The Vampire Henry

by Michael S. Walker

  I put the shoebox back and go into the writing room. Sara is standing there, completely nude still. I can see her in the dark with no difficulty but I turn on the light to look at her anyway. At that red hair and those long long legs. Legs that seem to be promising me something wonderful. She’s got one of my poems or stories in her hand, pulled it up from the big stack of writings I keep next to the typer. (Stuff I need to send out to mags soon.) She’s scanning it intently.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Henry.” She smiles at me. She seems a completely different vampire from last night. She doesn’t seem crushed or lost at all. Am I that miraculous of a lover?

  “Did you you write this?” she asks, extending the paper toward me.

  “Yeah. I wrote it all,” I say. “As much good as it’s doing me.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she says. And then she begins to read my words to me, something I’ve never heard before, something even Emily never did:

  Lovely ugly woman

  She stands at the window

  Looking out on

  Everyone

  No one misses her touch

  The fingers like diamonds

  Like daggers

  The costume smile

  No one can escape

  Loving her wanting her

  Debasing themselves

  At her garden trellis

  No one can escape

  The ice of her eyes

  The calculations

  The killing

  For love

  We are

  All her puppet lovers

  Poisoned candles

  Soldiers for hire

  We are all here

  When she whispers

  Facts

  In our ears

  We are all here

  Even the hunchback

  Wants

  To rub

  Her slipper

  Even

  The priest

  Can’t bury her

  With his vows…

  Fuck. Did I write that? Should try sending it to the Atlantic or something. ‘Course they will only reject it.

  “Beautiful isn’t the word I would use,” I say. “But thanks.”

  “It’s not titled though,” she says, scanning the paper. “What are you gonna call it?”

  “Money No. 365. That’s a good enough title.” I walk over to her, press myself against her naked back.

  “Mmm you are very cynical for such a young man,” she says.

  “No…just realistic about things. So do you wanna go out? Find something to drink?”

  “Yes. But right now I need a shower in the WORST way. It’s been a couple of days. Wanna take one with me?” she asks, seductively, rubbing her naked butt against my crotch.

  “Sure,” I say. Really, is this the same Sara as last night? The one who wanted me to just go the fuck away? The one who couldn’t wait for the sun to come up and take her out of the game?

  As if she is listening in to my thoughts, she turns around suddenly, looks me in the face.

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” she says.

  “For what?”

  “For last night.”

  “What about last night? Last night was great.”

  “No. For before. For being such a head case.”

  “Well…fuck it. I get down myself. Who wouldn’t get down if you look at this world realistically? It’s a fucking mess.”

  “But I hate it when I get like that. I just feel like I’m of no use to anyone at all.”

  “Look,” I say, cupping her chin and kissing her. “It’s OK. You have a lot on your plate. And then suddenly some fool turns you into a bloodsucker, whisks you away from home, leaves you in a strange place? Who wouldn’t break down?”

  “It’s just a recurring theme in my life, that’s all…”

  “So I gather.”

  “I feel fine now. I really do,” she says, smiling. “Being with you makes me feel…I don’t know…right. You’re just not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”

  We kiss. This time much longer.

  “Why don’t you get that shower going?” I say. “Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. I can’t vouch for the cleanliness of the towels. Or anything in this house for that matter. I’m just gonna go down and check the mail real quick.”

  “OK,” she says, bringing her hand down and giving my balls a squeeze. “Hurry.”

  I go downstairs. It’s dark now. I can’t wait to get out there with Sara. Hunt with her. Another first in my vampire life.

  I go to the mailbox and get the mail. Usual stack of shit. Bills. A Dell computer catalogue. Never even owned a computer. A postcard from the police informing me about the presence of a sex offender in the neighborhood. There’s a pic of the pervert--a head shot. Hispanic. Curly haired. Eyes deader than I am under hooded lids. He kind of looks like Juan from across the street. Convicted of sexual misconduct with a minor. I always imagine, when I get these things, what it would be like to open my mailbox one day and pull out a card with my photograph on it. Henry Lovell. Vampire. Convicted of killing and draining the blood of at least 100 people in this state.

  I put the damn thing in the trash.

  There’s one last item. A letter. The return addy is: Dr. Eric Dawes, Kindle College, Lancaster, CA. Never heard of him or Kindle College. I tear open the letter. It’s typewritten on heavy, creamy stationary. I sit down and go over it.

  Dear Mr. Lovell,

  My name is Dr. Eric Dawes. I teach English Lit. at Kindle College here in northern CA. (Well, it pays the bills.) I’ve been following your work for some time in the magazines around here that still believe poetry worth publishing (Infamous Gymnast, The Bell Jar, Word Slinger etc.) Wow. Are you a good poet! I know, pretty erudite for someone who teaches English for a living, huh? But you really are. So much of what I read in these little mags is absolute bullshit. Don’t know what they are talking about three-fourths of the time. And I have a Phd.

  So, here’s the pitch. Have you ever considered giving a reading of your stuff? We do a program here every fall and spring, invite poets to come and read for the great unwashed. We had R.H. Braunbeck and Jill Porsino last time around. There’s not too much money in it. I can promise you 250 dollars, tops. But we can cover your airfare and put you up for the night.

  Would love for you to come out and do this. I know you aren’t very well known right now but I consider your poetry to be some of the best being published in this country. Maybe a reading would be the thing to give you some much-needed exposure.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Eric Dawes

  P.S. Lancaster is a real shithole. But if you come, I’ll provide the drinks-—I promise.

  I read the letter a few times. A reading? What the fuck? I have never even considered such a thing. Just the thought of standing on a stage somewhere, throwing out my soul to a bunch of pampered college kids who couldn’t care less--well the idea doesn’t thrill me. But 250 bucks is 250 bucks. The logistics would be daunting though. It’s what? A five-hour flight to CA? Would have to go at night. Read at night. Return at night. Probably not possible…

  Fuck it, I think, putting the letter aside with the rest of the bills and going upstairs to wash Sara’s beautiful backside.

  We end up later going to this club because Sara really feels like dancing. It’s called O. Another downtown club, but a lot different from the hole in the wall bars I like to frequent. It’s called O I think because the dance floor is this lighted oval surrounded by a raised strip crammed with tables. Or maybe it’s just short for orgasm? They play loud techno music. Lot’s of college students come to bump and grind. Anyway, I fucking hate it. The way the strobe lights blink on and off, freezing the dancers in a series of ersatz black and white photographs. The coldness of the music. I dance with Sara a couple of times and then have to demur, dragging my sorry ass off the floor to one of the tables, staking out the scene like lord of the manor. It’s really like some vision from Dante’s Hell--all these bodi
es crammed together in this small space, moving together in time to what to my ears sounds like a popcorn machine on steroids, with some sirens thrown in for good measure. These people, dancing, seem to be a million miles away from each other.

  I focus my attention on Sara as she dances alone. She really is a good dancer and it gives me pleasure to watch her work her shapely ass on the floor. The one thing that Charles Serling did for her, besides turn her, was buy her some decent clothes to wear. She brought them over to my place in a bag the night before. She’s wearing one of these outfits right now--a pink top and this short plaid skirt that shows off those long legs to full advantage. I marvel once again at those long legs in motion now and at this new version of Sara--the antithesis of the one I met last night. A vampire who doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. A vampire who only wants to dance toward dawn.

  And then I notice the subtlest of changes in her appearance and demeanor.

  Sara is now in full kill mode.

  I’ve never seen another vampire do this and it’s fascinating to watch. There are these two young girls in the club. I noticed them earlier, dancing together. They both have black hair, beautiful bodies. Probably college students. They might be sisters because they look a lot alike. Anyway, Sara keeps dancing closer and closer to them, trying to turn a pas de deux into a trio. And the girls cannot help but being into her because Sara has turned herself into SEX, the Goddess Who Devours. Or something like that. The poor girls can barely step to the rhythm of the music as they watch Sara undulate in front of them, her hips and ass moving as if she were underwater or something. Her eyes are sending out red pulses of lust. She licks her full lips dramatically. There is no one on the floor but her now, and the girls inch toward her like moths toward a wanton flame.

  Yeah, it would be a nice drink, I think.

  And then, I shake my head. No. No. No. I think about the nightmare this could become for us. I look at the sweet outfits the girls are wearing. I think about their youth. They probably have families who would exhaust every effort to find them if they came up missing. Leave no stone unturned. Probably rich families. And money gets results. Money means cops and detectives and manpower. Money means media exposure. No. This was the wrong place to hunt.

  I get up and with difficulty make my way across the floor to where Sara is dancing with these two sweet morsels. You’ll never know it babies, but today I happen to be your savior.

  Sara smiles at me as I approach them, nods at the two young girls as they dance around her, seemingly in a trance.

  “Henry,” she shouts at me, above the thunder of the music.

  “I need to talk to you!” I shout. I don’t wait for a reply. I grab her by the arm and start to pull her off the luminous dance floor. The girls suddenly come out of their heated trance, blink, watch us in surprise.

  “Henry, what the hell are you doing…?” Sara says. “I was getting us some…” But she doesn’t protest as I drag her across the room and out of the club. Outside, you can still hear the house music--one measured sonic boom after another.

  “Henry…didn’t you see those girls I…” she starts again.

  “I know what you were doing,” I say, hurriedly. “Those girls were lovely. Their blood would have probably tasted very sweet.”

  “Then what the…Why did you drag me out like that?”

  “Listen, Sara, I’ve been living here for five years as a vampire now. Trying NOT to draw any attention to myself. And so far I have succeeded. Those girls. Well…they looked rich. And one thing I’ve learned, affluence draws a lot of water. Those girls disappear. Well we won’t hear the end of it for months. And maybe somebody here describes you to the cops. And maybe the cops start looking for you. You get it?”

  She looks toward the club. Looks back at me.

  “Oh. Yeah. I’m sorry, Henry. I wasn’t really thinking.”

  “Yeah. You have to pick your kills. People you know no one is really going to give a shit whether they live or die. That’s what I do. And so far…I’ve been lucky. I’ve been able to stay right here and hunt.”

  Suddenly, she’s crying.

  Crazy. Fucking. Vampire.

  I go to hold her.

  “Shhh it’s OK,” I say.

  “I’m always…fucking things up. I don’t know how to do this, Henry.”

  “It’s going to work out OK,” I say, stroking her hair.

  Later, about an hour away from dawn, she takes out a panhandler as I watch. I’ve seen the guy around before. He’s this skinny black guy, really ugly, big forehead, face like a fish. He always wears a ratty fur coat and a woman’s wig on his head. It’s pretty funny really: a cross-dressing homeless person. He’s always coming up to me on the street, very formally, and saying: “Pardon me, but could you spare a penny, nickel, or dime for the homeless…?” Don’t know what he plans on doing with a penny. I suppose if he got one hundred of them he could buy a cup of joe or something.

  He’s standing around in front of the building where I found Sara. Last night. Seems like centuries ago now. He’s talking to himself. Stroking his wig. Probably telling himself he’s the queen of the runway or something.

  I slow my truck down in front of the building.

  “Why don’t you go…why don’t you go drink something, Sara? I’ll be OK for another day,” I say, nodding toward the guy.

  She’s on the passenger side in my truck, pushing the Iron Cross that dangles from my rear-view mirror back and forth with her long fingers. At first when she saw it there, she had recoiled in horror. No one had ever told her that crosses have no affect on us. That shithead, that Charles Robinson Serling had told her very little in the two months they were together.

  “Wha…?” She looks out the window. “Oh, that guy. I’ve seen him before. He’s funny.”

  “Yeah. A riot.”

  “Are you sure you don’t wanna…?”

  “No. Drink up.”

  “OK, Henry.”

  She bounds out of the truck toward the building. I watch her shapely ass see-saw under her dress as she turns it on again: the vamp seduction. The fag doesn’t know what hit him. He’s staring at Sara, his mouth agape, as if she were an angel come down from heaven. She doesn’t say anything. Just has him in her arms, like some furry doll. And then her mouth is on his neck. As she feeds, one of her legs curves upwards, as if she were giving her lover a goodbye kiss. It’s sexy to watch, even if it is with this dirtbag. I feel my cock start to rise in my pants. I want to get her home and make love to her, smell the blood on her breath as I kiss her.

  Finally, she is done drinking. She holds the limp body of the guy in her arms. In the silent, deserted street.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Someone is knocking at the door downstairs and I know exactly who it is. Juan from across the street. Such a goddamn nuisance.

  I put on my clothes, wearily. He’s never going to go away until I come down and open the door. He knows I am in here.

  Sara is still lying in bed, her head propped up against the wall. She’s smoking one of my cigarettes and appraising me with hooded eyes as I fumble with my dirty jeans.

  “You expecting someone, Henry? You look all flustered.”

  “Yeah. Delivery. Mexican food.”

  “Hmmm. Don’t care too much for that. It used to give me gas.”

  “Believe me, it gives me mucho gas.”

  I get my shirt on, check my watch. It’s 8:30. The whole night stretches before us. We need to get out there very soon. I need a drink in the worst way. I think vaguely, as Juan continues to pound on the front door, about having an early cocktail.

  “Are we going out, Henry?” Sara asks. God, I just want to stay in bed and ravish her.

  “You better believe it,” I say.

  I stumble downstairs, fling open the door. And there is Juan, resplendent in his cargo shorts and white hoodie.

  “What the hell, Henry,” he says. “Are you deaf?”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
r />   “Ha hah ha.”

  “What do you want, Juan?”

  “What are you doin’?”

  “Nothing. Look Juan, I’m kinda busy in here, sooo…”

  “What, pounding your pud?”

  At that moment, Sara comes downstairs. I turn to glance at her. She’s picked one of my old flannel shirts out of the closet and has put it on. Her legs have never looked sexier. And her red hair curling around all that green flannel? Wow.

  Of course, it’s having the same damn affect on old Juan. His eyes are as big as the Big Bad Wolf’s checking out Little Red. And he’s becoming aroused. I can smell it. God damnit. I hope she’s wearing fucking panties under there.

  She comes to my side. Brushes my arm with her body.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “Well Henry, I guess you weren’t lying. You really are busy in there.”

  The way he says “busy” with all the lewdness he can muster really pisses me off. And Sara. Why did she come downstairs dressed like that? God damned whore…

  “Hi. I’m Sara Miller,” she says. “I’m a friend of Henry’s.”

  “You certainly are,” Juan says. His eyes are dancing up and down her white legs. The shirt barely comes down to mid thigh on her and it slides up every time she moves. Which seems to be a great deal right now. “I’m Juan Perez. I live across the street from Henry. Just so you know.” He winks at her, and then his eyes make their way back to her legs again.

  “Nice to meet you, Juan,” she says. “I didn’t think Henry had any friends…”

  “Oh, he don’t. I just pop by from time to time to make sure he hasn’t cracked his skull on that typewriter of his and died.”

  She laughs at that, a little too long I think. God damnit. This little scene has gone on long enough. And here’s this Mexican shit flirting with her, sporting a hard on.

  “OK, Juan,” I say, brusquely. “As you can see, I’m still kickin’. So if there isn’t anything important, me and Sara have plans tonight and…”

  “Oh yeah? You like fights, Sara? Boxing?” he asks, stroking his beard.

  “Never really thought about it. Why?”