Uncle Vampire

by Grant, Cynthia D.

  “Nothing,” Honey said. “I was having a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke everybody up.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Everything’s under control now, Rich,” Uncle Toddy said. “Go back to bed.”

  “You know, don’t you, Richie? He’s a vampire,” I said.

  Honey cringed, rocking back and forth.

  “He’s a vampire, Richie. He’s drinking our blood. He’s killing the whole family!”

  The lamp in the hallway lit my brother’s face. The horror in his eyes was like a knife through my tongue. He looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “She was having a dream. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” Uncle Toddy pushed my brother away. “She’ll be fine in the morning. Go to bed, Rich.”

  Honey was crying. I was crying too.

  Uncle Toddy waited until Richie was gone. Then he spoke, his voice rigid with anger.

  “Listen to me, Carolyn. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but I’m not putting up with this kind of abuse. I don’t know where you’re getting this vampire stuff, but it’s sick, it’s stupid, it makes you look crazy. Haven’t we got enough problems in this house? Richie’s strung out on drugs—you think I don’t know that? I’m trying to help him. He’s got real problems, unlike yours. You’re making up all this shit in your mind. Why? For fun? Or just to be difficult? You worry all the time. You never eat. I make all your favorite foods and you don’t even touch them—”

  “I’m sorry,” Honey whimpered. “I was having a bad dream. A monster was chasing me and I was so scared and I couldn’t get away, but then I woke up.”

  “That’s all right, Honey.” He turned gentle again. “It could happen to anyone. It’s not your fault. Do you want me to stay here until you fall asleep?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Sometimes I could strangle her baby voice.

  Then I noticed something I never had before. How could I have been so blind? There was no lock on our bedroom door. Anyone could walk in, anytime.

  “I want to put a lock on the door,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said. “It wouldn’t be safe, in case of a fire.”

  “We haven’t had too many fires lately.”

  “It only takes one,” my uncle replied.

  “I could jump out the window and climb down the tree.”

  “Yeah, or maybe you could fly.” Uncle Toddy rubbed his face. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you, Carolyn. It’s late. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Good night, Honey.”

  “Good night,” she said.

  He went out and closed the door behind him.

  I turned on the light and said, “We’ve got to talk.”

  “I’m not talking to you. You get us in trouble.”

  “You’re the one who was screaming and sobbing!”

  “Yes, because you scare me all the time! I can’t concentrate in school! Things are falling apart! If my grades don’t improve, I can’t be a cheerleader! Ms. Johnson called me into her office!”

  Ms. Johnson is the school counselor. I visited her office recently too. I didn’t tell Honey; she would have worried. There are so many things she can’t face.

  Ms. Johnson told me that my teachers are concerned. The quality of my work is deteriorating. If I don’t improve my grades, I’ll have trouble getting into college. Also, I’ll get kicked out of the play. You have to maintain a decent grade-point average in order to participate in extracurricular activities.

  This had never been a problem for me before. I’ve always gotten A’s. Ms. Johnson was talking D’s and incompletes. I was shocked to find myself in her office. I felt as if we were discussing someone else’s life.

  “Is anything wrong, Carolyn?” she’d asked. “Are you having problems at home?”

  “Everything’s fine,” I told her. “I’m just real busy. With school and the play and everything.”

  “Don’t tell Mama about my grades!” Honey plucked at her tangled hair. “There’s no sense getting her all upset. I’ll quit my job so I can study on Saturdays.” She’s been working at a flower shop, for spending money.

  “Relax,” I said. “Will you calm down? Just try a little harder.”

  “I’m trying as hard as I can!”

  “So quit being a cheerleader. Who cares?”

  “I do! Why do you make fun of everything I like? I don’t make fun of you, or the play. Anyway, I don’t want to be like you, You’re never happy. You’re crazy.”

  “You ought to know.”

  “I’m going to sleep. Don’t talk to me. Just leave me alone.”

  I heard muffled conversation downstairs. I turned off the light, opened my door, and crept to the top of the stairs where I could hear.

  “No, I don’t think so,” my uncle was saying.

  Papa said something; I couldn’t make out the words.

  “No, she’s fine. But Carolyn’s been under a strain.”

  Why am I always the bad guy, the villain? Sweet little Honey can do no wrong. That dimpled darling. That bloodless birdbrain. That blubbering, simpering, whimpering shit. Sometimes I wish Honey were dead. Sometimes I could kill her.

  Mama said something, but her voice was too soft.

  “It’s this college thing,” Uncle Toddy explained. “She’s worried about her grades. You know what a hard worker she is. And she’s got all those after-school activities.”

  Mama murmured something. My father exploded. “What good do they do? They’re a bunch of quacks! And they cost an arm and a leg.”

  “I don’t think she needs a psychiatrist,” Uncle Toddy said. “Not yet. But we need to keep an eye on the situation. Make sure she eats, gets plenty of rest, and has some fun. All she does is study. I was thinking of taking her to the coast some weekend. Just the two of us. She used to love that.”

  I almost howled with laughter.

  “You know how kids are,” Uncle Toddy was saying. “They all go through it. I was a handful myself. Well, Bill, you remember. The folks called me the hellion. Don’t worry about Carolyn. She’ll be fine. I just thought you’d like to know what all the commotion was about.”

  I slid back into our bedroom and closed the door. Then I pushed a chair in front of it, with the wastebasket on top. If I fell asleep reading and the door was opened, the wastebasket would wake me when it hit the floor.

  But he didn’t come back. He went into his room. After a while I sensed that everyone was sleeping. I turned off the light and stepped into the hall, my knife cool and hard in my hands.

  I glided through the moonlit rooms downstairs. The grandfather clock was ticking, ticking. Honey’s piano grinned, showing its teeth.

  I floated through the dining room and into the kitchen, where a locked door leads down to the cellar and my uncle’s workshop. The lock was placed high, out of reach of little hands, to keep us from falling down the stairs when we were small.

  My knife undid the screws that held the lock in place. Removing it left tiny holes in the wood, but Mama wouldn’t notice. There is so much she doesn’t notice.

  Then I slipped upstairs and into our room. I used my knife to screw the lock into the doorframe. When I slid the metal pin in place, my heart almost burst, it was so full of relief. We were finally safe. We could rest in peace.

  I wasn’t worried about fire. If a fire broke out, we could open the window and climb down the tree. It’s a long way to the ground below. I tried climbing down once, when Uncle Toddy came after me. He grabbed me and wrapped me in his wings.

  I got into bed and pulled up the covers. Then I turned off the light and fell asleep; not curled up like a fist, but as relaxed as a baby resting in her mama’s arms. Nothing could harm us now. We were free.

  When I came home from school the next day, the lock was gone.

  5

  Rehearsal ran late. I couldn’t stay in character. I kept forgetting who I was supposed to be. I felt as if I were sitting in the back of
the dark auditorium, watching a blond girl pretending to be Carolyn pretending to be someone else.

  At one point, Mrs. Bennett said, “Earth to Carolyn. Do you read me?” and the cast members laughed. It was embarrassing.

  I’ve thought about quitting the play, but it’s too late; our first performance is a month away. Acting used to be a vacation, an escape.

  Now I’m acting all the time.

  When I got home, Uncle Toddy said, “You got some mail,” and handed me a letter from Maggie. My heart leaped at the sight of her familiar scribble.

  The envelope was unsealed.

  “I’m sorry,” Uncle Toddy said. “I thought it was for me. Don’t worry. I didn’t read it. How was school?”

  “Fine.” I took the letter upstairs and sat on my bed and began to read.

  Dear Carrie,

  I decided to write you a letter because I can’t seem to get you on the phone. I called the other night, but you were sleeping.

  I talked to Uncle Toddy. He said you’ve been feeling kind of burned out, worrying about school and everything.

  You get a 4.0! What more do you want? And you’ve got tons of extra activities. Colleges will be knocking down your door! When the time comes, I’ll help you figure out all those stupid applications. Ms. Johnson can help you too. She was great; told me about the scholarships, loans, grants, etc.

  You worry too much, kid! Take it easy.

  You are listening to the Voice of Experience, broadcasting live on station KBFD, from Boston, Massachusetts.

  I wish you could come back east sometime. You’d love it here, Carrie. It’s so beautiful in the fall. The leaves on the trees turn incredible colors. I mean orange. A few weeks ago some friends and I drove up into Vermont. There are all these little villages, too perfect to be real: rolling green lawns, old farmhouses, tiny white churches, and corner stores stuffed with everything you could possibly need, from bunion pads to sleigh bells. I even found some of those big red cinnamon balls like Grammy used to have in the pantry, remember? She kept them up high, in that big brown crock, where we (supposedly) couldn’t reach them.

  Which reminds me: I confess. I’m the one who kept eating the Tang. I dug it out of the jar with a spoon. You little guys always took the rap. I owe you.

  This is my last year of school, theoretically. But I’ve decided (don’t tell Papa yet) that I don’t want to be an English teacher. I’m going to go for my M.A., so I can be (drum roll, please) a counselor; specifically, an M.F.C.C., which means Marriage, Family, and Children’s Counselor. There’s only about five million of them already. But that’s okay, because the world needs us.

  I think I would be a good counselor. I like people (most people) and am pretty good at figuring out what makes them tick. To me, that’s the most fascinating thing there is—people and their stories.

  Papa will think it’s hogwash. He was never too crazy (yuk yuk) about all those shrinks who treated Mama, and frankly, I’m not sure they helped. There are good therapists and bad ones. Some people get into the profession because they’re so messed up themselves that they need the illusion (delusion) of being in control: an expert.

  I don’t think that’s my problem. I’ve gotten some counseling, mostly in groups run through the college, and it’s really been helpful. I wish you’d consider it, if you’re feeling down in the dumps. At first it’s scary because you’re afraid that if you say how you feel, or what you think, people will think you’re nuts. But they don’t. Anyway, it’s been good for me. There was so much I had to figure out, about our family.

  I always told people (and myself) that my childhood was perfect. But it wasn’t. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but our family is a little, uh, how should I put this, strange. Depressing. That’s the word. Depressed. It’s like there’s an invisible cloud over our house. The family fog. You can’t see it, but it sure gets in your face.

  When I was a kid I couldn’t understand why our house felt so different than my friends’ houses. Not that their families didn’t have problems too. My psych professor says that most American families are dysfunctional, to one degree or another.

  Our family is dysfunctional to the nth degree. The tenth power. I know you’ll think I’m disloyal for saying that. But the longer I’m away from home, the clearer it becomes to me.

  It’s not like I remember bad things happening, like murder or mayhem or screaming. It’s more what didn’t happen. Something was missing. Fun. It was always so tense there, know what I mean? We never knew when Mama might get worse, or why, and Papa was always so worried.

  But nobody talked about it! That was the weirdest thing of all! The situation was never discussed. No matter what was happening, we pretended things were great. I guess they thought we were too little to notice. An ambulance comes and takes Mama away, and what does Papa say? “Finish your dinner.”!!!

  For all us kids knew, it was all our fault. Maybe we’d driven her insane, that’s what I thought. Mama wasn’t cut out to have children. Parakeets, maybe; goldfish, sure; but not kids. One minute she’s there, and she’s crying a lot, and suddenly she’s gone, and Papa and Uncle Toddy don’t want to talk about her. If you asked where she was, they said: “Mama’s fine,” but the look on their faces said she’d died. Then she comes back from the hospital, or Mars, or wherever the hell she was, and it’s like nothing ever happened. We pretended she was never gone. Suddenly everything’s supposed to be peachy—except we’re tiptoeing around the house like it’s a minefield.

  Maybe this sounds crazy to you. I don’t mean to sound so negative. I know Mama and Papa love us, but they’re not too good at showing it. They’ve got too many problems of their own. When you’re little, you think all adults are like God, but some of them are just big children. (Papa would flip if he read this. He hates all this “psychology shit.” His words, not mine.)

  When I was a kid I thought all families were like ours. Then I’d go to some of my friends’ houses, and the families would be laughing and joking and hugging. I’d think: If I was a good kid, my parents would love me. So I tried and tried to be so good, but nothing changed.

  I couldn’t wait to leave. I know that sounds cold. I know everybody was hurt when I chose a college so far away. But I had to do it, Carrie. Sometimes you need to leave a place to understand where you’ve been.

  Don’t get me wrong: I love our family. But we’re not the healthiest bunch of bananas in the world.

  I can hear what you’re thinking. You think I’ve changed. You’re right, Carrie. And I’m glad.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t come back last summer. I know you wanted to see me, and I wanted to see you too. But I had to work. (The tips are good. Number-one tip: Don’t be a waitress.) And frankly, I didn’t want to come home. This is my home now. I like it here. I have lots of great friends, and I’m seeing this guy. Nothing serious yet, but he’s wonderful, Carrie. His name is Michael Brooks. We have so much fun. I wish you could meet him. Maybe you can visit this summer. I could take some time off and we could talk and talk, and go to the Cape, and drive up into New Hampshire and swim in the lakes there. You’d love it.

  I’m sorry I won’t be home for Christmas. I can’t afford the plane fare and neither can Papa. I gather from what Uncle Toddy said that things aren’t going too hot for Papa financially. Everything is so expensive now! I can’t believe how much stuff costs.

  Please write and let me know how you are. I’m sorry I missed you the other night. I didn’t think you’d be in bed so early. The time difference makes things confusing. I’ll try again sometime soon.

  Don’t let this letter bum you out. I’m trying to be close to you, Carrie: to say what’s in my heart and mind, so that I’m not a familiar stranger. I want you to really know me, and I want to know you too. Please give my love to all the family, and save a big bunch for yourself.

  Your beautiful and extremely wise big sister,

  Maggie

  I folded up the letter and set it on my pillow. I felt so odd. My
breath came quickly. Maggie was not coming home for Christmas. Maggie was not coming home again. This was not her home. She had turned her back and walked away, as if our family was an accident, a bloody fatality, a tragic wreck. How could she desert me? I wasn’t dead! I was alive, and I needed her so badly.

  I picked up the letter and read it again, then held it to my face. Maggie had touched this letter with her hands. Maggie still loved me; it said so on the paper. Maggie would always be my sister.

  I let Honey read the letter. She said I was overreacting. She said: “That’s what happens when people go away to college. They think they know everything.”

  She and Maggie have never been close. They don’t have much in common. Maggie always regarded cheerleading as if it were a joke. “It has nothing to do with skill or talent,” she said. “It’s just a popularity contest.” Honey says Maggie feels that way because she wasn’t pretty or popular. Which is true. She was incredibly wonderful and funny and smart, none of which counts for much at our high school.

  At dinnertime, Richie didn’t come to the table. He said he didn’t feel like eating.

  Papa started steaming. But Uncle Toddy said, “It’s all right, Bill. Rich and I have an understanding.”

  Mama said to me, “I hear you got a letter from Maggie.”

  “Nice of her to take the time to write,” Papa said. He was being sarcastic. I wish people would say what they mean. Sometimes I feel like I’m going to start screaming. But if I said: “Can we all please be honest for once?” they’d say: “What on earth are you talking about, Carolyn? The problem is yours, not ours. If there were a problem, which of course there’s not.”

  I said, “She can’t afford to come home for Christmas.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” Mama looked disappointed.

  “Let me serve you, Doris.” Uncle Toddy filled her plate.

  “I’m really not that hungry.” Mama picked up her fork and ate.

  “I slave all day over a hot stove, and this is the thanks I get!” Uncle Toddy mimed exasperation. “How about you, Honey?”

  “I’m starving,” she said. He heaped her plate with potatoes, meat, and salad. “Mmm, it looks delicious.” She eats like a pig. Sometimes I can’t bear to have her near me.