Her Yearning for Blood (7 page)

2

Under-Heaven

…sometime in 1945

AT first
, she didn’t say I was dead. Instead, I heard her whisper, “You’ve moved on.”

I had absolutely no recollection of anything before this Moment. It was as if I had magically appeared before her. She was a heavyset woman in her fifties, or so I guessed. She had a cheerful smile, and a graying stack of brunette hair was tied in a bun at the top of her head. Her loose, white dress with a high open collar flowed freely below her calves. She wore white stockings that barely covered her ankles, and white shoes to match. She reminded me of a nurse. We were standing amidst immaculately cut, green grass in front of a small white house.  A bay window protruded from a wall on the left side of a small porch. The white house was manned by a single unadorned white door and a set of five white steps led to it from the surrounding green lawn. Beautiful flowers of every imaginable color decked the lawn.

I wondered how I had gotten here and who this woman was. The question made me uneasy. Although a part of me longed for the answer, I was not sure I wanted to know.

“Are you able to talk?” she asked.

My thoughts in a jumble, I nodded.

“You may take your time, Nathaniel,” she said softly. “There’s a lot to get used to. For now, let me show you around your new home.”

Uncertainty, writ large on my face, I hesitantly, accepted her firm grip. Surprisingly for her size, she seemed gentle and warm. Although I was all of ten years, it seemed a bit odd that I should be left alone with a stranger. With a mind full of confusing questions, I meekly followed her up the stairs. Then I froze.  Inside the house, between two wooden chairs, was a pure white lobster trap. Unspeakable fear gnawed at me from behind my neck, leaving me shivering like a leaf. I had no choice but to follow her into the house.

“I’m your grandmother,” she declared as we entered a small but serviceable living room. Two over-stuffed chairs and a couch sat snuggly against the walls. The seats were upholstered in a cream color with a carpet to match. I could a white ceiling and white walls devoid of any pictures. The only end table in the room had a single brass lamp.

“You are free to call me Grandma Clara,” she continued cooing. “You have quite a slew of relatives looking forward to meeting you, Nathaniel, but we’ll wait a little while until you get used to things first.
okay
?”

“I, I guess so,” I stuttered, in a small voice.

The quaint feeling in my stomach stopped me from asking any questions. Why was there no radio here? Why was I not able to recognize my own grandmother? Would my other relatives also seem like strangers to me? I thought they would but I asked nothing as I following the fat woman into the little kitchen.

The kitchen was as unadorned as the living room. The cabinets held no food. There was also no sign of a refrigerator, stove or sink. The only visible furnishing was a small round table and four chairs. Across the unadorned hall was a small bedroom which held a single bed and a rocking
chair. As I stood in the doorway of the room, I began to smile. The house was sadly austere, but it was my new home now.  I was beginning to feel its warmth and comfort, and I liked it.

“It’s usually very peaceful here,” Grandma Clara added as we moved to the front porch and sat down.

Something was not right!

“Are you all right?” she seemed concerned.

I stood at the railing of the porch making a conscious effort to avoid the lobster trap. For some reason, it generated an inexplicable fear, straight into my heart, and I wondered why. 

I began to notice other white homes alongside mine, all single storied with small porches and bay windows. They seemed similar with light gray roof and a floral display to match. No one house was different from the other. However, a quick look at the other nearby porches, told me there were only chairs. Mine seemed to be the only one with a lobster trap! Instinctively aware that my new found knowledge brought in unpleasant memories, I brushed the thought aside. I concentrated rather, on the identical structures that represented white pearls in a huge necklace.  The pearl necklace trailed along a white cobblestone street with no entry or exit point. The round median had a thin strip of meticulously maintained grass and a large pond. From the center of the pond, emerged a two-storied cherub spouting water in all four directions. The magnificent cherub seemed to smile down at me.

His smile however, didn’t make me feel any better.

A bout of depression began rising up in me. I could see blossoms of every conceivable shape and color around, and the aroma of fresh scented flowers filled the air. But instead of basking in the beautiful scene, I was beginning to feel an uncomfortable twitching in my stomach again.  I stood up, this time rather quickly.

There were no fences and walkways and the green grass seemed to be neatly mowed not matted anywhere. I could see a number of people walking, mostly in pairs on the green surface. Some of these people were kneeling in front of the cherub, as if meditating in prayer. This was part of the scene in my small neighborhood and as I absorbed this scene; immaculate homes, colorful flowers, lush green grass, vibrant people in their white clothes and a bright white cobblestone street, everything seemed very unreal. There was no trace of smudge or dirt anywhere and strangely, there were no trace of any vehicles moving either. 

I began to focus my attention on the people around, wondering why they all wore white. Of the many people kneeling at the pond’s edge, two people caught my attention. A man with dark shoes and bizarre slacks, black in color up till his knees, then white up onwards. The other man was more apparent with colorful garish clothes; green plaid pants, yellow striped shirt and a green hat to match. He must have stepped off a fairway at Stabber’s. 

I thought of my hometown golf course as a breath of air whisked through my open mouth. My mind blanked and I could see my hands were trembling.

I wondered if the people kneeling near the pond’s edge were praying or watching fish or turtle. The man with the bright golfing outfit made a fist and jabbed a finger at the water.

“You better hope I never see you again!” he spat. Then he got up and marched down four homes away from me. “And that’s what I think of this goddamned thing!”

Then a white child-size tricycle flew off his porch and landed with a metallic thump, on the grass in front of his house. One of the white rear tires was still spinning, as he disappeared slamming a door.

I brought my gaze to focus back again on the people at the pond. No one paid the angry man
any attention. Every one of them knelt silently as they stared at an unusually calm spot in the water. I watch the spray of water cascading from the cherub’s marbled hand to the pond below. There was a ripple of waves as each stream touched the surface of water. The ripples however, died down before they reached the calm spot of water, in front of each person kneeling down. The calm spots were like round windows with motionless glass. When the kneeling person stood up however, the motionless spot transformed into gentle waves that lapped at the shore. I was still trying to unravel this mystery, when it hit me hard. 

“I know what’s wrong with my house!” I told my grandmother.

“It seems nice to me.” She replied

I had missed it earlier, I strode back inside. Each of the three rooms had no additional room or doorway, I confirmed.

“There’s no bathroom.”

“You won’t need that anymore,” Grandma Clara offered, following me inside.

“You mean I’m supposed to use an outhouse?” I asked, my face scrunching in disgust. Billy
Ganglin’s
family still used an outhouse. The memory of large black spiders crawling inside and the remorseful smell, worse than all the dog poops I had done, made me recoil in horror. I had felt the splash underneath my naked butt, when I sat me down on the wooden bench, giving me no option but to yank up my pants and run terrified. After my one visit to the
hell hole,
I had sworn never to visit such a place again.

It wasn’t long ago! What was that boy’s name again? Why had my mind clamped up on me?
My heart raced as fearful chills washed through my quaking body.

I gasped.

“Are you okay?” I heard my grandmother say.

I took a deep breath. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Nate—I hope it’s okay to call you Nate?”

I nodded.

“Nate,” she continued, “you don’t need to go to the bathroom anymore.”

“Am I supposed to hold it?” I countered.

“Nate, nobody here goes to the bathroom. We just don’t need to anymore.”

“Oh.” I nodded feigning understanding. Her statement seemed ridiculous enough but it was improper to point that out to her. I pretty much figured I would sneak out from behind when I needed to.  Until then I would bask in the preposterous situation, wherein a ten year old owned a house, never mind if the house had no radio, appliances, sink or a bathroom even. What was important was the house was part of a perfect circular neighborhood, populated with people dressed in white, which come to think of it, included even ME.

The fear inside my stomach however, continued to remain with me. I was wrestling with an understanding inside my head and lacked the courage to seek answers for it.  Looking at the strange woman before me called Grandma Clara, I was beginning to understand the secret locked inside my head, was not bad at all. It is possible; it might be a horrible and terrifying secret I ever had. I pictured a steel-reinforced prison with a fang-filled creature behind the locked door. I held the key to this prison tightly in my hand, and yet I feared someday, I would have to insert it into the lock and turn—

I forced the imaginary key out of my mind and ran until I felt the neatly mowed grass tickle my feet. I turned to see that there were no imprints of my feet on the perfect grass.

Though Grandma Clara visited every day, she still was a stranger to me. I began missing other people I knew, although I could not remember who they were now. My subconscious mind was doling out all the memories stored in and I believe emotional confusion might be the reason for doing this.

The bright red school bus reeked of disinfectant, which made my five-year-old mind wonder if a lot of kids threw up during their first ride to school. My stomach felt funny. Terrified, I sat on one of the hard leather seats and craned my neck so I could watch my mother wave until she disappeared in the distance behind us. I tried to hide stray tears from the other kids as the tall buildings of
Providence
,
Rhode Island
slid past. Though I had seen similar buildings from my bedroom window, these looked larger when looking out of a disinfectant-smelling school bus. At school, the day whisked passed in a blur of new activities and rules and odd social Moments with more kids in one place than anywhere else.  What made things even worse was our teacher, a young woman with frizzy red pompom hair, cuddled one brunette girl who never stopped crying. Though I held myself in check, I nearly came to crying. When the same red bus pulled up at the sidewalk in front of my house, I was ecstatic to see not just my mother but also my father standing there. He was holding four, beautiful helium filled balloons. I played with these for almost a week, sleeping with them even, until the air seeped out and they began to resemble all but colorful pieces of drooping rubber. 

Clambering out into the backyard of my lonely new home, I could still see my father lifting me high enough, so my mother could smother me with her kisses. Today was my third day in this strange place and Grandma Clara had been gone for only a few minutes. I stood on my back lawn and stared at the wall of clouds encircling my new neighborhood. Hesitantly, I brushed my hand along the white mist and walked along its edge. Although damp, the clouds felt warm and not as frightening as I first thought they might be. I walked back and forth along that wall several times and wondered what might be beyond it. But no matter how hard I looked, I could see nothing but fluffy whiteness.

I had convinced myself that other children existed beyond the whiteness. To prove myself, I took several steps into the impenetrable border, only to find the fluffy whiteness turn into a terrifying gray, thick enough to block anything beyond. I explored the neighborhood, walking the edge of the cliff, peering into the murk or gingerly testing the ground in front of me. Every step I took filled me with hope that a whole new neighborhood of children would emerge. Then I saw a faint light ahead. Finally free of the dense gray mist, I ran excitedly, into a perfect green yard behind a perfect and small white house.  I crept along the flowerbed that bordered the edge of the nearest house. Peering into the front yard, I hoped to see at least one boy or girl of my age; instead I saw only adults milling peacefully within the tidy circle of white houses, or kneeling at the edge of a fountain pool. The pool was identical to the one in my own neighborhood. My eyes flicked from house to house, around an identical circular road. In confusion, I turned, and then froze. My gaze locked upon that one item.  How could it possibly have been there! My lobster trap!