Vampire Night

by Alice Bell

  As I gazed up at the stars, they seemed to swirl. Déjà vu swept over me. This had not only happened already but it had happened many times over, as if time could get caught, like a butterfly in a web.

  “It’s cold out here,” Henry blew on his hands. He wore only a tweed sports jacket but I wondered how he wasn’t arrested by the beauty of the moment.

  “Come on, Scarlett. Where’s your car?” his tone was the slightest bit sharp.

  I itched for another pill but getting hooked on such things—drugs and men—had been my mother’s undoing.

  Henry walked beside me. The asphalt was slick. I concentrated on not falling.

  “Sorry we had to take separate cars,” he said. “I wanted to pick up my Jeep before the shop closed.”

  I glanced at him and realized he wasn’t really as tall as I’d thought. In my mind, all this time, when I remembered kissing Henry, he’d lifted me up off the ground because he was so much taller than I was, and because his kiss made me so dizzy he had to hold me up. But now, walking next to him it seemed almost as if… what? Like the Henry I was remembering was actually someone else entirely, someone taller and darker and… a hundred times more swoon-worthy.

  Feeling confused, and inexplicably disappointed, I unlocked my car door. When Henry held it open for me, my pulse raced against the false calm of Valium. The lights in the parking lot cast a surreal glow.

  “So what do you say? My place or yours?” he gave me his charismatic grin.

  I looked up into his eyes. “My place?”

  “I’ll see you there,” he said with a wink.

  I drove faster than usual. My mind raced. I was nervous about going to my place but at the same time, I couldn’t ever imagine going to his. I was always horribly uncomfortable in other people’s homes. Ugh.

  Traffic was heavy across the bridge. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Headlights glared but by the time I turned down my street there was no one behind me.

  Suddenly, I felt bereft and alone. I imagined Henry changing his mind. Or maybe he hadn’t really broken up with his girlfriend… or Georgie called him to do something more fun.

  Stop it. He’s coming.

  I hurried into the house and carried my shopping bags down the hall. The house was so big and empty, full of nothing but memories. Each room had its own secret.

  I threw my bags in my old childhood bedroom. It was musty and unused. The bed was made up with pink ruffled sheets and a violet comforter. A maid used to change it regularly but I’d got rid of the help after my grandmother died.

  But it was too big a house for me to handle alone. I couldn’t keep it dusted or the dark wood polished. Just thinking about doing any of these things overwhelmed me.

  Dr. Sinclair had talked to me about renting out the house or even selling it, so I could have a place of my own. It would be a new beginning, she said. It would build confidence.

  I washed my face in the bathroom and put on fresh lipstick.

  Downstairs I lit the gas fireplace. No candles. I’d managed to put an end to that ritual, at Dr. Sinclair’s urging. But I knocked on the mantel. Three times. Just for luck.

  I went around picking up books and putting them back on the shelves, fluffing the pillows on the sofa and the love seat, peeking out the window.

  When the front gate buzzed, it hit me—I need to change into something more ‘comfortable’… something sexy, obviously.

  I pressed the button to open the gate, kicked off my pumps and raced upstairs. I searched through my new Fox and Jones lingerie and chose black and cream lace. My hands were shaking as I did the straps. Hurriedly, I put my top back on but exchanged my skirt for a pair of red velvet lounge pants with my favorite black cashmere socks. As I scampered down the stairs, I almost slipped and had to grab the banister to keep from sliding all the way down.

  Just as I reached the foyer, lights shone through the window and arced across the wall. Less than a minute later, the doorbell rang, and Henry was standing on the porch holding a bottle in a brown bag. He slid it out to show me the label. Seagram’s 7. “This is what you like?” he said.

  A faint memory flared at the edge of my mind. The earth shifted. I grabbed onto the doorframe.

  “Scarlett? Sorry. I know it’s cheap. You were drinking a 7 & 7 that night at Embers.”

  I had danced in the arms of someone strong...

  Nausea swept over me.

  I swallowed. “You’re right,” I said. “I do like Seagram’s. Of course.” I touched his leather gloved hand. No man had ever paid so much attention to me as to notice what drink I ordered.

  But I wondered: When was I at Embers with Henry? I couldn’t recall ever seeing him there. It used to be my favorite bar but I hadn’t been there in a while. Not since my breakdown.

  “Come on,” I pulled him inside.

  He laughed and the sound followed me through the foyer and into the kitchen, along with his footsteps.

  He peeled off his gloves and stood close.

  I poured a finger of whisky into two glasses. I didn’t plan to drink much of mine. Just tiny sociable sips. I wasn’t supposed to drink with my new medication.

  I wasn’t ever supposed to drink but I didn’t want to have to explain why to Henry. He’d already caught me in the depths of a downward spiral. Of course I’d blamed it on the flu—delirious with fever. People believe what they can understand, even if it’s not true.

  He took the glass I handed him and walked across the kitchen to stand in the doorway. His gaze scanned the living room where a fire blazed and the crystal chandelier sparkled. “It’s like those mansions in the old movies,” he said.

  “You want to go in?” Nerves and excitement shivered across my skin.

  I gestured to the love seat. It was nearer to the fire and the coffee table where we put our drinks on marble coasters. Henry ran his hand over the carved wood. “Is this American?”

  “French Provincial,” I said, and wondered why we were talking about furniture.

  He turned to me. Our knees touched. He leaned back into the cushions and I did the same.

  “Do you like having so much room all to yourself?” he said. “I think I’d ramble around and go half insane.”

  I hated the word insane. I grabbed my drink and took a shaky sip. Ice rattled.

  “Did you ever see that actress?” he said. “She was in a lot of the famous old black and white movies. One of the big stars… what’s-her-face with the great big eyes?” He snapped his fingers. “Bette Davis!”

  I nodded. “Now, Voyager was a classic.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Huh. I don’t think I ever saw that one.”

  I don’t know why I did it, but for some reason I felt the need to spout off a line from the poem that had inspired the title of the movie. “‘Now, voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find,’” I quoted.

  His expression clouded and instead of turning away from the awkwardness, I plunged deeper. “The Untold Want,” I said. “By Walt Whitman?” God, can I please just shut up? But no, I rattled on. “The movie is based on a novel by Olive Higgins Prouty.” Heat crawled up my neck. Henry bobbed his head, bemusement furrowing his brow. “You know,” I said, and of course he didn’t know or probably care—“the um, interesting thing about Prouty was—” I couldn’t, for the life of me, stop this train. “Well, she was one of Sylvia Plath’s patrons.”

  “Oh, Plath,” he said, sounding relieved. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. The poet who put her head in the oven, right?”

  I was miserable with myself.

  “She was a genius,” I felt compelled to add, apparently unable to let the subject rest in peace.

  “You remind me of her,” he said.

  “Plath?”

  “God no. Bette Davis.”

  God no.

  It bothered me the way he said it, like he could only think of Plath’s tragic demise and not her talent or the beautiful work she left behind. My mind roved over the idea that Henry wouldn’t like me if he kne
w very much about me.

  He looked so handsome in the flickering firelight, suddenly, I just wanted to feel his lips on mine. I needed to kiss him, to change the course of a date that teetered on the edge of pointlessly humiliating.

  What would Dr. Sinclair do?

  I reached out and put my hand on Henry’s face, a move I’d seen countless times in movies.

  I felt him still. His breath was sweet with whisky.

  I kissed him, like I knew what I was doing, like I was Bette Davis.

  We kissed for a while, and I kept waiting to be overtaken by desire. But when his hand groped under my blouse, I pulled away, a reflex. I was fearful of going further because I’d never done it before. I straightened my clothes with shaking hands.

  There was something in the back of my mind too, some hazy twisted memory from the days leading up to my breakdown, something having to do with Henry. Had I shoved him away? No, I couldn’t imagine doing that.

  He watched me and to my surprise he seemed nervous too. “I—I’m sorry, Scarlett,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that,” there was a tremor in his voice.

  “Why?” I said, thinking of his effortless ability to flirt. He’d never struck me as the shy type. But then I remembered how I’d run into him in the summer and he’d turned an ordinary afternoon into a scene straight out of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, magically ending with a kiss in front of the movie theater. He’d left me weak in the knees and promised to call without ever having the intention to, it seemed later. Did he just like the chase?

  I felt all twisted up and wished I knew how to be with men. I wished there was a map and step-by-step instructions. Because I knew I was warped by so many things, maybe my expectations for romance most of all.

  Henry took my hand and held it. “We can take this slow, okay? I want to be a good friend to you, Scarlett. That’s the most important thing.”

  I gazed into his eyes that were almost pleading. There was something strange about his fervent desire to be my friend. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was afraid. But of what? Me?

  He knows, I thought, with a sinking feeling. He knows it wasn’t the flu at all and now he’s worried, downright terrified, that I’ll come unhinged… let the bats out of the belfry.

  What if he’s right?

  Devon

  I was back in my room and I felt like I’d been there a long time but honestly, I had no idea how long. Minutes… hours… days? I was bored as hell. Bored in hell?

  I slept on the narrow bed.

  I woke.

  I stared at the ceiling. In my old pile back home, the human world, spiders had made webs in the corners. But everything here was pristine and sterile.

  I found myself yearning for instructions from the computerized voice. I made mini-movies in my mind where I followed a series of increasingly bizarre orders from the voice. The plots went from slap-stick to macabre.

  Eventually, Old Muscles came back, accompanied by the redhead. “Let’s try again,” she said.

  Muscles shoved me through the door and down the hall. We waited for the elevator. “We’re going up, right?” Muscles said. “Yeah. Weird, huh?” Red answered.

  “Why is that weird?” I said.

  They shook their heads, like I was a hopeless case.

  “Be smart, dude,” Muscles advised. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Geez, how’d you go and piss off the church lady, anyway?”

  Red gave me a small, sympathetic smile, as the elevator opened.

  Inside she said, “We’re going to the top floor.” She said it like it was meaningful and she was looking at me with a question in her eyes.

  Hell if I know, I thought.

  “It’s either good news or bad news,” Muscles announced.

  Jesus, the guy was a fucking oracle. I took in his combat boots, his black fatigues and shirt, exactly the same as Red’s. I was pretty sure they were in uniform. “Are you guys Vampires?” I said.

  Muscles rolled his eyes but Red said, “Yes, we are.”

  Just like before, the lack of movement in the elevator, as if we were going nowhere, was unnerving. Eventually, we were spit out onto a different floor, a whole different world, as it turned out; sparkling and opulent. The ceiling must have been fifty feet above us, onyx and back-lit. Immense pillars gave off a reddish glow that warmed the limestone walls. The floor was marble, inlaid with gold.

  There were only a few people milling around. Actually, I supposed they must be Angels, since they weren’t wearing state issued pajamas. Bronze lamps shed a muted light. A receptionist sat behind a shiny black desk that hung from the ceiling by golden chains. She had a sleek cap of dark hair, elaborate make-up; crimson lips, purple eye shadow. She looked up and when she saw me an expression of surprise crossed her face, an expression that quickly turned to disgust, before she turned away.

  A few more Angels passed by, dressed in suits. They too turned their heads to gawk before averting their eyes. I felt dirty in my fatigues and pitiful slippers.

  “Come on,” Red nudged me. I followed her across the expanse of marble, past the desk.

  We entered a foyer that gleamed under crystal chandeliers. A wide marble staircase went up and up. The stairway to heaven, I thought. Except I was bound to be going to the other place.

  We started our ascent.

  “Pretty wild,” Muscles said, behind me.

  “No kidding,” Red said.

  I got the impression they’d never been here before and I tried not to think too much about what that implied. I was grateful to have something to focus on, one stair at a time. Only the sound of our steps and our breath marred the pristine quiet. Above us on the Cathedral ceiling, medieval Angels spread their glorious wings. At last, we stopped in front of a giant wooden door, like the entrance to a castle.

  “That’s it, huh?” Red said.

  “It has to be,” said Muscles. “There’s no other door.”

  “Do we knock?”

  I thought it was self-explanatory since there was a gold horse’s head knocker but I did as I’d been told and kept quiet. I let them mull it over, resisting the urge to reach up and give a few loud raps.

  Finally, Red stood on tip-toe, lifted the knocker and brought it down once, like a polite question. The door opened immediately and the scent of roses permeated the air. Silver vases placed throughout a darkly lush room held roses of all colors; red, white, pink, fuchsia, yellow, blue and black.

  Two robed Archangels stood at a desk, gazing down at a huge flat screen perched on it. One had obsidian hair worn in an afro. Giant gold hoops gleamed in her ears and a gold braided necklace lay over the collar of her purple robe. The other Archangel was her physical opposite. My throat constricted at the silvery glint of her white blonde hair.

  Zadie.

  They looked up when we entered.

  God, help me, I stared.

  My heart thumped.

  My ears rang.

  Not Zadie.

  The blonde leveled a glare that stole my breath. Too late, I remembered to drop my gaze.

  I was so intent on not staring, I didn’t realize my escorts were bowing. When I caught on, I cast a sideways glance to see how it was done. I held the same position as they did, on one knee, head lowered in what I assumed was a show of extreme deference. I vowed to find the escape portal, if only to kill Erin with my bare hands.

  The blonde waved dismissively. “Go Vampires. Leave us.”

  My escorts made for the door and I was eager to go with them.

  “Not you,” the raspy voice of the blonde halted me in my footsteps. When I turned, I heard the door close behind me.

  “Hello, Devon Slaughter,” the dark-haired Archangel said. Her voice was musical, her smile so glorious, I found myself smiling back at her before I remembered to lower my gaze.

  “You can look at me,” she said. “I’m Vashti.”

  The blonde didn’t introduce herself. She came around the desk and stood in front of me. I was careful to trai
n my eyes on a point beyond her. I felt her animosity, hot like her breath in my face. My skin crawled. “Put your hands behind your back,” she said.

  I did.

  “There. That’s the proper way to stand while waiting instruction.”

  “Oh, Zillah. Give it a rest.” Vashti came close too.

  They were tall. Almost as tall as I was. But not quite.

  Vashti made a circle around me. “He’s very pretty,” she said. “From all angles.”

  “Pretty is as pretty does,” Zillah said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Scarlett

  The lowering sun dazzled yellow and gold, belying the fact that it was barely above freezing outside. Earlier, when I’d hurried across the parking lot, the wind nipped at me. Now, I stood by the radiator, warming my hands and waiting for the workshop girls.

  They straggled in, one by one, except for the twins who always seemed to be together. The twins came in last and made a beeline for me. “Did you hear about Autumn Jones?” Charity said, breathlessly.

  My stomach dropped. “No.”

  “She got an art scholarship,” Charity said. Chastity, standing next to her, nodded eagerly. “She lives in New Orleans now. Like she was always so super cool.”

  I was giddy with relief. I wanted to whoop for joy but I just smiled. “Yes, Autumn is incredibly talented.”

  “Was she a good writer?” Another student, already seated but listening in, wanted to know.

  “You’re all good writers,” I said. “Or you wouldn’t be in my class.”

  After they settled, I handed back their short stories. They were quiet, reading my comments and I felt another surge of joy. There were moments when I was struck by the fact that no matter how many countless things I’d done wrong in my life, this one thing I’d done right—becoming a teacher. I loved almost everything about teaching. With my students, I felt connected to the world. My life was meaningful.

  “Gosh, Miss Rain, you were harsh on me,” the girl sitting closest to me said.

  “Me too,” said another.

  “Writing is a practiced art,” I told them. “This was your first try.” I glanced around. “Okay, are we ready for discussion?”