by Densie Webb
He shrugs and unlocks the front gate.
As we step in and close the door, there is a rap on the window. I know who it is before I turn around. Gus is peering in and pointing to a nonexistent watch on his wrist, reminding me of the expiration date on his offer. I turn toward the window and he slips his sunglasses on his head. They’re a prop, another accouterment to help him blend in. As his eye catches mine, I half expect to suffer the fate of Lot’s wife as he smiles at me. I can read his lips. “Tick tock, tick tock.” And then he’s gone. I must find a supplier of the rare orchid and repair the damage done to my relationship with Andie. Not necessarily in that order.
“Fuck all,” Nicholas says, “that is one creepy Kindred. Are you sure it’s smart to deal with him?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”
Nicholas and I say little else as I turn on the fountain in the window display and prepare for the first deliveries of the day. Once everything is in place and we’re waiting for Kit, our delivery man, to arrive, I turn to Nicholas. “Are you okay?”
“Bloody stellar, mate.”
I try again. “I’m asking if you feel—what happened—was a one-time thing or— I try to weigh my words carefully, “will you no longer be able to control the hunger?”
He slumps down on the stool behind the counter, staring at his open, lineless palms as if the answer might appear there. “I honestly don’t know. If I can’t, I do know I’ll have to go my own way. Anyway,” he looks up at me, “you have Andie now. And soon you’ll have the cure.”
“Nicholas, regardless of what happens with Andie, with the cure, we’re brothers, you and I. A bond like ours can’t be broken so easily. Just think of everything we’ve been through together.”
He stands. “If I can’t regain control, what will you do, stand by and watch me kill? And if you take the cure, who’s to say I wouldn’t lose control and …”
“No, never…,” I say. “We will find a way.”
He stands up, pats me on the back and slowly makes his way to the rear of the store. For now, there’s little more to be said.
Chapter 26
Andie
The express train is rocking and rolling, as it rumbles down Broadway. The movement and the sight of the stations whizzing by amplifies my growing nausea. The car is packed as usual and I’m hanging onto one of the straps as if my life depends on it. That piece of cold metal feels like my only connection to the real world. I hope I can make it through the day. I have to unfog my brain and focus. My problems are my problems. Not Patty’s. Not Peter’s. Not Tyler’s.
Last night I needed chemical assistance to calm me; now I wish I had something to perk me up, make me concentrate—Adderall, Ritalin? I remember how close I came to crossing that line in high school, from recreational user to…something much worse. Last night, if someone had offered me heroin, I would have held out my arm and pointed out a good vein, desperate to make the pain go away.
I loathe this out-of-control feeling. But, I’ve grown enough since high school to know that it’s temporary. That I’ll eventually be able to move on, wake up in the morning without this whole Vincent episode being the first thought that pops into my head, overtakes my thoughts, and rules my day. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. But the noose tightening around my heart tells me otherwise.
At my stop, I force my way through the packed masses still on the train, jump out onto the platform, adjust my scarf and join the stream heading to the stairs. I look around at everyone scurrying to get to work on time, and wonder who else might be hiding a trauma from last night. I can’t be the only one. But somehow, I doubt anyone else is dealing with quite the same thing.
My eyes may be puffy, my face blotchy underneath my makeup, and I may feel like death served straight up, but I make it to work on time.
After greeting Shirley, I make my way down the hall and stick my head in Peter’s office.
“Peter, you got a minute?”
“Good morning, sunshine,” he says and then stops short. “Whoa, hon, you look like you have the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. You okay?”
I take a step into his office, which looks like a professional organizer put everything in place, a stark contrast to my mental mess.
“Rough night.” My voice is shaky. I put my hand to my clammy forehead. I’m perspiring. He jumps up and comes over to me.
“Andie, sit. Seriously, you look like crap. Should you even be here?”
He leads me to his desk like I’m an invalid. I sit in his chair just before my knees give way and stare at the framed picture of his chunky black pugs, Popeye and Olive Oyl.
“We broke up last night,” I blurt out.
“You and Vincent?”
I nod.
“Well, shit.”
“No, no,” I say, as I shake my head for emphasis. “What happened is actually a good thing. He showed me a side of him that…” my voice cracks.
He hovers over me and gestures for me to stand back up so he can give me a hug. I do and I feel better—temporarily.
My phone rings and Peter takes a step back. I know it’s Vincent, but I pull it out of my purse and look anyway. I sigh, hit “decline” for what feels like the hundredth time, and toss it back in. My eyes are burning with the effort of holding back tears. Peter lifts up my chin to look me in the eye.
“Sweetie, we may not have known each other long, but I know you deserve better.”
I force a weak smile. “Thanks.”
“How long were you two together?”
The realization slaps me across the face—hard—has it really only been, what? A month? This is bat-shit crazy. No, I’m bat-shit crazy.
“Not long. I was just stupid; I was acting like some love-sick teenager. He was just so beautiful, you know?”
Peter raises his eyebrows and nods in agreement. “The bad boys always are.”
“And he sweet-talked me with that French accent, telling me we were soul mates. Such bullshit.” I shake my head in shame and fidget with my scarf. My neck still hurts—and now it itches.
“I was so blown away that he wanted me—I ignored all the red flags.” But as I say the words, his image pops into my head and an aching need rises. It’s as intense as if his hands are on me, caressing my body, his tongue on my lips, his scent surrounding me. I close my eyes.
“Andie, hey, you sure you’re okay?” Peter frowns in concern.
“Just wrung out.”
I’m already counting the hours until I can obliterate this tortuous ache with vodka and whatever else I can find. Maybe those high school feelings haven’t gone, they’ve simply been lying in wait, biding their time.
Patty is in Florida at an editors’ meeting and, for that, I’m grateful. Peter and I make fantastic progress on the issue, assigning articles to freelancers, working on the page count. I get through the day with a lot of Peteresque pep talks and platitudes that, from him, feel totally sincere. Tyler, the wonder boy, pitches in. His expression conveys that he’s curious as to how my face can somehow be both ashen and green, but he’s too polite to ask.
The work takes my mind off of my growing discomfort and I’m surprised when Peter says, “Andie, why don’t we call it a day?”
“What time is it?”
“It’s six. I think we’ve done enough. Patty’ll be gone for another couple of days. We’ll have plenty of good stuff to show her when she gets back.”
Staying busy must be the answer, because the day has dissolved when I wasn’t looking. But now that I know the workday is done, I’m crashing. I turn to Peter and smile, doing my best to mask my pain. “You talked me into it.”
“Go home, make yourself a stiff drink, take a long hot shower, get a good night’s sleep.” He snaps his fingers and goes over to his desk. “Hold on.”
He reaches in his desk drawer and pulls out a pill bottle and pours two tablets into my palm. “Here, take one of these before you go to bed. I got these after Zach left. You’ll sleep like
a baby. Promise.”
I stare at the pills in my palm It’s Xanax—blue, not pink. Stronger than the one I took last night.
“It’ll be just a fraction better in the morning and the morning after that and the morning after that.” He tilts his head at me in empathy. “It takes time.”
These aren’t empty words. The first day at lunch he filled me in on his devastating breakup with the love of his life, Zach, six months before. “I still haven’t quite figured out what went wrong,” he had said. “It just kind of happened.”
It’s a disconcerting truth that both the best and worst things in life “just kind of happen.” Anyway, he said that’s when he got Popeye and Olive Oyl—to ease the pain and fill that empty spot in his life.
I wonder if a furry, four-legged creature is in my future.
I grab my phone and turn it back on. Six missed calls—five from Vincent, one from Mack. He’s left as many messages, but I refuse to listen to them. He may be a sadist, but I’m no masochist. I gather my things, bid Peter goodnight and head back to the subway.
When the train screeches into the station, I scout the cars for the least crowded one as they pass and manage to score a seat. That’s fortunate since I couldn’t have stayed in an upright position all the way home. The guy next to me is manspreading, unfolding his legs like an eagle’s wings and taking up space for two.
Normally, I would push back and give him the stink eye, but I’m so emotionally drained and sleep deprived I say nothing and nod off a couple of times, sliding over onto his shoulder and apologizing.
I feel blessed when I manage to wake up in time for my stop. Checking if my scarf is still in place, I jump up and step out onto the platform. As I emerge from the station and onto the street, my phone rings. It’s Mack.
“Andie! Where are you?”
“I just left the station. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“We keep missing each other. I have so much to tell you! Can you stop at the store and get some wine? I’ll wash the wineglasses.”
I haven’t seen Mack in a couple of days. I know she’s forgiven me, but I’m not sure I deserve forgiveness. She sounds incredibly happy, so I try to sound happy too. “Sure, no problem. How about a Cabernet?”
“Perfect. See you in a few.”
I make an about face on Broadway and head to the liquor store on 91st Street. When I push the door open, the bell tinkles, reminding me of The Black Orchid, and my heart freezes. I’m standing like a statue in the doorway, frowning at an image visible only to me. The guy behind the counter is sizing me up; maybe he thinks I’m crazy.
I wipe my mental slate clean, nod at him and smile before heading to the back of the store and, without much forethought, grab a forty-five dollar Cab. What the hell; it’s going to serve double duty—celebrate whatever Mack is happy about and dull my pain, get me through the night. I grab a second bottle for good measure and place them both on the counter along with my nearly maxed-out credit card.
“Excellent choice,” the guy behind the counter says with a thick Brooklyn accent and a hint of a lisp. “I had this the other night.”
Now that we’re face to face, his bad comb over stands out, poor guy. “Good to know,” I say. He’s talking, but I’m not listening. He takes his own sweet time swiping my card, his mouth moving constantly. I’m antsy. I want to be home already, popping the cork.
“Enjoy!” he says as he finally puts the bottles in paper bags and hands them to me.
When I reach the front door to my building, I press on the buzzer with my free thumb. “Mack, buzz me in, my hands are full!”
I hear the click of the lock, push the door open and rush to the elevator. A guy I’ve said hello to several times is holding the doors open for me. Tousled hair, scruffy beard and a crooked smile. He spots the wine.
“Celebrating?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You’re not sure?” He chuckles.
“My roommate’s request. She’s got some good news she wants to share.”
The elevator stops and the doors open. “Well, enjoy.” He hesitates as if he’s going to say something, steps out, and turns to look at me again.
Under any other circumstances, I would have been a good neighbor. Maybe asked him if he wanted to come by later for a taste.
That’s what I would have done, before.
Before Vincent.
From now on, I have to be more cautious about who I invite into my life.
Chapter 27
Vincent
At the end of each workday, flowers remain that are past their prime, unsellable, but still beautiful to my eye and sweetly fragrant. I’ve been giving them to a homeless woman, who recently claimed the street corner near the shop as hers. Each day, as a penance, I slip a few dollars in the pocket of her tattered coat and give her a bouquet that I arrange with the same care I give paying customers.
Today it’s red roses and baby’s breath. Her name is Frankie. No last name, just Frankie. She always gifts me with a toothless grin and says, “Thank you, son. You have a beautiful soul.” And for that brief moment in time, I believe her.
But today, when I lean over to offer the flowers to her, her bloodshot eyes widen, and she grabs my hand with her claw-like nails. The flowers scatter at her feet like an offering. She looks me in the eye and shouts, “Repent, serpent! You must cleanse your heart and mind to bring you closer to the Lord!”
Shocked by her sudden outburst, I jerk my hand away and step back.
“You must beg forgiveness. Blessed are the dead who die in the presence of the Lord.”
Shouting of religious epithets from a raggedy beggar draws little attention on the streets of Manhattan, but it leaves me shaken. What is inside of me is invisible to most, but it’s as if she has seen me—really seen me.
Or is it just the ramblings of an unstable homeless woman, who long ago lost her grasp on reality?
On hands and knees, she gathers her flowers from the sidewalk and places them in the vase I gave her last week. For Frankie, the moment has passed and she smiles up at me.
Over the last one hundred and fifty years, only a handful of times have suspicions been raised as to what I am. But never so publicly. I scan her weathered face, but she is no longer with me; she is gazing at her flowers, talking to the exhaust-filled breeze that floats down Broadway.
I walk away rattled.
My phone buzzes and hope soars that it is Andie texting me, wanting me. She will wipe away my stain, make me forget, make me feel whole again.
It is Nicholas asking me to meet him at the Bloody Mug.
****
When I walk in the door, Nicholas is standing at the bar, a frosted beer mug in his hand. He waves me over.
The first words from his mouth are, “Any word from Andie, mate?”
“No.” I turn to the bartender. “Chivas on the rocks.” My drink of choice since I was old enough to imbibe, it is one of the few comforting constants in my life.
He leans back against the bar and scans the room.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I ask, knowing he can’t answer with any surety.
He downs the rest of his beer and taps it on the bar, to ask for refill. “One more for good measure.”
He looks me in the eye. “You know what to do if…”
It’s been decades since he asked for my help, but I nod in agreement and turn to look at the people in the bar. He should have no trouble. But will he be able to stop? Will I be able to stop him?
He catches the eye of a young man who is gazing at Nicholas with deep longing; Nicholas has made the right choice. Control will be easier to maintain if his own sexual desire is not part of the equation.
He downs the rest of his beer in a few gulps.
“Okay,” he says, “wait a minute or two and follow us out to the alley.”
I turn to the bartender. “Another.” I hear Nicholas and the young man talking. His name is Jeff. He looks so young but is likely no
younger than I was when time stopped for me. Though my body doesn’t feel the passage of time, it’s impossible not to acknowledge the years, the decades, the centuries passing and that makes me feel aged.
The more time that passes, the more disconcerting I find the discrepancy between my biological and chronological ages. My own youthful reflection staring back in a mirror is a ghost of the past.
Nicholas and Jeff stand. That’s my signal to down the rest of my drink, pay the bartender and discreetly follow them into the alley. Whatever happens next could determine Nicholas’ future. Our future. Jeff is merely anticipating a lusty encounter with a stranger. Nicholas will look into his eyes and calm him. I know how long it will take. I know what Nicholas will feel. I know what Jeff will feel. I know how it feels when there is no calming, when my pain was another’s pleasure. The memory is a razor across my tongue.
When I step into the alley, Jeff’s body is limp.
“Nicholas!” The low growl of satisfaction emanates from his throat and he makes no move to stop. I grab his arm. “Nicholas, stop!”
He quickly pulls away and Jeff’s limp form crumples onto the concrete. I kneel next to him and feel for a pulse. It’s slow, but strong. I look up at Nicholas, who is in an altered state.
“He’ll be okay. We must leave.”
He wipes the blood from his lips. “I didn’t want to stop. I wouldn’t have stopped…”
“But you did.”
Nicholas is slowly returning to the present. He rubs the back of his neck and glances at Jeff.
“Fuck all! So what—are you going to bloody babysit me each time?”
He abruptly walks away and I let him. He turns the corner and is out of sight just as Jeff’s eyes blink open.
“Are you okay?”
“Uh, what happened??”
“I heard a moan and found you on the ground here. Better check your pockets, do you have your wallet? Your phone?”
He sits up and pats his jacket. “Yeah, everything’s here.”
I help him stand. He leans against the wall and props himself up.
“I must have blacked out or something. The last thing I remember is sitting in the bar, drinking a beer. Not even sure how I got here.”
