Paul eased the Mercedes to a stop at the address indicated on the GPS, a crumbling tenement building. Elizabeth stifled a gasp and murmured, “You poor dear,” as she patted Michele on the knee. “You won’t need to bring much. We’re going shopping tomorrow.”
Where did they expect a girl making a living as a prostitute would live? Michele thought to herself, irritated as well as embarrassed. “It will only take a minute,” she stated, pushing her way out of the car the moment the chauffeur opened the door. She focused her eyes straight ahead and held her head high in spite of feeling humiliated.
“I’m coming with you,” Marcus declared, sensing her wounded feelings. He followed Michele inside and up an aged, sagging staircase to the third floor. He struggled to keep from snorting out the rancid odors assailing his keen sense of smell, trying to hide his disgust. It was even harder when he followed her into a cramped, squalid living room and his acute hearing detected the sounds of Michele’s mother with a man behind the closed door of the one bedroom.
Michele’s pride had been wounded from the pity of the D’Capillas, but she was a practical girl. She shrugged off her humiliation as she shrugged out of her working clothes and peeled the wig from her head. Pulling on a pair of jeans and baggy sweatshirt she surveyed the dim room, deciding what possessions to bring with her. Nothing…no photos, no keepsakes, no favorite outfits; she owned nothing of real or even sentimental value. She picked out clean underwear from a cardboard box that held her clothes, retrieved an oversized tee-shirt that she liked to sleep in, and then in the bathroom gathered her toiletries. She stuffed all into a grocery bag, loaded her books and school supplies into her backpack and handed them to Marcus when he reached to take them.
“Just one more thing,” she mouthed silently and held up one finger. Digging out a pen and scrap of paper from her backpack, she wrote: I’m gone, Michele, then slipped the note under the bedroom door. No Dear Mom, no Love, Michele. Then, as if an afterthought, she gathered her working outfit and wig and crumpled them into a tight ball. As she and Marcus left the apartment, she deviated to the side of the building and thrust her armload into the incinerator barrel. Following Marcus back to the car, she had to hold a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, her reaction a mixture of anticipation, some trepidation, and a little sadness.
It took less than twenty minutes for Michele to remove herself from her old life.
“Let’s go,” Marcus cried out happily, sliding into the back seat after Michele.
“It’s a good thing we have the weekend ahead of us,” Elizabeth said purposefully, surveying the clothes Michele now wore. “I can’t wait to take you shopping! I know a little boutique that recently brought in a line of gathered skirts that would be absolutely stunning on your trim figure, and with matching…” The rest of the journey home, Elizabeth interrogated Michele regarding her size, preferred styles, colors, and accessories.
Paul skillfully navigated back to Manhattan, and eased the Mercedes to the front of the D’Capillas’ apartment building. Martín hurried over to assist opening the doors.
Martín and Paul watched the family as they disappeared inside the building. They both wondered about the addition of the girl, but that was something the two of them would talk about later. It was a little after five in the morning.
“The usual place for breakfast?” Paul asked, looking at his watch. Martín’s shift ended at six.
“Sounds good. Order me the usual if you get there first.”
“No problem, man. I’m just going to return the car to the garage and head on over.” Martín nodded goodbye as the car pulled away, and added the second twenty to his wallet. It was his turn to buy breakfast, and after a night of the D’Capillas going out, he could well afford it. Such a nice family!
∞∞∞∞∞
The End
A Note from the Author
Out for a walk one morning, I found my thoughts absorbed with vampires, for the night before my husband and I had watched Johnny Depp portray Barnabas Collins in the movie version of Dark Shadows. Although I never tire of looking at Johnny Depp, I felt betrayed that the producers had chosen to interpret in a humorous vein the cult soap opera my friends and I had followed with passionate devotion as teenagers. The Barnabas Collins of my youth was a vampire that stirred all of our adolescent girls’ blood in a way that younger men just couldn’t approach.
Those recollections led my thoughts to ponder all the vampires in their various aspects I have known through cinema, television, and literature. I met those of Anne Rice in Interview with a Vampire, and then the classic Dracula given to us by Bram Stoker. These were evil, dangerous vampires that nevertheless possessed fascinating and erotic allure.
I had nightmares for weeks after meeting the vampires of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot. I will never forget reading the last chapter at a furious pace just before sunset, for I had an ominous feeling I must finish the book before the sun went down, or suffer dire consequences.
The horrifying yet funny movie, The Lost Boys, featured sexy vampires committing gruesome acts. Week after week, Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, faced repulsive vampires that disguised their nature with alluring exteriors up to the moment of the bite. The current trend has introduced acutely attractive vampires who also have a conscience, such as the Cullen family in Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series, and the peaceful vampires of the True Blood series created by Charlaine Harris. A multi-faceted child vampire is the star of the chilling Swedish movie, Let the Right One In, and the American version, Let Me In.
These are just a few of the myriad stories centered on vampires, the very first written in the eighth century in Sanskrit, Baital Pachisi, or Vikram and the Vampire.
As I walked, it occurred to me how ridiculously impossible vampires are, yet how easily we love to believe they exist. I contemplated, “How would I create my own version of a vampire?” Thus the story of The Fledgling came to mind. The minute I returned home, I sat down at the computer and in one long day, wrote my version of vampires, the D’Capillas (get it, capillary?) who refer to themselves as Sangranistas. It is the easiest story I have ever written; even though I have never before considered writing about vampires.
I hope you enjoyed reading The Fledgling. I love to hear from readers, and you may contact me at [email protected].
The Fledgling Page 8
