When she was a child, he was her hero. There weren’t much worse things than seeing your idol transform into something less than that before your eyes.
Prior to their father’s passing, they were just relatively normal kids.
They ate human food, wore regular clothes, played in the woods, and even watched programmes on the black-and-white television that father brought home one day. They got one channel, PBS. They watched Mr. Rogers’ Neighbourhood, Electric Company, and Sesame Street, which featured a lovable old vampire named The Count. Seeing him there, interacting with kids, it made her childish mind believe they were more normal than they’d been taught. It showed her they could live among people and be fine. She knew better now, of course.
Gabriel used to lead her around to see the things he’d discovered in the woods or take her on long walks just to see what they could find. They built forts; they fished and hunted with spears or with their bare hands. They swam in ponds and lakes deep in forests that looked untouched by humankind. If she fell or got hurt, Gabriel lovingly tended to her wounds. She had no doubts that he cared for her, and there could be no doubt of her adoration for him.
Somewhere near the end of their time in Ohio, she could tell he was struggling with the charade. With Mother and Father’s demand for secrecy. He wanted to be in the city. He wanted regular friends. He wanted to show people what he could do. It was around this time that he stopped taking her with him. He stopped smiling. Even now, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.
When Father died, Gabriel only grew worse, mean even.
Mother said it was a phase. That Father’s death dropped a lot of responsibility onto Gabriel’s shoulders. And that the circumstances would be difficult for anyone, man or monster.
They never shied away from that word – monster. They knew their place. Unfortunately, in that regard, knowing their place, she’d begun to fear Gabriel may have passed a point of no return. If not, he was certainly on the edge. He’d grown angry, dark, and after last summer, sinister.
* * *
Although she could fly, most of the time she chose not to. She enjoyed walking and liked to feel the dirt beneath her feet. It made her feel closer to nature. Father ingrained the importance of keeping up appearances. And one of the fundamentals was keeping their feet on the ground. It taught humility and grace. It also greatly lessened the chances of people discovering them.
Their home came into view. It was a lovely, three-bedroom cottage at the edge of a cemetery on the outskirts of town. Mother was asleep in her darkened room. She’d been sleeping a lot again lately. Not a good sign, but as old as she was, it was to be expected.
November swept through the house to her own bedroom, grabbed her headphones, and put on the new Van Halen record. She still couldn’t believe the ‘I Can’t Drive 55’ guy was singing for them, but it was so good. Side B had just the tune she was looking for.
The keyboard intro to ‘Love Walks In’ warmed her heart and made her smile like a fool.
The lyrics were about aliens pulling strings – love was an out-of-this-world experience, for sure. Not that she was in love, that would be crazy, but there was something about Rocky. It was instant. She saw him and knew she had to hang out with him.
Contact. That’s all it takes.
Chapter Five
Marcy Jackson sat at the window watching the fireworks from the beach. She’d always loved the spectacle of it all. Her late husband, Eddie, hated them. When they first moved up to Old Orchard Beach from Biddeford, the young interracial lovers stuck out like sore thumbs. It was fall, the tourists had all hightailed it home, and the mostly white community left behind could do nothing but talk about the new mixed couple on Gage Street. But a Frenchwoman had fallen for a coloured man from the south. Eddie was thirty when they started dating, she was just twenty, but it was love at first sight. He was beautiful, strong, and had the heart of a lion and a laugh that lit up her world. Married three years by the time they came to OOB that fall of 1968, they’d experienced two lifetimes’ worth of dirty looks and hardships. When her friends warned her what mixing races could do to her reputation, and lord forbid if they had a child, Marcy set them on their heads and told them god was the only judge she concerned herself with. Eventually the new beach community warmed to them, and as recently as two summers back, Eddie, who’d been a career fireman, was awarded the city’s Citizen of the Year Award for his contributions with the fire department as well his years with the town council, and for the volunteer hours he put in at the Boys & Girls Club.
He’d endured racism on a daily basis, and she couldn’t have been prouder of his ability to turn the other cheek. She missed him dearly. He’d been a diabetic his entire life and succumbed to a stroke at the young age of forty-nine, just four months after receiving his big award.
Nights like this, the fireworks and the hubbub of the busy season, made things a little bit easier. They’d never had children of their own but knew plenty of the local kids and had watched many of them grow up before their eyes. Even the younger kids in the neighbourhood knew them and said hello when they passed by.
Eddie had touched so many lives in town, his legacy endured.
Marcy was getting ready to go into the TV room when she heard a yelp from the front yard. She hurried to the window in time to see something streak across the small lawn. She placed her forehead to the glass, trying to glimpse what was just beyond her sight. Her hand fumbled along the wall and found the switch to the front porchlight. The Chaplins lived next door. Their little white picket fence contained a splotch of dark, dripping paint.
Paint, she told herself. Definitely paint. Just because it looks a little like blood, doesn’t mean it is.
Marcy went to the door and stepped out into the warm night. She could hear nothing but the summer people carrying on. A chill crept over her flesh. She hugged herself as she started down the steps and edged toward the corner of the house, her gaze flicking back and forth from the dark splatter across the Chaplins’ fence to the shadowy space between their houses.
She dug her nails into her arms as she inched closer to the fence. The splatter glistened and was indeed dripping in the soft light from her house.
Fresh.
Someone was out here. She thought of the boy, John. He was maybe thirteen or fourteen. Maybe he and his friends were fooling around.
“John?” she called out. “Is that you, sweetheart?”
A deep moan came out of the dark.
That was not the boy. That was something awful. She knew it in her guts. She swallowed hard, backing away from the small alley, and hurried up the steps and into her house. She was near tears as she fumbled the slide chain lock into place. She cursed herself for calling out and drawing attention to herself. It seemed so stupid, but the thought that she had suddenly invited trouble to her front door nestled inside her chest like a fast-growing cancer, heavy and black.