At the Twilight's Last Gleaming

by David Bischoff

  Meanwhile, I got up and eased down onto the couch. I didn’t sit right next to the the arm of the couch, but neither did I sit close to Emory. Still, being closer to him did make some kind of difference.

  For one thing, I immediately caught a faint suggestion of that way he’d smelled when he’d enfolded me in his Dracula cape onstage. Lilies. Most definitely he smelled very faintly and very pleasantly of stargazer lilies. My dad loved flowers, and he loved the way they smelled. He’d always point them out to me by their names when we walked by them or looked at them. If they were fragrant flowers, like roses, and it was okay, he’d make a special point of stopping and sniffing them -- and suggestion that I do as well. It was kind of a father-daughter ritual.

  I also noticed how nice Emory’s clothes were. They certainly weren’t the cheap sort we saw in Hecht’s or the Andrews Air Force Base commissary, but more the sort Dad would be able to get in London for special occasions because the dollar was strong against the pound. The fabrics in his pants were rich tweed. The socks were fine wool. His shoes looked handmade, and they had a sweet brown shine. And that cashmere! And it all looked fitted, tailored, so his tall angular frame seemed to fill out more. It all seemed so proportionate with absolute maleness-- and something more that seemed to strike me on an even deeper level.

  “That’s a really nice sweater, Emory,” I said. “Cashmere?”

  “Yes. It was a recent Christmas present from my Grandmother.”

  “So soft. Mind if touch it?”

  “Why certainly, if you like.”

  I scooched over beside him more, as he lifted an arm. I let my hand run down the sweater. It was luscious, a delicate rich softness.... The arm beneath it was much more muscular than I’d imagined.

  I felt all wobbly inside. He smiled at me, and his eyes were kind, but also mysterious. We looked at each other like that for a moment, and there was a thrill. A frisson. It ran through me, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. His eye grew puzzled, and he looked at me for one moment suspended in time.

  The show started.

  Emory just smiled at me and let his arm down and turned to watch the Star Trek episode.

  I stayed right where I was on the couch. I turned my head toward the adventures the Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock and the U.S.S. Enterprise, but my mind was firmly orbiting Emory Clarke.

  The episode that night was called “The Immunity Syndrome”. Kirk and company encountered this giant amoeba floating around in space that clamps onto them and starts sucking out their life force. It wasn’t one of the better episodes, but it was fun and exciting and colorful. Mr. Spock gets to pilot the shuttle around a bit, and there was lots of sturm und drang, as usual.

  Harold and Cheryl watched, transfixed, barely coming out from their spells. Emory seemed less interested, though, maybe a bit uncomfortable. Once I caught his eyes drifting over to me and there was a strange look to them. Startled? Alarmed? I don’t know. For a bit, he even repelled or angry that I was there. Something wasn’t right anyway. But then, most of the way through the episode, he closed his eyes for a bit. When he opened them again, he was perfectly calm again.

  I felt excited. I felt angry. I felt giddy. Other feelings I’d never had before roiled deep inside me, like pent up lava below a volcano. I felt frightened.

  I felt alive.

  The episode of Star Trek ended with Mr. Spock returning in the shuttle. The parasitic giant amoeba had been destroyed and all was well again with the Enterprise. Harold and Cheryl sat back in their chairs, both folding their arms and smiling.

  After the preview of next weeks episode and the credits and theme music, Harold said, “Interesting how one of the themes of this show is interdependence -- and the flouting of interdependence?”

  “What?” said Cheryl.

  “Like the salt vampire in the very first episode aired. And wasn’t there a symbiote somewhere.”

  “Symbiote?” I said.

  “Symbiote,” said Emory. “The giant space amoeba was a parasite, something that simply lives off of other creatures. “ He looked at me significantly. “Count Dracula is sort of a parasite, Rebecca. Symbiote likewise is a biological term like parasite. It’s a living being who is dependent on other living beings, often living in other living beings -- but who gives something back in return that allows the host creature to live.”

  “Right,” said Harold. “Like the bacteria in your gut. It lives down there, but it helps you digest your food.”

  From there the Star Trek discussion continued. Harold dominated because he had a better understanding of the science and science fictional aspects of the show, but Cheryl certainly had strong opinions. As I listened to her, I realized that she had a better idea of why the show, although struggling in the Nielsen ratings, had such a cult following.

  A lot of people were simply obsessed with the characters. Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock in particular.

  “Gene Roddenberry says that when Leonard Nimoy was in one of his Westerns,” said Cheryl. “He looked at him and thought, that guy would look great in pointy ears.”

  For my own part, I was growing uneasy. Sitting next to Emory was starting to bother me. I still felt a fascination and attraction -- but as I stepped outside of that fascination and attraction, I felt unease. There was something strange about him, of course -- that was a given. But as I sat next to him, another aspect of the strangeness became apparent to me.

  There was something dangerous about him.

  Beneath the gentle manners, I felt something angry and haughty. There was an arrogance too -- and something troubled as well.

  I’m not sure why I sensed that, but I did. It made me troubled as well -- and somehow made him even more interesting. I looked at him, and for a moment I imagined what he would look like when he’d lean over me with the prosthetics that he’d be wearing during the play.

  The fangs.

  I saw them in my mind’s eye, those long, gleaming sharp front teeth, pushing out from the front of his mouth like white razors.

  My heart skipped a beat, and suddenly I saw him as Mr. Crawley must have seen him in his minds eye.

  The fangs would make him look somehow.....complete.

  I had the sudden need to get away from Emory Clarke. My heart was pounding, the hair was rising on the back of my neck. I felt like I was back in the middle of my dream, going to Manderlay High School. Just going to the bathroom wouldn’t be enough. I had to get away...or get this fiercely attractive and dangerously seductive boy away from me.

  “You know,” I said. “It’s getting kind of late.”

  “Oh, I was rather hoping for more Miles Davis,” drawled Emory. Despite my discomfort, I could tell that he wasn’t joking. He was sincere. He was having a good time. Still, I knew I couldn’t last much longer here.

  Maybe it was time for that bathroom break.

  “This is great,” I said “Are you sure though? It’s a school night and you’ve got to think of your car and everything.”

  “The car is available to me twenty four hours a day.”

  “Yes, and we’re kind of night people,” said Cheryl.

  “Wow. That’s neat!” I said. “We stay up late too, studying and....”

  The lights went out.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EVERYTHING WENT OFF at once.

  The TV. The stereo. The humm of the downstairs refrigerator, the basement humidifier buzz

  The lights.

  They all just turned off.

  It was so sudden, it all just caught me totally off guard. The fear in me spiked up and out in me. I totally felt out of control.

  I screamed.

  “Yikes!” said Harold. “Cheryl. Calm down!”

  “That’s not me,” said Cheryl. “That’s Rebecca!”

  The darkness was very overwhelming and black
, but the voices somehow steadied me enough to clamp my teeth down on the scream.

  I was about to say something. Apologize or something. I’m not sure. I felt embarrassed, but the fear hadn’t gone away...

  Then a hand gripped me.

  I screamed again.

  A gentle laugh.

  “Say, honey,” said a soft and cooing voice. “Now you just calm yourself down now, you hear? I promise everything’s gonna be all right.

  It was Emory’s voice, of course, like pecan pie washed down with a mint julip. The sweetness in that voice helped me stop the scream. It was still dark, but the darkness seemed to lift somewhat and I got a grip on myself.

  “Oh. Thanks, Emory,” I said. “I don’t know what came over me. I never --”

  “Everyone okay?” asked Harold.

  “Oh sure,” said Cheryl. “Just fine here. Just some kind of electrical problem, looks like. Have you got some candles?”

  “Or flashlights,” suggested Emory.

  “Oh sure. Parents are upstairs. I know the way. Stay put. Stay calm.” We could here him padding toward the stairs. “Ouch!”

  “Harry!” I said.

  “I thought the steps were further away. No big deal. I’ll be back in a minute. Just stay right where you are.”

  So there I was, in the darkness with Count Dracula. It would seem my plans worked out just a bit too well.

  Of course, he wasn’t Count Dracula -- he was simply Emory Clarke. And he’d turned out to be a well-bred gentleman.

  Why, then, did it feel so very weird and overwhelming to be sitting beside him in the dark? I could feel his presence, I could smell him, I could touch him if I wanted to. And yes, part of me really wanted to do just that -- Touch him.

  I was really grateful that Cheryl was down here with us.

  “Wow,” she said. “What do you think is going on?”

  “Maybe Harold’s mom was curling her hair and blew out a fuse,” I suggested.

  “Trouble is,” said Emory. “I don’t see any street lamps through that window yonder. That is the window facing the street, isn’t it, Rebecca?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s it.”

  Emory was right. There should have been a street lamp shining through that window. Instead I could barely make it out in the darkness. It seemed like just a vague outline.

  And there was something very odd beyond the window. I heard strange sounds.

  Something cold touched me deep inside, and it had nothing to do with a charming, handsome boy sitting next to me.

  Harold didn’t take long to get back down. He was faster this time, coming down, and I could hear his hands thumping on the walls, finding his way.

  “Everyone still sitting tight?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  EVEN WHEN THE city or suburbs are dark, with no street lights and the moon and stars are covered with clouds, there seemed to be some small amount of light to see by.

  Especially if it’s been snowing.

  And now, it was definitely snowing.

  It came down softly, this snow, in a gentle but thick fall. The flakes were cold and big and wet. They nestled in my hair and eyelids, and melted on my face as we walked toward the school.

  We were on a mission, the four of us.

  Emory Clarke, Cheryl Ames, Harold, and I were on our way to the dark pile that was Crossland Senior High School. We were on a mission.

  “The bad news,” Harold had said, “is that my parents don’t have any candles and something’s wrong with our flashlight. The worse news is that it’s snowing outside.”

  “Snowing!” I said. “A lot?”

  “A lot to maybe cause this outage,” said Harry. “But I don’t know if that’s what happened.”

  “Snow’s not bad news,” said Harold. “It most likely also means no school tomorrow.”

  No school was always good, especially when there’s a quiz in Biology that we were going to study for on the bus and in home room -- a quiz like I was to be given tomorrow.

  We bumbled our way upstairs and conferred with the Harry’s mom. Harry’s Dad had gone to the next door neighbors, but came back very soon with only a single candle.

  “I’m going to have to ask some more neighbors I think,” he said, face looking chagrined in the shadows as we lit the solitary candle. “Drat, and we’re almost out of matches, too!”

  “Mr. Hendricks!” I said. “He’s got plenty of flashlights and candles at school. And sure, matches too!”

  “Oh yeah! Larry!” said Harry. He laughed. “Sure! Larry likes us.”

  We explained that Larry was a school custodian we knew. He’d be on his shift now, and yes, he could probably part with some candles and matches.

  “He’s probably got the school lit up now with a reserve generator anyway,” said Harold.

  It was determined that yes, the group of us would go over to Crossland and get those candles or borrow those flashlights. The school was close and the walk was safe. So, bundled up a bit more with scarves and such, courtesy of Harold’s mom, off we went.

  Now as we traipsed through the already thick snow, a silence fell amongst us. I’d welcomed the excitement of this mission, after feeling embarrassed about that scream and everything, but now with the silence and the cold smell of snow in my nostrils, I was feeling just a bit frightened again.

  “We’re off to see the custodian!” I sang in the key of Wizard of Oz. “The Wonderful Custodian of Crossland!”

  Harold laughed. “Let’s just hope there’s not any wicked witches about, eh?”

  We traipsed on through the Winter Wonderland, feet thudding quietly in the snow.

  Harold was in the lead, since he knew the way best, with Emory and I in a clump behind him, trying not to get so close as to run into each other, but not so far as to lose track of each other altogether.

  Sure enough, the school hove up before us soon enough, and we made our way across the blanket of snow on the parking lot, to the bank of front doors on the concrete approach. Generator or no, the lights didn’t seem to be on -- but in the distance of the far hallways, a faint light glimmered.

  “I don’t think he’ll be cleaning bathrooms now,” said Harold. “He should be hanging around here in the custodian room, maybe on the phone. Door will be locked. We just have to bang on it.”

  So saying, he went to do just that, as we waited, not far away. Although I took personal comfort in those lights inside, they had a strange, unearthly quality about them. They kind of moved, dancing like fairie lights. It was all rather spooky. I shuddered.

  Harold banged.

  “Whoa,” he said. “What a minute. Something gave here.”

  “What?”

  “The door.” He pushed on the lever, and the door gave way. “It’s open!”

  “Well don’t just stand there,” said Cheryl. “Go on in! It’s cold out here.”

  Harold entered, holding the door for us as we filed into the high school foyer. It was a relief to get out of the chill, but it felt very strange to be inside of my school in the dead of night. It felt dead and deserted -- a shell, a corpse with the spirit removed.

  “Okay, the custodian room’s down this way,” said Harold, waving us along. “It’s where the supplies are, so whether he’s there or not, we should be able to find flashlights and candles and matches.”

  I wasn’t so sure that was where they’d be, but I didn’t say anything. We just followed Harold’s lead.

  I noticed, though, that both Emory and Cheryl seemed not only as spooked as I was by the High School at night -- they seemed alerted to something else. They looked tense, their eyes darting back and forth. Emory in particular seemed drawn up into a protective ball, his back hunched, h
is brow furrowed.

  The custodian’s room, like the administrative offices was close to the front doors, but it was down the hallway that ran perpendicular to the principals’ offices, the guidance councilors offices and the infirmary lined up cleanly and efficiently. There it was politely tucked away near the furnace and electrical rooms, the nerve center of the school’s physical plant. It looked as though the floors hadn’t been buffed and polished lately. The morning fresh smell of floor wax was nowhere to be found.

  We made our way down the dim corridor, Harold still in the lead.

  It had seemed a simple enough mission at first. Go, knock on the school doors, say hey to Mr. Hendricks, get some candles and flashlights. Kind of the equivalent of going next door to borrow a cup of sugar. Now though it didn’t seem so simple. No, not at all.

  The school seemed cavernous, echoing with some kind of void. I could almost hear water dripping from stalagmites. The absence of the bustle and chatter of students and teachers made Crossland seem enormous and strange. It just didn’t seem real. I felt extremely uncomfortable. The whole business with Emory had an odd after-feel as well. I was jarred and jangled.

  I just wanted to go home, tuck myself into bed and not read a gothic novel.

  The custodian’s room door was ajar. It was dim and the light was flickering, but we were able to see that, past the work bench and the furnaces were banks and banks of supplies.

  “Mr. Hendricks!” called Harold. “Mr. Hendricks?”

  The furnaces murmured and coughed.

  “Look,” said Cheryl. “Over on the workbench. A couple of flashlights! Big ones!”

  Without hesitating, Harold strode over and scooped up a flashlight. He clicked on a beam. He stepped gingerly over boxes of toilet paper and paper toils to the long line of wooden racks, playing the beam of light amongst the wealth of this and that.

  “Geez, there’s just about everything here. This is like a hardware and janitorial store! Gotta be some candles here somewhere, I should think.”

  Suddenly, from beyond the door, there was a noise. It echoed down the hallway in a blur of elements, making it hard at first to decipher. It seemed a strange collection of bumpings, clatterings, jouncings -- and maybe even, I thought with a shiver running down my spine, a clicking of claws.