Her Yearning for Blood

by Tim Greaton

  “It’s usually very peaceful here,” Grandma Clara added as we moved to the front porch and sat down.

  Something was not right!

  “Are you all right?” she seemed concerned.

  I stood at the railing of the porch making a conscious effort to avoid the lobster trap. For some reason, it generated an inexplicable fear, straight into my heart, and I wondered why.

  I began to notice other white homes alongside mine, all single storied with small porches and bay windows. They seemed similar with light gray roof and a floral display to match. No one house was different from the other. However, a quick look at the other nearby porches, told me there were only chairs. Mine seemed to be the only one with a lobster trap! Instinctively aware that my new found knowledge brought in unpleasant memories, I brushed the thought aside. I concentrated rather, on the identical structures that represented white pearls in a huge necklace. The pearl necklace trailed along a white cobblestone street with no entry or exit point. The round median had a thin strip of meticulously maintained grass and a large pond. From the center of the pond, emerged a two-storied cherub spouting water in all four directions. The magnificent cherub seemed to smile down at me.

  His smile however, didn’t make me feel any better.

  A bout of depression began rising up in me. I could see blossoms of every conceivable shape and color around, and the aroma of fresh scented flowers filled the air. But instead of basking in the beautiful scene, I was beginning to feel an uncomfortable twitching in my stomach again. I stood up, this time rather quickly.

  There were no fences and walkways and the green grass seemed to be neatly mowed not matted anywhere. I could see a number of people walking, mostly in pairs on the green surface. Some of these people were kneeling in front of the cherub, as if meditating in prayer. This was part of the scene in my small neighborhood and as I absorbed this scene; immaculate homes, colorful flowers, lush green grass, vibrant people in their white clothes and a bright white cobblestone street, everything seemed very unreal. There was no trace of smudge or dirt anywhere and strangely, there were no trace of any vehicles moving either.

  I began to focus my attention on the people around, wondering why they all wore white. Of the many people kneeling at the pond’s edge, two people caught my attention. A man with dark shoes and bizarre slacks, black in color up till his knees, then white up onwards. The other man was more apparent with colorful garish clothes; green plaid pants, yellow striped shirt and a green hat to match. He must have stepped off a fairway at Stabber’s.

  I thought of my hometown golf course as a breath of air whisked through my open mouth. My mind blanked and I could see my hands were trembling.

  I wondered if the people kneeling near the pond’s edge were praying or watching fish or turtle. The man with the bright golfing outfit made a fist and jabbed a finger at the water.

  “You better hope I never see you again!” he spat. Then he got up and marched down four homes away from me. “And that’s what I think of this goddamned thing!”

  Then a white child-size tricycle flew off his porch and landed with a metallic thump, on the grass in front of his house. One of the white rear tires was still spinning, as he disappeared slamming a door.

  I brought my gaze to focus back again on the people at the pond. No one paid the angry man any attention. Every one of them knelt silently as they stared at an unusually calm spot in the water. I watch the spray of water cascading from the cherub’s marbled hand to the pond below. There was a ripple of waves as each stream touched the surface of water. The ripples however, died down before they reached the calm spot of water, in front of each person kneeling down. The calm spots were like round windows with motionless glass. When the kneeling person stood up however, the motionless spot transformed into gentle waves that lapped at the shore. I was still trying to unravel this mystery, when it hit me hard.

  “I know what’s wrong with my house!” I told my grandmother.

  “It seems nice to me.” She replied

  I had missed it earlier, I strode back inside. Each of the three rooms had no additional room or doorway, I confirmed.

  “There’s no bathroom.”

  “You won’t need that anymore,” Grandma Clara offered, following me inside.

  “You mean I’m supposed to use an outhouse?” I asked, my face scrunching in disgust. Billy Ganglin’s family still used an outhouse. The memory of large black spiders crawling inside and the remorseful smell, worse than all the dog poops I had done, made me recoil in horror. I had felt the splash underneath my naked butt, when I sat me down on the wooden bench, giving me no option but to yank up my pants and run terrified. After my one visit to the hell hole, I had sworn never to visit such a place again.

  It wasn’t long ago! What was that boy’s name again? Why had my mind clamped up on me? My heart raced as fearful chills washed through my quaking body.

  I gasped.

  “Are you okay?” I heard my grandmother say.

  I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Nate—I hope it’s okay to call you Nate?”

  I nodded.

  “Nate,” she continued, “you don’t need to go to the bathroom anymore.”

  “Am I supposed to hold it?” I countered.

  “Nate, nobody here goes to the bathroom. We just don’t need to anymore.”

  “Oh.” I nodded feigning understanding. Her statement seemed ridiculous enough but it was improper to point that out to her. I pretty much figured I would sneak out from behind when I needed to. Until then I would bask in the preposterous situation, wherein a ten year old owned a house, never mind if the house had no radio, appliances, sink or a bathroom even. What was important was the house was part of a perfect circular neighborhood, populated with people dressed in white, which come to think of it, included even ME.

  The fear inside my stomach however, continued to remain with me. I was wrestling with an understanding inside my head and lacked the courage to seek answers for it. Looking at the strange woman before me called Grandma Clara, I was beginning to understand the secret locked inside my head, was not bad at all. It is possible; it might be a horrible and terrifying secret I ever had. I pictured a steel-reinforced prison with a fang-filled creature behind the locked door. I held the key to this prison tightly in my hand, and yet I feared someday, I would have to insert it into the lock and turn—

  I forced the imaginary key out of my mind and ran until I felt the neatly mowed grass tickle my feet. I turned to see that there were no imprints of my feet on the perfect grass.

  Though Grandma Clara visited every day, she still was a stranger to me. I began missing other people I knew, although I could not remember who they were now. My subconscious mind was doling out all the memories stored in and I believe emotional confusion might be the reason for doing this.

  The bright red school bus reeked of disinfectant, which made my five-year-old mind wonder if a lot of kids threw up during their first ride to school. My stomach felt funny. Terrified, I sat on one of the hard leather seats and craned my neck so I could watch my mother wave until she disappeared in the distance behind us. I tried to hide stray tears from the other kids as the tall buildings of Providence, Rhode Island slid past. Though I had seen similar buildings from my bedroom window, these looked larger when looking out of a disinfectant-smelling school bus. At school, the day whisked passed in a blur of new activities and rules and odd social Moments with more kids in one place than anywhere else. What made things even worse was our teacher, a young woman with frizzy red pompom hair, cuddled one brunette girl who never stopped crying. Though I held myself in check, I nearly came to crying. When the same red bus pulled up at the sidewalk in front of my house, I was ecstatic to see not just my mother but also my father standing there. He was holding four, beautiful helium filled balloons. I played with these for almost a week, sleeping with them even, until the air seeped out and they began to resemble all but colorful pieces of drooping rubber.r />
  Clambering out into the backyard of my lonely new home, I could still see my father lifting me high enough, so my mother could smother me with her kisses. Today was my third day in this strange place and Grandma Clara had been gone for only a few minutes. I stood on my back lawn and stared at the wall of clouds encircling my new neighborhood. Hesitantly, I brushed my hand along the white mist and walked along its edge. Although damp, the clouds felt warm and not as frightening as I first thought they might be. I walked back and forth along that wall several times and wondered what might be beyond it. But no matter how hard I looked, I could see nothing but fluffy whiteness.

  I had convinced myself that other children existed beyond the whiteness. To prove myself, I took several steps into the impenetrable border, only to find the fluffy whiteness turn into a terrifying gray, thick enough to block anything beyond. I explored the neighborhood, walking the edge of the cliff, peering into the murk or gingerly testing the ground in front of me. Every step I took filled me with hope that a whole new neighborhood of children would emerge. Then I saw a faint light ahead. Finally free of the dense gray mist, I ran excitedly, into a perfect green yard behind a perfect and small white house. I crept along the flowerbed that bordered the edge of the nearest house. Peering into the front yard, I hoped to see at least one boy or girl of my age; instead I saw only adults milling peacefully within the tidy circle of white houses, or kneeling at the edge of a fountain pool. The pool was identical to the one in my own neighborhood. My eyes flicked from house to house, around an identical circular road. In confusion, I turned, and then froze. My gaze locked upon that one item. How could it possibly have been there! My lobster trap!

  3

  Falling Hero

  Jesse Dropped his Thor hammer. It was his favorite toy and he remembered how on seeing the movie, he had to beg his mother for two whole days before she brought it for him. Nevertheless, not even a superhero weapon was important enough when compared to the time he spent with his father. Today of all days was very important. They were to play his mother’s favorite game and convince her to join them. He heard the intercom buzz and then his father’s voice. Dashing into the kitchen, he was in time to see his mother angrily punch the already broken “Talk” button.

  “Ow!”she exclaimed, as her finger brushed against the exposed metal prong. The buzzer blared loudly throughout the small apartment, for the fourth time. A little gently, she pressed the button yet again.

  “Wagner,” she said, “you do know that just pisses me off, right?”

  “Hey, babe,” came his father’s static-filled reply, “I ain’t here to make you mad. ‘Just wanted to make sure this busted thing was working again.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Jesse’s mother pressed the “Unlock” button holding it pressed until she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She then let it go.

  “I’m going to take a shower, baby,” she said before leaning down to kiss Jesse on the top of his head. “You and Daddy could play videogame or watch some TV.”

  Jesse nodded, a secretive smile forming around his mouth. Having his mother out of the way, would give his father and him time to set the Monopoly game up. His mother had won every game in the past and Jesse was hopeful it would entice her to try once again. Seeing the game set up, he felt confident she would not be able to resist trying to play. Once Jesse had even caught her slipping money into his pile of notes, when she thought he was not looking. This game would also give his parents time together and time for conversation. He wanted more than anything to get them back together. Then things would return to normal, just as they were before. He heard the footsteps stop outside the apartment door.

  “Hi, babe,” came his father’s voice.

  “You let your Dad in,” his mother whispered to him. “I’m in the shower.”

  Excited to make their plan work, Jesse stood on tip toes and unbolted the lock. Shoving the door aside, his father nearly knocked him down as the door edge hit him hard on the forehead.

  “Hey, beautiful,” his father said, ignoring Jesse and moving past him. His father seemed a mess. He was unshaven, with hair running all over the place and clothes that looked like he’d worked and slept in them for several days in a row. Traces of dried snot clung to his upper lip and his cold, red hands seemed embedded with dirt. He also stank of vomit and body odor. He watched his father, peep into the kitchen and then take several steps into the living room area.

  “Babe?”

  “She’s taking a shower.” Jesse replied, wishing his Dad had taken a shower too. His mother would have nothing to do with him, looking and smelling like he did.

  “That’s a hell of a way to treat guests,” his father returned. There was no anger in his voice as he reached over to grab a paper towel and wipe under his nose. Most of the snot came off on the towel.

  “So where’s the game, Jess?” he asked, finally acknowledging the boy. Jesse’s shoulders sagged as he observed the glassy look in his father’s eyes. The look meant two things. It wouldn’t be long before his father started talking loudly and then getting mad at everyone for no reason. Jesse was certain, in a few minutes when his mother returned, they would start fighting again. He was wondering if his father would leave when asked, or would make his mother call the police again. Jesse had this strong urge to cry. Why couldn’t they just be a normal family?

  His father made a loud rasping noise from the back of his throat. Then spitting into the sink called out. “Go on, Jess. Get the game.”

  Jesse trudged, reluctantly now, to the hallway closet and pulled out the worn Monopoly box. The sight of it depressed him even more because in happier times, they all played the game together. He could almost hear his father tell his mother, how badly he was going to beat her, and she would say things like “Bring it on” and “Give it your best shot.” Then throughout the whole game his mother would help Jesse count his money and keep track of his properties, while his father would whisper not-so-secret plans about how the men were going to team up and crush her. A giggle escaped his lips as he remembered how the game ended with his father going broke and bargain selling all his properties to his son, then helping him until he too, lost to the all-time champ, his mother. Jesse smiled as he envisioned his mother’s triumphant grin as his father called out, “We’ll get you next time, just you wait and see.” They would all then go on a tickle attack and chase his mother, all through the house until they had her pinned down, laughing and gasping for mercy on the bed.

  The laughter had slowly died its death. When this happened, Jesse was not aware. He just knew there would be no laughter tonight.

  He returned to the kitchen to find his father rummaging through the cupboard.

  “Where the fuck is my ‘Best Husband’ cup?” his father asked.

  Jesse wasn’t sure there was such a cup. He had seen his mother fling one cup out of the window a few weeks before. He had also heard her cry that night. He remembered her destroying a dried flower from the Bible and stacks of old letters from her cupboard.

  “Well, guess I’ll just have to use this one,” his father announced pulling out a mug with a cartoon of a large-chested naked lady on it. Having never seen it before, Jesse guessed it must have come from the topmost shelf beyond his reach.

  “Well, when your Mom finds my cup, we can put this one back!” His father slammed the cup onto the counter with a sharp whack, followed by the clink of the handle as it loosened from the cup and slipped away. His father’s glazed eyes seemed to mock the broken cup.

  “Glad it wasn’t my cup,” he said, grabbing both pieces and shoving them into the trashcan. “Your mother didn’t like that cup anyway. ‘Made her feel bad about her tiny boobs.”

  Two red blobs appeared on Jesse’s cheeks. It was not a nice thing to say about his mother’s boobs; they always felt soft and snugly when he fell asleep in her lap.

  With no choice but to wait for the argument which was inevitable, Jesse dropped the game onto the kitchen table. Having forgotten his need
of a cup, his father turned on the kitchen faucet, and scooping several handfuls, he slurped the water down his throat. The slurping sound would have seemed funny had Jesse not spotted several twigs and dried leaves jutting out of his father’s green jacket. In some places, behind his father’s head, Jesse could see mounds of dirt and animal doo-doo tangled in the long, stringy hair. Was his father sleeping in the park? The thought that his Dad probably slept out in the cold, made Jesse want to cry again.

  “Everything okay?” his Mom called out.

  “Everything’s fine,” his father winked at Jesse. “We men are just waiting for our lady to get out here.”

  The bathroom door slammed shut.

  “Go on, set the game up,” his father said, spinning a chair around and settling down backwards, in its seat. Jesse saw his father’s hands tremble. A faint line of blood was trickling down from one of his nostril.

  What was wrong with him?

  Jesse didn’t dare say anything as he watched the whiskers on his father’s upper lip turn red. His father sniffled as he wiped under his nose, with the back of his hand.

  “What the hell!” noticing blood, his father swung the chair and rushed to the sink. He tried unsuccessfully to wipe the blood from his face. The red smear was getting on to his beard as well, and Jesse could not wait.

  “I’ll go get Mom!”

  “No!” his father yelled stopping him midway. Then in a calmer voice, “Everything’s okay. It’s just a little nose bleed.” He yanked half-dozen paper towels off the roll and blotted his face.

  Terrified at seeing the bright red stains on the white towels, Jesse watched his father hold the towel under his nose. When he took his hand off, he could still see traces of red, in the whiskers, around the mouth and under his father’s chin.