Day Four
The wee hours of the morning found Willie propped against the wall with his jacket pulled around him, teeth chattering. He felt around for the matches in his pocket, but there were only two left, and they were damp. Barnabas had blown out the candles; did that mean he wasn't allowed to light them again? He hadn't said not to, but maybe the vampire was making him sit in the dark on purpose because it knew that was beginning to freak him out.
Back in the penitentiary, Willie had been in solitary confinement a number of times and had tolerated it better than most. So, it was not as if he had never before been locked up in a dark, windowless cell for days at a time. But in the Hole you slept a good deal, were inclined to be hot, instead of cold, and you got fed once a day, even if it was bread and water. Sounded like a vacation right about now.
He had messed up enough for one night and decided to not relight the candles. Who cared, anyway? He was dead meat. A sailor once told him how long a person could go without fresh water. Was it a week? Willie didn't even care about the food anymore, but his throat felt like sandpaper. Maybe it would be better just to take the switchblade, slit his own throat and finish the job—except the blade was now all busted up. The young man coughed, lay down and curled up tight, the flagstone floor cooling his flushed cheek.
Willie fervently wished he was drunk again, not for fun, just enough to pass out and go to sleep—a little Novocain for the brain—and body. He struggled to find a comfortable position, for his back still burned with a dull ache, but the servant reasoned that it could have been worse; Old Barney had probably pulled his punches. Vampires, as everyone knew, had superhuman strength; it could easily have killed him.
This way its victim could die much more slowly, but die he would—and go straight to hell. There was no doubt about that. Everything this shanty Irish shit had ever done had been for the sole benefit and pleasure of Mr. Willie Loomis. He couldn't recall one single good deed or act of kindness to a stranger. Even doings that seemed benevolent were always ploys to get something out of somebody.
But, there might be a loophole. Back in school, Sister Mary Perpetua once said that if you drop dead coming out of church, right after you went to Confession, they had to take you in heaven—it was a rule. He didn't know if it would work unless there was a priest around, but it was worth a try.
Bless me, fadda—uh whoever—for I have sinned; it has been…
How long had it been? Ten years? More like forever; Willie had never made an honest confession in his life. Skip that part. Should he start at the very beginning or at the end and work backwards? The young man struggled to recount his earliest memory; it was of his first and last birthday party, in 1961.
They say, when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. For Willie it was a random recollection of sitting at Bob's bar on Christmas Eve, almost twenty years ago, blowing out the tea candle which sat atop a cupcake, making the same wish he made every year. The child was perched on a short stack of phonebooks and when they slid to one side, he grabbed his friend, Charlie, for support. The barroom bum lost his balance and toppled, bringing the youngster down on top of him. They rolled on the floor, laughing like a couple of drunks.
That had been the best birthday ever, even if his wish never did come true.
Bless me fadda, for I have sinned. Are ya sittin' down? This is gonna take a while.
Again Willie attempted to organize his thoughts.
I'm sorry I stole all those quarters from Lydia's purse—that's my mom, he explained to God.
I'm sorry I said curse words to Karen Brindisi, but not Donna; she was a—never mind.
I'm sorry I wrote my name in the hallway.
I'm sorry I stole Charlie's beer—and all that other booze from Bob, when he was always nice to me. That was wrong.
I'm sorry I cheated on a test; well, on all the tests. Shit, why didn't I never learn something in school?
I'm sorry I stole that library book. I meant to take it back.
I'm sorry I tried to steal Mrs. Malone's jewelry. I'm real sorry about that.
I'm sorry I hung John Paul Flynn out the window—but everybody else was doin' it, and I didn't want them to think I was queer.
I'm sorry I drank wine with Father Donahue…I shoulda said "No, thank you." Big mistake. Why am I so stupid?
I'm sorry I—I wanna skip the next part, if that's okay. Let's just say I'm sorry, alright? If you're this big, all-knowin' god, then you already know. If fact, why do I haveta tell ya any of—
The penitent took a few minutes to clear his mind and refocus on the task.
Sorry, never mind. I'm sorry ripped off—oh, shit . . .
Now, it was going to get tough. Willie squeezed his eyes shut with no idea where to start. The parade of suckers flooded his brain and he smiled to himself, remembering what it was like to take candy from a baby—big, gawky babies with Jewfros and hundred dollar sneakers.
I'm sorry I ripped off those two geeks on the Boardwalk and hid the score from Jason. (Wait—is it a sin to steal from a thief? What the hell, better say it anyway.)
I'm sorry I kicked that Mexican guy in the balls. But I'm not really, 'cause I woulda got plugged otherwise; I'm nobody's bitch.
What would Jesus have done? It was the voice of Sister Mary Francis in the darkness.
He shrugged. I dunno, Sista.
Yes, you do. He would have turned the other cheek.
He woulda got plugged. Why do we wanna be like Jesus, so we all can end up nailed to a piece of wood?
You're going to hell, William.
Okay then, forget it. There was no way he was going to remember every wallet or watch he stole, every lie he ever told, every fight he ever picked, everyone he ever fucked—for love or money, everyone he ever fucked over.
Oh shit, I deserve to go to hell.
Willie propped himself up as his gut went into another spasm and he dry heaved for several minutes. Feeling light headed, he fell back onto his side in an effort to dispel the nausea and vertigo. The blackness became speckled with gray, fuzzy dots that grew and joined each other until they dominated his vision.
I'm sorry I let loose an evil undead vampire monster that's gonna kill me… kill other …other people, cows, rhinos—I'm sorry… I'm…
Finally, he drifted asleep and dreamed about the old neighborhood in Brooklyn, where the boy was riding on a trolley car. He pushed the levers to lower the little metal window and, after watching the palm trees swaying along the avenue, closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool breeze on his face.
Willie awoke lying on his stomach and wearing sunglasses. He could feel the hot bright sun on his back and smell Bain de Soleil. That meant, yes, Curley was lying on the chaise beside him. He heard waves crashing on the shore and seagulls calling, which was weird because they were at the pool. The boy's throat was parched, but his pretty blonde girlfriend instinctively knew this and ordered two frozen piña coladas from a passing waitress in a kimono. Curley noticed that his back was badly sunburned and applied cool, soothing lotion all over it. He flipped over, and she softly kissed his bare chest, his neck, his lips. He nuzzled into her hair and deeply inhaled the inviting aromas of coconut and almond.
"Drink first." She said, flashing her perfect white teeth at him. Curley returned to her lounge chair and went to sleep.
Willie waited, but the cocktails did not arrive. Seagulls circled overheard crying madly as dark clouds overpowered the sun and the wind intensified to a violent velocity, causing palm trees to bend and swoop. He was cold and perspiring at the same time. Upon reaching up to wipe the sweat from his neck, his hand came back covered in red. The man thrust his palm back to stop the flow, but blood gushed out between his fingers, splattering everywhere. Willie sprang upright and spotted Jason on the deck dancing with Raquel; she was nibbling on his ear—no, she was feeding from his jugular. Willie tried to call for help but his body was paralyzed and barely audible rasping came from his mouth as his partner collapsed on the boards. Willie turned and reached out a bloody hand to Curley, but she was dead; her skin was gray, cracked, and shiny with sun oil.
Willie opened his eyes, back in the cold, black void. There were shuffling sounds outside the cell, and the young man slowly realized that was what had awakened him. Someone was in the mausoleum.
"Willie!" He heard a muffled call. "Willie, are you in here?" It was Jason. He was saved.
"Jas—help—plea…" Barely more than a scratchy whisper came out. His throat was on fire, and so swollen he could barely breathe. Willie tried to crawl toward the door, to the source of his friend's voice, and bumped into the coffin bier. He grabbed onto it like a life preserver and pulled himself up. "Don' go—"
Leaning on the casket, he stumbled a few steps before his legs caved in and he collapsed, knocking himself out as his head hit the floor.
