Crying for the Moon

by Sarah Madison

  He went back to the manual again. Remove the electrical conductor. The words hadn’t magically changed since the last time he’d read them. Annoyed, he moved on to step two. Remove the rubber cover. Maybe it would be easier to see what he was trying to unplug if he completed that action. The rubber ring came off easily, up to the point where it met the electrical conductor. There, it ceased to move. As he struggled with it, his hand slipped off the plug and connected sharply with the battery.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He snarled as he went back to the glove compartment and pawed through the contents until he found a set of needle-nose pliers. He was able to manipulate the pieces together again with the help of the pliers. When he was done, he was back where he’d started. An examination of the other headlight assembly was of no use whatsoever; if anything, it was even harder to access.

  Another customer hesitated on seeing him at work over the grill of his car, but one look at the expression on his face and the young man decided to go into the store without offering assistance. Alex stared down at the light assembly again. It couldn’t be that hard. It only seemed hard because he didn’t know the trick; just like the time he was changing a tire and the wheel wouldn’t come off even after he’d removed the lug nuts. He’d had to call the dealer to find out that a kick to the wheel in the right place would cause it to pop off the hub. He was going to be Damned if he let this stupid thing defeat him tonight.

  He took hold of the electrical conductor again. Squeezing the sides firmly with his fingers, he pushed its center with his thumb. To his delight, the catch loosened, and he was able to remove the plug. The rubber cover and retaining ring were a snap after that. He pulled out his leather gloves from his coat pocket to handle the bulb. In no time at all, he had replaced the assembly. Closing the hood of the car, he looked up and saw the old man watching him through the window. He offered a thumbs-up. The old man grinned and waved.

  Initially pleased with his mastery over the diabolical headlight, Alex suddenly felt depressed as he got back into the car and buckled his seat belt. He’d successfully changed out his headlight. Whoop-de-do. As moments of pride went, it was pretty small potatoes. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He felt oddly reluctant to head back to the house; he didn’t exactly have any exciting plans for the evening.

  The old man came to the window, cupping his hands to the glass so he could peer out into the night. Realizing he was probably starting to worry, Alex started the engine and slowly backed out of the lot. He fished around in his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Thumbing through the short list of contacts, he clicked on Nick’s name.

  He disconnected the call when it immediately rolled over into voice mail. They were probably out for the evening. Nick would see that he’d called; if he wanted to call Alex back, he would. Besides, what would Alex have said in a message? He was bored? Lonely? He just wanted to hang out with them? He glanced at his watch. They were probably grabbing dinner somewhere right about now.

  He took the road through town instead of getting back on the bypass. Peter had mentioned a couple of bars on the outskirts of town where they’d often hung out in the past. Alex had a vague hope of running into them as he circled the block looking for a place to park. The streets were unexpectedly crowded; he realized belatedly that it was Friday night and that many of the local college students were out in search of a good time.

  Is that what you’re looking for? A good time? The voice inside his head was insidious and sly. He knew that voice well. It was the same one that suggested a night in the coffin wasn’t such a bad thing—that he needed it; he deserved it.

  He found a parking place on one of the side streets but hesitated before getting out of the car. What was he really looking for here? The town was too small for him to take someone into an alley and introduce them to the joys of a vampire feeding. He was hungry enough now that he couldn’t be too sure he could stop a casual feeding anyway, and he certainly didn’t want to enter into a relationship of any sort. That was even harder to keep secret in a small town. He got out of the car and shut the door with unnecessary force. Maybe he should have moved into a larger city after all, especially given his preference for men.

  The side street was relatively quiet. Alex shoved gloved fists into the pockets of his long coat, moving in and out of puddles of pinkish light cast by the overhead street lamps as he walked. He paused in front of a store that advertised itself as a travel agency. Pictures of tropical locations tempted the imagination with sandy white beaches and impossibly blue seas. Not that I’d be sunbathing, he thought with a smirk. He checked out some of the offers, wondering if he should consider taking a trip somewhere where he could seduce his pick of willing victims from the bright lights of some large city and give them the thrill of a lifetime before disappearing again.

  He was deep in his little fantasy, where he was the mysterious stranger who’d picked up a beautiful lover in a resort town, when he came around the corner and ran right into Tate.

  “Alex?” Tate seemed pleasantly startled. He’d gripped Alex’s arms when they’d collided, and he wasn’t letting go. “Fancy running into you! Literally. What are you doing downtown? You want to come with me to get something to eat?”

  Don’t tempt me. The thought came unbidden to Alex, all his fantasies of tropical locations and exotic strangers morphed suddenly into a cold street corner, and the way Tate’s breath plumed in a cloud of vapor when he spoke, and the pulse of his heartbeat underneath his bright, woolen scarf. Tate seemed to become aware that he was still clutching Alex’s arms and suddenly let go.

  “I’m not really very hungry,” Alex lied. “But I wouldn’t mind grabbing a beer while you eat.”

  “Really? Cool.” Tate’s smile was electric. They fell into step, Tate turning back to head in the direction that Alex was going in the first place. “You strike me as more a wine connoisseur than a beer drinker.”

  “I do prefer wine,” Alex admitted, as they reached the street corner and waited for the light to turn. “But I have a problem paying as much for a glass of wine as I’d pay for the entire bottle.”

  Tate laughed, the warm sound doing something strange to Alex’s chest, releasing a tension he had not known was there.

  “So, where to?” Alex said, as Tate bounced on his heels and rubbed the sleeves of his coat, obviously cold. “Where were you headed?”

  “I was going back to my car. I’d dropped off a prescription for a client and I was headed home to scrounge some dinner until I ran into you.” He made it sound like meeting Alex was such a fortuitous event, and Alex tried very hard not to read more into that than he should. Tate just liked people; Alex had yet to see him irritated or sulky at all.

  “Well, since you’re the one who’s hungry, you choose.” Alex knew he sounded abrupt and wondered when he’d started to care about such things.

  “Let’s go to PJ’s,” Tate said, indicating the neon sign over the small bar and grill across the street. The light changed and they crossed over to join a small cluster of people entering the restaurant. “They’ve got decent sandwiches and stuff.”

  At the door, a thin man with a wispy beard asked for identification; Alex had to smother a laugh at the idea of his reaction if he knew how old Alex really was. The bar was bigger on the inside than it had looked out front, stretching away into a long rectangular room. In the back, Alex could see people taking turns playing pool under a thin haze of cigarette smoke, bright lights suspended over the green baize of the tables. In the front of the room, the lights were much dimmer and the packed tables created narrow spaces in which customers could walk, carrying beverages from the bar to their seats.

  Tate made a left turn into a small room off to the side. A television was mounted in every corner, each one tuned to a different channel. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair at a corner table. Alex sat down across from him and removed his gloves, placing them in his pocket.

  “So, honey, tell me about your day
,” Tate quipped, after the waitress had taken their order. He leaned his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands, as he appeared to hang fawn-like on Alex’s next words.

  Alex snorted despite himself. To his surprise, he found himself regaling Tate with the story of how he’d battled and won against the recalcitrant headlight. Tate laughed in all the right places and commiserated with him on the deliberately obtuse manual. Their order arrived and Alex watched as Tate worked on a club sandwich while he sipped a cold Killian’s, making it last.

  “You sound like a city boy.” Tate grinned. “Not used to fixing things on your own, eh? I can tell you, the only two things you need in your tool kit around here are duct tape and baling twine.”

  Alex shrugged. “I guess you’re right. I never had to worry too much about the plumbing or how to fix something on the car before I came here.” He hesitated, afraid of sounding like some kind of idiot. “I kind of like it, though.” Tate was right: Alex had seldom been expected to “fix” anything. Every vampire he knew had enough wealth and power, not to mention sycophants, to fulfill their every need. No one he knew would even dream of replacing a bulb, let alone remodel his house. It gave him an odd feeling of accomplishment. “I’m learning more about home repair than I bargained for,” he added with a little laugh.

  Tate nodded. “Like me on the computer. I can get incredibly frustrated with it, but there’s an immense feeling of satisfaction when I work out how to do something on my own. Sometimes, though, I just need to get the task done and to hell with the self-pride of doing it by myself. Don’t hesitate to give me a shout if you ever need a hand again.”

  Tate was full of interesting and amusing stories himself. He spoke of the difficulties of being a house-call veterinarian and the sometimes-awkward situations in which he found himself. He told of being called to a home to extract a Chihuahua from a three-inch space under the sink, where it had wedged itself in the wall, snapping and snarling at anyone who stuck his hand in. “I just wrapped my hand in a towel and let it bite me,” Tate said cheerfully. “When it bit down, I dragged it out.”

  They both laughed at the story. Alex had a hard time picturing anyone deliberating inviting themselves to be bitten by a dog, and his brain naturally substituted the image of Tate offering up his neck for Alex’s pleasure.

  “Once I got a call from a man half in and half out of his bathroom window.” Tate chuckled at the memory. “He’d gotten locked out of his house and tried to crawl in the window. Only his cat attacked him, and was holding him at bay.”

  “Why would his cat do that?” Alex shook his head bemusedly. He thought of EPT, and how the cat could rub against his ankles one minute before striking at him the next.

  Tate shrugged. “Didn’t recognize him, I guess. Cats are masters of what we refer to as re-directed aggression. ‘If I can’t get the one I want, I’ll get the one I’m with.’ Two cats that live together can suddenly turn on each other if a strange cat shows up looking in the window. In this case, the cat saw the owner as an intruder into his territory. He really tore the guy up good.”

  “Did he get rid of the cat?” Alex asked, even as he smiled at the Southern phrasing that had crept into Tate’s speech. He couldn’t imagine the average human putting up with an aggressive animal like that.

  Tate shook his head. “No; he understood why the cat did it. I think he was a little proud of his attack cat, if you ask me. People will tolerate almost anything if they’re secretly proud of it.” He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing and swallowing before he spoke again. “Besides, he loved that cat. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s never trust a man who hates cats.”

  “Excuse me?” Alex quirked an eyebrow upward.

  Tate looked unexpectedly serious. “In my experience, men who hate cats are abusive by nature. I’m not talking about men who dislike cats or prefer dogs—I’m talking about men who hate them, who will go out of their way to kill a cat, given the opportunity. They’ll say it’s because they’re sly and secretive, or because they can’t be trusted. Bottom line, these people are control freaks. More often than not, the man who would kill a cat would also kill a lover or beat a child. The things they hate about cats are the traits they perceive in the people they seek to control. I tell my clients this when it’s warranted, though some of them don’t want to hear it.” Tate leaned in across the table as he spoke, using his hands for emphasis.

  “Have you had personal experience with this?” Alex didn’t know what possessed him to ask the question; he only knew he felt a molten-lava rage deep down inside at the thought of someone hurting Tate.

  Tate toyed with the paper cover of his straw, not making eye contact. “I was with a guy like that, a long time ago. He certainly fit the profile. But I’ve observed this trait more than once.” He suddenly crumpled up the paper into a ball and flicked it away. “Water under the bridge,” he said briskly. “So what do you do for a living?”

  The change of subject, as well as Tate’s admission that he was gay, caught Alex off guard. From what Alex had observed in this small community, homosexuality wasn’t exactly embraced with open arms. That Tate would be so open with him was humbling. He also understood with sudden clarity the protective coloring of Tate’s sloppy manner of dress. “I’m, um, between things at the moment.”

  Tate nodded in commiseration. “Things are tough for a lot of people right now. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?”

  Alex found this unexpectedly touching, even as the offer struck him as extremely ironic. “Thanks. So, what did you do today?”

  Tate accepted the redirection of topic without batting an eye.

  “Today, I saw a little dog that had been bitten by a copperhead.” The gleam in his eye was far too amused for the story to have an unhappy ending, Alex realized.

  “Really?” Alex felt no hardship in supplying the required prompting. In fact, it felt like he’d been Tate’s sidekick for years. “Is that fairly common around here?”

  “It’s not unusual. A little late in the season, but the owners had recently moved their woodpile, so Sparky must have disturbed the place where it had been holed up. I seldom see any fatalities with copperheads, though you can never take them lightly. This past summer we saw a couple of dogs die from snakebite, even with antivenin, but I strongly suspect a rattlesnake had bitten those dogs. The attacks had all occurred at higher elevations and I think the drought is driving the snakes down farther than usual. Anyway, the snakebite dogs usually come in with a big, fat, swollen leg. Sometimes, it’s their face, if they put their nose on the snake and get bitten there instead.” Tate took a swallow of his soda and chased a French fry around his plate for the last of the ketchup.

  “The first four to six hours are the most critical,” he said, munching on the fry. “A lot of the time, that window of time has passed before the client realizes there’s a problem. Usually by the time I see them, we’re talking about mostly tissue damage and infection.” He paused, frowning. “I’m not grossing you out talking about this kind of thing over food, am I?”

  Alex couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not very squeamish.”

  Tate’s face lit up with relief. He rubbed the end of his nose ruefully. “Good. I’ve been known to clear out entire restaurants blithely discussing cases over dinner. Anyway, so this dog’s been bitten and I’m trying to talk to the client about the implications of this, as well as the treatment, but she interrupts me. She tells me it’s impossible for Sparky to have been bitten by a snake because she has invisible fencing.”

  Tate’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He was obviously waiting for Alex to comment on the ridiculousness of this assertion but when Alex said nothing, he continued. “You know, the radio-controlled fencing that keeps dogs in the yard when they wear the receiver on a collar?”

  Alex knew. He’d seen the commercials. He just couldn’t believe that the client didn’t understand how they worked. “What did you say to her?” He smi
led, shaking his head.

  “I told her it’s not a force field, for crying out loud!”

  They both laughed.

  “Maybe she needs to buy some little collars for the snakes,” Alex suggested, just as Tate was taking another sip of his drink. Tate choked and had to wipe his chin.

  A moment later, Tate pushed back his plate, obviously done with dinner. Alex felt unexpectedly disappointed when he couldn’t think of any way to prolong the evening. This has been fun, Alex thought, as they got ready to leave. “You’re not taking that with you?” He pointed at Tate’s plate.

  Tate had left part of his sandwich and some fries behind. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m not so good with leftovers. Besides, it’s not enough for another meal. I could box it up and take it to Peter, though.” He grinned briefly and picked up his coat but did not put it on, folding it over one arm instead. “I need to stop by the restroom after we pay up.”

  Alex followed Tate as he threaded his way through the crowd to the back of the building. The restrooms were in a small corridor off the main room. The hallway was bordered on one side with a change machine and on the other with some arcade-type games. One of the games was a boxer’s punching bag suspended in a small cage. Each player got two swings at the bag. A flashing light board registered a combined score for each round. Several frat boys had lined up in front of it, taking punches in turn, and crowing over the numbers that registered.

  “I’ll wait here. I can hold your coat,” Alex suggested.

  Tate pushed past the raucous bunch of young men and entered the men’s room. The corridor smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. Alex leaned against a pillar and alternated between watching the nearby game of pool and the contest between the frat boys over the boxing game.