Victoria Frankenstein, III: Part 7

 

Six

             “I see you’ve got Dracula with you,” Blue Boyle snarled, his yellow teeth flaring in the light. But he looked a little alarmed, as well.

John and I both just stared at him. I knew it was impossible, but Blue seemed to have swelled even larger in size than the last time I’d seen him at Niagara Falls the previous spring. His clothes were now so tight that they’d ripped in places.

John seemed impossibly calm. “And who are you?” he asked. “Some kind of Frankenstein wannabe?”

“Actually,” I said to John, “Frankenstein was the man who created the creature, and—”

“Shut up!” Blue bellowed.

We shut up.

“So what’s Dracula doing here?” Blue went on. And it was then that I saw the tiniest flare of hope: There was no irony in his voice, none at all. I knew then that Blue thought John actually was Dracula. So I decided to go with it.

“He’s my new friend,” I said.

Blue said nothing.

But John said in his perfect Dracula voice, “And I will suck the blood from anyone”—pause—“or anything that threatens Vickie.”

And John stood up to his full height—which, I have to admit, was quite a bit less than Blue’s. He spread out his cape behind him.

Blue was convinced. He started backing up, then whirled and ran through the back door, not even bothering to open it. I mean, he ran through that door—wood splinters flew everywhere. Like in a cartoon.

Quiet.

Then John said, “Who—or what—was that?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“I’ve got time.”

“But we should get out of here … he might come back. Where should we go?”

“We’re there,” said John. “My place.”

Just then we heard someone coming in the front door. We looked. John’s parents.

His parents had frozen, were staring at the mess Blue Boyle had made. “What has gone on here?” his father finally asked.

John lied with a speed and skill that I admired. “We came in just as some crazy high school kids were trashing the place.” He waited. “They saw us and ran off, probably afraid we’d be able to identify them?”

“Can you?” his mother asked.

“I’ve never seen them before.” He looked at me. “Have you?”

“No. Never,” I said.

***

John’s parents were a little confused—well, more than a little confused—not only about the condition of the house—but who I was—and what I was doing there. And so another mixture of lies and truth began.

“We wondered where you’d disappeared to,” his mother said.

“After the show,” said his dad. “We were looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I wanted to talk with Vickie—this is Vickie,” he said. I smiled. “And when I saw her leave the building, well, I went after her.”

“I guess that explains it,” said his mom.

“You were a great Dracula,” said his father.

“Perfect,” I added—for obvious reasons.

“And you sang so well,” said his mother. “I had no idea …”

“I didn’t either,” said John, “when the play started. But then I started to enjoy it all—acting, singing. A lot.”

“And we loved watching you,” said his father.

“Well,” said the mother, “I suppose you two would like to be alone?”

“Oh no!” we both said simultaneously.

“So your father and I will head upstairs,” continued the mother, as if we hadn’t said anything at all. “Maybe you two could clean up the mess?”

And off they went—while John and I stared at our feet.

***

Eventually (oh, maybe a century later), we both looked at each other. And laughed. “Well, that was awkward,” said John.

“They’re very nice,” I said. “Your parents.”

“They are.”

And then my tears began, thinking about Father. Where is he?

“Let’s sit down,” said John. He gestured toward the couch, and I, blinded now by tears, stumbled over there.

“You want a Coke or anything?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Since I had that drink back at school, I’ve been … full.” And, I thought, a bit dizzy, too.

“I’m glad,” he said. “We don’t have any Cokes anyway.” He smiled. It was weird, hearing “Dracula” say kind and ironic things in a middle-school voice.

As he sat down, I asked “Nothing for you?”

“I do not drink … water,” he replied in his best Dracula voice. And I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

“So what’s going on?” John asked.

I wondered if I should tell him anything. I hardly knew the kid. But there was something about him. Something … trustworthy. Something that reminded me of Gil. Poor, lost Gil.

I decided to tell him the truth—but as little of it as possible.

“I got home from the play,” I said, “and my father was gone. And the house was kind of … messed up.”

“Messed up?”

“Things out of place. Broken. Things gone.”

“Like this place,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And no note from your father or anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Your father, I’m guessing, has not ever done anything like this before.”

I felt the tears forming again. “Nothing remotely like this,” I managed.

“And so the police came?”

“They seemed pretty much clueless,” I said.

“So that’s why you took off?”

“Right.”

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

And John’s use of we nearly broke my heart.

But I managed to say, “We clean up this place.”

“Okay.”

“And then we find my father.”

 

From Blue Boyle 

Why was Dracula there? Does he drink blood? Yours? Mine? I don’t like him. I drink water.