Really, I did.
For years I would lament to my friends, family, agent,
anyone who would listen to me about how annoyed I was with the vampire trend;
like the subject matter of these novels, they simply would NOT die. Made me
crazy that fabulous novels were being passed on by publishing houses while
mountains of tripe were being published under the guise of a
"literary" craze. Sure there were good vampire novels out there, but
really? I'd bet the vast majority of them were mediocre drivel.
So I was meeting with my agent at a conference,
bemoaning the finicky state of publishing, and jokingly mentioned an idea I had
for a vampire novel, one I'd never write, because it was a ludicrous idea, so I
figured it would be the thing publishing houses would go for
(as opposed to the books I wanted to pitch but weren't the ones pub houses were
looking for).
"So you have this woman who is turned into a vampire by
her cheating husband, who was turned into a vampire by someone he'd slept
with," I say with a laugh. "She then spends the rest of eternity
trying to exact revenge on him for his betrayal. And it'll be a funny
book."
I expected her to pat me on the knee and tell me to
get back to writing a good book. But instead she said she liked the idea and
thought it might have legs.
A week or so later, she tells me she had lunch with an
editor who loved it and wanted to see pages. Pages of a book. One I hadn't
planned on and wasn't planning on writing. So I got to work cranking out this
non-novel of mine; I hunkered down and wrote and wrote and wrote. Got about 80
pages into it and slapped together a synopsis and sent it off to my agent,
assuming that would be the last I'd heard of it.
Turns out the editor loved the partial I'd sent on,
and she was taking it to ed board. Well, if you've been around the publishing
business long enough you learn about ed board. It's the gathering of insiders
in a publishing house who either green light or kill your dream. Long gone are
the days in which ed boards embraced risky books, or different books or
anything but for what seems like something penned by the reality TV celebrity
du jour, who doesn't actually write the thing anyhow but goes on a huge
national tour earning gobs of cash while flacking their lousy book that no one
with a modicum of self respect ought to even purchase, let
alone read. Okay, off my soap box.
Anyhow, after the economy tanked and the publishing industry
lost its last ounce of true soul, it became damn near impossible to find
consensus on a whole lot of books, particularly in women's fiction, which at
the time was a hard sell on a good day anyhow. So when my book went to ed board
with an editor who loved it and really pushed for it, I still figured it had a
minimal chance of getting the thumbs up. And sure enough, apparently the editor
in chief or the publisher or someone all-powerful in this ed board determined
that humor in these kinds of books either works or it doesn't work and they
weren't going to chance it. Thus driving a stake in the heart of my vampire-novel-that-wouldn't-be.
My agent shopped it around a little bit more, found another
editor who apparently really liked it but then she quit the business a week
later. By then the genre had finally, finally died. Just in
time for me to try to break into it. (This tends to happen with me--give me a
genre and I'll kill it in a day flat; certainly worked well with chick lit).
Since then, my novel has been collecting dust in the far
corners of my computer. I've entertained the idea of finishing it and
publishing it myself, but really have just been too busy with other things to
get around to it. So I figured I'd throw this up as my trunk novel and get your
read on what you think of it. Should I keep this vampire hermetically sealed
with garlic cloves and silver stakes in my laptop dead file that should be
re-named "The Graveyard"? Or should I resurrect this monster and give
it a new life on your e-reader of choice? You decide...
TIL DEATH US DON'T PART
by Jenny Gardiner
It all started innocently enough. Well, as innocently as
these things can start, anyhow. And perhaps I wasn't entirely guiltless, if
only because I succumbed to that most human of conditions: lust.
Although it wasn't the lust that killed my marriage. That
came later. The demise of our union came courtesy of my execrable, lamentable
and most deplorable husband, who decided to spring upon me an unexpected
midlife crisis, in which he was overtaken by the entirely selfish urge to sow
some wild oats. Or barley. Or grass seed, for all I know. For that matter I
didn't know much of anything. All I did know was that that fucker dumped me.
High and dry. While I was doing a load of his whites.
"I'm not feeling fulfilled," he'd said to me that
day as I sorted the more stained clothes from the hamper into a separate pile.
"Fulfilled?" I asked, not even looking up as I
un-mated yet another pair of his soggy gym socks (why he re-rolled dirty socks
was always a mystery to me). I thought he was talking about a dearth of
intellectual stimulation in his life. "Take a class or something."
Jude toed the ground in front of him with his black-soled
sensible accountant shoes, scuffing the freshly-polished hardwoods of my
sparkling laundry room. I've always felt that a laundry room is a reflection of
the rest of one's life and my laundry room floor was clean enough to lick. Not
that my life was particularly lickable, but you know what I mean.
I leaned over with a spray bottle of Murphy's Oil Soap,
always at the ready, and pumped two squirts at the offending marks, wiping them
clean with a pair of his BVDs that were awaiting a bleaching.
"Are those my Calvin Kleins?" he asked, grabbing
them from me, glaring at the brownish Murphy splotch right on the butt of the
things. I suppose if that didn't come out in the wash it could cause some
embarrassment. But then again who would see them but me, anyhow?
"No worries. They're going in the wash for a good soak,
so I thought I'd just save myself having to clean a dirty rag."
I suppose it should have been a red flag that the underwear
in question was of the designer variety, and that he even knew that they were.
Until a few months ago I could buy Jude's tightie whities in bulk at Costco and
he'd have only praised me for my thrift. But at age forty-five, his seeking out
designer drawers should have been the first of my indicators that our
relationship had gone awry.
"Look, Marina, I don’t appreciate you using my Calvin
Kleins as a dishrag."
"In case you hadn't noticed, there are no dishes here.
Besides, I didn't use your underwear for anything more than wiping up your
scuff." I pointed to the ground for emphasis.
Jude put his hands in his pockets and looked toward the
doorway, sighing, his shoulders actually slumping as if I'd tossed a hefty sack
of potatoes over each one.
"I need some space. Some time away. I'm not
happy."
I stopped in mid-sort and stared at him, trying to peer into
what I then realized was quite a blank face, one masked with apathy.
"Just because I used your tight whites to wipe up some
dirt off the floor?"
"They're not tight whites. They're boxer-briefs."
Oh, my god. Boxer briefs. Twenty years of marriage,
dissolved over a semantic disagreement about a pair of undies. I began to wring
my hands, stammering to find the right words to come out. But what could I say?
One minute I was just attending to my household obligations and the next I was
being kicked to the curb.
"Look," he said, his usually pleasant face
contorted in such a way that he appeared as if he was torn between trying to
apologize for being a dick and thrilled that he'd finally come out and said
it — his inner demons plying his visage like a glob of silly putty.
"I'm sorry. I tried to fight it. Really I did. I just need to work some
things out."
"Things? What sort of things?" I sobbed, spritzing
some Windex on the surface of the washing machine to clean up the liquid Tide
that had dribbled there. "Or is it some woman named 'Thing'?"
He shook his head back and forth. "No, there is
no thing. Well, there are things. But no Thing.
Does that make sense?"
"Of course it makes no sense. You're not
making sense."
Jude buried his face in his hands. "It's bigger than
me. You simply have to believe me when I say this. It's out of my hands."
With that, he turned and walked away, striding through the
kitchen and out the garage door as if he was late for a doctor's appointment,
with only these parting words, "I'll make sure you're taken care of, you
know. I don't want you to think I'm a complete asshole."
As if.
#
But it goes without saying that when you've been
married for two decades and you have gratuitous sex on a somewhat regular basis
for half your life and then wham!, you aren't having any at all,
well you might just overlook your better judgment when that green-eyed horntoad
comes hop-hop-hopping along. I hadn't gotten laid in several months; a girl can
only take but so much deprivation.
So how was I to know it was going to be a huge mistake? And
not just shit, I wish I'd bought those fabulous shoes on sale at
Nordstrom's last week huge, but oh crap, it's the end of the
world as I know it huge. As far as mistakes go, this was of the A-bomb
variety.
Jude had come by to drop off a support check. It was the
least he could do after everything. Bad enough he abandoned me and our lives,
but to do so and leave me with no cash to pay the bills and the mortgage, well
that would be entirely unseemly and Jude was nothing if not seemly when it came
to finances. What more could you expect from a CPA?
I’d already poured myself a second glass of wine (having
tossed one down my gullet in anticipation of his arrival) so I didn't exactly
notice Jude's peculiarly cold stare and peaked countenance at first, the whites
of his azure eyes a stippled with red. I thought maybe he was just tired, and I
was plenty satisfied to see that his footloose lifestyle might not be agreeing
with him so much. Hey, I know at this point in life carousing all night is not
as easy as it once was.
I invited him to have a seat and I took my place to his
right, expecting him to initiate conversation. I straightened a stack of
magazines in front of me on the coffee table, then fanned them out, finally
settling on a neat stack while awaiting a word from his pursed lips.
"What's the matter — cat got your
tongue?" I finally asked him after a few long minutes of awkward silence.
I know it seems weird that I'd even let the man into my house, all things
considered, but I am a firm believer in trying to remain on speaking terms with
one's ex. Of course I never knew I'd have to practice what I preached in that
regard, but now that I must is no time to drop one's standards.
I grabbed another Waterford goblet (the pattern we'd
registered for together at Bloomingdales all those many years ago) from the
china closet to pour Jude a glass. I couldn't have the man leaving me money
without being somewhat polite toward him.
"Wine?" I asked.
His eyes lit up a little bit. "What do you have?"
"Red okay?"
He loosened his necktie, looking ravenous, as if he hadn't
had anything to eat or drink in days and my offering was going to solve that
problem pronto.
"I've been dying for something
red," he said.
Of course I didn't even think twice about it. Sometimes I
could kill for something red myself. We talked for a little bit about this and
thats, nothing important. I asked if he was doing his laundry fine and he said
he'd found a woman in his apartment building who had offered to do it for him.
Figures. Wonder if she's staining his Calvin Kleins.
"What's she getting in return?" I asked as I
squinted a bit, afraid I could guess at the answer. He merely raised his
eyebrows, but I swear I saw a passing glimpse of pain alight on his face. But
just as quickly it dissipated, and he leaned back against the sofa, stretching
his arms across while crossing one leg over the other.
"You look good, Marina," he said, nodding up and
down at me. I guess he liked my new red highlights.
I half-laughed a sort of sad, hollow laugh.
"No, seriously. Good enough to eat." He reached
across and tucked a finger beneath the strap of my pink camisole Hello
Kitty! pajama top. I guess I had been looking a little better lately;
a marital break-up has a way of helping a girl slim down in no time.
"But not good enough to see you through your crisis
of self I suppose," I said looking down at the ground. I couldn’t
help but remain conflicted about the man. Part of me hated him down to his DNA
and wanted to reach into his throat and extract his internal organs and splay
them in front of his face, just to exact a bit of revenge. But the other part
of me couldn't get over what we'd once had. Up until a month ago I had loved
this man and no other. I'd trusted him.
"I told you, Marina, I'm just trying to get my head on
straight," he said, running the fingers of his free hand through his wavy,
black hair as if whatever was on his mind was paining him. Yet he continued to
twirl the strap of my top.
We sipped some wine and talked about Bittsy, our black cat,
a bit. So far Jude hadn’t made a play for custody of Bittsy, which was good.
Because I'd no sooner give her up than I'd die for the man.
Jude wiped his lips after finishing off his glass of wine. I
took a final sip of mine and a trickle of wine missed my mouth, trailing down
my chin to my neck. Just as I was about to dab it away, Jude, always the
chivalrous man, came to the rescue.
"Here, let me," he said, and I fully expected him
to blot the drip with his thumb. Instead he leaned forward and dragged his
tongue from the base of my neck to just beneath my chin, then licked his lips
for emphasis. It sent chills up my spine. Unfortunately not bad chills, either.
There was something eerily sensual about Jude that night.
Like how a male stripper can be both a turn on and a turn off at the same time.
Fact is, I'd never done it with someone as seductive (or forbidden) as a male
stripper before, and for some reason the notion of illicit sex (or at that
point, any sex) sounded so appealing.
"What was that for?" I panted out the question as
if I'd just sprinted the hundred-yard dash.
"You know you can be terribly irresistible,
Marina."
Jude licked his lips again in an almost wolfish manner. Now,
throughout the course of our marriage, the sex was fine, but it was never
downright erotic. There was never once a moment when I felt the kind of thrill
you might get, say, if you rob a bank. Not that that would thrill me, mind you.
Yet here was my ex-husband, the ink barely dry on the divorce decree, heating
up my libido with the mere trace of his tongue across lips?
I was trying to figure out what to say next when Jude took
matters into his own hands. He grabbed the bottle of Merlot from the coffee
table, and poured a splash down the center of my neck, into my cleavage. A
small part of me was mentally shrieking "Why! I never!" — what
with the guaranteed wine stain on my pajama top (and don't even remind me of
the one on my dupioni silk divan). But an ever bigger part of me was in
hubba-hubba mode, because I hadn’t ever driven a man to do
something like that.
Before I knew what was happening Jude was atop me, licking
me like a starving schnauzer that's been given a bone coated in peanut butter.
His hands were under my top before I could even protest (and at that point how
could I?) and before I could do much more but surrender both of us were clawing
at each other, hurling clothes as far away as the kitchen. I should've demanded
a condom —what if he'd been sleeping with the laundry lady?— but foolishly
discounted it (we'd given up worrying about pregnancy years ago, to my dismay).
"Marina, you make me do strange things," Jude said
as he entered me with far more force than I ever recall, yet far more passion
as well, grabbing, groping, pulling, and nipping as he was.
"If this is what you call strange then I'm all for
making it more familiar," I said as I searched for his mouth, which seemed
to be in a frenzy trying to stake his claim all over my body.
"Oh, my God," Jude groaned with one final thrust
as his hungry mouth came down along the column of my neck.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," I screamed as I felt as if a
staple gun had just punctured my throat. "What the fuck are you
doing?"
For a moment all I could hear was panting, his and mine
intermingled, but mine more with fear, his more with what seemed to be
repletion. As Jude finally released his grip on my neck, I reached to feel what
the branding iron pain was from, and my fingers came away smeared with blood.
I pushed Jude off of me and sat up, naked,
trembling. "What the hell is wrong with you? You hurt me!"
"Oh, shit." He wiped away a trickle of
blood from his lips then rolled off of me and groaned, first quietly, but then
louder and louder until he was screaming. "Oh God! How could I have done
that?"
"Done what?" He was really scaring me. First with
that bite that came out of nowhere and then this, as if he'd unleashed the
Hounds of Hell on me and now regretted it.
I looked closely at his face and saw that his pallor seemed
to have perked up. He almost glowed with good health.
"Have you done something that will get you into
trouble?" I ask, rubbing my neck, which hurt like a sonofabitch.
Jude stood up and began to pace, muttering inaudibles over
and over again, dragging his fingers through his hair as if raking up a
leaf-strewn yard.
"Marina, you'd better sit down."
Considering I already was sitting down — stark
naked, I might add — that was hardly sage advice. I had this feeling
come over me, a really bad feeling. Like when my mother broke the news to me
that my father was dying of cancer. Somehow I must have sensed that whatever
Jude was about to say was going to throw my world into upheaval.
Jude was pacing like a convict awaiting the executioner, and
deliberately not making eye contact with me. Naked pacing ought to be
considered an obvious sign of trouble ahead.
"Now what I'm about to say you're not going to
like," he started out. And by phrasing things that way he assured himself
that I'd be unhappy with it. By then I'd grabbed a dishtowel to blot the blood
from that bizarre little love bite of his. Whatever was up with that I figured
I'd never know.
"You're giving me the creeps, Jude. Just get on with
it."
Jude sat on the coffee table, facing me, then stood up
again, pacing some more, his dangly bits flapping around like a semaphore
warning.
"Christ, Jude, the floor's going to catch fire if you
don't stop making so much friction on it. Okay, okay, I get the hint. You
regret having slept with me. I can deal with it. To tell you the truth I only
did it because I was horny anyhow—"
"You only slept with me because you were horny?"
I gave him a "no duh" look, rolling my eyes.
"But—"
He began to knead his face with his hands.
"When I said I had to leave you it wasn't because I
didn't love you, Marina," he said. "It was because something
happened. Something horrible happened."
I just stared at him, not sure whether I should call
9-1-1 or push him out the door.
"I met a woman. And I'll admit, she was beautiful.
Blonde, stacked. She had an amazing ass."
"Cut to the chase. I don't need to hear about your
infidelities at this point. We're divorced, now, in case you hadn't
noticed."
Talk about tacky, fresh after hooking up with your ex,
chatting about a booty call with another woman.
"No, but see, I didn't want to be unfaithful. Sure, I
didn't mind looking at her. I mean she was a knockout. I'll admit she got my
blood stirring. God, that wasn't well-phrased. Let's take that back. So maybe
she inspired some thoughts in me. But I loved — love — you,
Marina."
"Don't talk about love with me, Jude. I'm the one who
loved you and look what you did to that."
"But that's what I'm getting at. I had to
leave you. And it's because of this woman. I met her through work. She came in
one day, without an appointment, said she wanted to meet with me. I told her to
talk to DeeDee about setting up a time. She did, but in the meantime she
followed me after work one day—she seemed so insistent about this. Claimed she
needed an accountant for a business that had been in the family for many
generations. Wanted to meet over drinks to discuss what she needed from me. I
was going to tell her to just stick with her appointment but she begged me."
"Since when did you succumb to a woman begging
you?" Jude was not your average bird dog when it came to women. I can't
remember him even watching another gal in my presence.
He put his finger to his lips; I shut up and let him
continue. "Finally I relented and told her we could meet for a drink. I
met her at Q Bar, the one we went to for your birthday last year."
"You took her to my birthday
bar?"
"I didn't take her — I was
just meeting her there. I was a few minutes late and she was drumming her fingers
on the bar, looking most impatient. Once we sat down to talk, I realized there
was something about her, something eerily mesmerizing. I couldn't keep my eyes
off her, like I had no control over myself. Sure I stared at her. Who can look
at a Da Vinci without an appreciative eye?"
"Are you trying to piss me off?"
"I'm just saying. But I soon realized the more I tried
to look away from her, the more she fixed her gaze on mine, pinning her focus
on me so precisely it was like a laser beam being used to hone in on its
target. I couldn't do a thing about it. Before I knew what was happening, we
were in an alley behind Chili's and she had her hand on my—"
"I told you I don't want to hear about your dalliances,
Jude."
"But it's relevant information," he said.
"Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, she had her hand on my crotch and even though
I knew in my heart it was wrong, I couldn't help myself, babe."
"Don't babe me."
"Honestly I couldn’t help it. And then I was pushing up
her skirt and she was tugging down my pants and somehow deep down in my gut I
felt certain I was going to be having the best sex of my life when she opened
her mouth wide, wide like a snake about to eat something ten times its size,
and then she clamped down on my neck and I felt this pain, like someone had—"
"Shot a staple gun in your neck," I said, my whole
body beginning to tremble.
"I didn't know what had happened at first," Jude
continued. "I looked over at this woman and she looked as if someone had
just infused her with sunshine, she practically glowed all of a sudden. And
then I—"
"Reached down and felt your neck—"
"And it was warm and wet—"
"And when you took your hand away—"
"There. Was—"
"Blood."
I was shaking, the sort of 7.0-on-the-Richter scale tremors
that happen when you're coming out of anesthesia following surgery. I wanted a
warm hospital blanket and a soothing nurse at that very moment to calm me, to
tell me I was all right. For that matter I'd have been much happier to realize
I'd emerged from mere surgery with a simple organ removed, rather than my
entire future excised without having even signed a consent form.
"Before I could find anything more about this woman,
she was gone. The only thing I had left with the slightest hint about her was a
web address she'd given me:
v_sanguine.net
"I thought it was her business website, so I looked it
up, but there was nothing there. Nothing. Then when I typed in the word
sanguine, I hit the jackpot. Well, jackpot in a bad way. I realized then what
had happened."
By that time I'd grabbed the wedding afghan that my Aunt
Bertie had crocheted for me, her twelfth niece, and wrapped myself ,
mummy-like, with it. I didn't particularly like the thing, but always felt so
badly that poor Aunt Bertie died a spinster and I knew someone had to
appreciate her handiwork, even if it did catch fingers and toes if you tried to
sleep with it. And was the color of — oh, God — dried
blood.
"I still hadn't fully embraced what had happened. I
mean, yeah, I've watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But that was
just television. I knew there was nothing like this in real life. Surely this
was just some insane woman who had a really creepy fetish."
I was feeling especially lightheaded, the way you feel after
you've given blood. Only no one was nearby to hand me a cookie and a glass of
orange juice. Oh, wait, I had given blood. Only not of my own volition. I still
hadn't the energy to say much of anything, so I sat back and listened, staring
as if in a trance.
"I knew I'd done everything wrong. Everything. I mean,
I had sex with this stranger. Even though I was married to you. And that was
bad enough. But then, but then…" he trailed off and just sort of stood
there, still naked, his shrunken willy looking about as forlorn as I think he
was. "After I came home, I tried to research more about this. But
everything I read kept coming back to the same thing. And as the days
progressed, I began to feel weaker, I knew what I needed, but I couldn't bring
myself to do it. I mean what was I going to do, go down to the local blood bank
and ask to make a withdrawal?"
At that my stomach began to lurch, like a very flat tire
trying to progress down the road. Flop, flop, flop. I could feel the wine and
the Moo Goo Gai Pan I'd eaten an hour earlier (along with about four Chips
Ahoys and a box of Jujubes) all vying against one another to be the first back
up the chute.
I raced to the nearest receptacle, my kitchen recycling bin,
and heaved repeatedly. For the record, the Jujubes won.
I stood up, my ugly vermillion afghan draped across me like
Dracula's cape — oh, God, no — and stared at my husband. My
ex-husband.
"You mean to tell me you've fucking turned me
into a vampire?" For a whisper of a moment, the amount of time it
takes a hummingbird to flap its wings, I stood frozen in place. But then I
surged forward, pounding my fists against Jude in rapid-fire motion, as fast as
Phil Collins with a set of drumsticks.
"YOU FUCKING TURNED ME INTO A VAMPIRE??? You
bastard!" I screamed, pounding with what felt like a bizarrely superhuman
strength, as if I'd suddenly been imbued with invincibility, but realizing that
it wasn't even eliciting a flinch from the man. Beast. Whatever he was. Or I
now am. "Everything!," I shrieked. "Everything! I had everything
ahead of me!"
Well, maybe not everything, but I could have if I'd
have wanted it.
"And now, just-just-just look at me—" I pointed at
my chest. "Look at these!" My droopy middle-aged breasts
were slumped across my torso like a broken spirit.
"I kept meaning to make an appointment with a plastic
surgeon to discuss fixing these puppies! Couldn't you have at least waited till
I'd gotten around to doing that? Now I'm stuck with sagging tits for all of
eternity?"
"I'm sorry, Marina, I tried to resist," he said,
letting out a sigh that seemed to reached to the bottom of the earth. "But
when I saw you looking all sexy like that, what could I do? You know that all
men think with their dicks. Why would I be an exception? Besides, I love your
breasts just the way they are." He reached over in an attempt to tweak one
but I swatted him away immediately.
"Sexy like what? I was sitting here minding my own
business in my Hello Kitty! pajamas! You've got a hell of a
lot of explaining to do."
Jude grabbed a throw pillow and plunked down on my burgundy
leather Queen Anne (which would surely stick to his sweaty flesh. Unless
vampire flesh has a Teflon quality to it I don't know about). He at least had
the decency to cover himself up with the pillow.
"So the more I read about my dilemma—"
"Dilemma? Are you mad? Dilemma is trying to
figure out how you're going to get to work on time when you're stuck in rush
hour traffic—"
"Okay, fine, the more I read about my predicament,
the more I realized it came with all sorts of, well, let's say contraindications to
our staying together."
"Contraindications? Now we're cribbing from the
pharmacy warning labels?"
"Would you let me continue? This is hard enough, in
case you hadn't noticed."
"You just sucked blood from my neck,
Jude. Like some greedy two hundred pound mosquito. You've apparently just made
me immortal, for fuck's sake — nothing I ever wanted, by
the way. So don't look for much sympathy from this corner of the peanut
gallery."
He gave a subtle nod in my direction, meager acknowledgment
for his transgressions if you ask me. "Anyhow. The longer I went without
sustenance, the more I craved it. At first I was able to stave off the
yearnings. I was eating steaks — rare — every day at lunch.
But I soon discovered that steak alone wasn't going to do the job. I had to go
on the prowl."
"The prowl? Like some middle-aged Mr.
Goodbar?"
Jude rolled his eyes at me. "I was trying to
protect you, Marina."
"Clearly that worked." I glared at him. "So
this is when the fancy underpants came into play?"
"They're not underpants."
"Whatever. So this is when you started dressing to,
what, kill?"
Jude flinched at that. "I wasn't trying to kill anyone.
But I didn't know what to do. And really, I didn't exactly kill them. I just
changed their natural state."
"I'll say. Like going from a state of ecstasy to the
state penitentiary. Only this prison's for all eternity." Was it for
eternity? I was trying to probe the recesses of my memory for some notion about
vampire lore. I dressed as Dracula for Halloween once or twice, but I didn't
bone up on Drac's habits for the occasion.
"So did you have extended hook-ups with
women? Or did you just nab 'em in the elevator and give 'em the old
one-two?" I made a hook and an uppercut with my arms, then looked over and
saw the truth carved like wrinkles into his face. "You slept with
them and you killed them?"
"I couldn't help it, Marina," he said. "And I
didn't kill them. I just—"
"I know what you just—"
"I was trying to preserve us. Honestly, I
did this for you."
"For me!!!" For about one more
millisecond I was rendered speechless but then the tidal wave of fury beckons
forth from my mouth -— that very mouth that is now going to have to find a
taste for blood. With me, a vegetarian. Jesus. I've always been pretty good at
math, but this sort of calculation doesn't add up no matter how many ways I try
to work the equation.
"First you have sex with a strange, beautiful woman in
a dark alley. Then you start cruising for new meat like some sort of, of,
of cannibal, doing god knows what to get your fix, and now you've
destroyed me, destroyed my life." I pace the room back and forth like some
nervous father-to-be awaiting a cigar and an It's a Boy! declaration.
"Jesus! My mother warned me about men! But did I listen? No. I told her
you weren't like other men. But she told me one day I'd know better. This is
one time I wish my mother wasn't right.
"It's all making sense now," I said, trying to
feign calm while teetering on the edge of manic rage, a veritable cattle
stampede of anger. "First the damned underwear. Then the steaks! You gave
up red meat for me years ago. But then you started sneaking behind my back
eating steak again. I thought I smelled blood in your sweat at
the gym, dammit. Steaks. Now my life is going to be about steaks
and stakes. Jesus, fuck. And you knew about my blood aversion. It's why I
didn't go to med school. I can barely attend the annual Red Cross gala. And I
practically faint at the sight of blood! Goddammit Jude, how could you?
You know I'm not a night owl! And now I have to avoid
daylight?? How the hell am I going to get a suntan? You tell me that. Christ, I
should've known ex-sex would lead to no good. This is bad. On a bad scale with
zero being a paper cut and a hundred being my dog got hit by a train, this is
a bazillion on that bad scale. A bazillion, Jude, do you hear
me? You've just sentenced me to an even worse fate than you because a) you
betrayed your wife when you fucked some strange woman behind the Chili's — and
god, we don't even eat at Chilis! — so you deserve this, and b)
this is going to really put a kink in my life. How the hell do you expect a
vegetarian hemophobe to survive as a vampire? You tell me that? Am
I supposed to mug a blood courier? Cause I'll never do what you just did to get
by."
Jude grabbed another nearby blanket and wrapped it around
his waist. "First off, I don't know where you get the idea that somehow
you'll be afraid of gay people—"
I poked him in his forehead with my forefinger, wishing I
had the power to make an actual indentation, a keepsake for him to remember
what an ass he is. "I said hemophobe, not homophobe."
"It was a joke, Marina. Remember, we always love to
joke together?"
"Joke’s on you, too, cause this is no laughing matter.
Why'd you go and kill me, Jude? Did you hate me that much?"
"I didn't kill you — I made
you immortal!"
"Whoo-hoo! I get to be immortal. With these!" I
screamed, pointing again at my ta-ta's.
"But don’t you get it? It's not about that stuff. It's
bigger than all of that. It's about Us, with a big U. Us reuniting.
Back together again. Maybe on some subconscious level I did this on purpose,
because I wanted — I needed — to share my
forever with you. Just think, now we can be together for all
eternity."
"Me? Together with you?" I
shrieked yet again. It seems that shrieking might well be a hallmark of
vampirism. "For all eternity? Are you out of your fucking
mind? You just killed me, and now you want me to be yours? Put
it in a goddamned valentine."
I got up, supercharged with my newfound and roiling anger
heaving like a stomach with a bad case of food poisoning. I stormed across the
living room and kitchen, collecting bits of my ex-husband's clothing, confetti
that started out celebratory but now only served as a stale reminder of what
wasn't. I opened the fireplace screen, pulled the flue handle down, and piled
his pants, shirt and shoes atop the andirons. I pulled the matchbox off the
mantle, upon which was the last remaining picture of me and Jude together,
which I grabbed and threw in with the rest, and lit the pile on fire. Jude came
rushing over.
"Marina! You can't do that!"
"Oh I think you broke the bank on can't do
that’s. I most certainly can, and watch me." I blocked his body as I
let the conflagration erupt, the soles of his shoes smoldering longer than the
flash-fire cotton of his shirt.
"My clothes. I need my clothes—"
"My life. I needed my life, and you snatched that right
out from under me."
"Honey, why don't you just sleep on this, maybe you'll
see things clearer in the morning."
"This isn't like breaking up with my first boyfriend.
Nothing will become clear in this picture. Now. GET OUT." I wiped my hands
against each other, as if erasing him from my existence. I grabbed a fireplace
poker and skewered him in the butt, pushing him toward the front door.
"But Marina, honey, I love you."
"Out!" I began hitting him, hoping he'd
finally take the hint. As we made it to the doorway, enacting the very reverse
of that newlywed tradition of the groom carrying the bride across the
threshold, a flash of white caught my eye, and I reached down to spear what I
saw.
"Don't forget these," I said, passing Jude his
beloved Calvin Kleins on the spear tip of my fireplace poker. "I think
you're gonna need them."
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