Uncle Vampire (12 page)

I entered the building. It echoed with my footsteps. The heavy double doors crashed closed behind me. I was in a polished hallway lined with metal lockers. Most of the classrooms were open, deserted. A custodian pushing a broom disappeared around the corner. The door to Ms. Johnson's office was closed. But a light inside was shining through the frosted glass.

Before I could knock, Honey stepped out of the shadows between rows of lockers. I knew this would happen. I knew she would be here.

She looked so strange, so agitated. Maybe that's how she always looks; we're too close for me to see her clearly. The other day I was in the girls' bathroom and I looked in the mirror and it was full of faces, and I wasn't sure which one was me. For a second I wasn't sure. I know that sounds crazy.

“Don't go in there,” Honey said. “I'm begging you. Please.”

“Come with me,” I said. “I need you.”

“You promised not to tell.”

“He said he'd kill Grammy.”

“He never said he'd kill her! You're a goddamned liar! He never said that at all!” Honey hissed. “He said it would kill her if anything happened to the family. Remember what happened when Mama got sick? Grammy got so sad she almost died.”

“She's not going to die.”

“This is all your fault! Just for once can you stop being selfish?”

“I'm not being selfish! Whose side are you on?”

“Mine,” Honey said flatly, “and the family's.”

“There is no family! There's just a bunch of people in a house!”

“That's a terrible thing to say! You're sick.”

“I'm not going to kill them; I'm just going to tell the truth. It can't be worse than the way we're living.”

“If you go in that room, I'll never talk to you again. You'll be all alone.”

“I already am,” I said.

I put my hand on the knob and pushed open the door. Ms. Johnson was standing behind her desk, wearing her coat, stuffing papers into a briefcase.

“Carolyn.” She sighed. “I was just going home. You're very late.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's not important. We can talk some other time.”

Her mouth was a straight line, and her eyes were tired. There was a smudge of ink on her chin.

“No, sit down, please.”

“I can come back tomorrow.”

“Really, this is fine,” she said.

She sat down with her coat on. “I was looking through your file.” She ransacked her desk but couldn't find it.

“I know what my grades are. They're not too great.”

Ms. Johnson said, “That's an understatement, Carolyn. Your grade-point average has gone into the cellar.”

The words sponged my brain clean. “I know,” I said finally. “I can't concentrate lately.” Why had I come here? If I didn't leave, Honey would hate me.

“There's obviously a problem. What do you think it might be?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe the weather.”

“The weather?”

“I mean, it's springtime. I mean, the weather's so nice it's hard to think about school.”

What was I saying? What had I wanted to tell her? I couldn't remember. My mouth was empty.

“Well, Carolyn, your grades started dropping months ago, so I don't think the weather's a big factor.” She rocked in her chair, waiting for me to speak. “Carolyn,” she said, “I'd like to help you, but I can't hold a gun to your head and make you talk.”

No one can make me talk. You can torture me with knives. You can bleed me dry. I'll never tell.

“I know,” I said, “I just feel kind of funny. I don't know what to say. I don't want to hog the conversation.”

I looked around her office. It was crowded and messy. There were pictures of her children and husband on the walls, and an M&M package in the overflowing wastebasket. The plain kind, no nuts. My favorite.

“Look at me, Carolyn.” Ms. Johnson leaned forward, her eyes on mine. She must've blinked when I blinked, because her gaze never faltered. “I know something's very wrong. It's written all over your face.”

“My head, you mean.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “That's quite a hairstyle. Maybe I'll get mine cut like that too.” She was trying to relax me. I didn't say anything. “You've got to help me, Carolyn. I know that you're articulate. I've read some of your writing. It's very good.”

“It's easier to write things down than say them. I wonder why that is,” I said. “I keep a journal.”

“Really?” Ms. Johnson looked interested. “I always mean to do that, but I don't have the discipline. I do it for a while, then I forget.”

“I do it all the time,” I said. “I write things down.”

“Have you written things down about your problem?”

“Problem?”

“The reason you're here. The reason you're failing in school.”

“There are a couple of problems,” I said. What were they? There were a couple of things I'd wanted to tell her.

“Can you talk about them now?”

“Maybe not,” I said. Ms. Johnson looked at me and waited. “But maybe I could write them down.”

“Well, that's an idea. Let's try that.” She got out a pad of paper and a pen. “I'll ask you a question, then you write down the answer.”

“What if I don't know the answer?”

“This isn't a test, Carolyn. Just write down what you're thinking. How does that sound?”

“Kind of dumb,” I said.

“Let's try it and see.”

“All right, if you want to.”

Her face was so kind. I hated to write anything that would make her stop smiling. I moved closer to her desk and picked up the pen.

“Is there something wrong at home?” asked Ms. Johnson.

Yes
, I wrote, and turned the pad so she could read it.

“Do you want to tell me what's wrong?” she asked.

I underlined the first
Yes
for my answer.

“Why can't you talk about it?”

I can
, I wrote.
But I don't want to hear what I'd say
.

“Why not?”

Because
, I wrote.
Bad things might happen
.

“What kind of bad things?”

I wrote:
I can't say
.

“Is the problem in your family?”

Yes
.

“A family problem. Are you talking about Richie?” She's tried to talk with him. He keeps his mouth shut, unlike little Miss Blabbermouth. I'm writing, not telling. Is that okay, Richie? Richie, please don't hate me.

No, not Richie
.

“Your parents? Is the problem with your mother or dad?”

Sort of. Not exactly
.

“Your sister?”

No
.

“Who else is there? Are you talking about your grandparents?”

No, they're fine
.

“Who are you talking about?”

I watched my hand form the letters, write the words.

My uncle
.

“Your uncle? Does he live with you?”

Yes
, I wrote.
Down the hall
.

“What's his name?”

His name is Uncle Toddy. But that's not what we call him
.

“What who calls him?”

Me and my sister
.

“What do you and your sister call him?”

“
Don't tell
!” Honey screamed at me. “
They'll send you away
!”

“Carolyn, what do you and your sister call him?”

Uncle Vampire
. I wrote the words again:
Uncle Vampire
. Once for Honey, once for me.

Ms. Johnson looked at the words, then at me. “Why do you call him that? What do you mean?”

He's a vampire
. My printing had gotten very small, infant letters creeping across the page, tiny words hiding between the lines.

“How do you know he's a vampire?”

He drinks our blood
. I unrolled my turtleneck and pointed to the fresh bruises on my throat. My heart was pounding. I heard metal doors clanging. Voices were chanting the Lord's Prayer, backward. The chanting got louder and louder.

“Carolyn, stay with me. You're drifting away. Do your parents know?”

Know what
? I wrote. She looked surprised.

“What we were talking about. That your uncle's a vampire. Does he act like a vampire around your parents?”

No
, I wrote.
Only with us
.

“Your sister and you. Does he attack Richie too?”

No. He's afraid of Richie. Richie knows. That's why he's going crazy
.

“Richie or your uncle? Who's going crazy?”

Everybody
, I wrote.
But Richie less. He wants to be blind, but he can see
.

“Have you told your parents that your uncle's a vampire?” Ms. Johnson's face was grave, her eyes impossible to read.

I tried to tell my father a long time ago, but he didn't believe me. Or didn't want to believe me. I don't know. They're in a trance
, I wrote.

“How long has your uncle been drinking your blood?” Ms. Johnson stared at the marks on my neck. I couldn't tell what she was thinking.

A long time. Ever since we were little. But now it's worse. He takes too much. He's killing us. I can't remember
.

“Remember what?”

I cannot remember. What was I saying? I am all alone. No one can save me.

I looked up and saw fear on Ms. Johnson's face, before she could hide it. She was afraid. Of me. She had pushed back her chair. She thinks I'm crazy. “
See
?” Honey shrieked. “
I told you not to tell
!”

Then the expression on Ms. Johnson's face changed. I could see that she understood, that she believed me. I was so relieved I almost burst into tears, and I never cry now. I never cry.

She scooted her chair close, her knees pressing mine, then reached out and took my hands.

“Carolyn,” she said. “Look at me. Your uncle's not a vampire, is he?”

I am spinning around, inside my mind. There's a crackling in my ears. Voices laughing and shrieking.
I'm not crazy
! Then I'm up on the ceiling, looking down, watching myself write:
I'M NOT CRAZY
!, scrawling the words across the paper.

Why don't I speak?

“I'm not saying you're crazy,” Ms. Johnson says gently. “But you must tell me the truth. It's very important, Carolyn. Your uncle's not a vampire, is he?”

The chanting in my head is so loud I can't hear her. Her lips are moving. No sound comes out. You promised not to tell. I am suffocating. The dark wings of his cape are across my mouth.

No
, I write.
He's not a vampire
.

I can't look in her eyes. I am so ashamed.

“Then why did you say that? Answer me, Carolyn.”

Because
, I finally write,
it's better to pretend. It's better than what he is
.

She lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. I am trapped inside them; there is no place to hide. She sees me.

“Carolyn, why would you make up a story like that? Tell me the truth. What's been happening? Why does he seem like a vampire to you? What has he done to you and your sister?”

Flames race toward me. The whole house is blazing. Fiery walls collapse around me. I crash through the glass that holds me in the burning room and plunge into space.

I say: “He fucks us.”

16

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.

Don't say His name. You are an evil child. God doesn't love you anymore.

I did nothing wrong. I committed no crime. I'm telling you the truth.

Liar. He's a nice man and he loves you very much. Has he ever hurt you? He would never hurt you!

The voices scream. My ears are bleeding. I have fallen through a hole in the bottom of darkness, a drain through shadows into furred despair. Animals lunge at me, meat and teeth. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done—

God can't help you. You are such a dirty girl. You will burn in hell for the things you are saying, for the harm you have done your family.

My uncle surrounds me. He fills the sky. I try to scream; he shrouds my mouth. I'm not crazy. I've got proof. I hid the journal under my bed. Grammy, won't you give me my daily bread? And teach me to forgive those who trespass against me—

Grammy, he has hurt me so badly
.

He said he loved me, but he never did. He ate up my love and betrayed me. I felt like I was dying, but he kept me alive, and murdered me again and again and again.

Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil—

The voices in my head are shouting: Kill her. They are saying I killed Grammy. Grammy's dead. She is lying at my feet. My shoes are soaked with blood. She will never speak to me again.

“Carolyn, look at me.”

Ms. Johnson shakes my shoulders. Mice squeak and chatter, gnawing through the walls.

“Stay with me, Carolyn. It will be all right, I promise. You're breathing too fast. Take it easy.”

My lungs are burning. I have forgotten how to breathe. I rest my head on my knees.

“Listen to me, Carolyn. Everything will be all right. I know this is very difficult. But we're going to work it out. Can you hear me, Carolyn?”

“Yes,” I gasp. My chest is cracking. I am having a heart attack. He has attacked my heart.

“You're saying that your uncle sexually abused you and your sister.”

I don't have the breath to speak. I nod my head.

She strokes my hair. “I'm so sorry, Carolyn. I'm so very, very sorry.” Her voice is a whisper. “How long has this been going on?”

My uncle drowns her out. He shouts into my mouth: “
Don't tell
!”

“Forever. I don't know. Since we were little.”

Ms. Johnson's head droops, as if too heavy for her neck. I will die if I see disgust on her face, if I see that she despises me. Evil. Whore.