The bottle contained a half dozen gelatin capsules filled with something rusty brown. The bottom of the bottle was dusted with the same brownish substance. Edward broke open a capsule and shook out the contents. At first, Edward guessed it was paint. He smeared the stuff across his finger, and it became a shade redder.
It was blood.
Must be part of a fraternity hazing ritual, Edward thought. He had heard many stories about frat hazing: pledges keeping a pickle in their anus for a day, pledges gluing beer mugs to their foreheads, pledges wearing giant diapers over their normal clothing. And now capsules of blood. It got weirder each year. Edward tossed the bottle into a wastepaper basket.
Alex studied his face in the mirror. The reflection was unflattering. The cluster headaches were returning, and so were the red patches. The right eye twitched and watered as if an invisible pin were jabbing it. Adding to the eye’s odd appearance was a bloom of long eyelashes: Sandy‘s eyelashes.
Alex needed blood immediately. He rummaged through his briefcase, cursing. That little shit Edward Know It All, Alex thought, running right into me, scattering papers all over the place, me standing there like an idiot with sunglasses to hide a mutating face.
And now the precious bottle was gone. Alex threw the briefcase across the room. It chipped the wall and papers scattered across a dusty pile of books. The missing bottle contained Alex’s final supply of blood.
The blood dated back to last year when he had come across a man changing a flat tire. It was three thirty in the morning, a misty moon on highway 7, eight miles from Pokena. Alex had pulled off the road behind a jacked up pick up.
“Bad night for a flat,” Alex remarked. He ambled up to the truck, gloved hands in pocket.
“Damn right it is.” The man, a stout six-foot and a half, wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Thought you might need some help.”
Alex’s cold grin spooked the man. He picked up the tire iron and twirled it like a baton. “Not really.”
“Let me help,” Alex insisted.
They stood looking at one another for a long moment, then Alex lunged. The man took a step back and struck Alex’s shoulder with the tire iron. Alex slipped and took another blow on top of his head; the iron rang like a giant tuning fork.
The steel-tipped toe of the man’s boot arced toward Alex. The kick cut his lower lip, and the man cocked his leg for a second kick. Alex grabbed the leg and pulled. The man waved his arms like a tightrope walker to keep his balance, but Alex’s second pull brought the man down.
“I don’t have no goddamned money!” the man yelled.
“Join a labor union!”
Alex smashed the man’s head against the road, and the impact produced a dull thwop, like a hollowed pumpkin dropped on asphalt. Blood erupted from the head’s every opening, and Alex lapped the face clean. The blood was rich and slightly sweet.
The body was worth bleeding.
Alex put the corpse in his trunk. When he got home, he hung the body in the attic and slit the throat. The blood dripped into a bucket. Alex spent a week putting the blood in gelatin capsules. Though not as good as fresh, the blood was Alex’s pick-me-up. He used the capsules as others use coffee.
Now, as his headache worsened, Alex resorted to the crude painkiller of a pint of whiskey and a dozen sleeping pills. But his sleep was marred by odd dreams. In one dream, he tracked a victim for hours. When he finally cut open the victim’s stomach, empty gelatin capsules tumbled out.
In another dream, his lungs were housed in his forehead, his ribs under his cheekbones, and his anus under his chin. The face throbbed with the erratic pulsing rhythm of stop action photography. His dead brother David, rotted flesh dangling from his radius and ulna, gave him a jar filled with lithium.
“How did you recognize me?” Alex managed to ask. His mouth was in his right armpit.
“Medicine time again,” David said. “You’re getting worse. Crying because your pop lost its fizz is one thing, buddy. This disguise stuff, though, it’s too much. You’ve lost your center.”
“I don’t like—”
“Stop whining.”
“But I don’t like—”Alex wept at the futility of explanation. “I can’t be around you people, any of you people! Leave me alone, the medicine reminds me that there are people!”
“C’mon, buddy. You can’t live in your closet another week.”
Alex raised his arm and pushed in the lithium. The shifting of bones and muscle in his face slowed. When David nodded approval, Alex ripped the last of the flesh from David’s arm.
Alex woke. He had been sleeping with his head raised six inches above the pillow. He had often slept like that as a teenager, so the pillow’s singing would not wake him.
He examined his face with both hands. Now the eyelashes of both eyes had grown. He trudged to the bathroom mirror and laughed.
The eyelashes were half an inch long. His Roman nose was tipped several degrees to the left, as if made of modeling clay. One eye was blue, the other brown. His right earlobe was larger than the left; it was pierced to accept an earring.
“Losing your center?” Alex asked his reflection.
“Very quickly,” the reflection agreed.
His condition was declining rapidly, and he wondered if he would grow breasts in another week. He needed a victim in the next day or two. The victim must, Alex thought, be male. He must be about six-foot tall, have dark brown or black hair, and he must be healthy.
Alex stuffed a suitcase with clothes, knives, rope, and rubber gloves. He decided to drive north until he hit Michigan. He had not been in Michigan for several years. Maybe, he thought, my luck will be better there.
Chapter Seventeen: The Name Suits Her
Claire Sweet was often told that her name matched her personality. She was good company. She was industrious and smart, tall and pretty. Her words were kind, and she put the needs of others before her own. So she did not complain when her seven-year marriage ended. First, Claire figured that most people were busy with their own problems. Second, they would not understand how Claire Sweet could become entangled in such a debacle. They would not understand at all.
Claire locked the door to her apartment and hurried down the stairs to the driveway. Mrs. Tandy, the landlord, happened to be looking out the front window.
Mrs. Tandy rapped on the window and waved. “Off to the library?” she called loudly enough to be heard through the window.
Claire nodded.
“Have a nice time.”
Claire nodded agreeably.
Mrs. Tandy could not have been more pleased with her tenant. Claire worked hard and was dedicated to learning. And she was never a minute late with the rent.
Driving to the library, Claire tried to concentrate on today’s task. She still had a lot of research to do. Dr. Smith, her history professor, had assigned the class a twenty page research paper requiring at least thirty sources. Claire liked her topic—the economic aftermath of the Athenian-Spartan War—but she was also intimidated by it. The topic was complex and demanded thorough research.
Despite the task’s appeal and enormity, Claire was distracted. She was wondering, as she usually did in her minutes of spare time, if she would ever really graduate. Her immediate answer was always, “Yes.” But then again, she never dreamed that she would be divorced at age twenty-five and be a college freshman at twenty-seven. And now to look back and think that marrying Stephen would have ever worked.
“You were an idiot,” Claire accused herself for the thousandth time.
To hasten the divorce, she agreed to half the possessions and half the money brought by the house’s sale. The bungalow sold for eighty-eight. By the time legal fees and taxes and moving costs and other debts were subtracted, Claire had almost enough make it through four years of tuition and board. If her grades were good enough, she might earn a scholarship. After one semester, she had a 3.6 GPA: good for a Tailor freshman. But not good enough for the money she needed.
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br /> The thought of grades pulled her back to today’s task. She trotted up the library steps, determined to find twenty sources by five p.m. The library was deserted, thanks to spring break. A librarian smiled as Claire walked past the check out desk, then returned to her magazine.
Edward looked up at the sound of books crashing to the floor. The room had been silent all morning, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. He saw a tallish woman, long brunette hair tied into a ponytail, disappear behind a row of hooks. Edward guessed the woman was a young faculty member, or perhaps a bookish townie.
He returned to his notes about Dylan Thomas. Edward already had an idea for Holly’s paper. The paper would examine Thomas’s use of sexual metaphor. As he bragged to Holly, Thomas’s poetry was so obscure that the paper could claim nearly anything. The challenge would be to imitate Holly’s confused and confusing prose, yet write an “A” paper. He decided to write the paper in his own style, then rewrite it to imitate Holly’s style later.
Edward wrote five pages in ninety minutes. He liked the paper so far, and figured he could finish it in a few days. He yawned, stretched, and walked to the water fountain. As he bent over for a drink, he heard several books crash to the floor.
He walked across the room and found the tall woman sitting on the floor, surrounded by books.
Claire looked up, startled.
“Let me help,” Edward offered.
“That’s been about par for the course,” Claire sighed after the last book was replaced. “I’ve gotten nowhere today.” She stood and swept hair from her forehead.
“Me too. I’ve spun my wheels.” Edward wondered why he was lying, then realized that he did not want to upset the woman. She was pleasant, long and lilting. And her slight Southern drawl was charming. He wanted to listen to her talk more. He followed her back to her desk, which was covered with notes and open books.
“What are you looking up?” He glanced at her notes. They were written in a script as graceful as the author.
“The war between Athens and Sparta.”
“That’s a good topic. I had a class with Dr. Smith, and that was a pretty good war.”
“A good war?”
“Yeah. For one thing, it lasted so long. Twenty six years, right?”
“Twenty seven,” Claire corrected softly.
“And when your general dies during the second year of the war!”
“You mean the Athenian general? Pericles?”
Edward snapped his fingers. “That’s him.” Edward launched into a monologue about Pericles’s skill in oratory, and how good the general was at inflating the Athenians with righteous indignation. He was about to discuss Pericles’s death, but caught himself.
“I don’t know when to shut up,” he grinned. “Sorry to keep you from your research.”
“Not at all.” She looked up, her smile brightening the room. “I’m tryin’ to find some notes about Socrates’s role in the war. It’s very interesting.”
Then it dawned on Edward. “You’re a student, aren’t you?”
“Yes. The world’s oldest freshman.” She felt uneasy admitting she was a freshman at the age of twenty-seven; her uneasiness made her accent more pronounced. “Maybe when I’m forty, I can start on a Masters.”
“I think that’s terrific.” Edward was intrigued. She was six years older than he was in age and three years younger in academe. He wondered if he would have the courage to start college at her age. He extended his hand. “My name’s Edward Head.”
“Claire Sweet.” She shook his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Edward.”
Claire’s ease disarmed Edward, and he indulged in self-mockery. “Sometimes people call me Edward Know It All because I’ve such a big mouth, as you already know.”
“How ‘bout I call you Eddie mortar board?” Her accent was in full bloom.
“I’d enjoy that name.” He laughed freely. “It fits me like a glove.”
“Like a mortar board.”
The next day, Edward and Claire shared a desk. They worked efficiently, and got a lot done. At four thirty, Edward closed his books.
“You’re a fast worker,” Claire remarked.
“And a thirsty one. Let’s go get a pop. The library’s about to close.”
“I could go for a burger too,” Claire said, “but I’ve got to get back. I want to rest a while before I go to work. But I’ll see your tomorrow.”
Edward savored Claire’s walk down the stairs. She was simultaneously casual and elegant in her old shirt and faded jeans. He told himself he was a spaz for being interested in a woman seven years older. The thought of even holding her hand made him feel foolish. And the thought of sleeping with Claire…he shook his head. His inexperience embarrassed him, and he feared that, despite Claire’s disposition, it would amuse her.
But his banana, he promised himself, was about to be peeled. As soon as he finished the Dylan Thomas paper, he would be in Holly’s bucket seat. He closed his eyes and imagined Holly’s breasts, jiggling like a silicone-filled porn starlet’s. By the time he got home, he was figuring ways to hide his mini-cam in his bedroom.
The third day of spring break was rainy and dark. Sullen clouds crowded out the sun and dumped an inch of rain. The few students who stayed on campus during break holed themselves up in their rooms, watching soap operas, listening to CD’s, or Web surfing on their computers.
But the weather did not bother Edward. He dressed quickly, brushed his teeth and gargled twice. He did not want to offend Claire with bad breath. Then he drove to the library. The old wiper blades could not remove the rain quickly enough. The humidity did not help either; Edward continually wiped the glass to keep a portion of the windshield clear. Despite the difficulties, Edward whistled and hummed. He was happy. He was sharing a library table with Claire.
The librarian’s eyes widened, surprised to see him chipper on a rainy morning. Edward shook the water off like an eager puppy and left a water trail up the stairs to the table. His books and papers were on the table, where he had left them yesterday. Claire was not there yet, so he had a chance to comb his hair. He settled down to work and occasionally glanced at the clock.
Ninety minutes passed, and Edward’s glances grew frequent. She should be here by now, he thought. By noon, Edward wanted to call Claire and almost looked up her number in the student directory. But he decided that she probably had a cold, or perhaps she had to work.
Or perhaps she was leery.
Yesterday, he had brushed her hand. Despite the innocence of the touch, Edward’s hormones sang and soared. He’d even excused himself and walked to the water cooler, waiting for the flush to fade from his face.
His normal pasty color returned, but he remained charged. He fidgeted and grinned like an idiot. At one point, he giggled for no other reason than the joy of sitting across from this lovely woman.
“Punchy?” Claire had asked.
“Are you offering a punch?”
“Wouldn’t want to hurt you. Just a body slam if you don’t shut up.”
Then he did it. He patted her hand.
The pat was quick and light, but Edward agonized over it all evening. He kept seeing Claire’s long bare arm. Now he feared that she had thought about the pat all night too, and she did not like it.
Here you sit, he mocked himself, writing a paper for a fuck. Edward the Know It All knows nothing. A twenty-one year old virgin: something of a curiosity in the new millennium, certainly. Claire isn’t interested in you! You have no looks, no wit, no presence! What are you going to do? Write a paper for her too?
He slammed shut the books and hurried to his car. He drove recklessly and even ran a stop sign. He barreled into his driveway, nearly striking the garage door. He sat in the car and wondered why he had come home. The apartment was empty, and he had no guests to invite and no one to talk with on the phone.
Finally, feeling anxious, he drove to a grocery store and bought two one-quart bottles of beer. He drank in the p
arking lot. The beer dulled his anxiety, and he began giving names to the grocery shoppers. He wondered what the Forty Year Old Housewife bought for tonight’s dinner…pot roast and potatoes? And what about the Elderly Couple? The Old Man was happy to get out of the house, but the Old Woman was pissed because she could not get out of the house without him. And the Scolding Mom? Her Five Year Old threw a tantrum in the store because he could not have a second candy bar.
Edward was on his second bottle of beer when a woman walked out of the store. She pushed a cart full of groceries and nearly bumped into another cart. Edward named her the Worried Wife. He imagined she was fretting about her husband’s late nights at the office. His late nights were actually spent with a blond-from-a-bottle. She was enraged by his cheating, but even more frightened by the future. Her husband’s salary was not large; she estimated that he could afford no more than $300 a month of child support and alimony. How could she survive on a lousy $300, even if she returned to the Wal-Mart?
The Worried Wife loaded the groceries into her rusted car.
Edward sat up. The Worried Wife was Claire Sweet. Claire got into the car. It coughed oily blue smoke and struggled onto Main Street. Edward waited until Claire was nearly out of view, then started his car. He followed her, careful to remain twenty yards behind.
She turned left onto Pine and followed it to Byron. At the end of Byron was a two-flat. The flat’s white paint was peeling, and the old pink paint underneath stood out like scars. With a sack of groceries in each arm, Claire hurried up the steps to her apartment.
Edward had parked twenty yards back. As he trotted down the sidewalk, he saw Claire enter her apartment. The lights went on, and Claire’s silhouette appeared behind the white curtains. He wanted to sprint up the stairs and surprise her with a bouquet of roses and a six pack of Coke: “My favorite drink in the world,” as she had remarked yesterday.
“You funny Know It All, bringing me Coke and flowers,” she would say. They would sit and laugh. He would again pat her hand. And he would entertain the improbable notion that love was more exciting than sex.
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