Blood 4 Life

by M. Lorrox

  When she sees Eddy hanging out, she smiles and waves at him.

  When Eddy’s friends see him look up, they know why he’s about to leave. They have only the moment to register that June must be coming before he’s gone.

  “Hey Eddy!”

  “Hi June. How were classes today?”

  “Pretty good. Chemistry was actually fun. We learned to make little fireballs out of flash cotton and…some chemicals, s—”

  “Drain opener and baking soda.” Eddy sniffs.

  June moves a wisp of hair from her face. “Umm, did they teach that last year?”

  “Ha, no. We just made organic ooze and mixed tinctures and did spectral analysis… Dumb stuff.”

  June shakes her head. “Hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you know how to make fireballs, though.” June knows him too well. They’ve been neighbors since she and her dad had moved to Waynesville, North Carolina six years ago, and even though he’s been at this school with her for only the past two years, she’s grown up with him and his family. She knows where he gets his attitude, knowledge, and “skills.”

  Eddy laughs. “Nope, you probably shouldn’t.”

  She clears her throat. “Anyway, Mrs. Clemens said you could use drain cleaner and stuff if you have to.” She leans in and raises her brow “But I was, in fact, going to tell you the actual chemicals in the reaction, namely sulfuric acid, potassium nitrate, and—”

  “And baking soda.” Eddy smiles at her from behind his sunglasses.

  “You smart-ass.” She elbows him, and they laugh. “Hold on a sec; I need to call my dad.” She dials as Eddy continues walking beside her on the sidewalk.

  Thankfully, there are plenty of full trees shading them and the street. The breeze is soft and welcome on the hot day. Eddy’s friends look on at them and gossip as the two walk off together. Someone says the “L” word.

  In a sense, the kids are right, but the love the two share isn’t romantic—that’s where the others would be mistaken. No matter how much the other kids gossip about it, nobody would dare approach Eddy and call him out about his feelings for June. They remember the episode last year with Eddy and the substitute gym coach. Joe was there, and by the end of that day, everyone knew the story.

  Their class was in the annual track and field unit, and when the sub saw Eddy drinking a red smoothie from a bottle, he decided it would be a good opportunity to show the unruly class some authority. He snatched Eddy’s drink and dumped it on the ground, yelling, “Listen up! I see anyone drinking anything other than water, and you’ll be sorry!” He looked at Eddy and smiled. “Look who volunteered to run an extra set of sprints! Anybody want to keep him company?” He tossed an unopened water bottle at Eddy. “Better drink up; you don’t want to get cramps.”

  Eddy caught the bottle without blinking, his eyes boring holes through the sub’s neck. Everyone else froze. A couple kids laughed as they waited to see what would happen next. Eddy glanced up and met the sub’s eyes, smiled for a second, then twisted around and hurled the bottle at the wall, spiraling it like a football. When it hit, it exploded and left a giant splatter mark on the wall—thirty-five yards away.

  He turned to the shocked substitute and half-snarled at him, saying, “Don’t ever touch my drink. I have a condition.” Then he walked past him without another word, straight to the principal’s office.

  The principal gave Eddy detention and the sub notice that they’d find someone else for the rest of the week.

  Eddy’s friends have a hard time describing the fire they know is in him—the quiet ferocity. It—he—scares them a little.

  But right now, he’s just walking beside June.

  She lifts up her phone. “Hi, Dad. I’m leaving school. I’m heading to Heather’s, remember? Her mom is picking us up. ...I’ll probably want to stay over. That’s still okay, right? ...Okay. Thanks, Daddy. I love you!”

  Skip Tubman replies, “I love you too, dear,” and then hangs up the phone. He smiles at the picture of his daughter on his phone until it slides away, back to the phone’s home screen. What would I do without you, June? He asks the question, but not really. He doesn’t want to think about the answer. June is his whole life, and now that she’s getting older and doing more without him, he knows he has to let go a little bit.

  He sighs as his mind wanders back to their last family vacation—before Monica passed. It was seven years ago on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. They had all climbed up to the top of a lighthouse, and when they reached the top and Skip held June up to see out over the railing, she shouted with joy, “I can see everything!”

  Monica laughed and stroked June’s hair.

  Skip had turned to his wife and smiled at her. She was happy. They were all happy.

  He shakes himself free of the moment. No time right now for memories. No time these days for softness, not in today’s world. He turns around to the operating table. “And no more time for you, you poor little thing.”

  Skip is in his early forties. He has bronze Native American skin, thick hair, and a styled mustache. Amanda and the other office staff sometimes joke about him being too hip for the small town they live in. They sometimes refer to him as “Dr. Trendy” or “Trendy Dr. Tubman.” He doesn’t really mind—not that much. He has always liked to look good. He’s dressed professionally, but most of his clothes are hidden under his lab coat.

  He’s sitting on a swivel stool in a plain white room.

  He sets down his phone and picks up a glove. Shelving units on the walls hold various metal implements and plastic equipment, with labels on every shelf. The walls are thin, and he can hear sounds from elsewhere in the facility. It’s always noisy in this room, though few sounds originate from within its walls; this room is for the dead.

  The absence of sound in the room, in contrast to the sounds of activity from all around, can almost make it seem like it’s louder here than it is anywhere else. It’s dry, and it’s always cold. Not even the incinerator in the corner can warm this room. Skip sits in front of the thing that is the coldest—a table made from shiny stainless steel. On it sits another victim.

  Also cold.

  Skip finally gets the glove back on.

  On the table in front of him is a small carcass of what was a cute, fluffy baby rabbit with a small bite wound near its neck. There’s just a small amount of blood on the fur, and there are no other external wounds. He measures the bite radius with some calipers. An old notebook lies open alongside the rabbit. The opened page is labeled Mysterious Wildlife Deaths (Single Bite). It has about a dozen entries, and now he adds another. He writes down the date, the street name where the animal was found, the species, bite size, and…he needs to weigh it.

  He puts the rabbit on the scale at the edge of the table against the wall, weighs the little thing, and writes down the results.

  He looks over his data and shakes his head. Nothing jumps out at him. The only consistent thing on this list is that there’s always just one wound: a bite. Everything else is different. Even the bite sizes vary from one another.

  He closes the notebook. This is pointless. He sighs as he picks up the lifeless little rabbit and sets it on a steel grate. Across the room, the incinerator is waiting. He slides the little critter in and turns a dial on the front.

  Before he shuts the door—and under his breath, as if he is afraid to let any sound out into the room—Skip quickly says a little something as the orange glow brightens his face.

  He looks away and releases the handle. The jaws of the door snap shut, the sound vibrating throughout the cold room.

  Skip pulls his gloves off and drops them into the trash, then checks his schedule on his phone. He’s late. The Fergusons have been waiting fifteen minutes by now to euthanize their old hound dog.

  Great.

  Charlie loves listening to music really loud. There’s something about it that makes him feel more present, more alive, more powerful.

  He cranks Ram Jam’s rendition of “Black Betty” as
he drives out of the parking lot at the National Climatic Data Center, the world’s largest archive of weather data. He has worked there in Asheville, North Carolina, for the better part of a decade as a historical analyst.

  He thought the title was hilarious when he applied for it. “This is me. This is what I am,” he told them in the interview.

  They had no idea how honest he was being.

  There aren’t too many cars on the road today. He turns on the highway and sings along with the song.

  On the highway—here and there—some disabled cars have been abandoned, and there’s a lot more debris than there should be. Occasionally there’s a bump and a -clang- as the car drives over small pieces of metal. Charlie tries to steer around them to avoid getting a flat.

  Beyond the highway on all sides stretch grand, stoic trees, green and flashing white in the sun, reaching high into the sky. It’s part of why Charlie loves it here so much—the trees, the color, the life. It’s a great place to raise a family. Someday he hopes his children will understand how important nature really is. Someday, in time.

  His exit approaches, and as he ascends the ramp he sees a large SUV on the side of the road with its blinkers on. He pulls up behind and pauses before getting out.

  It’s an older vehicle with Tennessee plates. Charlie watches it for a moment, then he flashes his headlights. The SUV’s hazards go out, then the brake lights glow for a few seconds.

  Charlie takes a swig of his juice, grabs the umbrella, and gets out of the car. There’s a twentysomething guy in the driver’s seat. He’s sweating bullets with the windows rolled up.

  “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Charlie asks, half joking.

  “Truck broke down, and my cell’s battery died. My brother went to get a tow.”

  Idiot. Charlie smacks his lips. “Well, would a phone help now?”

  “He should be back soon. If he’s not back in…a few more minutes, I’ll ask somebody else for help.”

  “If they stop.” Charlie studies his face and leans in.

  “Well, you stopped.”

  Charlie glances away, thinking about all the possible outcomes of this situation, the potentially grave situation that this young man has gotten himself into. Charlie shrugs and looks back at the guy, then smiles. “You’re right, somebody will stop. Well, good luck, okay? And do not travel so ill-prepared next time.” Charlie shakes his finger at him.

  The guy rolls his eyes. “Believe me, I won’t. This is torture.”

  You don’t know torture. Charlie clears his throat. “You’ll be fine. I’ll give the police a call to tell them you’re here.”

  “Thanks. Oh, before you go, do you have anything I could drink? I’m dying in here.”

  Charlie frowns. “No, sorry, I don’t. You can crack the win—”

  The guy starts shaking his head like he was having a seizure.

  Charlie understands. “Oh, okay. Well, I’ll tell the police to get out here for you ASAP.”

  Charlie walks away, shaking his head. Back in his car he dials the police and fills them in. When he hangs up, he starts up the engine and his music again, and steers around the SUV.

  He takes a sip of his juice as he passes.

  Across town, the tall woman from the photo in Charlie’s office parks a very shiny, jacked-up Jeep Wrangler in a covered garage. She kills the engine. “We’re here. Sit tight a sec, and I’ll help you out of your seat.”

  Minnie sits calmly in the back while holding her stuffed animal, a floppy-legged unicorn. She’s six, and she waits patiently. Sadie comes around the Jeep, and as she does, she flicks her long dark hair over her shoulder. She seems to glide across the ground while her hair and her long hippie skirt follow behind, tracing her path.

  She has olive skin, high cheekbones, feminine curves, and a strong body. She is tall, at least six feet as she stands in her flat sandals. Michelangelo would have loved to ask her to model for him—had they met.

  She doesn’t wear any makeup, but she does wear a pair of rings. She wears her wedding ring—a slight thing with a luster that won’t quit—on her left hand and a ring with a purple stone on her right.

  Even in the dim light of the covered garage, as she rounds the backside of the Jeep, her eyes sparkle like polished emeralds in the sun. They have an almost impossibly bright shine.

  She helps Minnie down from the Jeep, whose tires are almost as tall as the young girl. As they head toward the building, Minnie skips alongside to keep up.

  “Mommy, promise it won’t hurt? I don’t like the dentist.”

  “Oh, come now. Of course it will hurt; you know that. But you know it’ll only hurt a tiny bit and then you’ll feel fine.”

  “But I don’t want to be hurt at all.”

  Sadie chuckles. “Well, if we lived our lives that way, we wouldn’t get very far. How about this—” Sadie leans over to look at her daughter. “Be Mommy’s tough girl for the dentist, and on the way home we’ll get some ice cream.”

  Minnie squints her eyes while she thinks. “Okay, but she better let me bring Valentine with me.” She squeezes her stuffed unicorn.

  An office assistant opens the door for them and welcomes them in. “Hello, Mrs. Costanza. It’s good to see you.” The woman then bends down to address Minnie. “The dentist is ready for you, Minnie, and she’s set a chair next to you for Valentine. She hopes you’ll allow her to inspect Valentine’s teeth. What do you think?”

  Minnie takes a dramatic breath. “I dunno. I’ll have to talk to her about what she wants to do. We’ll see.”

  The office assistant laughs and leads Minnie inside and down the hall. Sadie steps into the lobby and sets down her bag. She looks at what’s available in the magazine stand. There is a dental trade magazine and a couple of health magazines, but mostly it’s stacked full of gossip, celebrity nonsense, and “best sex secrets” crap.

  Ha, I literally wrote that book. Well, translated it from Sanskrit anyway. Sure, Sir Richard helped, but still…these magazines suck.

  Sadie rifles through the pile until she finds something that interests her. “Ooooooh, Tricycle.” That’s a good one. There might be something about His Holiness. I wonder what he’s been up to lately.

  She sits and flips through the pages.

  Charlie rounds the corner on his street and pulls up in front of his home. A sturdy fence surrounds the small yard, and a heavy gate blocks access to the driveway. It’s motorized with a garage door opener and is rigged with bike chains and gears, but Charlie doesn’t have the remote.

  He doesn’t need the remote.

  He finishes his juice, gets out, grabs the gate, and forces it open. The chains rattle against themselves, and the gears inside the motorized unit grind as they spin backward. “Oh, you like it,” Charlie jokes to the machine. Once it’s open enough, he heads back to the car.

  His house looks small compared to the impressive security of the gate, but it’s still two stories high with a two-car garage and a decent amount of parking on the side. Charlie pulls in and parks outside, then walks over to close the gate.

  As he lifts it and drags it closed, his phone receives a message. He re-latches the gate and checks his phone. It’s a text from Skip, his friend and neighbor from down the street.

  Rough week. Beers tonight? Grab me from the house at 5?

  Charlie laughs; he’ll always take advantage of an excuse to have beers with Skip. He admires what Skip does as a veterinarian, but he knows he could never do it; it would be way too emotionally challenging for him to be around sick and injured animals all day. Still, Charlie and Skip are both tree huggers in their own ways, and Skip needs help with June. Charlie and Sadie are pleased to be like an extended family to the Tubmans.

  He responds while he takes a short walk around the house.

  You got it buddy.

  Charlie shakes his head. Maybe he won’t be so damn thickheaded tonight.

  After he makes his loop around the house, he enters through the front door and sets down his ba
g. “Rusty! Where are you, Rusty?”

  Charlie hears nothing, which would be kind of normal because that dog is silent when he walks. Still, he might bark if he was around.

  “Rusty!”

  Nothing.

  “Alright. Fine, then.” Charlie walks to the kitchen, grabs a fresh bottle of juice, then heads through the garage and out the back door. Their backyard is well designed and looks great, except for the grass. Ugh, Sadie’s going to ask me to mow again. Damned grass. I swear it’s growing faster this year.

  Sculpted islands filled with stones and flowers rise out of the unruly lawn, revealing an Asian aesthetic and adding some sublime elements to the home. There’s a meditation bench, a small water pump and wheel, and plenty of large trees casting pools of shade across the lawn. The only pieces of Western culture back there include a picnic table and a hot tub that Charlie likes to drink beer in late at night.

  Charlie unbuttons his shirt, takes it off, and sets it on the picnic table. He then takes off his shoes and pants and sets them on the picnic table beside his shirt. He turns around, standing in his underwear with his eyes closed, facing out toward the yard. He is very muscular with a healthy amount of padding on his chest under a thin sweater of body hair.

  Upon close inspection, he has scars—lots of them. They cover much of his skin, the oldest ones having grown faint over time. The freshest ones are darker and mostly smaller, except for a large, long one across his chest and a really gnarly one across his thigh.

  None of the scars are the kind you get from surgery. Not from modern surgery, anyway. Many are jagged and oddly shaped.

  With his eyes still closed, Charlie takes a few steps forward and bows. He takes a deep breath in. He opens his eyes as he starts practicing a tai chi form.

  Looking down on the scene from the sky, Charlie is just a man of the world—who is at peace with nature, and who is practicing ancient arts of self-discipline and control. A single little man, in a little yard, behind a little house, surrounded by a little fence. One fenced house among many.