper. “Smile. Wave. Wish them well.”
“This is me, smiling,” Isuzu calls out. “This is me, wishing you well…”
Twit waves back and then tugs on Father Jack’s pant leg. He bends down and she whispers something in his ear. He bends down farther, and she crawls up on his back. They both laugh as he straightens, unsteadily at first, but getting his bearings quickly enough. And they continue to laugh—desperate, cynical, miraculous laughter—as Father Jack gallops out those big double doors with our little blue girl holding on tight.
Iknow what you’re thinking—you’re uncomfortable at the thought of Father Jack’s getting a happy ending. Here’s a little secret:
So am I.
The only problem is, it’s a package deal. Father Jack’s happy ending is Twit’s, too. It’s a complicated world, this world I helped make. I’d say it sucks, but…
But this is me smiling—through gritted teeth.
This is me, wishing all of us well.
Acknowledgments
Thanks are due to many people who helped in many different ways to make this novel a reality. For their substantive comments and suggestions on my early drafts, I want to thank Miriam Goderich, Josie Kearns, Laura Berry, Mark Schemanske, Mary Doria Russell, Amy Scheibe, Lauren McKenna, and Liz Keenan. For the time, space, inspiration, and fellowship needed to complete the first draft of this novel (and a few others) I owe a debt of gratitude to the Rag-dale Foundation. For helping to place this novel with all the right people at the right time, I want to thank everyone at Dystel & Goderich Literary Management, but most especially Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich, as well as Steven Fisher (through the Agency for the Performing Arts). And for letting me borrow elements of their persons and lives, heartfelt thanks go out to, first, the real Rose Thorne, of whom there are several (at least according to Google), but the one I’m thanking is the one who works for the R&R Rendezvous Lounge in Taylor, Michigan—thank you for letting me use your wonderful name. As promised, I must point out that other than the name, the Rose Thorne of this book and the real Rose have nothing in common. Next, I want to thank Suzian Hall for use of her incredible tattoo. As with my previous case of borrowing, I used just the tattoo (the background and the character to which the tattoo has been applied are both utterly fictional). And lastly, I want to thank my dad, Eugene Sosnowski, for the Pit Story.
About the Author
David Sosnowskigrew up in Detroit, Michigan, and has worked as a university writing instructor and a gag writer. His fiction has appeared in numerous literary magazines, includingPassages North, River City, andAlaska Quarterly Review. The author ofRapture, Sosnowski lives in Taylor, Michigan.
DSosnowski - Vamped Page 37