“Money wouldn’t change anything,” Mark said. “I told you, I can’t let you go.”
Dr. Weyland drew back. He said harshly, “Of course. It was a mistake to ask you for help in the first place. I won’t ask again.”
For some time Mark sat at his drawing table, biting his pencil and working over the paper again and again. He couldn’t read the poem now without thinking wretchedly of his parents.
God, Dr. Weyland would drive you crazy if you had him for a class. He was one of those never-satisfied types who beat out your brains under the mistaken impression that they’re teaching you to think.
* * *
A kid from math class wanted to go to a movie after school. Mark begged off, saying he had chores to do. Actually, Wesley was coming today and would handle the feeding of Dr. Weyland. Mark used the time to go to a film and lecture about coyotes at the Museum of Natural History. He preferred seeing animals stuffed in the museum exhibits or on film to seeing them in a zoo. The zoo depressed him horribly.
The documentary film drove him out before the program was over. It first lovingly detailed the cleverness of the coyote, his beauty and his place as part of nature, and then settled into a barrage of hideous images: poisoned coyotes, trapped coyotes, burned coyotes, and coyotes mangled by ranchers’ dogs. Mark didn’t think he would ever be cool enough to stand that kind of stuff.
Wesley was still at Roger’s when Mark got in. “I cleaned up our friend special for tonight,” he said. “Roger called and said don’t feed him. There’s company coming.”
Ugh, maybe that meant Alan Reese. Walking Wesley out, Mark told him about Reese’s visit.
Wesley kicked at the base of the brownstone steps. “Shit,” he said. “I thought Bobbie had quit running around with all those devil nuts. Didn’t Roger and her do a trip with them once before?”
“He’s getting into it again,” Mark said.
Wesley shook his head. “Tell you one thing: Alan Reese is weird. He likes stagy stuff with all kinds of blood and crazy stunts. Him and his friends did something one time that left a whole apartment in Queens splashed with rooster blood. The chick who played altar for him and his friends that night said if he ever talked to her again she’d sue.”
“Wesley, I’m sort of worried.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll be okay. Roger won’t go as far as Reese will want to. It’ll be okay.” Wesley stuck a wad of gum under the curve of the stoop and went away whistling.
Dr. Weyland sat reading, dressed in dark trousers, socks, and slippers. The cuffs of his white shirt were folded back the way Mark did his own cuffs when his arms got too long for the sleeves.
“Roger said not to give you anything to eat.”
“Temporarily, I trust,” Dr. Weyland said. “I need food badly when I’m healing. My hunger hurts.”
Mark met his stare for as long as he could. “I can bring some water,” he said. “But Roger said no food.”
Just as he was about to settle into his work, Bobbie turned up at the front door with a short, stocky woman in a caftan who carried an embroidered knapsack by one broad strap. Bobbie smiled.
“Hi, Mark. This is my friend Julie. We called Roger and he said we could come see the vampire.”
Mark hesitated. Julie had dark, haughty eyebrows and a determined-looking mouth. Bobbie wouldn’t dare bring someone over without really getting Roger’s permission, and anyway, Roger was due back early. Mark let them in but asked them to wait to go back and see the vampire until Roger came.
Julie sat down in the big armchair by the avocado plant and surveyed the living room. “Roger must have good vibrations to be able to keep so many growing beings happy in his home.”
Bobbie, curled on a hassock, smiled at Mark. “Mark takes care of it, mostly. When he’s not around, it all goes to hell.”
Turning to Mark, Julie said, “You wouldn’t happen to have anything of the vampire’s handy for me to look at while we’re waiting—a hairbrush, used clothing? I can tell a lot about a person from those kind of things.”
Another nut. Mark went to the cell. “Could you pass me your hairbrush, please?”
Dr. Weyland put down his book and brought the hairbrush from the tiny bathroom. The bare cell seemed more cramped than ever when his tall, stoop-shouldered form moved about in it.
Julie took the brush and drew a gray hair from among the bristles. “A man,” she said firmly, “not a demon.” She held the brush against her chest. “Tell me about the man, Bobbie.”
Mark watered plants, listening as they talked. When he could no longer stand Bobbie’s shapeless torrent of “wows” and “terrifics” and other general terms of awe that kept her from ever concluding a thought or a sentence, he relented and took them both down the hall for a quick glimpse of Dr. Weyland. The vampire looked up briefly from his reading but said nothing. The two women exchanged what Mark supposed was a significant glance and returned without comment to the living room. There they sat silent for so long that Mark got bored and went to his own room.
He was winding up a math assignment when he surfaced to an awareness of music—no, chanting. And a funny smell—
At the gate Dr. Weyland said wearily, “You might go and make certain they aren’t burning the building down.”
The living-room rugs were rolled up and the furniture had been moved back against the walls. Gray smoke curled from incense sticks thrust into the soft earth of the plant pots. All of the taller plants had been grouped in the center of the floor. The two women were prancing, stark naked, in a circle around this huddle of vegetation.
Under the plants lay a little heap of objects. Julie put down a peacock feather and took up a knife. Bearing it aloft in both hands she marched, with Bobbie behind her, first toward one corner of the room, then another.
Mark stood staring at their bodies. Bobbie was slim and tan all over, and Julie was white and chunky. She jiggled. He felt his face get all hot, and he was torn between intense embarrassment and panic. If Roger saw this . . .
“Casting out!” Julie cried. “Banishing the evil, blood-eating spirit by the power of Her dark phase.” She held the stubby knife, a sort of mustard spreader with the handle wrapped in black electrician’s tape, with the haft pointed at each corner of the room in succession. “By Her life-making loins.” She dug a fistful of earth from under the avocado tree and sprinkled it on the floor. “By the power of Her shining face.” A white ribbon fluttered through the smoky air.
Bobbie put down the platter she was holding and, hurrying over, whispered to Mark, “We’ll be done pretty soon. I mean, I realize this is an imposition, sort of, but I felt so bad about telling Alan about—him. Alan might not do anything, but you never can tell once he gets really involved and starts hearing spirits telling him to do things and all that. Alan is very powerful under certain planetary configurations.
“Julie has this different approach, you know, a warmer sort of attitude and these really glowing, positive vibrations.”
Julie swayed alone in the middle of the room with her eyes shut, stroking the leaves of the plants.
“Make her stop,” Mark pleaded, “and let’s start cleaning up before Roger—”
Roger walked in.
Julie raised her arms. “By the power of my aiding spirits, I declare the caged man free, I cast the curse from him, I drive forth—”
“Jee-sus!” Roger burst into the living room, kicking at the magical objects and slapping down the incense sticks.
Julie spun around once in the middle of the floor. “So close our songs to the Mother!”
“Get your goddamn clothes on,” Roger commanded, redder from his exertions than she was from hers. “There’s a kid here, you slut!”
“We are skyclad,” Julie retorted fiercely. She pulled on her caftan and started for the door, gathering her belongings and stuffing them into her knapsack. Bobbie, dressed and carrying her sandals, came after.
“Wait a minute,” Roger said, grabbing at Bobbie’s arm. “Damn it, Bo
bbie, what about all this mess you two have made here? I’ve got people coming over in a little while, serious Satanists.”
Julie stood in the hallway holding her knapsack in both arms and glaring at him. “I’m sorry,” she said icily, “but we’re lousy at mundane tasks when our rites have been interrupted. All I can say is, if our work didn’t help that poor man, it’s your fault. Any fool but Alan could see in a minute that that person isn’t a devil, not with a face like that, such a stern, beautiful mouth, so much gravity and wisdom in the eyes—and if it’s Alan’s friends you’re expecting, they’re just a bunch of—”
“Stuff it.” Roger yanked open the front door and shoved her outside.
Bobbie gave a weak version of her sunny grin, murmured, “Sorry, Roger,” and followed.
Roger slammed the door and snapped the locks. “Come on,” he said angrily to Mark, “help me straighten up in here. I’m trying to work this into a real experience for Alan’s people, and those two come and turn everything into a cheap, goofy sideshow! I thought Bobbie was bringing over some kind of exotic medium who’d give us some class, and this is what I get.”
The visitors, a chic and chatty group, came soon afterward. To Mark’s relief, Alan Reese was not among them. Roger, his good humor regained, told with relish the tale of how the vampire had been found and brought here. When he had them all fidgeting with anticipation, he led them down the hall to the cell.
Mark went, too. His mouth was dry. He didn’t like the atmosphere these people brought with them. Roger didn’t even seem to know them, he thought; they were like strangers you happen to be standing in line with for a movie.
A plump, nervous-looking woman went into the cell with Roger. When Dr. Weyland looked at her, she began to hang back.
“Come on, Anne,” said the people at the gate. “You said you would.” “You told Alan you’d do it.”
She smiled a scared smile and let Roger position her by the cot. He pressed her shoulder. She perched stiffly beside Dr. Weyland. Roger said softly to him, “Drink, vampire. The people are waiting to see you.”
Dr. Weyland’s glance moved from face to face. He looked very white. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. Mark felt sick, but he couldn’t turn away.
“Come on inside where you can see,” Roger told the spectators.
One of the women said, “It’s good from here; we don’t want to be piled up in each other’s way. God, what a tiny room.” She lit a cigarette.
Start drinking,” Roger said. “This is all you’re going to get.”
Dr. Weyland sat very still, looking at the floor now. Mark thought, Don’t do it, don’t do it in front of them.
“His hair’s gray,” a man said. “I thought they lived forever and never got old.”
The man next to him answered, “Maybe when he drinks he gets younger right in front of us, like in the vampire movies.”
“Or maybe something else happens to him that they’re not allowed to show you in the movies.” They all snickered.
Dr. Weyland reached over and took hold of Anne’s arm.
“Ugh,” she gasped as he began. “Jesus!” She sat straining as far from him on the cot as she could get, her face twisted with loathing and fright. The spectators pressed closer to the bars and whispered excitedly.
Mark couldn’t see past them anymore. He was glad.
Afterward, Anne came out crying and was led into the guest bathroom. The others crowded down the hall to the living room, talking and exclaiming. Passing the bathroom, one woman tipped her head in the direction of the sobbing sounds from inside. “If she’d just relaxed and rolled with it, I bet she could have gotten off on that.”
The one with the cigarette glanced back at Mark and shushed her, and they giggled together.
Dr. Weyland sat quietly on the cot, his big hands loose and heavy-looking in his lap, his craggy face still. His glance touched Mark remotely like the stare of a resting cat that watches any movement, out of habit: without intention, without desire, without recognition.
Mark went into his bedroom and closed the door.
* * *
A letter came for Mark in Roger’s mail. It was from Mark’s father, and there was money in it. He put the money into a drawer until he could take it down to the bank and add it to the savings account he kept especially for parental bribes. He had vowed never to make a withdrawal from that account. Someday he was going to give the money back to them and let them figure out what to do with it.
He went back to the cell.
“I got your glasses fixed,” he said. This had been his own idea; he knew how a bad lens could give you headaches.
Dr. Weyland came to the gate. “That was very fast. I can’t repay your expense.”
“I told you, Roger’s taking care of stuff like that.” In fact, Roger would die before he would spend money on something like fixing the vampire’s glasses. Mark had paid out of his own earnings. Later he would figure out how to get the money back from Roger. The amount was small. The glasses had turned out to be not prescription but simple magnifiers, the kind you could buy through a catalog to make reading easier on your eyes.
Mark settled down at his drawing table.
Dr. Weyland, still at the gate, said, “What is it that you do at that table for so many hours at a time?”
After that hatchet job on the paper for Carol Kelly, Mark was wary. But by the same token he knew he would get a straightforward response from Dr. Weyland. Nervously, he handed over a Skytown drawing. Dr. Weyland spread the paper flat against the wall with a delicate touch of his long, clean hands. Now that he was stronger, he kept himself immaculate. Mark was uncomfortably aware of his own bitten nails and perpetually grubby knuckles.
“ ‘Gravity plates,’ ” read Dr. Weyland. “Is this part of a spaceship?”
“Space station, with two auxiliary vehicles and a squad of maintenance robots. It’s set up for a single human operator.”
“And this is a design for the library—how pleasantly old-fashioned, considering that so much information is already kept on microfilm and in computer memories rather than in print.”
“Well, a library would be a kind of extra,” Mark said.
“But well worth having,” replied the vampire. “Electronic storage and retrieval systems are efficient, but efficiency is only one value among many. Books make fine tools and good friends—informative, discreet, controllable. Are there more of these plans?”
He looked at the Skytown drawings for a long time, and in the end he handed them back saying, with no trace of condescension, “I can see that your best thinking has gone into these. They’re well worked out and handsomely drawn. You have a gift for visualization and an admirably steady hand.”
Mark blushed with pleasure. Suddenly it was worth it to have endured the Great Housman Paper Massacre.
“This has been a much-needed relief from my current reading,” Dr. Weyland added, indicating a stack of Roger’s new books on the floor by the gate. They were all about magic and witchcraft and worshiping the Devil. On the top volume of this batch was stamped the word KABALLAH in gold. Dr. Weyland nudged the pile disdainfully with the toe of his slipper, exposing a book called The Grimoire of Gudrun and another, Athames and Athanors. The gaudy colors of the jackets made the white-walled cell seem bleaker than ever.
Mark said, “What’s a grimoire?”
Dr. Weyland corrected his pronunciation. “A grimoire is a witch’s personal book of spells and procedures. Athame, or althame, is supposed to be the ancient name for the short-bladed, black-handled ceremonial knife a witch uses in her rituals, according to these texts. However, I seem to recall that this word was actually invented by an imaginative writer rather late in the nineteenth century.”
“And athanor?”
“I hope you’ve found your dictionary, because for the moment the meaning escapes me. At any rate, I’m done with these—I’ve read as much as I can bear to, and I can’t quite bring myself to descend to the level of Gudrun’s recipe
book. You understand, I am obliged to you for providing these, but frankly they’re scarcely readable—self-importantly conspiratorial, mind-numbing in their repetitions, abominably inaccurate, and foully edited.”
“Roger mostly skims what he reads.”
“Wise of him,” Dr. Weyland said. “With books like these the choice is clearly sink or skim.”
Mark clutched at his stomach and moaned appreciatively. He lifted the books out between the bars. “It’s all made up, then? Magic and devils and all that stuff?”
“Primarily. I do think that there are gifted individuals who can accomplish supernormal feats, usually on an erratic and unpredictable basis and therefore to no great effect on the world at large.”
“Can you? I mean, can you work magic?”
“I can behave in ways which, while natural in me, would be highly unnatural in you,” said Dr. Weyland. “But magic—no.”
Mark said impulsively, “You’re very old, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Weyland would be all right, Mark decided, now that he had his strength back. Even up against Alan Reese.
That night when Dr. Weyland reached for the young man Reese had sent, Roger commanded, “Not the arm. The neck. The people paid to see the real thing. Go for the neck.”
For a moment the vampire looked out at them with an unfathomable gaze. Then he took the young man by the shoulders and leaned in and up under his jawline. The watchers gasped. The victim caught ineffectually at Dr. Weyland’s wrists and whimpered.
Mark looked away. At the end the people applauded, and he hated them. They gathered in the living room and chattered: the vampire really was an attractive brute, even handsome in a harsh and distant way—that cold reserve, that eagle-stare. Didn’t you get shivers watching him press against a person the way he did and suck on their neck like that? That was worth the money. Was it like sex for the vampire? Shh, where is Mark? Washing dishes; he can’t hear us over the running water.