Part 1 (1/2)
Thirsty.
by M. T. Anderson.
IN THE SPRING, THERE ARE VAMPIRES IN THE WIND. People see them scuffling along by the side of country roads. At night, they move through the empty forests. They do not wear black, of course, but things they have taken off bodies or bought on sale. The news says that they are mostly in the western part of the state, where it is lonely and rural. My father claims we have them this year because it was a mild winter, but he may be thinking of tent caterpillars.
The bodies begin turning up in Springfield and Lenox and Williamstown. One is sitting slumped in the pa.s.senger seat of a Chevrolet pulled off on a dirt road. One man is found shoved into a closet on rows of well-buffed shoes, folded neatly like a wallet. One victim is barely buried. One is surrounded by swear words written in her own blood.
We are warned that the vampires look like normal people, except when they are angry or when the blood-l.u.s.t is upon them.
One day in early April some people catch one just a few towns away, in Bradley. A policeman is wounded during the arrest, because a thirsty vampire has the strength of ten men.
We are very interested. It's all the local news talks about.
The annual Sad Festival of Vampires is coming up. It is an ancient festival in my hometown of Clayton held to keep Tch'muchgar, the Vampire Lord, locked in another world. It is said that the spirit Tch'muchgar in prehistoric times ravaged the land with an army of Darkness, and that his dominion extended over the whole expanse of mountain and forest now covered by the 508 and 413 area codes. It is said that it was he who then first laid the curse of vampirism on humans and made vampires live past death and suck the blood of the living.
It was for this that in ancient times the Forces of Light expelled him to a prison in another world and came in the form of s.h.i.+ning beings to tell the Pompositti-cut tribe what rituals should be done each year in special ritual sites to keep Tch'muchgar locked away forever. n.o.body really believes much in Tch'muchgar anymore, but we still do the festival. Unfortunately, there is now a White Hen Pantry and a Texaco station standing on one of the ritual sites.
Last year, I went to the Sad Festival of Vampires with my two best friends, Tom and Jerk, and we watched the mayor and some local rabbis and priests do the festival in the White Hen. There was a big turnout. We saw the whole ritual, then Tom and I bought some Hood ice cream products and mashed them in the hood of Jerk's sweats.h.i.+rt. That was a piece of subtle wordplay which Jerk only came to appreciate later.
Now it is almost time again for the Sad Festival of Vampires. There will be a fried chicken dinner at the firehouse, four dollars a plate, and there will be rituals in the White Hen Pantry, in the town forest, and in a boat out in the middle of the reservoir.
Maybe that will get rid of our vampire problem. Because there can be no doubt that they are on the move, and that they are stalking through forests and slipping across lawns. They are leaving behind them soft bodies, pale and limp. Sometimes after they kill, we are told, they cry, long and hard; sometimes they laugh.
”Come home before dark,” my mother says.
And every night she hangs fresh garlic on the lintel of our front door, to guard against the vampires of spring.
It is English, and I am watching Rebecca Schwartz's head.
It tilts down ten degrees and rotates slightly to the left. The sun catches it and turns her hair a more l.u.s.trous brown. Her hand is moving across the page, and loopy letters are following her pen. I am transfixed by this, even though I am supposed to be charting the syntax of a sentence about why people become flight attendants.
I think I have a crush on Rebecca Schwartz.
I haven't spoken to her much. I am in awe of her. It would be like Moses speaking to the burning bush. Whenever I go to speak with her, I feel like I should take off my shoes. I guess I am also pretty timid. I imagine speaking with her. Sometimes I construct whole conversations where we say unusual things to each other.
I picture us walking through the forest in the spring. This is not a particularly original fantasy, I know. For one thing, it is in about every personal ad Tom and I have ever read. ”SWM,” they say, ”seeking SWF, nonsmoker who enjoys long walks in the forest, quiet evenings by the fire, and strolls by the sea.” People are not very original when it comes to romance. I think that's too bad. Sometimes you want to see a personal ad that says, ”SWM seeking SWF, nonsmoker who enjoys flailing in pig p.o.o.p, puking, and honking on bagpipes. Women who do not know 'My La.s.sie Yaks in Bonny Mull' need not apply.”
But I am not in the mood for pig p.o.o.p today; so instead, I kiss her in the forest. There is sun and lots of mosquitoes.
I look up from my diagram and see her face rotated at one quarter as she looks toward the clock. I feel awful for having thought about kissing her. It is after the time when the bell should ring. I tap my pencil three times on the desk impatiently.
I look down. I draw a stem for the prepositional phrase to sit on. I clearly and deliberately write down ”to many satisfied airline pa.s.sengers.”
The bell rings and we are going out of the room into the hall, where there is banging and shouting. I quickly try to maneuver toward Rebecca and her friends because she is talking to Tom, who knows her better than I do. I angle a few steps in that direction. They are heading for the lunchroom. I wade toward them. Suddenly Jerk appears at my side. He is as big as a roadblock. His hand-me-down pants are too short for his legs.
I am thinking desperately of things to say to her.
Jerk is in repellently high spirits. ”Chris! Hey, Chris, I thought that would never end. I thought - did you get number four?” He squints. ”That was the one with the guy who had a layover in Newark. It was real hard.”
I say curtly, ”The hardest.” Jerk is unwelcome right now. I am considering my conversational options with Rebecca.
”It was so boring!” Jerk is still exclaiming. ”So boring! Boring, boring, boring!”
”Let's go over and talk to Tom,” I say carefully. I push in that direction. They are moving down the hall. I am keenly aware that, conversationally, appearing with Jerk in his happy-to-see-you mode is like taking a dead moose as carryon luggage.
”More boring,” he adds cheerfully, ”than a very boring thing very boring thing from the planet Tedium.” from the planet Tedium.”
Tom, Rebecca, and the rest have reached the stairs. They are going down. I am estimating whether I can reach them in time. Jerk keeps pace with me.
”Hey, Chris!” exclaims Jerk. ”Isn't that your brother? Waving to you?” He gestures down the hall away from the stairs. My brother is there, waving to me.
I swear and move in the opposite direction. No time to lose.
”Chris!” I hear my brother shouting over the din.
”It's your brother!” Jerk says, tugging at my arm.
”Really, Jerk? I guess that would explain why he sleeps and eats in my house.” Rebecca and Tom and the others have disappeared down the stairs.
My big brother, Paul, works his way through the lunchtime crowd to me. He is short for his age, so he has to bounce up to see me over everyone else. He tugs on opposite sides of his sweats.h.i.+rt hood drawstring. ”Chris!” he says to me.
”What do you want?” I say.
”Tonight,” he says. ”What we're doing is going to the lynching.”
”What?” I say.
”The lynching,” he explains, s.h.i.+fting carefully to let someone bigger pa.s.s. ”A vampire. I'm going to go over to Bradley tonight to see them, like, stake the undead.”
”You aren't.”
”After Mom and Dad leave.”
”Chris - ,” Jerk begins, turning toward me.
”Where are Mom and Dad going?” I ask Paul.
”Out to dinner. And I have to keep you with me, slimestick. Mom said that I do. We'll go out, and if she calls, we went to Mark's house. We'll be gone for maybe, like, an hour.”
”Chris,” says Jerk, ”if we stay here, all the tater tots will be gone by the time we get there.”
”You're going to drag me over to Bradley to watch a lynching?” I say hotly. ”It's not like they're going to do it out in front of everybody. It'll be in the courthouse.”
He shakes his head. ”I'm there, Chris. All the media and everything are going to be there. Some girls from school are going to be there. I will be there. And Mom is, like, Miss Hyper, so you will be there.”
”You are just trying to a.s.sert yourself because you're only half an inch taller than I am,” I say.