Were there vampires in the Lockhartville cemetery? Was one of these monsters even now placing hairy palms against the inside of a coffin lid? Was something with red, dripping fangs even now crouching under the window?
In spite of himself, he found his eyes turning toward the window. No! He did not wish to look! But his head moved with a will of its own. In another second he would be looking at the glass and then he would see â
“What in hell's the matter with yuh, Kev?”
“Huh?”
“What in hell's the matter with yuh? Why in hell can't yuh lay still for a minute?”
“Oh, I'm sorry. Nothin's the matter,” Kevin whispered.
He closed his eyes.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
From where had this thought come? It was as though something evil and invisible were whispering at his ear.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
He put his hands over his ears. But he could not shut out the whisper.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
In an attempt to exorcise the voice, he began a mental catalogue of all the sane, substantial things in this room.
On the shelf between the pantry door and the door to the living room: an alarm clock, a box of household matches, three cuds of chewing tobacco, scissors, spools of white and black thread, a bottle of iodine, and a jar of the salve that his mother rubbed on his chest and throat when he had a cold.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
On the green frame of the pantry door: shamrock-shaped tin tags from chewing tobacco, shaping the letter K. Long ago, his father had driven the tags into the wood with a hammer. On the shelf above the cot: mail-order catalogues, the wooden box in which his father kept bills and lawyers' letters, felt inner-soles for Judd's gum rubbers, a stack of love story magazines, school books, his water colours, a broken cap pistol.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
On the shelf above the woodbox: three of the bricks which his grandmother heated and held against her belly, a jar of stove polish and a sooty-black rag, his father's leather work mitts, a hunting knife, a jar of shingle nails, a claw hammer.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
In the cabinet over the sink: yellow, ammoniac laundry soap, white, lily-scented toilet soap, his father's shaving brush and razor, pills for toothache and earache, ointments for cuts, Epsom salts, sulphur, witch hazel.
But what of the thing in the cellar that drinks so much blood?
On the pole hanging over the stove: towels, dish cloths, face cloths, all made from rags or flour bags, a pair of his denim shorts and one of his father's cotton shirts which his mother had washed that day . . .
He awoke with a jerk. He did not know if he had slept for only a second or for hours. Knowing that his father never slept during these nights of waiting, he felt rebuked. He listened to the sounds of cars passing, watched their headlights flash across the walls.
On dance nights, many cars passed. Nearing the house, the sad night-sound of their motors rose in a crescendo of desolation and loss. Passing the lilac hedge, the sound subsided, as though the cars were being driven into a bottomless valley. Soon, there was only a hum, no louder than that of a mosquito. Then, there was no sound at all. Each time a car neared the house, Judd's head rose a fraction of an inch from the pillow. When the car did not stop, his head sank down again.
Silently, Kevin counted the cars. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Each number was the undulating whine of a motor, a golden ghost of light streaking across ceiling and walls. Twenty . . . thirty . . . thirty-five . . . thirty-nine, forty . . .
In some of the cars, men were singing. In others, voices were raised in anger. Sometimes â not often â words were distinguishable.
Oh, there's a love-knot in my lariat!
And I'm dreamin' of my little prairie pet.
“Damn rat! Damn friggin' pig. Damn stinkin' louse!”
When I grow too old to dream
I' ll have you to remember!
“I told the sonovabitch! I told the goddamn stinkin' bastard!”
Sweet Adeline, my Adeline!
Each night, dear heart, for you I pine . . .
“Keep your hands to yourself, you stinkin' â”
The songs were lively but sad, almost wistful.
They were the whistle of a locomotive in the night, the wind under the eaves, the wail of the telephone wires. The threats and curses were the speech of men who feared nothing, men who swaggered unafraid through the vampire-ridden night. Here were Harold Winthrop, Hod Rankin, and Av Farmer, grown to manhood. And Kevin both despised and envied them. Someday he would be a king and a vampire, while these men would never be anything more than turnip-heads and slab-carriers. And yet, if they could have chosen between his dream of kingship and their electric muscles and roaring bravado â
A car stopped. Thrusting Kevin aside, Judd rose and went to the window facing the road.
“Good night, beautiful!”
“Oh, you big silly!”
The first voice was the teasing, intimate voice of a man. The second voice, giddy with laughter, was that of Mary.
Judd doubled his fist and brought it down hard on his palm. “Ha,” he ejaculated, the sound midway between triumph and despair.
Kevin sat up. He decided to steal back to his room before his mother entered the kitchen.
“Stay there!”
“Huh?”
“Stay there, I told yuh!”
“Gee, sure, Daddy.”
Shivering, he drew the army blanket around his shoulders like a shawl.
The car hiccoughed into gear. He heard his mother's footsteps, running up the path. She sounded as if she were walking on something breakable. Had he been blind he would have known her by her steps.
Judd went to the table and turned up the lamp. Kevin blinked in the sudden rush of brightness.
Mary threw open the door and swept into the room. Her hair was dishevelled, her body skittish with excitement.
Then she froze.
“Scampi! Why aren't you in bed?”
Her words were like a slap.
“Gee, Mummy,” he stammered. “Gee whiz.”
Shoeless, his father stood in the centre of the floor. There was something evil in his eyes.
“He's waitin' fer yuh, same as he allus does,” he grated harshly.
Mary flung her coat on a chair. “There isn't any need for him to stay up! That's all your idea! You want to shame me! You want to make him ashamed of his mother!”
“If yuh ain't ashamed now, there ain't nothin' I'n do tuh shame yuh,” Judd said.
He emitted a terrible, unreal snicker.
“Come on, Scampi! You come to bed where you belong, right this minute!”
She seized his wrist and wrenched him to his feet.
“Gee, Mummy . . .”
“You come to bed!”
She led him back to his room, walking so fast that he had difficulty in keeping his footing. Her fingers were a vise, burning his wrist. The floor was cold and gritty under his bare feet.
“Don't you want Mummy to be happy, Scampi?”
“Gee, sure, I want yuh tuh be happy.”
“Sometimes, I don't believe anyone wants me to be happy. It seems like everybody in the world wanted to make Mary Dunbar O'Brien unhappy. Even you, Scampi! You don't want Mummy to go to dances. But going to dances makes Mummy happy. Don't you understand, Scamper?”
“Sure. I understand.”
“No. No. You don't understand at all. You're only a little boy. I shouldn't even ask you to understand. I should stay home, if you want me to. I should stay in this old house all the time and rot. I should stay in it until I'm an old, old, old woman. That's what you want me to do, Scamper?”
“No! Gosh, no, Mummy!”
“Yes, it is. You don't even want me to go to a dance!”
“Gosh, no, I never said I didn't want yuh tuh go tuh dances, Mummy.”
“You didn't say it, mebbe. But I know you don't want me to. As soon as I get out of the house you go running to your father. He doesn't want me to go either. He wants me to sit in the kitchen until I rot. And as soon as I get out of the house you go running to him. You do that every time, Scampi!”
“It don't mean nothin'.”
“Yes, it does! It means a whole lot. It means you like your father more than you like me. That's what it means.”
“No, it don't!”
“Yes, it does!”
“No, it don't!”
“Do you really and truly love me, Scamper?”
“Gosh, you know I do!”
“Tell me that you love me, Scamp.”
“I love you, Mummy.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you, Mummy.”
“â Again.”
“I love you, Mummy.”
“â And again.”
“I love you, Mummy.”
“Oh! I could never get tired of hearing you say that, Scampi! Never! Never! Never! Some people have to be loved or they'll die. Mummy's like that. Mummy wants you to love her to pieces, Scampi.”
“Gee.”
“Let me tell you something, Scampi. I don't know how to say it. But I want you to remember it. I don't want you ever to forget it. Will you promise me you won't forget?”
“Sure.”
“Cross your heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“Well, then, Scampi, listen: Mummy loves you. But when you really love somebody, you have to keep giving them parts of yourself. I don't know how to explain it. But it's as if you had to cut off a finger or tear off a piece of your heart and give it to the person you love. And you have to keep doing that â you have to keep giving pieces of yourself, day after day. That means you have to be awfully strong to love. And Mummy isn't always strong. And Mummy isn't always brave. Sometimes, she's too scared and weak to cut off a part of herself, even a little part. Because it hurts, Scampi. It hurts to give away a part of yourself, even when you're giving it to someone you love.”
“Gosh.”
“But I want you to remember that Mummy loves you. Don't ever forget that, Scampi.”
“I won't forget.”
“Sometimes I feel as if I wasn't any older than you. Isn't that silly? I was sixteen when you were born, Scampi. Sixteen! But I guess that seems grown up to you. It seemed grown up to me, too. But it isn't, not really. I was just a baby. And I guess I've never had time to grow up. I guess mebbe that being grown up means getting used to being unhappy. I can't get used to it, Scampi. I want to dance and sing and wear pretty dresses and play!”
“Gee, sure, Mummy.”
“And you want me to be happy?”
“Gee, sure.”
“Oh! That's my sweetikins. That's my sugar-baby! Tell me that you love me, Scampi. Tell me again!”
“I love you! I love you! I love you!”
And another time: “You should hear the music, Scampi! It makes you want to dance and dance and dance.”
“Yeah.”
“You're not mad at me for wanting to dance, are you, Scampi?”
“No.”
“Of course, it isn't just the dancing. It's being with people â real living, breathing people.”
“Yeah.”
“It's wonderful to be alive, Scampi. You don't know how wonderful it is until you've been dead. Sometimes I think that I've been dead for years and years. I work in this old house and I'm dead. I don't feel anything. Then I go into the hall and hear the violins and see the people dancing and, all of a sudden, I'm alive again! It's like rising from the dead, Scampi!”
“Gee whiz!”
“Do you know that most people are dead? Did you ever think of that? Lockhartville is full of dead people. The old women cook and clean and scrub and make pickles. And all the time, they're dead. And the men are dead, too. When I get away from Lockhartville, I feel like somebody who's risen from the dead! You don't know what a terrible, wonderful feeling it is, Scamp!”
“Gosh!”
“Oh! When I look at their faces I want to yell, You're dead! You're dead! You're dead! That's what I feel like doing, Scampi!”
“Gee, Mummy.”
“Yes! That's what I want to do! I wish they'd all fall over and I wish somebody would come and take them away and bury them! Because they're dead! Dead! Dead!”
“Gosh!”
“And sometimes I'm dead, too. But when I hear the music I come alive again! It's a terrible thing to be dead, Scampi. There isn't anything worse than being dead.”
Every evening, Judd worked in the garden. The only fertile land he possessed was a narrow strip between the heath where he pastured his cows and the swamp where they drank. But, slaving every night, after his eleven hours of drudgery in the mill, Judd made this soil yield all of the vegetables that his family ate.
Kevin loved the smell of the manure-seasoned earth, the fragrance of ripe peas and squash, the feel of the soft corn stalks and abrasive turnip tops on his feet and legs â but he hated to work with his father. The man attacked the land as though it were an obdurate and intractable beast. When he plunged his fork into a hill of early potatoes, his grunt was almost a snarl. And when the yield was meagre, he cursed soil, seed, and weather as though they had joined in a conspiracy to thwart him.
“Damn potatoes ain't no bigger'n walnuts,” he spat, kicking the tubers viciously, as though they were living things, capable of feeling pain.
Kevin picked string beans, plopping them into a bucket hanging from his elbow. From time to time, he ate one of the raw, yellow-green pods, savouring its grassy sweetness. At long intervals, Judd straightened to roll a cigarette or to wipe the sweat from his eyes, his leathery palms leaving streaks of reddish dirt on his forehead.