Forever 51

by Pamela Skjolsvik

  “Yeah, because he’s totally ripped. What a waste.” Jenny touched his bare bicep with the tip of her finger, as if she’d been dared.

  Veronica rolled her eyes at Jenny’s callous treatment of the dead. “He lived a very long time, despite his appearance. You’re young, but I’d like to let you in on a little secret. What gives life meaning is that one day it will be over. Which is exactly what makes being a vampire suck. It’s like that movie Groundhog Day, except there’s no Bill Murray and it never ends. Ever.” Veronica wheeled the gurney next to Desmond and lowered it to his level. “Grab his legs.”

  “But it can end, right? Why don’t you just apologize, like Ingrid?” Jenny lifted his legs and dropped them. “Holy shit! Talk about dead weight.”

  For a brief moment, Veronica entertained the thought. Then Kevin Black entered her mind and negated all possibility. “That would mean I would have to find every person I’d ever turned into a vampire. Do you know how difficult that would be?”

  Ingrid entered the room and began collecting the various blades gingerly into a large purple gym bag. “Listen, the owner is going to be here any minute, so we have to…” She looked towards Desmond’s body and gasped. “Oh my god. He looks so horrible.”

  “He’s dead. What did you expect?” Jenny pushed up the sleeves of her bloodstained hoody. “Shit got real when that dick tried to kill your mom.”

  Ingrid’s mouth gaped open.

  “And then he tried to eat your boyfriend’s heart. You totally missed it.” Jenny attempted to lift his legs again.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs, Ingrid? We’ll get this handled.” Veronica strategically placed herself in front of Desmond’s ravaged body. Ingrid had never been good at handling a mess.

  “Wait, what happened?”

  “Mr. Dirks clubbed me on the back of the head and then proceeded to stab me…”

  “And I took him out. Bam! Right in the jugular.” Jenny pantomimed stabbing Maynard in the throat.

  “This isn’t good. Where is he?”

  “He’s in the slow cooker.” Jenny reached for the handle of the crematory with a wicked grin. “Wanna see?”

  Ingrid wiped at her eyes in disbelief. “This is so not good. Maynard is…” Her voice trailed off. She assessed the state of the room and rubbed at her temples. “We need to get out of here. There’s no way that bench is going to fit in my car, but it has to go.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” Veronica assured her. The last thing she needed was Ingrid going to pieces now. “Don’t worry. Why don’t you wait for the owner and if he comes in, you can stall for time? You know him, right?”

  Ingrid nodded.

  “Okay. Just call me when he arrives.”

  “Mom, I don’t think you understand. We need to get out of here, maybe even the city. She’ll know, and she won’t stop till she finds the person that killed her familiar.”

  “What are you talking about? Who is this ‘she’ and what the hell is a familiar?” Veronica leaned against the counter and removed the blood-splattered hood from her hair. “Damn, these fucking hot flashes. I feel like I’m in hell.”

  “It’s really hot in here, mom. It’s not just you. A familiar is a vampire’s bitch, for lack of a better word.”

  “I don’t get it. If vampires can get out in the sun and do pretty much everything that a normal person can do, why would they need a lackey?”

  “Power. And, well,” Ingrid took a deep breath. “Not every vampire knows about the sun thing, or garlic or being invited in. It’s a way to keep the poor and uninformed in check.”

  Great. More weaponized ignorance. “Kind of like me, huh?” Veronica clenched her fists. “So, who’s this woman that’s going to murder Jenny?”

  “Beatrice Prendergast. But everyone just calls her Betty.”

  “Oooh, Betty. I’m scared.” Jenny pranced around the room like a shadow boxer. “I’ll take that bitch out.”

  “Really? Who are you? And why are you still here?” Ingrid dumped the rest of the knives into the bag and forcefully zipped it up.

  Jenny tossed her a look. “I thought we’d already gone over this, Ingrid, but here goes. My name is Jenny Anne Pearson. I’m originally from Mineral Wells, Texas, but my ultra-conservative, politically-motivated father moved our family to Fort Worth when I was ten. I’m currently a college dropout with drug dependency issues; you may have heard about my shenanigans in the liberal-leaning press. And the reason I’m here is because I have nothing better to do.”

  “Oh, Jenny. Please don’t tell me your dad is Jimbo Pearson.” Veronica unzipped the Tyvek suit, ripped it from her body and handed it to Ingrid.

  “Bingo. Two points for you, Count Chocula.” Jenny cracked her knuckles and swung at the air.

  Great. If Ingrid didn’t fall apart over this Maynard thing, half of Texas was going to be up in arms over Jenny. Veronica tightened her grip on sensibility. “We need to get you to that rehab facility before your dad sends out a search party.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I just killed that dude. I may have had issues before today, but now I’ve got some serious trauma shit to deal with. No way am I going to spa-la-land to sit around with a bunch of losers whining about their wounded inner child. Fuck that. Take me back to that restaurant and we’ll call it good.”

  “Mom, we’ve got to go,” Ingrid pleaded. “Maynard disposed of Betty’s, you know.” Her voice dropped. “He served a very important role, and since he’s not coming home or checking in with her, she could show up here any minute.”

  Veronica dug through her purse and removed her phone. She opened the crematory door and threw it in with Maynard’s body. “I need to get one of those disposable phones tonight. Maybe after we have a chat with Betty.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Telling Betty that you killed her familiar is suicide.”

  Veronica did her best to look unmoved by the fear in her daughter’s voice. “No, Ingrid, that’s not suicide. It’s the ninth step.”

  18

  Veronica’s desire to decompress was superseded by Ingrid’s need to purchase every available flavor of Ben & Jerry’s at the Safeway. While wandering the aisles, she attempted to make conscious contact with her higher power. Two days without Paula, Frank or a measly twelve-step meeting and she felt the overwhelming urge to pummel the next person who looked at her funny in the freezer section. Her inner voice screamed Texas, but North Dakota and the promise of mortality played in the background of her mind like a catchy pop song that she couldn’t tune out.

  Knud. She could definitely find Knud—probably still hiding in his dank cellar, gnawing on squirrel carcasses. As for the others, though…

  And then there was Jenny. She would be an excellent and ethical food source on the drive to North Dakota, but driving cross country with a withdrawing meth addict could bring about homicidal impulses that Veronica wasn’t convinced she could control. The last thing she needed was Jenny’s Bible-quoting, death-penalty-loving father hot on their trail. Jimbo Pearson loved the idea of executing people who messed with his state, and Veronica pondered what he’d do to someone he caught absconding with his embarrassment of a daughter.

  A wave of fire rose the length of her back and burned through her neck. Veronica opened one of the freezer doors, leaned in, and shuffled around a few bags of vegetables to cool her scorching skin. From the corner of her eye, she could see herself reflected in the glass door. The haggard-looking woman glancing back at her had flakes of dried blood speckling the bridge of her nose like chocolate freckles as she stuffed two bags of corn under her arms.

  Jesus Christ. Veronica was hitting bottom, to be witnessed by every random shopper shuffling along to the instrumental version of “I Want to Be Sedated” on their way to the pizza rolls. She needed help.

  “Seamus Sansbury.” Ingrid handed her mother a blood red business card from her Louis Vuitton wallet. “He’s the man.” Relaxing into the pillows of her couch, she grabbed the unopened pint of Chunky Monk
ey from the coffee table. For a hundred-year-old case of arrested development, Ingrid certainly had developed mature home decorating tastes.

  “And who is this Seamus Sansbury?” Fresh out of the shower, Veronica secured the belt of Ingrid’s plaid bathrobe and sat carefully on the edge of the leather recliner.

  “I don’t know much about him, other than he’s one of us. He locates people. He changes identities. He’s helped me lots of times and he’s pretty reasonable.” She scooped a large spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. “Holy shit, this is good.”

  “Language,” Veronica reprimanded.

  Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Your little addict friend swears like a sailor.”

  “I’m not her mother.”

  “You haven’t been my mother for a long time, so I would appreciate it if you would back off.” She brought the pint closer to her face and taunted Veronica with one heavenly mouthful after another.

  Veronica held her ground in the face of her daughter’s double-churned immaturity. “Okay, as an equal, you may want to back off that ice cream. I realize you’re nervous because this Betty lady is coming over, but trust me, food won’t fix what ails you.”

  “You’re just jealous that you can’t have any.” Ingrid took another bite and purred.

  Veronica’s mouth flattened to a hard line. “Well there’s that and the fact that I am perpetually emotional, sweaty and dependent on other people’s blood to sustain my pathetic life.” Veronica stood. “And yes, I am jealous, Ingrid. I want some fucking ice cream. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Geez, take a chill pill.” Jenny sauntered into the living room with a towel around her head and plopped on the sofa next to Ingrid. “Oooh, can I have some?”

  Ingrid stabbed the pint with her spoon and handed it to Jenny. “No, it isn’t too much to ask for. I know how you can eat all the fucking ice cream you want, but you’re too stubborn and angry to listen. God, it’s maddening!” She threw one of the couch pillows onto the floor and screamed.

  “Oh, take it easy on the pillows. I’ll call him, Ingrid.” Veronica placed the card in the empty phone slot of her purse. “I’m sorry for what I said. This has been a rather stressful day and I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “So, what time’s that bitch gonna be here?” Jenny asked around a mouth full of ice cream.

  “Any minute. Mom, you might want to put some clothes on.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to go all twelve-steppy with this and invite her over. Her being here is an epically bad idea, but whatever.” Ingrid bit her manicured nail. “You could at least have the decency to wear a bra when you tell her that you killed Maynard.”

  Veronica grabbed her suitcase and wheeled it into Ingrid’s bedroom, which looked straight out of a Pottery Barn catalogue. Everything was crisp, clean, and disturbingly tidy… just like Ingrid herself.

  Or so it seemed.

  Veronica locked the door and pulled open the top drawer of the mid-century modern dresser, hunting for a vibrator, a bag of weed—anything dark or embarrassing at all.

  Panties. Nothing but rows and rows of expensive underwear, neatly folded and coordinated by color and cut. The five pairs Frank packed were ill-fitting, made of cotton and sold in a plastic bag at Target.

  And as for the body they belonged to…

  Veronica removed Ingrid’s robe and stood in front of the full-length mirror. Turning from side to side, she attempted to examine every possible angle of her foreign figure.

  Well, it wasn’t as bad as all that. Certainly not the tragic-looking bag-lady she’d glimpsed in the freezer door. Maybe Veronica just hadn’t found the right angle yet. As she lowered herself to the floor to take a gander at her vagina, something she’d never actually seen, Ingrid pounded on the door. “Mom? Let me in!”

  Fine, fine. Veronica crawled towards the mirror like a long-lost lover and quickly kissed her own face. A remnant of the Russian Red remained.

  “Mom! She just texted me. Hurry!”

  Stark naked, Veronica swung open the door. The cool breeze from the open window felt good on her skin.

  “What have you been doing?” Ingrid shielded her eyes and fast-walked it towards the closet.

  “Snooping, obviously.” Veronica opened her suitcase, grabbed a pair of white granny panties and stepped into them. “You sure have some fancy underwear.”

  “Des had a thing. Never mind. What are you wearing?”

  “Yoga pants with this shirt.” Veronica held up a purple A-line shirt. “Why?”

  Jenny came bounding into the room, ramped up and breathless. “I think the bitch is here. Does she drive a black Mercedes?”

  “Would you please stop calling her a bitch?” Ingrid stepped into a pair of ballet flats and peered out the window. “Yep, that’s her. She’s still on her phone. Oh god. She is going to go beyond ballistic when you tell her.”

  “Don’t be such a worry wart, Ingrid.” Veronica threw on the rest of her clothes, bent over and fluffed her still wet hair. “Sufficient?”

  “You look like a soccer mom.” Jenny zipped up her clean hoody and ran her fingers through her jet-black hair.

  “That’s exactly the look I was going for. I want to look like the innocent flower…”

  “But be the serpent underneath it.” Jenny added. “Macbeth, bitch! Am I right? I love me some Shakespeare.” Jenny peered out the window. “Oooooh, Betty looks like an old timey pin-up bitch. I’m scared.”

  “You should be. And stop calling her bitch.” Ingrid sprinted from the room and made her way to the front door.

  Veronica wasn’t scared of telling Betty that Maynard was dead. Vampires were well acquainted with the Grim Reaper. People died every day. Most of them didn’t deserve it, if there was truly an all-knowing score keeper in the sky bestowing a “stay” for numerous prayer requests or rewards for past good deeds, but Maynard did deserve it. Veronica expected that Betty would understand, maybe even envy the fact that death was the most natural and dependable milestone of the human experience and let it go.

  19

  Veronica cracked open the bedroom door to take a quick peek at the woman who instilled fear in her daughter, something she had never quite accomplished in their artificially extended time together. Beatrice Prendergast strode into Ingrid’s apartment dressed like a pin-up girl from the 1950s, which in pop culture had become the uniform for the morbidly-inclined female of the twenty-first century. From her tight angora sweater, skin-tight pencil-skirt and leopard-print heels, it was glaringly apparent that she was not the type of vampire to hide in the shadows or isolate herself in a makeshift closet. She wanted to be seen.

  Veronica, catching her own sensibly clad reflection in Ingrid’s full-length mirror, rolled her eyes with a resolved surrender to do the best she could with the outfit she was given. In her mind, she looked like she was headed into a job interview for which she was regrettably underdressed. But there was nothing she could do about it now. In vampire age, Veronica had t-shirts older than Betty. She closed the door and pinched her cheeks to bring about some needed color to her face.

  “Ingrid, darling! It’s been forever. Look at you!” Betty beamed and kissed Ingrid’s face, imprinting a brick-red “o” on the apple of her cheek. She paused briefly before pulling away. Raising an artfully arched brow, she clutched Ingrid’s narrow shoulders with her long, slender fingers. “You smell different. Like…” She moved in closer and inhaled deeply. “Dinner,” she whispered. Never letting her eyes drop from Ingrid’s frightened gaze, she gracefully sat her hourglass figure onto the leather recliner and crossed her long legs.

  “It’s the Chunky Monkey. I only got like two bites.” Jenny jumped over the arm of the sofa, crossed her legs and removed the phone from her back pocket in one fluid movement.

  “And you are?” Betty opened her purse and pulled out her super-sized smartphone.

  “I’m Jenny.” Jenny’s eyes remained on the glowing screen of h
er own cracked phone.

  “Mom,” Ingrid bellowed towards the bedroom.

  “I’m Betty…”

  “Yeah, I know who you are. I got the full debriefing before you pulled up in the Batmobile.” Jenny looked up from her phone. A thin trail of blood trickled from her right nostril. She dabbed at it with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  “Well, then.” Betty straightened in her chair and looked directly up at Ingrid. “I’m very curious as to why you’ve invited me over. Is this some sort of party?” She looked back down at her vibrating phone and frowned. “Hmmm. I do hope that Desmond will be joining us.”

  “No, he won’t.” Ingrid nervously tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and crossed her arms firmly in front of her chest to steady herself.

  “Have a seat, darling. You’re making me nervous. And please get that awful girl a tissue before she uses her sleeve again.” Betty stroked the phone’s screen one last time and placed it back in her purse. “Well?” She tapped her talon-like nails on the armrest of the chair.

  “My name is Jenny. Jenny. Ann. Pearson. And I can get my own fucking tissue.” Jenny bolted up from the couch. “Let me guess, vampires don’t use tissues because they’re too fucking sexy to produce boogers. Am I right?”

  “Bathroom,” Ingrid pointed her shaking hand towards the hall.

  Veronica stumbled into the living room bumping shoulders with Jenny as she stormed out.

  “There you are. Mom, this is…”

  Veronica extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure. Ingrid’s told me so much about you.”

  “That’s funny. In all the time I’ve known your daughter, I don’t believe Ingrid has ever mentioned you.” Betty watched Veronica’s eyes. “To me, that is.”

  Veronica forced a smile. Bitch. The last thing she wanted was for her freshly applied mascara to run. It took too damn long to apply. “Well, there’s not much to say. I’m just a hospice nurse from Texas.”