The Vampirists Page 3

  I walk over to my dad. He sleeps upright on the sofa, clutching a framed photo. An aroma that I still associate with the hallways of my dorm during the first week of freshman year hits me from a nearby garbage bin. Alerted to the mess I expect to find inside, I gather empty cans from the tiny coffee table bordering the couch to toss in on top so that I don’t have to see the full extent of the stuff inside.

  Surprisingly, the clinking of the cans causes my dad to stir. He opens one eye and sees what I’m doing. “Adam?” he asks.

  “Jesus, Dad,” I say. “Think you can take it a little bit easier next time?”

  “I'm sorry. Sorry I made a mess.”

  “It's okay, Dad. It's mostly in the garbage. I'll take care of it,” I say. He still seems concerned, but I know he is in no state to help. “Just lie down. Get some sleep.” I guide him down to a reclining position and turn him on his side. No need for him to choke in his sleep–though since he is not really working, the insurance payout would be a welcome cash flow addition. I instantly feel guilty that such thoughts creep into my mind and go to cover him with a blanket. It’s an old blue and tan one that my mom bought ages ago; it doesn’t really match with whatever shade of dark brown you’d call the sofa we have, but for obvious reasons my dad is quite attached to it. Funny how something as plain as a blanket can become a lifeline to times past.

  My dad hands me the picture he was holding, and I set it on the coffee table. I already know which one it is, an oldie of him in uniform with my mom and me when I was a lot younger.

  “I miss her. Your mother,” he says. “So much.”

  It’s always the same story. How does he think I feel? Still, I have to carry on somehow and not let my life be derailed. I can’t think of anything else to say, but I sense that he is waiting for a response. “I know. Me, too,” I finally say to mollify him. I grab the bag from the garbage bin and hold it away from myself to avoid the smell–it always makes me want to start gagging, too. I wonder briefly how and why this reflex evolved in us, what benefit did it provide to have someone’s vomit so effectively cause a chain reaction in those around them? Maybe in case the tribe all ate contaminated food? Whatever the reason, it’s annoying now.

  “Night, Dad,” I say on my way out the room. He is already back asleep.

  3)

  I’m almost done. I’ve spent the last several nights on my rooftop. Well, it’s not technically mine, but it’s the same wall as always, tucked away in a little nook on a building that seems to be mostly deserted. I imagine that people must know my paintings exist, and some might even consider it graffiti, but no one has ever tried to erase them or bothered me while I’m at work up here.

  There are a few other walls looming nearby, but this one you can’t really see from the other rooftops. I don’t mind; it’s more for me than for anyone else. That’s partly why I just keep repainting over and over in the same spot. I love how familiar this place feels, my place, despite the fact that the wall hosts a newly formed scene. Out here, it’s just me, the open night sky, and a few sparse stars bright enough to poke through the formidable pink glow of the city. Their company creates the curious mixture of being alone in the world and watched at the same time. Sometimes I wonder if it’s my mother up there somewhere, watching me, and if so, what she thinks of where I ended up. I hope that she can forgive me my artistic transgressions, anyway.

  I spray a few more lines to fill in the reflection of the moon on the waves and then stand back to see what else needs to be done. Suddenly, I sense that I am not alone. I turn in surprise and begin to prepare an explanation for what I’m doing when I become even more surprised. It’s Vera. Where the hell did she come from?

  “Hey, stranger,” she says simply.

  “Vera! Hey. How’d you find me here?” I manage lamely through the shock. As soon as my brain registers my own question, I instantly know the answer.

  “Franklin. I introduced myself yesterday,” she says. “He’s nice. Eager.” She looks around, taking in my scene, still wet from some of its final coats. A small smile flickers across her face. “Isn’t this private property? Are you sure you should be doing this? I’m pretty positive that it’s against the law.”

  I think she is teasing me, but I study her face to confirm my suspicions. The smile is gone, and she is staring at me intently, studying me back. Her eyes are like ice: When I stare at her, I feel like I’m slip, slip … slipping toward her … into her. Somewhere in that deep pool of frozen blue I detect a mischievous twinkle. I smile and manage to break contact to look around and survey the bleak rooftop.

  “They should thank me,” I say, gesturing to the barren red and brown brick walls, many of which have fallen into disrepair from years of hot summers and frigid winters.

  “Uh, yeah, right. I’m sure they will,” she scoffs, yet with a smile that seems to spread light across the otherwise dim roof. “Anyway, I missed you at our weekly gathering yesterday. I was worried you were scared off.”

  I realize for the first time how badly I hoped she would notice my absence, and as I do, I’m also very aware of a slow flush rising to my cheeks. I had skipped the meeting, telling myself that she wasn’t interested, couldn’t be interested, and that she had just been talking to me as another potential convert (albeit a more challenging one than most of those dolts). Now here she is, telling me that she wished I had come.

  At least I think that’s what she is saying, though she didn’t say that exactly. She could just mean that she noticed I wasn’t there and wanted to talk to me to get me to sign up and drink the Kool-Aid. Wow, I’m really overanalyzing this–how can she have such an effect on me? She’s just a girl, I tell myself, no big deal, but I don’t really believe it.

  I manage to get my racing thoughts under control for a moment and enjoy the silence.

  The silence!

  She is still watching me, waiting for a response. “I had to work. I was covering for Franklin so that he could go,” I gush out quickly. She smiles; I know she senses that I’m nervous. I look around, searching for a way to turn the conversation around.

  “Should you be out alone at night?” I ask her.

  “Something tells me I'll be okay,” she responds nonchalantly. I must look confused because she nods her head toward me and explains her last comment. “I have you. A lady should feel safe next to a man in uniform.”

  In uniform? Is she referring to my dad somehow? How does she know about him? Then I catch her meaning: I’m still wearing my work apron from Copy World. After work when I came up here, I put it back on so that the paint wouldn’t stain any of my clothes. She smiles at me as she sees understanding dawn across my face.

  Her smile is disarming. Not for the first time, I think how beautiful she is, how positively glowing in the moonlight. She seems so comfortable out here, so at home. Never mind that we are on a rooftop in a somewhat questionable part of the city in between my crap dead-end job and the house with my dead-beat father.

  She comes a bit closer, her eyes and attention now focused on devouring the mural I still need to finish. “It’s almost there, but not quite done yet,” I warn.

  “It’s beautiful. Where is it?” she asks.

  “Thailand. I went there once after graduating high school. Saved up all senior year to make that trip,” I say. I hope she doesn’t notice the tinges of sadness in my voice. It’s hard to remember those days.

  “It’s comforting. The water looks so peaceful,” she says, still admiring it. I’m embarrassed to admit to myself that I feel a small thrill that she likes it so much.

  “Yeah, it is. There was this backpacker island that had pretty big parties on the beach. But if you walked all the way down to the end to where the sand and the hills and the ocean met, you had it practical
ly all to yourself. You could just listen to the tiny waves rolling softly up onto the sand, hear the music drifting down from the few cafes in the hills, and watch the moon’s reflection on the retreating waves as they raced from the shore.” I stop short, realizing I must sound like a travel agent. “I guess the tranquility of that place kinda stuck with me,” I admit. But as I finish explaining and look at my own mural, layered on top of countless others before, another perspective hits me. “Then again, I have no idea what was going on under those gentle waves–what was raging beneath the surface. Still waters run deep and all that.”

  She looks at me again intently. I’ve scared off girls with talk like this before. You’d think I know better by now, but I kinda figure that it’s just better to be myself and lose them upfront. I can’t pretend to be someone else for very long, so I’ll just lose them later on anyway when it hurts more. But this could also explain why I end up spending so much time with Franklin instead of the ladies.

  Her gaze doesn’t waver, and I’ve just about chucked this up for lost. I can’t begin to decipher her expression or thoughts. But she suddenly asks abruptly, “Want to grab a drink?” and I no longer care to try and figure it out.

  “You over 21?” I ask back. Though I’m a fairly recent entrant into that club, I realize I have no idea whatsoever how old she is. She could be anything from 17 to 25 for all I know.

  She smiles that enchanting smile at me. I know at that moment I’ll follow her anywhere right now, regardless of her age (I just hope she’s legal!). But I don’t have to worry because she says, “I am indeed over 21. Let’s go.” She starts to head off, and I’m in such shock that this stunning creature just asked me out that I don’t notice for a second that she is heading in the wrong direction.

  But then I do and I call out to stop her. “Hey, Vera. Uh, fire escape is this way,” I say, pointing out the access where you have to come and go. She looks sheepish that she had forgotten this. Maybe I’m not the only one a little nervous after all.

  On the fire escape, I point out rusty areas on the railings and grating that she should be careful of. She smiles at my protectiveness and maneuvers around them with remarkable ease and grace. In fact, though I find myself pushing to keep a strong pace, she seems to be constantly at my heels. I keep getting a sense of impatience from her and try to move faster down the twisting stairs, but maybe I’m just being insecure.

  Back down on solid ground, I turn and reach up to help her down the last ladder part. She good naturedly lets me grab her hips and hoist her down. Her hair tumbles down as well and grazes my face, and I get tingling sensations that seem to ripple out all over my body. My hands linger on her waist for several seconds, not wanting to let go. Our eyes lock, and for a long moment I’m sure I should kiss her.

  But I don’t. A tiny voice in the back of my head tells me that maybe I’m taking this whole situation out of context–that she is not here for romance but just to talk. It tells me that even if she likes me, it’s too soon to kiss her. That I’ll have plenty of chances in the future to follow up. The butterflies in my stomach seem to agree with this assessment, and the moment passes. Vera calmly places her hands–cold hands–on mine and raises an eyebrow questioningly. Embarrassed, I remember to let go.

  “Are you cold?” I ask her.

  “I guess so. Sometimes I don’t notice,” she says.

  Despite the increasingly warmer days, the nights can still have a chill to them. I offer her my elbow and she snuggles close against it. I look around quickly, surveying the dark street. It’s quite dirty: You don’t want to look anywhere too closely lest you see creepy crawly things that you’d wish you hadn’t. It’s also so empty that for a second I swear I see tumbleweed rolling softly across the pavement. But that’s ridiculous; it must be a bag or a crumpled up newspaper: the urban tumbleweeds.

  “I think we’re alone,” she says, stirring me from my thoughts. “I don’t see anyone around.”

  “Just checking,” I respond. “I was raised to be careful.” We head out, my legs automatically directing me to a local dive on the road home. We chat on and off about a lot of things and nothing, sometimes stopping to enjoy the silence and soak in the sounds of the passing city. I finally work up the courage to broach a subject I’ve been wondering about; I hope it won’t kill the mood.

  “So, how long have you been in that group … what're they called?” I ask.

  “We've gone by many names. Too many,” she says. She pauses briefly and sighs, as if to gather strength for her next answer. “But a long time. It sometimes feels like forever.” She remains silent for a while; I feel that her words weigh on her.

  I’m not sure whether to continue with my inquiry, but she doesn’t seem mad. In fact, it seems that she is resigned to answering my questions, almost like she expected them. Maybe she isn’t just trying to recruit me, after all, or else she’d be more enthusiastic about this turn in the conversation.

  “Why’d you join?” I ask, pressing gently.

  “I don't know. It just kinda chose me, actually,” she replies softly. I want to ask her what she means, how something like this can choose a person, but she continues on before I get my thoughts out. “And now, I stay because it's what I know. I’ve been in it for so long that for better or worse, they're my people.”

  “What about your family?” I ask.

  “They are my family,” she says simply. Strange, on one hand that seems so eerily creepy to me, but on the other, I feel tinges of envy that she can say that with such conviction and without hesitation.

  “Hmmm … I've never really had that,” I admit. “I've mostly always been on my own.” The bar is in sight a little up the road. With its neon beer sign lighting up the window, it’s almost indistinguishable from the millions of other simple bar establishments that line city streets everywhere. Past that, a few miles down, is my house. I guide Vera toward the bar entrance and hold the door open for her. Just as I’m about to go inside after her, I realize with horror that I still have on my Copy World apron. I rush to pull it off. Vera sees me and smiles.

  “And you looked so cute in it,” she teases.

  Inside, the place looks the same as always, which is to say: unremarkable. A few worn low wooden tables that reveal years and years of accumulated beer rings when the lights come on at the end of the night, some stools grouped around a bar to the side, and a few high tables with more stools around the other edges. In an attempt to provide some flare, a few team flags and pennants line the walls with no pattern or obvious affiliation.

  We grab seats at one of those small high tables off to the side. The waitress watches me peculiarly; though I’ve been in here quite a few times, I doubt I’ve ever come with anyone besides Franklin. As I have her attention anyway, I take advantage of it and motion for two beers. Music is playing from an old juke box in the corner, it’s surprisingly loud. I lean in close to hear Vera better and she mirrors me.

  “So, did you always want the dangerous and exciting lifestyle offered by Copy World?” she asks with a teasing expression on her face.

  “Hey, it can be rough. Look at my paper cuts,” I quip, holding up my fingers. I actually have quite a few paper cuts; it comes with the job. Weirdly, she glances away uncomfortably. I guess I really used to hate paper cuts, too, until I got used to them.

  She looks back and changes the subject, “Never went to college?”

  “I did for a bit, should be finishing next year, but my mom died,” I respond. I hesitate to speak further. I haven’t really had this conversation that often, and from the few times I have, I know it can be a real downer. “We should probably talk about something a little less heavy. I don’t want to kill the mood.”

  “Adam, it’s okay,” she says. She holds my gaze with such interest–and somethi
ng else, maybe … concern? Though I’ve known her only a short time, I feel like I actually want to talk about this … to share this with her. As if she is reading my thoughts, she says, “I’m curious about you–I want to know how you got to be who you are.” Where did this girl come from?

  “Right, because who I am is so great,” I say flatly.

  “Actually, you seem pretty great to me,” she says sincerely. I want to believe her so badly.

  Our beers arrive. I see the waitress think about carding us, but then decide against it. She knows me: maybe she decided not to interrupt my game. Though Vera said she’s over 21, I appreciate the waitress’s intention. I need to remember to tip her well.

  I take a big gulp of my beer; Vera leaves hers undisturbed for now. I guess I have nothing to lose, so I continue my little sob story. “Well, my dad took my mom’s death badly; he couldn’t hold it together and so lost his job, too. I went from having two working parents to none. Goodbye, money for school. Hello, wreck of a father.” I stop for a moment, remembering the feeling of those days, of my life unraveling before my eyes. “My life just kinda got put on hold then, and it’s been that way for a while now,” I finish.

  “That's horrible,” Vera says sympathetically.

  I watch her closely, trying to gauge her response. I’m scared that she will pity me and I realize how much I don’t want that. I just wanted to tell her these things so she would understand that I wasn’t supposed to be Mr. Copy World guy. That I wanted to do so much more–that I had plans for myself. But apparently the universe or fate or whatever had different ones.

  “Yeah, well, it's life,” I say, trying to appear more over it than I really feel. I keep talking quickly so as not to dwell on these memories. “It’s weird. When I was a kid, time passed so slowly. I used to get a tension in the pit of my stomach waiting for my next birthday, which took ages to come. Now, time seems like it keeps speeding up. The years just fly by. Suddenly here I am, stuck in an apron all day for work with no easy way out.”