Hunger (9 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
“The flowers that were overflowing in your office. Who sent them?”
“Max.”
“That's it. Just Max?”
“Yes, Mitch, he sent the flowers. What else do you want me to say?”
“Why?”
I sighed before I answered. “We had an argument and they were his way of trying to apologize. That's all.” I could feel the precious minutes before dawn ticking away.
“Who did Gwen think I was when I came in last night?” He met my eyes again for a while before looking away.
“I suppose she thought you were Max. Look, Mitch. I can't see where all this is leading, but I really do have to go.”
“This is where it's leading,” he said and pulled me to him roughly. His lips met mine with a hunger and urgency so deep, I began to realize what my victims must feel with my kiss. As when we had danced earlier that evening, I responded to him without thought for my condition. It had been more years than I cared to remember since I had been kissed like this by someone I liked, someone I had no intention of feeding upon.
He broke away first and we were both breathless and shaken. “I'm sorry, Deirdre,” he said, studying my face. “You can be so damn contrary at times. All I wanted to know was, who's the competition?”
“After that kiss, you should know you have none.” I put my hands up and caressed his face. It was stubbly. “But,” I laughed, “you need a shave and I need some sleep. Can we go now?”
“Certainly,” he said, extending his arm. We slowly walked the last block to my office building and entered the lobby. The security guard nodded to us, he was a regular and recognized me. He gave Mitch a sleepy look, then returned to his paper.
Suddenly I felt awkward again, like a school girl, until Mitch gathered me into his arms. It was a brief kiss, for we both could feel the guard's surprise and interest.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I don't know,” I said honestly. “Call me later and we'll talk. Good night.” I gave his cheek one final caress and went to the elevator.
“Good night,” he said softly and walked out the door. Before the elevator began its rise, I could see the street already lightening with the dawn.
Chapter 6
W
hile my own personal library was not nearly as extensive as Mitch's, it was interesting to note that we possessed at least two books in common. One was a small volume of Stephen Crane's poetry, with the same page and passage marked. Another was
The Annotated Dracula.
I also possessed a much older copy of the original text of
Dracula
by Bram Stoker. In my mind, I referred to these as my survival manual; the poetry to keep me sane and the other to keep me alive.
hile my own personal library was not nearly as extensive as Mitch's, it was interesting to note that we possessed at least two books in common. One was a small volume of Stephen Crane's poetry, with the same page and passage marked. Another was
The Annotated Dracula.
I also possessed a much older copy of the original text of
Dracula
by Bram Stoker. In my mind, I referred to these as my survival manual; the poetry to keep me sane and the other to keep me alive.
When I had awakened in my hospital bed following the accident, I had no actual knowledge of what had occurred. I knew, merely, that I had lived and that all I loved had perished. My mind was filled with odd desires and visions, but the medical profession at the time was not concerned with mental soundness. They healed my body to the best of their abilities and sent me back into the world.
I returned to an empty house, the house in which I had been born, and four years later, in which my mother died giving birth to a still-born boy. It had always been filled with light and love, but now seemed too dark, too lifeless. It had never been empty before; I had shared it with my father, who with his exuberance and joy made it into a home. When I married it was to this house we returned after our wedding trip; so that even with my father's peaceful death two years later, I had not been alone.
I found I could not sleep through the night; I would rise within an hour of retiring to pace and stalk the empty rooms until, close to dawn, I would fall into bed and sleep through most of the next morning and afternoon. The smell and taste of food were repugnant to me; I had always been slender, but four weeks following my release from the hospital, the mourning clothes I had worn for my father's death hung on me like meal sacks, without the aid of heavy corsets. My face grew gaunt; my moods black and despairing. I would sit in the rocking chair in the parlor, hugging my emaciated arms to myself, humming odd bits of lullabies and popular songs.
One morning, too tired to climb the stairs, I remained huddled in the darkened parlor. I knew I would die if I stayed in that chair, and I wanted death to come, waited impatiently for its arrival. But my vigil was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Go away,” I tried to call out, but discovered that my voice was scratchy and hoarse with disuse. My visitor opened the door and entered, giving a gasp of surprise at what she probably supposed was my corpse. I turned my head to her and gave her a skeletal grin. “Good morning, Mrs. Blake,” I croaked, “so nice of you to call. How are you today?”
She had been carrying parcels, direct from the market, which she dropped, scattering their contents on the hallway floor.
“Oh, my poor dear.” She came rushing to me, and crushed me in a bosomy embrace. “I had no idea you would be so . . . well, you look so.... Honey, when I walked in I just thought you were dead.” She held me out at arms' length and clucked her disapproval. “Hasn't anyone besides me stopped to see you, to take care of you?”
“I think people did knock. I just never answered the door and they didn't come in.” Her presence began to revive me, warm me; she was so alive.
“Well, never let it be said that I let a closed door keep me from doing my Christian duty.” She began to bustle around the room, neatening and straightening.
I suppressed a giggle at the accurate summation of her personality. “Daddy always said you were a good . . .”
“Hush, child,” she interrupted, peering at me with watery blue eyes. “Your daddy always said I was an interfering old busybody. And maybe he was right, but I can't just sit here and let you waste away, if only for your mother's sake. Now, have you seen the doctor?”
I shook my head. “He can't help me, just let me die.”
“I'll do no such thing and I won't hear any more talk of dying. Now, we'll get you cleaned up and dressed and off to the doctor.”
She half carried me up the stairs, bathed me and dressed me as if I were a child. I succumbed to her attentions and let myself be coddled and comforted. It was such a joy for me to hear a human voice again, and Mrs. Blake provided a more than adequate amount of talk.
As she helped me back down the stairs, I stumbled and fell, face forward into her neck. “Oh, Mrs. Blake,” I whispered, half fainting, “your perfume is wonderful.”
“Perfume? Bah! What call would an old biddy like me have for wearing perfume? While you're at it, have that doctor check your nose, too.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs and she realized that the parcels she had carried in were still strewn on the floor. “Let me just put these away for now. When we get back, I'll make you a nice supper.” She gathered everything and went into the kitchen, returning with a look of disapproval. “I can see no cooking's been done in that room for a month of Sundays. You need some looking after, that's a fact.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Blake,” I said meekly and allowed her to hurry me to the doctor's office under bleak, overcast skies.
After a thorough examination, I sat in a cold, uncomfortable leather chair awaiting his verdict. He sat across the desk, fingertips touching, and tapped his two forefingers against his lips. “I can't find anything physically wrong with you, other than the fact that you are close to starvation. My advice to you is go home, eat a good dinner and try to start your life over. You can't grieve forever.” He gave me a patronizing smile and pushed his chair back. “Have the dreams stopped?”
“Dreams? What dreams?” I said confusedly. “I don't remember any dreams.”
“It's probably just as well. You had some rather terrible dreams while you were in the hospital, brought on, I believe, by the shock of the accident. If you can't remember, then you must be getting over it.” He got up from the desk and stood over me. “Now, Dorothy, I want to talk to you, not as a doctor, but as one of your father's friends. This part of the country is no place for a woman without a man to protect her, especially now, with the whole place in an uproar over the coming war. You should give some thought to marrying again. No, certainly not right away,” he amended, seeing the shock his words caused, “but later on. You're relatively young and attractive; that, plus the money your father left you, makes you eminently marriageable. In fact, I have a nephew in Lawrence, a widower with four children who could use a wife of your breeding and background. Why don't I talk to him and see what can be arranged.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” I looked away from him, trying to hide my distaste at the suggestion. I had no desire to be married to a stranger, raising some other woman's children when I could have none of my own. But I deferred to him as was appropriate for the times.
“That's a good girl,” He patted my arm in a fatherly gesture, seeming well pleased with himself. “Now go home and eat something. Come back in a month or so and we'll see how you're getting along.” He escorted me out of the office.
Mrs. Blake babbled indignantly all the way home. “I know his nephew, my dear. Already balding and round about the middle. His wife died in childbirth, you know, delivering their fourth baby in as many years. Shameful, the way some people carry on. And telling you to go home and eat; why, I could have told you the same thing and saved us all the time. Oh, no,” she cried suddenly, interrupting herself, “speaking of time, I promised Frances I'd meet her at the church this afternoon. We're setting up for the social tomorrow night. I guess if you need me, I could stay on a bit, but you know how Frances is. Oh, dear, I'd never hear the end of it.”
“I'll be fine, Mrs. Blake, don't worry about me. In fact after this walk I feel a great deal better.” I lied about this, the sun was burning my eyes and skin and I felt weaker than before. But I had had enough company for the day and longed for my solitude again. “Don't keep Frances waiting, she'll never forget it.” I smiled at her wearily and my words seemed to reassure her.
“If you're sure you'll be fine . . . now, mind you, cook up some of that good food I left you. There's a roast, some new potatoes and some milk to mash them with.”
“Thank you.” Impulsively, I gave her a small hug.
“There, there, child. It will all come out right, just you see. I'll be over tomorrow to see how you are.” She saw me to my front door, then hurried away, bewailing her lateness.
I dutifully went into the kitchen and began to make preparations for my dinner. I put on a pot of water to boil the potatoes and turned my attention to the meat. It had sat while we were gone, and as I unwrapped the butcher paper my nose was assailed with the odor of blood and meat, slightly gamy, but still good. Suddenly I was ravenously hungry. I couldn't wait for the roast to cook in its entirety, but decided to cut a slice for pan frying. In my haste with the knife, I nicked the tip of my finger and put it into my mouth to suck the wound.
The first taste of my own blood almost knocked me senseless, but I continued to draw on the small cut until it was dry. Disappointed, I picked up the knife to cut myself again, until I saw the half-carved roast still on the table. This should suit me, I thought to myself as I picked it up and brought it to my mouth. I bit into the meat and pulled what blood I could from it. When the juices were all drained, I was left with a grayish husk, which I nevertheless devoured, tearing it with my teeth, teeth that suddenly felt odd, too large for my mouth. They interfered with my chewing of the raw meat. I discarded what was left of the roast, mostly fat and gristle, and went in search of a mirror to look at my teeth.
I don't know what I expected to see in the mirror but what I saw surprised me. There was no demon, no shadowy image, only my face staring back at me. But this was not the face I wore that morning. It was blood spattered from my struggle with the roast, but through the blood I could see that the gauntness had gone, the hollows beneath my eyes had been filled, and my skin had regained some of its normal coloring. I pulled my upper lip back to examine my teeth, the canines seemed longer, sharper and I felt them cautiously. Then even as I watched they seemed to diminish back to their normal size. I shook my head to dispel the image and whispered softly.
“God, what is happening to me?”
I thought back to my pregnancy and remembered the odd whims and cravings that went with that period of my life. This, also, I rationalized, was probably no more than a passing phase, something that would not continue. And, though mentally confused, I realized that for the first time in over a month, I felt physically well. The severe lassitude had gone, replaced by such a wonderful feeling of wellness and wholeness. I attacked the household chores with a fervor I had seldom felt before, and when I collapsed into my bed shortly before dawn, the house was fit for viewing by a thousand Mrs. Blakes.
Unfortunately, the bizarre meal of that day and the shock of health and activity that followed had an adverse effect on my sleep. I began to dream, slow, winding dreams that carried me far down the corridor of my life.
I walk down a hallway. It is dark with many doors on each side. I slowly open the doors, one by one. I enter a room which contains the coffin of my mother; I know it to be hers because I am so small, I have to be lifted to see her face, pale and lifeless. I run from the room into another, to find my father, lying in his bed, motionless. He is dead, too, I know and I touch his cheek in a soft farewell before I leave. The next door I open carefully, knowing who is here. This coffin is sealed, but I try to open the lid. I had been denied a last view of this face and I want to see him again. Tears stream down my face, and I struggle with the heavy wood, scratching at the casket lid to no avail. My fingernails break and bleed, blood is flowing from my hands in concert with my tears.
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