Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

  Max and I had met during the mid-60’s when I had been working as the night shift waitress at a truck stop. It had been one of the more ideal jobs for me, so many people passing through at all hours of the night, so many warm, anonymous bodies to take in the darkness.

  I can remember the odors and the tastes of that time vividly: the warm fumes of gasoline filtering through the summer nights, the musty smell of marijuana that clung to the uniforms of the other waitresses, the odd and individual flavors of the blood of the drivers that passed by the truck stop regularly. Buddy had been the truck driver that night. He came through the stop once a month and always asked for me to deliver his coffee. He was dark–haired and only slightly overweight, with the plump, youthful face of a cherub. Some of the girls complained of his body odor, but he suited me just fine, and his blood had, I imagined, a sweeter flavor than most. He never complained like some others about the sharp nip I would give him during our love play and he never missed what I took.

  I struggled back into my tight, pink uniform, and as I got out of his truck, he jumped out and gave me a small swat on the behind. “You serve the best coffee in the tri-state area, darlin’.”

  “Thank you, Buddy.” My eyes danced as I reached up to kiss him. I adjusted his collar to hide the fang marks on his neck.

  “Go easy on the hickies next time, honey. The last one you gave me lasted two weeks and the missus got suspicious.” He was smiling as he said it, proud, I thought, of our monthly liasons.

  “I just can’t control myself around you, Buddy.” I gave him another kiss, this one on the cheek and watched as he got back into the cab. “Drive carefully, and see you next month.”

  I watched him drive away and looked at my watch. It was time for me to go off shift. I would sleep well this night.

  I stopped off to deposit half of Buddy’s tip in the cash register. As I walked out, Max walked in; our eyes met as we passed in the doorway. Just for that one second, I was overwhelmed with a sense of unity, a recognition of a soul within that could speak to mine. Then he blinked, the feeling faded and we went our separate ways. I thought about him as I drove to the isolated trailer in which I made my home; thought about the many years spent in a fruitless search, trying to discover someone who could share in my life, allay in some way the dark loneliness within which I existed. No spark had ever flared, until now. Not for the first time, I cursed the ill chance that made me what I was. If I could have endured the sunlight, I might have been able to stay and cultivate a relationship with this man. I was sure that, like all the others, he would be gone by tomorrow night.

  When I arrived at work the next evening, however, he was waiting outside the door, and softly called my name. I smiled broadly for the mere joy of his presence.

  “How did you know my name?” I asked curiously.

  His voice was deep and cultured and seemed to caress my ears. “Well, for one thing, I asked your friends about you last night. And it’s written as plain as day on your uniform.” He chuckled a little at my expense, but somehow I didn’t mind.

  “Yes, I guess it is.” I glanced at the name embroidered on the cheap dress, embarrassed because I had forgotten it was there. In reality it was no more my name than any of the others I had carried over the years. But here, at a tiny truck stop in Kansas I was known as Diane Gleason. “But,” I said with a smile, “your name isn’t.”

  “I’m Max,” he said briefly. “Max Hunter.” Then after a small pause, “Do you think you could get tonight off? I’ll only be in town for a few more days, and I’d like to get to know you.”

  One of the oldest lines in the book, I thought, but it didn’t matter. He seemed so perfect.

  I went into the diner and got permission to take the night off. Sincc I usually had nothing else to do, I had covered for the other waitresses more than a few times; now they could return the favor. Besides, Max had made quite an impression on them last night, and they were happy to oblige when I promised a detailed report on him the next day.

  He drove me to my trailer so that I could change my clothes. I half expected him to make his move then, but he waited politely in the car until I came out, dressed in jeans and a black suede shirt, fringed and strewn with sequins. It was one of my favorite garments, but I seldom had a chance to wear it. I caught his admiring glance as I got into the car and felt that the long evenings cutting and stitching had all been worth it.

  “You have a good eye for clothes, Diane. That’s very attractive.” He reached over, to touch the material, I thought, but instead he stroked my cheek gently, moving his fingers softly to the base of my neck. A sweet chill ran through me and I moved toward him, waiting for his next caress. It didn’t come. Instead he pulled away, leaving me confused and disappointed.

  “Where shall we go?” he asked innocently, as if the contact had not been made.

  I laughed at his question. “There isn’t much open after dark around here, but just keep driving. We can find something to do eventually, I’m sure.” He ignored the innuendo and did as I suggested.

  We drove around most of the night, stopping at a few bars, or private clubs as the law liked to call them, along the way. Mostly we talked and laughed, sharing stories of our lives and our hopes for the future. He was traveling across the country from California to the east coast, I found out, and hoped to open a restaurant or club if he could get the financing. He thought that I was something of a gypsy, moving from town to town, never staying more than a few years in any one place.

  “How can you ever establish a home for yourself that way, Diane Gleason?” He was still making fun of the name on my uniform and we laughed, as if it were the funniest joke ever told. I found him charming and attractive, so different from the men I met at the truck stop, and began to wonder if I could make a mate of him. Shortly before dawn, he brought me back to the trailer, and after making arrangements to meet the next evening, kissed me quickly, his lips hard and demanding on mine.

  “Would you like to come in?” I asked breathlessly.

  “You are beautiful, Diane, and so alive. Who would ever have thought . . .” His voice trailed off as he buried his mouth in my hair.

  “Thought what, Max?”

  He held me at arms length and looked at me intently, then smiled. “That I could find a girl like you in a place like this.” He kissed me once more and let me go. “I’ve got to go, now. Till tomorrow.” He got into his car and sped away.

  “Till tomorrow,” I repeated as I entered my trailer.

  The sun was rising as I pulled the drapes and laid down on my bed. Long after I should have been asleep, I thought about Max and the evening we had spent. Formulating plans for converting him into a creature like me, I tried to remember the procedure from the countless books I had read. My own transformation was hazy, veiled in a disturbing dream, and so could offer no solution. I fell asleep composing the words to my proposal. I would offer him endless youth and life; he and I could be united forever.

  We spent the next few nights together. I took a week’s vacation from work, something I hadn’t done in the past two years. We must have put hundreds of miles on his car, doing nothing but driving and talking. Just being with Max made me feel more human than I had in years; I was young and vibrant again, the long lonely times finally behind me. On our last night together, we found a deserted country road, miles away from everything. We lay in a field, staring at the night sky. Thinking how I wanted to preserve the moment forever: the silence, the stars and his presence, I sighed, almost involuntarily.

  “I have to leave tomorrow,” he said abruptly; his words were a brutal interruption of the quiet night. “There’s no way around it.”

  Something in the tone of his voice angered me, a detachment, and coldness I had never heard before. “Well, you needn’t sound so damned happy about it,” I snarled at him. “I knew you would only be here tor a while. You owe me nothing.”

  “On the contrary, my love, I owe you a lot. You’ve renewed me, taken me away from my ow
n selfish pursuits, made me feel that life may be worth living, after all. But even at that, I have to leave.” The words were properly sincere, but the voice was that of a stranger. “You could come with me, I suppose, but I have never been able to sustain a lasting relationship with anyone before; I care too much about you to give you less than you deserve. It’s better to end things right now.”

  I studied his profile in the moonlight, trying to etch it into my memory as I considered his words. The proposal I had rehearsed night after night would not come; I was too proud, too unsure of him. I could take him by force, change him as I had been changed, perhaps, but I wanted a willing partner, someone who could move gracefully into my existence. That partner would not be him. My perception of him as eternal companion began to fade, replaced by the vision of his face in twenty or thirty years, aging and grayed. Max would become one with all the others, those whom I touched and those who had touched me, only to be claimed by their final lover—death—while I lived on. With that thought, I let go of him, reluctantly, yet completely, condemning him to his fate and me to mine.

  “Hell, Max,” I said quietly and tenderly, “in the whole scheme of eternity, it can hardly matter.”

  “Ah, eternity,” he said, giving a low laugh. “What must eternity be like?”

  “Terrible,” I said as our eyes met, “yet beautiful when filled with times like this.”

  We turned to each other then and made love in the cool night air. It seemed a bitter union, desperate and futile. Mentally we had both accepted the inevitable separation; physically we clung to each other in a desperate attempt to postpone the parting. We were joined in an animal mating; instinct took over, leaving no room for intellect or emotion. We were merely two bodies, taking from each other, insatiable yet dispassionate. In the final moments when our lovemaking grew frantic, our peak very near, I realized that I had been crying for some time, a silent outpouring of blood-tinged tears, flowing down my face, soaking my hair and the dark earth beneath me.

  When it was over, we drove in silence back to my trailer. Max came in for the first and last time, and lay down on my narrow bed as I prepared for sleep. I drew the drapes, slowly undressed and crawled in beside him.

  “Max,” I said and could say no more.

  “Hush, my little love, sleep now.” He crooned and rocked me; I relaxed and slept in his arms like a child.

  When I awoke the next evening, he was gone. He left a printed card on the pillow with his address. Almost as an afterthought, the words “Love, Max” were scrawled in red ink.

  I could not cry, all my tears had been shed during our lovemaking. I dressed and returned to the life I led before we met.

  We had kept in touch over the years, Christmas cards from him and change of address notices from me. When my luck ran out in a small southern town, where a persistent sheriff had grown too curious about my nocturnal activities, Max had answered my distress call with a plane ticket, a new life and a new identity. After I arrived in Manhattan, I had offered him no explanations and he had asked no questions.

  I broke down one night about three years later and confessed to him the horrors of my life. Max needed little convincing, he had already observed some of my more telling habits: that I never went out into full sunlight, never consumed solid food, how weekly I would choose a man from the dance floor of the Ballroom and return from the encounter revitalized and strengthened. He was curious, not frightened, and his only stipulation to belief was that I allow him to observe a feeding. When this had been done, he laughingly admitted that I either was a vampire or gave an amazingly convincing imitation of one. It was at this point that he began screening potential victims and directing them my way. I accepted his assistance out of the love I still felt for him. But even with my confession, or perhaps because of it, our relationship never progressed further than friendship. It was almost as if that one night of love had never happened.

  A loud knock on the door interrupted my thoughts and I was jolted back into the present. “Come in,” I called softly, wondering why Max would knock. When the door opened, my question was answered. A stranger stood there looking rather ill at ease, and yet oddly sure of himself. He was not the normal type that frequented the club, he looked older than most of the patrons, probably in his late forties. He was tall, fair and well built, but rather nondescript, I thought, until my gaze rested on his face. He had a strong, hawk–like nose and eyes bluer and more intense than any I had ever seen. A tough customer, I thought to myself as I rose from the couch to greet him.

  “Hello, you must be looking for Max. He should be here in a few minutes. Sit down and I’ll see if I can find him for you.”

  “Actually,” he said slowly and deliberately, looking me up and down in an appraising manner, “I’ve already seen him. It’s you I want to see, if you’re Deirdre Griffin. I was told you’d be here.”

  “Business or pleasure?” I asked him, smiling my most seductive smile. As a peace offering from Max, he was not really my type, nor was he necessary tonight, but it was a nice gesture. “How can I help you, Mr . . . ?”

  “Detective Mitchell Greer, Miss Griffin. And most definitely business.” He gave me a stern look and flashed his badge briefly. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Thursday night and one of the customers here. I believe you were acquainted with him.” He settled commandingly into the chair behind Max’s desk, leaving me with two obvious options. I could remain standing before him like a schoolgirl called to the principal’s office or I could sit in one of the side chairs like a prospective employee to be interviewed and grilled. I liked neither of these options, so I walked to the bar and poured myself another drink, mostly to steady my now shaking hands. I lounged against the bar and waited for him to continue.

  “Bill Andrews, did you know him?” he asked, all the while studying my face with those incredible eyes.

  I saw no reason not to tell most of what had occurred. There was, I felt, still no way that I could be connected to his death. No one, especially not this man, could believe in what I am. And perhaps, if I were subtle enough in my prying, I could discover the true cause of Bill’s death, and salve my conscience.

  “Yes, Detective Greer, I met him here that night. We drank and danced, as I remember. Then he took a taxi home; he had overindulged a bit. I read about his death in the paper the next day.”

  He seemed surprised at the openness of my answer. “And just how well did you know him, Miss Griffin? I suppose he was a regular here.”

  “No, he had never been here before to my knowledge. I can’t even imagine how you knew he’d been here at all.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of matches. “He had these in his coat. His wife said that he didn’t smoke, and that they had never been here together, so we assumed he had been here that night and met someone. An employee here said that you and Bill were together, and Max Hunter confirmed that the two of you had left the dance floor together.” He smugly put the matches back into his pocket.

  Max? I thought. Why would he willingly give my name to someone in a situation like this? He of all people knew that one night in jail, or one day, could easily kill me. I tried to keep the anger at bay, but when I spoke, my response was scornful and more a reaction to Max than to this man. “I guess that is an example of brilliant investigative work. Nice job, Detective.” I bared my teeth in more of a grimace than a smile.

  Astonishingly, he smiled back, a disarming sort of smile that made him look years younger. “Well,” he admitted sheepishly, “it’s not exactly brilliant, but it gave us the only lead we have. To be perfectly honest, we can’t really discover much of a motive in this case and we were hoping to find one here.”

  I softened a bit toward him, and then realized that that was probably his intention. “I really wish I could help you,” I said stiffly, “but I’m afraid that I am just as puzzled as you. I did not know him very well, we had only just met that evening, you see. He did not seem to be the sort that would be i
nvolved in anything that would result in his death.”

  “He also didn’t seem the sort that would be involved with someone like you. But apparently he was. You and he were reported to have slipped away to some back room here at the club. Would you mind explaining what transpired between the two of you?” His smile had gone and he was again an uncompromising inquisitor.

  “I do not care for the tone of your voice or the implications you seem to be making, Detective. Someone here should be able to back up my statement that he took a taxi home, alone. In view of that fact, I can’t see that what happened between the two of us is any of your business.”

  He gave me another of his sharp, appraising stares. “It is my business when what happens is against the law.”

  “And exactly what are the charges? Drinking? Dancing without a license? Corrupting the morals of an attorney?”

  “Miss Griffin, this is not a joke. While certainly not as serious as some crime, prostitution is still against the law. And it’s my job to enforce that law. You’ll find that I take my job very seriously.

  I must have stared at him in shock for a few seconds. Prostitution? And all the while I thought he was questioning me for the murder of Bill Andrews. I began to laugh, softly at first, then loudly and for a long time. “I’ll have to thank you for this, Detective, when I recover,” I said between bursts of laughter. “I haven’t been so amused for a long time.”

  He seemed confused by my outburst, then a shy smile brushed his face. “Another great piece of investigative work, huh? The evidence seemed so overwhelming, you coming here so often, meeting so many men. Well, it just didn’t look right.”

  I guessed this was as close as he would get to an apology and I was so relieved at not being suspected in the murder of Bill Andrews that I let him off the hook.

  “Trust me,” I said still smiling, “my morals may not be impeccable, but I do not take money in return for my favors.” Not in this lifetime, anyway, I added silently. “For one thing, I don’t need to.”