Uncle Vampire (8 page)

“Why are you doing this to me, Carolyn? I would never hurt you. Have I ever hurt you?”

It doesn't matter what I answer. He doesn't listen. The knife and the Bible fall from my hands. He's not going to kill me. He craves a fix. He's addicted to my fear. There's lots to spare. Lots of blood. Lots of hair, long and thick and slippery. He loves to tangle his fingers in it, tightening his grip to hold me still.

The walls have collapsed and my bedroom is gone. I am trapped in the world that my uncle has made. No air, no light. The wind shrieks in my ears. His teeth nibble delicately at my neck, tenderizing the flesh that he will tear.

I have to get away. I have to escape. My eyes are open, but his face is gone. Inside my head, I have turned my back on him and am walking down a long dark hallway.

He can't hurt us now. Honey sleeps, safe. My family dreams while I keep walking. I leave my eyes behind and find the quiet place.

He clasps my throat like the neck of a bottle and drinks and drinks and drinks.

10

“For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory. Forever and ever. Amen.”

The prayer ends and I lift my head. Grammy smiles at me and squeezes my hand. Then we all stand and sing “Joy to the World.” It's winter outside, but the church is warm and the altar is decorated with boughs of holly.

Holy little church! I feel so happy. My grandmother's voice is strong and true. She is an important part of the congregation because she has a kind heart. People love her. She's proud that I'm her granddaughter. I'm so glad she's my Grammy. She never holds back her love, like Mama and Papa do; no dessert until you finish your dinner. Grammy says, “No matter what, I'll always love you.”

Promise me, Gram, that even when you're dead, you'll hold me in the arms of your love. I'm so scared and alone. Honey's acting strange and Richie has changed, and Maggie's gone so far away.

The service is over. Grammy smooths my hair, the most beautiful hair in the world, she tells me. “Shall we get some refreshments?”

“Oh, yes! I'm hungry!” Wonderful smells waft into the sanctuary.

We walk up the aisle past the gleaming pipe organ. The minister smiles and shakes our hands and welcomes us into the choir room, where the ladies are holding their Christmas bazaar.

The room's warm and cozy. I take off my sweater. It won't get lost; they'll know it's mine. Tables line the walls, covered with homemade items: slippers, dish towels, pot holders, fudge, baskets made of Christmas cards, and jars of brilliant jelly.

Down the hall other ladies are serving the bean supper. Grampa's in there, holding our places. But first I want to look at everything for sale.

I have money in my pocket for Christmas presents. Gram gave me money. Lots of money. I'm rich! I browse from table to table, and everybody smiles. Someone pins a tiny crocheted wreath on my blouse, free, because I'm me, and a child of this church, and my grandmother's precious flower.

The ladies behind the tables are big and soft. Their aprons are printed with Christmas bells. The room smells of cinnamon, vanilla, talcum powder. I feel happy and safe. The men are down the hall with Grampa, heaping their plates with franks and beans.

I buy a handkerchief embroidered with violets for Mama, a leather bookmark stamped with a cross for Papa, a pipe cleaner holder for Grampa.

But I can't find the right gift for Grammy. I look and look. Nothing's good enough. I want to give her something perfect, something special.

She is suddenly beside me. “What's the matter, darling?”

“I want to give you something you'll love.” I'm crying.

“I've got what I love.” She puts her arms around me. Then she smiles in my face and dries my eyes. “There's no need to cry. This is a happy time. All better?” she asks.

I tell her I'm fine.

“Good,” she says. “Let's go get some supper before your Grampa eats it all up.”

She takes my hand and we walk down the hallway.

At the end of the hall is the front of my eyes. Gram and the ladies and the church are gone. My uncle's face comes into focus, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

11

Honey and I have always succeeded at school, academically and, most importantly, socially. The teachers think they're in charge, but the kids don't take them seriously. What matters is what the other kids think, even if they're people you don't like. It's odd.

No one bugs us because we're so popular. We're pretty and smart. We've got a nice big house, a wonderful family, and our father drives a shiny new car. We're invited to parties, we sing in the choir, and Honey cheers our teams on to victory.

She's still cheering. I'm out of the play. My grades were too bad. “You've got to cut back,” the school counselor said. “You're not taking care of business. What's the problem, Carolyn?”

There is no problem. I didn't mind getting kicked out of the play. The world is a stage. I'm always performing.

Scene: In the fast-food place across from the high school. A large group of attractive teens has commandeered the tables at the back of the restaurant. The boys are big, and most wear jackets that indicate they're jocks. Several of the girls wear cheerleading outfits: blue-and-gold sweaters and short swirly skirts that brush their thighs.

Everyone is talking and laughing loudly. Honey is particularly animated because Bradley Curtis has given her a ring that she wears on a chain around her throat. It's his class ring, studded with a big red stone. It's getting all tangled up with her gold cross.

I guess that means they're going together. Whatever that means. He likes her a lot. She's sitting on his lap and ruffling his hair, talking about him as if they were married. She'd like that. Curtis Bradley is solid and strong. His family always makes her feel welcome. She's happy at his house; she never wants to come home.

I miss her, but I don't blame her.

I lean across the table to say something to Nancy, but it feels like I'm watching myself in a play. Maybe those are the stage directions:
I lean across the table to say something to Nancy
. We're making too much noise and the jukebox is playing and Nancy cups her ear and shouts: “What?”

The music is so loud I can feel it in my heart, the bass thumping
boom boom boom
. It's too noisy to talk. I say, “Ya ya ya ya ya!” Nancy laughs and says, “You're crazy!”

The door swings open; Annie Brown comes in with Janis Simms, the official school fat girl. They flinch when they see us and veer toward a table in the opposite direction. They're afraid that the boys will make jokes about them. Glen Bond makes a typically unwitty remark, and we all feel obliged to snicker.

Honey says, “Shut up,” and gets off Bradley's lap and crosses the room to Annie and Janis.

She makes small talk with them. Soon, they're laughing. Curtis watches her as if she's grown golden wings to match her hair. If only he and Honey could fly away and start a new life together. She would never run away. Mama and Papa would be so hurt. She wants to please people, kissing their hands, rolling onto her back like a puppy. Don't kick me.

Honey leaves the girls smiling and comes back to our table.

“You're so nice,” Curtis tells her sincerely.

“She's a saint,” I say.

Honey rolls her eyes and everybody laughs.

Scene: In the counselor's office. I stare intently at the freckles on Ms. Johnson's face. If you connected all the dots, what would they say?

“… talked to you about this before.” She's shuffling papers on her cluttered desk. I highlight the word
clutter
in my mind. It sounds like the object it describes. What's the word? Onomono something.

“… hasn't had much effect. Carolyn, I need your cooperation. I can't do it by myself.”

She's been talking for some time, I'm not sure how long. I forgot to pay attention. Like when you ride in a car and look out the window but your mind is somewhere else. So when you get where you're going, you can't remember the trip. Where does your mind go when it's not in your head?

“Carolyn!” Her hand is on my arm. Her look of concern is edged with irritation. “You're not listening to a word I'm saying.”

“I'm sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Nothing. Just a bunch of different things.”

“Like what? Please tell me, Carolyn. I'm trying to help you.”

“I appreciate your concern, but nothing's wrong,” I say with such calm conviction that I almost believe it.

Ms. Johnson's eyes try to enter mine, but I've locked them. Then I throw away the key. Then I forget that the key existed. Then I forget that I forgot.

All of this only takes a second.

“… lots of young people go through rebellious phases, but you've never been an average kid.”

If she only knew. I almost crack up.

“Carolyn, I understand that you wouldn't feel comfortable ‘telling on' Richie, but we're very concerned. About both of you. I've tried to contact your parents. I've talked to your uncle several times, and he tells me he's given your mother the message.”

“Mama hasn't been well.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. Nothing serious, I hope.”

“She's depressed.”

I can't believe that I've told the truth and not given the official family explanation: She's tired. No one ever says what's wrong with Mama, but the implication is that it's a medical condition. Like sleeping sickness; not something in her mind but in her body. But if her mind is ill, then her body will be too, because you can't have one without the other. No matter what you do, you can't escape yourself. Everywhere you go, there you are.

“… so thin. Have you thought about seeing your family doctor? I know you girls like to be nice and skinny, but there's a limit, Carolyn.”

Really? Where is it? I think I've crossed it. What's happening to me? Why am I in this office? My uncle's been a vampire since I was little. Why is my life disintegrating now? Is he taking so much blood that he's draining my brain? I want to close my eyes. I am so exhausted. I stayed awake last night. I heard the floorboards creaking, or mice squeaking. The mice are worse; the house is full of tiny turds.

“… this essay. Mrs. Bennett found it very disturbing.” Ms. Johnson is holding up a sheaf of papers. “You were supposed to write about
To Kill a Mockingbird
.”

She hands me the papers, and I glance at the title in the center of the first page: “Does Evil Exist?” The essay runs to ten typed pages. I don't remember writing it.

My eyes sweep the pages, looking for something familiar. The sentences are coherent, but foreign. “Is evil another face of God's?” “Is free choice a cross or a key to the kingdom of heaven?” “Babies are born guiltless into a world that is ancient with sin.”

What have I written? Have I betrayed myself? No, it's just me, going on and on about the sorrow and suffering in the world, etc. Just me, losing my mind on paper.

“I was exploring the immorality of racism,” I say, “which, as you know, is the theme of the book. I examined the struggle between good and greed, which are the two dominating forces in the world.”

Ms. Johnson's eyes are troubled, and she's very smart. But once again I have fooled her. I keep waiting for her to ask the right questions so I can tell the truth. But then she might say: “Go away, you're crazy!” She would scrub her office clean with holy water.

She says, “I guess Mrs. Bennett didn't see the connection.”

“That's how I read the book,” I say. “Maybe I was being too subtle.”

I hate to lie to those honest eyes. You can see clear through them to her heart. But there's nothing to say. I can't talk about Richie. I can't talk about myself or Honey. I love my mama. I love my Grammy. I don't want to hurt them. I'd rather die.

Scene: The front porch of the family home. The sun is setting and the sky is purple. Richie is sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette. It's cold, but he doesn't want to go inside because he and my father will get into a fight. It happens every night, like dinner.

“You shouldn't smoke those,” I tell him.

“Don't start,” he says. Does he mean Don't start smoking or Mind your own business?

“Ms. Johnson is worried about you,” I say. “She called me in today.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I didn't tell her anything. What are you doing? Are you selling drugs?”

He laughs. “Is that what they're saying?”

“Some people are. You could get in trouble.”

“Trouble's my middle name.” A joke. His middle name is Walter. “No, I'm not selling drugs. Just take it easy.” He speaks gently because he loves me. Underneath, he's still Richie, who used to be my brother.

“I'm worried about you,” I say.

“Things are under control. Just take care of yourself. That's the thing to do. Everybody's on their own.”

“We're supposed to be a family.”

“But we're not.” He shrugs. “It's not my fault it's a drag.”

“Papa says you're flunking, you won't graduate.”

“That's my problem, not his.” He lights another cigarette, its tip glows red. “I'll tell you one thing, come June, I'm gone. I'm out of here.”

“No! Richie, please don't go away!”

“I'll be around,” he says. “It's not like I'll disappear. You better go inside. You're shivering.”

“I wanted to talk to you. We never talk anymore.”

“We're talking right now. Come on, you're freezing.” He takes my hand and tugs me toward the door.

We almost make it through dinner without a scene; then Papa says he doesn't like Richie's attitude and Richie says he doesn't like Papa's either. Papa slaps his face and Richie almost slugs him, but Uncle Toddy jumps between them. He's such a great guy.