Uncle Vampire

by Grant, Cynthia D.

  I said: “You’ll fall out of that dress.” I would never wear a strapless, my breasts served up. Please help yourself.

  “All the girls are wearing them. Even Nancy,” Honey said. She’s double-dating with Nancy and Bobby Sloane.

  Honey’s not sorry that I won’t be attending. She’s glad that I’m staying home. She says I’m too critical.

  “You look beautiful,” I said when she was finally ready.

  She made an awful face in the mirror. Honey craves compliments but fears they’re a trick. If she said, “Gee, thanks,” you might scream, “Just kidding!”

  She has no idea why people think she’s pretty.

  Curtis Bradley arrived, shockingly handsome in his tux. If he and Honey get married someday, they will have the world’s most gorgeous children.

  He had an orchid for Honey. She wore it in her hair; there wasn’t room on the front of her dress. Bradley talked to Papa. Uncle Toddy took pictures. Richie went out, letting the front door bang. Before he left, he kissed my cheek.

  There’s something important that I’m trying to remember. I can’t hold my mind in place. It keeps slipping away. What was I saying? What is it that I mustn’t forget? I remember that I must remember something, but it scuttles out of sight when I turn my head, darting into darkness, like mice. There are so many places to hide in this house, so many holes and crevices. I’ve told Papa about the mice. We could get a cat. But Mama says cats are dirty. Uncle Toddy put out poison.

  I’m supposed to be working on a paper for English. It’s due very soon. Or was it due last week? Once things start unraveling, it’s hard to stop them, like that sweater I had; I pulled one loose loop and it all came undone, a pile of yarn. So it’s important to fix things when they first go wrong. Before they have a chance to completely break down.

  That is what I’m trying to remember. That is what I must not forget. I have got to pay attention. I keep writing things down here. So I won’t let myself forget to remember. And if I die, someone will know what happened.

  “Oh, please!” Honey would say. “Must we be so dramatic?” She’d think it was a joke. Or tear this up. She’d say: “Don’t put your craziness in writing. You might as well hold up a sign that says: I’m nuts!”

  Honey doesn’t know about this journal.

  I can picture her at the homecoming dance. Oh, she is having such a fabulous time, surrounded by her friends. They’re talking and laughing, and Bradley has his arm around her waist; not tight. Just right. The band is playing her favorite songs, as if the musicians were reading her mind.

  The cafeteria is so dark you can’t see where you are; it’s an elegant ballroom, in a castle in France. And wouldn’t you know it! Curtis and Honey are chosen as the king and queen of the homecoming dance!

  They’re up on the stage wearing golden crowns, and Honey is holding an armful of roses. It’s so perfect, you know, because they’re the perfect couple; she’s the prettiest cheerleader, and he’s the handsomest quarterback, and the football team has won every game!

  The crowd applauds and roars its approval. Honey stands in the warmth of the spotlight, smiling and waving, smiling and waving.

  8

  I liked Thanksgiving when Maggie was around. When we were little we drew turkeys and pilgrims. She’d let me use her big box of crayons. Their points were always crisp, like her.

  She called to wish us a happy Thanksgiving.

  I took the call on the phone in the kitchen. I could hear people laughing and talking in the background.

  “Carrie, how are you?”

  “Fine. How are you?”

  “Great! Will you get that thing away from me? They’re torturing me with a frozen turkey! You guys know I’m a vegetarian! Now it’s flying around the room.” She was talking to her friends and roommates. When had Maggie become a vegetarian?

  Uncle Toddy took the phone. “How’s it going, kiddo? Had any snow yet?” After him, Mama took the call on the phone in her bedroom.

  We had company coming in the afternoon, Papa’s sister Marion and her family. They live a few hours away. We hardly ever see them. Papa and Aunt Marion don’t like each other, so they get together only on special occasions. Which seems odd, since they wouldn’t take each other out for lunch.

  There was a lot to do before the guests arrived. Papa built a big fire in the living room. Then he started vacuuming. Richie raked leaves in the front yard. It was cold, but he wouldn’t wear a jacket.

  He pushed the leaves into a pile and tried to burn them. Papa rapped on the window and shook his head. “No!” he kept shouting. “They won’t burn! They’re too wet!” Richie pretended not to hear him. He doused the leaves with lighter fluid and got them going, but they smoldered. Thick gray smoke rolled toward the house.

  “See? What did I tell you!” Papa shouted, vindicated.

  Mama was in the kitchen, whipping cream to top the pumpkin pies she’d bought at the supermarket. She’d washed her hair. It was curly and wet. She used to be beautiful. I’ve seen her pictures. She looked a lot like Honey.

  Now there’s a jagged line between her eyebrows that looks like a tiny lightning bolt. Her hair has gone dark and ordinary. But she’s not fat like a lot of parents. She could look really good if she tried.

  “You look nice, Mama. I like that dress.” It was a soft knit, the color of raspberry sherbet.

  “Thank you, sweetie. Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

  “I will.” I was wearing the gray sweats I’d slept in. “I want to get some work done first.”

  I washed celery and stuffed it with cream cheese. I filled crystal bowls with olives and nuts. Honey helped Uncle Toddy get the turkey ready for the oven, plunging handfuls of stuffing into its hollow belly. She loves it when company comes to the house, because we all make a special effort to act normal.

  Mama was in a jolly mood. She hummed while she peeled the squash. Uncle Toddy went upstairs to get dressed. It was a perfect opportunity for me and Mama to talk. We seldom do. Uncle Toddy is always listening. He could be a spy for the FBI. He’s probably outside the kitchen right now, waiting to hear what I’m going to tell her.

  I could say: “Mama, why don’t we ever talk?”

  “What do you mean?” she’d reply.

  “We never talk.”

  “Talk about what?” She’d still be smiling, hoping I was being silly.

  “Stuff that matters,” I’d say.

  “Stuff like what?” The smile would be fading; she’d get really busy.

  “Mama, I have good news and bad news.”

  “Don’t tell me the bad news,” she’d whisper.

  “The bad news is, Uncle Toddy’s a vampire. The good news is, I may be imagining it. In which case, I’m completely nuts.”

  Mama could feel me getting ready to speak. She moved around the kitchen quickly.

  Then she looked directly at me.

  “Nothing’s wrong, is there, Carolyn?”

  “No. I was just thinking.”

  “What do you suppose your brother’s doing? It smells like he’s burning down the neighborhood.”

  “I hope so.”

  She smiled at me and fled from the kitchen. I pictured Richie loping from house to house, christening each one with lighter fluid; in the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.

  Which reminds me: I’m supposed to write and deliver a Thanksgiving grace. I’ve done that since I was a little girl.

  Maybe I would ask Honey to do it. She was bustling around, being useful. Uncle Toddy, is there anything I can do? Could I pour you a glass of blood?

  Grammy says forgiveness is the soul of a true Christian. But how can I forgive the unforgivable?

  Sensing tension in our happy home (what a mind she has, she’s so perceptive!), Honey skipped to the piano and played “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.” She played exquisitely. Everyone stopped bickering and listened.

  “That was wonderful, Honey,” Papa said when she was finished. “Rich, help me get
the extra chairs.” Uplifted by the music, he added, “please.” Honey beamed with relief.

  Richie drove over to pick up Gram and Grampa. In the old days, Gram would’ve been here early, cooking up a storm.

  Sometimes I feel angry at her. I want to grab her and shout: “Don’t get old! Don’t die!” We used to have such good times together. We picked armloads of daisies in the field behind her house. That field is full of apartments now. Gram played dolls with me for hours. We sang songs about Jesus, and she told me funny stories about Mama’s mischief when she was a little girl. I’d lie on the couch beside Grammy and giggle.

  That’s all over now. Richie guided Grammy and Gramps into the house. They came in slowly and sat by the fire.

  “Carolyn, you look splendid!” Grammy said. “Honey, I love that dress. Richie, dear, would you hand me my purse? Thank you, dear. I need some tissue. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Margaret could be with us?”

  “She called this morning,” Mama said, and related the conversation.

  Our relatives arrived. Papa and Aunt Marion gave each other smacking kisses. Papa’s voice gets loud when he greets his sister and her husband, Uncle Wayne, and their teenage sons, Mark and Damon.

  We all swam around like fish in a tank. There was lots of talking and snacking and noise. A football game blared on the TV. I circulated with appetizers and brought Gram and Gramps cups of decaffeinated coffee, which is also the only kind that Mama drinks. She claims caffeine ruins her sleep.

  Papa, Uncle Wayne, and Uncle Toddy watched the football game. Once in a while they jumped up, shouting: “Yes!” Richie smoked cigarettes on the porch with Damon. Mark, who’s thirteen, rode Richie’s old skateboard up and down the driveway.

  I hung out with Richie and Damon for a while. When you talk to Damon, he won’t look you in the eye. He glances at his feet or off to the side. Richie does that too. He didn’t used to.

  There was a nip in the air, so I went back inside. Mama and Aunt Marion were at the dining room table, talking about how expensive everything is these days, and how crummy things are made; they fall apart as soon as you make the last payment.

  “Good thing for you!” Uncle Wayne boomed in his wife’s ear. “If it weren’t for that, I’d be out of business!” Uncle Wayne owns a car dealership.

  “You might be out of business anyway, if the economy doesn’t pick up,” Papa said.

  “You’re telling me.” Uncle Wayne nodded grimly.

  “How’s business, Bill?” Aunt Marion asked abruptly.

  “Just fine,” Papa said. “I can’t complain.”

  Papa thinks Aunt Marion is too critical, that she never has a good word to say. The same could be said for him. He’s always on Richie. Would I like my father if I didn’t love him? He was drinking beer and getting louder. His belly strained the waistband of his pants. When people disagree with him or interrupt his monologues on the Trouble with Foreigners, or the Economy’s a Disgrace, he turns up the volume and drowns them out.

  “He’s a dog!” he shouted at Uncle Wayne, referring to the coach of a football team. “They’re paying him a million and a half to lose! I wish I had a deal like that!”

  “Yeah, you’re losing for nothing,” said Aunt Marion. Papa laughed hard at her joke.

  You can tell when Aunt Marion’s going to say something sharp because her mouth puckers up, as if she’s blowing a dart.

  She said, “Richie seems a little withdrawn.”

  The barb was so pointed Mama barely felt it. Then the poison entered her bloodstream. Aunt Marion was saying that Richie is rude.

  (“He’s not rude!” I wanted to scream. “He just can’t stand you!”)

  Mama glanced toward the porch. Richie slumped on the railing. His long blond hair needed washing.

  “He’s shy,” Mama explained.

  “How’s he doing in school?”

  “Oh, fine,” Mama said. “He’s going to graduate in June. Can you believe it? The time goes so quickly.”

  “What’s he going to do?”

  “Go to college,” Mama said automatically. I wonder if she ever wonders if that’s true. “More coffee, Marion?”

  “I’ll get it, Mama.” Honey leaped up, anxious to serve.

  “That’s okay, Honey. I was going out there anyway. I’ve got to check on the turkey.”

  If we followed Mama out to the kitchen we’d see her refill Aunt Marion’s pretty cup and her own with coffee and a splash of cream.

  Then we’d see her set down the cups and go into her bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. She takes out an orange vial of pills and shakes one, no, two tablets into her palm, then gulps them down with a handful of water. Now she dries her lips and touches up her lipstick, smiles at herself in the mirror, stops smiling, applies more lipstick, smiles again, comes back into the kitchen, picks up the cups, and reappears.

  “Here you go, Marion. I hope I gave you enough cream.”

  Why is Mama so afraid? Beneath her perpetual thirst for sleep is a terrible fear of waking.

  The good thing about having so many people around is that they tend to dilute the brew. I didn’t have to talk to Uncle Toddy; he watched football and charmed Gram and Gramps. They love him. Honey took off Gram’s shoes and rubbed her feet, and told her what was new at school. Gram loves to have her feet rubbed. I don’t do that anymore. The nails on her toes look like yellow shells.

  Then we helped Uncle Toddy get dinner ready. We mashed potatoes and filled gravy boats. Uncle Toddy sliced open the turkey’s breast. Honey clamored for the crispy golden skin.

  I wrote the grace, but Honey said it. I wasn’t in the mood to give thanks. I know I should; millions of people in the world are much worse off than I am. They’re starving or buried alive in prison, cancer victims, and abused children, forgotten by God—Why doesn’t He help them? I have plenty to eat and drink and wear, a warm place to sleep, and my family around me. So it could be worse, and I’m grateful it’s not, but it probably will be. Amen.

  The grace Honey gave was more traditional: “We thank thee, Lord, for bringing us together, and keeping this family safe from harm,” etc. When she was finished, Grampa patted her hand and said, “Wonderful, Honey.” He’s a man of few words, but he means them. Grammy’s eyes shone with love and pride. “That was just right, Honey,” she said. “Thank you, dear.”

  Then we ate. Richie and the boys sat at a card table, watching the football game. Or perhaps it was a different game. Someone got hurt and was carried off the field while the crowd stood and cheered and the announcers agreed that they hoped he wouldn’t be paralyzed forever.

  After dinner we had Aunt Marion’s homemade pies, which she presented with a flourish, like a magician. “We’ll have these,” she announced. “You can put the others back in the freezer.”

  A generous offer. But let’s look closer: Put them back in the freezer—whence they came. Mama’s pies weren’t fresh and homemade; they were store-bought and frozen.

  We’d thrown away the boxes. How did Aunt Marion know?

  Gram and Gramps got tired and had to leave early. Grammy hugged me and said, “Pretty soon you’ll be able to drive me.” Grampa gave me a whiskery kiss. Richie helped them into their coats and took them home.

  Honey played the piano. I made another pot of coffee. The men and boys played dominoes. Aunt Marion talked and Mama listened. At last it was time for our guests to go.

  After they left we cleaned up the kitchen. Honey and Uncle Toddy did the dishes. She went on and on about what a terrific day it had been. I had to wonder: Where was I?

  Richie helped Papa put away the chairs, then asked to use the car, but Papa said no. Our guests were gone and the show was over. My brother slammed the door on his way out.

  I took some coffee to Mama, who was reading in bed.

  “Aren’t you sweet,” she said, “but I’m falling asleep. Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes. Did you?

  “Oh, yes,” Mama said. “It was a lovely day.” He
r eyelids drooped, her book fell shut. “Now I’m so tired.”

  I’d given her coffee with caffeine all day. Which proves the power of the mind: Whatever you believe is true, is true, if you believe it.

  9

  Just when I think it won’t happen again, when I think it was something I imagined, the ceiling above my head cracks open and my uncle descends like night.

  My body can sense when it’s going to happen. An electric current hums through the house.

  I try to escape, spending the night with a friend. Sometimes the danger passes. But usually the house is still throbbing with his charge. It could explode any second. He could hurt somebody.

  He comes not for Honey, but for me.

  He frightened her so badly she couldn’t breathe. She’s weak. I protect my sister. When he comes I turn away from my eyes and walk down a long, dark hallway in my head, to the quiet place, where it’s peaceful and safe.

  I remain there until he’s gone.

  At dinner that night I read the signals with my skin. His eyeteeth lengthen imperceptibly.

  “More linguine, Carolyn?”

  “No, thanks. I’m stuffed. I was thinking I’d go over to Nancy’s tonight, so we can study together, if that’s all right.”

  “The linguine was delicious,” Honey blurted, sensing waves ahead, trying to keep things smooth.

  “I don’t want you out tonight,” Mama said. “It’s cold.”

  “Richie could give me a ride.”

  Papa shook his head. “He’s not using the car until he pulls himself together. We got a letter today from school.”

  “Carolyn, are you sure you don’t want something else?”

  “Positive, Uncle Toddy.”

  “I’ll help Richie,” Honey offered. “He’s got plenty of time before the end of the semester.”

  I cleared away the plates. “I could walk to Nancy’s.”

  “Not tonight,” Papa said. “You heard your mother.”

  “Maybe Nancy could stay over.”

  “Not on a school night.”

  “I never get to do what I want!”

  Honey cringed.

  Mama looked shocked. “What’s the matter with you, Carolyn?”