“I’m afraid so, Pete. You see, that young man who stopped by yesterday is Mitch’s son.”
He nodded knowingly; he had no idea of what my life had been before I had arrived at his door in response to his advertisement for a barmaid, but I had mentioned Mitch and our attachment.
“So he wants you back. Not that I blame him, he should have sent for you a long time ago. He’s a lucky fool, this Mitch of yours.” He picked up my suitcase and set it behind the bar. “And when do you leave?”
“Tonight.” I shrugged off my cloak and hung it on the hook, replacing it with an apron. “You see, it’s an emergency and too complicated to explain right now, but when I get back, you can have the whole story.”
He returned my smile. “I’ll hold you to that, darlin’. And what am I to do while you’re gone? Where could I find as good a partner or as juicy a barmaid as you?”
“I’m sorry, Pete,” I began, but he laughed and gave me a fatherly pat on my behind.
“Now don’t you worry one minute over what I’ll be doing. Sure and I’ll miss you, but I’ll manage fine. As long as you don’t want to cash in your half of the business.”
I matched his lighthearted tone as I opened the cash drawer and looked at the small amount of money it contained. “What, and miss out on all this profit? No, Pete, you will not get rid of me that easily.”
“Good, then you can return to your Mitch with my blessings. But you be sure to tell him now that I said he should make an honest woman out of you.”
I reached over and gave him a small hug. “I don’t think there’s much of a chance of that, but thank you for saying it.” I handed him the extra front-door key. “Look after my place while I’m gone.”
He nodded and turned his back to me for a minute, busying himself at the bar. When he turned around his eyes were slightly wet and he held up a full glass of stout for a toast. “Listen, boys,” Pete’s voice echoed in the nearly empty room, “our little Dottie’s going away.” His announcement was met with laughter from the customers. We hadn’t made any attempt to keep our conversation, so they had overheard every word. Still, it was just like Pete to make this an occasion for celebration. “Drinks on the house.”
By seven o’clock the party was getting out of hand. Pete was leading the growing crowd in a second rendition of “Knees Up, Mother Brown” when Chris entered. The bell on the door clanged in a tone of finality, and the singing stopped. I introduced Chris and made my good-byes quietly, with a word for each of the regulars and a long kiss for Pete that caused them all to hoot and applaud. With a courtliness that belonged to another age, he solemnly consigned my suitcase to the waiting cabbie, and clapped Chris on the shoulder.
“Take care of our Dorothy, young man. And Dottie, you come back soon, darlin’.”
I hugged him one more time and got into the cab. Chris moved around to the other side and slammed his door. As we drove off, I turned and gave Pete a final wave, watching until he went back inside, then settled into my seat and sighed.
“Deirdre”—Chris reached over and lightly, tentatively, touched my arm—“are you okay?”
I looked at his young, eager face and felt a poignant wave of sadness. “Over a hundred years of good-byes—you’d think I would be used to it by now. But every time it hurts.”
“Oh.”
The cabbie gave a small chuckle. “If you’re a hundred years old, lady, then I’m the Prince of Wales. The airport, right?”
“That’s right, Charlie,” I said with a forced cheerfulness. “We need to make a nine o’clock flight.”
Three hours into the flight, when most of the passengers were asleep, I became aware that Chris was watching me, the window reflecting a thoughtful expression on his face. We had eaten dinner—rare prime rib for me, seafood for him—and drunk numerous glasses of wine; our conversation had been commonplace, merely a relating of personal events happening over the past two years. We both avoided the mention of Mitch, or the plans we should be making for our return. After our meal he had occupied himself with magazines and a paperback detective novel, a taste he and his father shared, I noted with a small smile. And I had watched out the window, thinking of nothing but the clear black sky and the clouds below us, billowing and curling.
I turned away from the night and smiled at him. “It is a beautiful night for flying, don’t you think?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but planes always make me a little nervous. How about you?”
“Nervous? No, I feel perfectly at home right now.” I spoke mostly to put him at ease, but realized as I said it that it was true. The overhead lights were dimmed, with only a few reading lights to illuminate the darkness. Well fed and rejuvenated, my body was satisfied, and my mind content to contemplate nothing but the warmth of the cabin, the faint human scent of the passengers, and the night sky outside. “I could fly like this forever.”
“Well,” Chris said with a wry, almost bitter smile, “I’m glad someone is enjoying themselves.”
“Chris, I’m as worried as you about Mitch.”
He looked down at the book on his lap, folded down the corner of a page to mark his place, and slid it into his coat pocket. “Deirdre, we need to talk about this before we land. There are things you need to know.”
“Fine, Chris, go ahead.”
He threw me a doubtful look and glanced around the plane. The passengers nearest us were sleeping, but he lowered his voice to a near whisper anyway. “I know you insist that there are no other vampires, just you and Max, but you must know that’s impossible. There have to be others.”
“I don’t deny their existence, Chris. Of course I know that somewhere there must be others. I just can’t see that they would have any relevance to Mitch or me.”
“That’s exactly what Dad thought—until they began coming to him at night, tormenting him, deviling him.” His eyes darted restlessly before returning to me. “I, well, I don’t quite know how to say this without it sounding callous or hard. I don’t really mean it that way, honest, But that’s why Dad didn’t contact you himself; he was determined to take it on, to keep it from you so that you wouldn’t be involved in any way.”
“Involved in what, Chris?”
He clenched his fists, and his voice grew louder. “But you are involved, aren’t you? And in taking the responsibility for your actions, my father is being punished. It’s your place, Deirdre; you’re the one they want. So, I came to get you, hoping that you would still have enough humanity to respond.”
“And I did, it would appear.” I reached over and laid my hand on his trembling arm. “I’ll help all I can, you know that.”
“Yeah,” he said, shrinking away from my hand, “and that only makes it worse, somehow. You see, I haven’t really brought you back to just save Dad. The others, they want the one who killed Max, and right now they think it’s Dad. But when you arrive, I don’t see how even you can hide your involvement.” Chris looked at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his face showing fear and guilt. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. They want you dead, Deirdre, and I’ve brought you to them.”
Chapter 4
I began to laugh, softly at first, then louder, with only a small trace of hysteria. Chris looked at me in disbelief, and a stewardess rushed to our seats.
“Miss, ah, Grey”—she consulted her passenger listing—“we’ll be landing in less than three hours. Would you like another drink? Or maybe a pillow or blanket? Most of our passengers find that resting is a good way to pass the time.”
“I understand,” I said, still choked with laughter. “I am sorry, and yes, I would like another glass of wine. Thank you for asking.”
Her arched brows told me she thought I had already had enough, but she dutifully fetched my drink. After she left I took one long sip and, sufficiently calmed, turned to Chris. The expression on his face had changed from guilt to embarrassment. I smiled in my most reassuring manner, but he relaxed only slightly.
“Look, Chris, I think it is very sweet of you to
be concerned about me, but I can take care of myself. And if I can’t”—I shrugged—“well, I’ll deal with that if it happens.” I turned my face to the window again. “It wouldn’t be that great a loss, after all.”
He wasn’t meant to hear my last words, but his ears were sharper than I thought.
“How can you say that? Doesn’t your life mean anything to you at all?”
“Chris,” I sighed, forcing my gaze away from the night sky, “I’m old and tired. I have led an interesting life, if you can call it that. I’ve lived through three major wars, and more historical events than you can remember. Everyone I have ever known or loved has died or will die, while I go on virtually forever. And what sort of legacy do I leave? A few dresses on a rack somewhere, a couple of pages in some lousy scrapbook, or maybe just a hazy memory locked inside the head of some man I met in a bar, someone I subsequently and cold-heartedly drained of a portion of his blood so that I could live?” I shook my head slightly. “No, Chris, it would not be that great a loss.”
“But what about Dad?” His tone of voice was indignant and belligerent, his expression and question displaying such a youthful ignorance that, unexpectedly, I grew angry.
“What about him? He wants no part of me, a fact he made quite plain in the letter he sent less than two years ago. I would be a sorry fool if I believed anything else.”
“Oh.” Chris gave me an odd look; he opened his mouth and shut it quickly, as if he wanted to say something else then thought better of it. He shook his head instead. “Why did you agree to come back with me?”
I sat quietly for a moment, listening to Max’s laughter echoing in my head. “Now’s the time, my dear, to give him the speech. You know, that one about how the future doesn’t matter, about how you have to be with the man you love. You were quite eloquent about it once, if I remember correctly.”
“Just stay out of it,” I murmured, turning my face to the window.
“What?”
I looked back at Chris and gave him a half smile. “You are right, Chris.” Laughing softly at my own folly, I continued. “It seems a shame that over a century of living did not make me smarter, but where your father is concerned, I am a fool. Now”—I reached over and gently smoothed his hair—“settle back and get some sleep. I have some thinking to do.”
It was raining when we landed in New York, a cold rain, soft but insistent. Due to a technical problem at the gates, we had to walk from the plane to the terminal, and although the airline supplied umbrellas, we were still completely soaked by the time we got inside. The airport was crowded; somehow I had managed to forget just how many people lived there. We arrived at the baggage claim, and I was trembling, not with the wetness of my clothes and hair, but with the overwhelming presence of so many humans. My senses were deluged by the odor, the jostling, the warmth of these living bodies all pressed together. I leaned against the wall and rubbed my hands over my face, feeling faint and exhilarated at the same time.
“You okay?” Chris came over to me, our suitcases in hand.
I nodded weakly. “Can we go now?”
He led the way through the airport, and eventually we burst through the front doors into the night. I sighed my relief; he hailed a taxi and we got in.
“Where are you staying?”
I looked over at Chris. “I haven’t made any arrangements yet. I had thought I might go back to my old place.”
He reached into his pocket and handed me a set of keys. “Dad’s place is empty right now. Why don’t you stay there for a while?”
I looked at the keys and hesitated.
“Go on,” he urged. “Why spend the money for a hotel? I’d feel better knowing that you were there. Besides, I live just a few blocks away; it would be more convenient.”
“Fine,” I agreed, “but just for now.”
When we arrived at Mitch’s apartment, Chris walked in with me and opened the door. It was exactly as it had been when Mitch lived there. Except for the musty, unoccupied odor that lingered in the air, it was as if he had just stepped out for a moment.
“I hope it’s okay.” Chris glanced around doubtfully. “I cleaned up the best I could.”
I looked at the room, the books neatly lined up, the tables dusted, the vacuum cleaner tracks on the carpet, and felt a small shiver of déjà vu. “I see that you Greers are all the same.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” I gave a small laugh at his confusion but did nothing to explain myself. The similarity to his father was almost uncanny; the neatness, the expectation of my arrival was so much like Mitch’s attitude that I could almost feel his presence.
“Well”—Chris moved nervously toward the door—“if everything is okay, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll go see Dad.”
“That would be fine. Call around sunset. I assume there are visiting hours at night?”
“Seven to nine,” he informed me. “We should probably leave here no later than six.”
“Great. See you then. Good night.”
He closed the door and I heard him go down the stairs and out the front door. The cab door closed, the motor surged, and he was gone, leaving me alone with my memories.
For a time I wandered through the apartment, studying the rows of books, amazed once more at their variety. Idly, I ran my finger down the spines of the books, then went into the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty except for two bottles of wine. Silently thanking Chris for his forethought, I poured myself a glass from one and carried it and my suitcase into the bedroom.
This room was also clean—too clean, it seemed to me, but I restrained the urge to open my valise and throw the clothes about. Instead, I opened the closet and looked at the rows of Mitch’s clothes. A faint smell arose from them, and I closed my eyes for a minute to isolate the aroma, to breathe it in more deeply, to fill my lungs with the odor of him.
“Damn.” I turned away from the closet and left the room. All at once I felt restless and trapped, and knew that I could not sleep there that night. Tomorrow during the sunlight would be soon enough. I picked up the phone and called a taxi.
The cemetery gates were locked and the graveyard was surrounded by a tall, heavy fence. Smiling to myself about the old joke, I reached down and grasped the padlock in my hand, looking up and down the street to see if I was being observed. There was no one in sight; I had sent the cab driver away, and who else in their right mind would be visiting a cemetery at night? Who, indeed, I thought with a small laugh, pulled the lock apart, pushed open the gates, and closed them again behind me.
Walking quickly, I passed through the older section, where the tombstones were tilted at odd angles and the ground gently rounded. As if from a great distance, the noises outside the gates seemed muffled and indistinct. Even the sounds of my passage were muted; the scratching sounds of my boots on the gravel were no more than a whisper in the night.
I had received directions to the grave site when I had purchased the plot, and as I entered the newer section, I recited the landmarks to myself. “Three trees clumped on the right, two benches and a water faucet, then the third grave to the left.” It turned out to be nothing like my dreams, but then, I thought with a shrug, what is?
The granite marker stood tall and proud, bearing the simple inscription over which I had commiserated for much too long, especially when one viewed the final result: his name, the date on which he died, and one word, “Father.” I had considered many inscriptions—some were humorous, some slandering or sentimental—but realized finally that my feelings about Max were too confused, too convoluted, and had settled for that one relationship. It made little difference that somewhere else lay another much loved under that same title; his earthly remains had long since gone to dust, and Max, I reasoned, was truly the father of the creature I had become.
I stood for a long time, contemplating his grave. I waited for his voice in my mind, his step on the path, the emergence of his grasping hands. There was nothing but
silence. Feeling oddly at ease, I sat down on top of his grave and leaned against the tombstone. The grass was icy and the stalks pushed themselves into my stockings, but the earth remained still and I was alone.
“Max.” I addressed him solemnly, my quiet voice forcing strange echoes from the surrounding stones. “I want to make peace. We have paid for your death. Both Mitch and I have paid. Let it go. Let us go.”
There was no response, not even a glimmer of his presence. I laughed softly at myself, for I already knew that he chose his own time, his own appearances. But still I sat for some time, thinking, weighing the actions of my past, searching my mind for any alternatives that could have been chosen over his death. I came to the same conclusion as always: He had given me no choice; his death had been unavoidable. And although I regretted the deed and missed his presence as acutely as I would a piece of my own body, I knew finally that, given the same situation, I would kill him again.
I rose from the ground slowly and with a sigh. This was as much peace as I would realize, tonight or any other. There was nothing here for me; there never was. I brushed away the dead leaves that had adhered to the back of my cloak. As my hands touched them, they crumbled, but the brittle crunching sounds they made did not disguise the approaching footsteps. I stiffened and remained standing with my back to the path, not really wishing to face this apparition.
“Deirdre?” There was surprise in his voice, and recognition. “It is you, is it not? It’s been a long time.”
Inwardly I relaxed. The slightly accented voice seemed vaguely familiar, but it was not Max’s. I turned around.
I knew that we had met before, but I could not quite remember his name. He was distinguished, handsome and his clothing spoke softly of old money. I pulled my cloak together and folded one arm over it, ashamed of my own apparel, suited more for the life I led in England than the one I had led in America. But I gave him a gracious smile and extended my other hand to him. “So nice to see you again, Mr., ah . . .” I felt myself blushing, wishing I could remember his name.
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