A week later, maybe two, Willie's plan started to formulate. It began with slamming shut that door in his mind and locking it with a biggest deadbolt his mind could muster. Blocking his thoughts would still not enable him to betray his master, nor could he knowingly help the prisoner escape when it conflicted with the vampire's will. But everyone knew Willie was such a flawed individual: weak, selfish and stupid; one of his frequent lapses in good judgment could have disastrous results. Under this assumption, he took his grocery allowance and went shopping.
"Good mornin', miss." Willie gently nudged the girl awake and offered her a cheese Danish and cup of coffee on a silver tray. "Breakfast is served." Maggie sat up and wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "Sorry, it's not as good as the kind you make, but it's nice 'n hot, and there's sugar in it."
"Why do I have to get up? I'm tired."
"Ya got a lotta things to do today."
Maggie looked at him still half asleep. It took several moments for her to realize that the prison guard was wearing a tuxedo tailcoat and trousers, a white wingtip-collared shirt (no tie), and high top sneakers.
"What's with the get up?"
"This is what a footman wears, and me on special occasions."
"What's so special? Having sugar in the coffee?"
"You're invited to a party—at my place." He smiled and swung open the iron door.
"What about—?"
"It wouldn't be nice to tell him, 'cause he's not invited. It's a private party."
She looked skeptical. "Why? What are we going to do?"
"For starters, I thought you wouldn't mind if I washed that nasty-smellin' dress you got on, and there's a tub full 'a hot water upstairs if ya wanna bath."
"Oh, Willie," the young woman's voice cracked.
"C'mon. Daylight's burnin."
In the second floor bathroom, the claw foot tub had been filled with steaming water. "I'll hang your dress up by the fireplace downstairs to dry, and ya can wear this while you're waitin'." He handed her his white terrycloth robe with a fancy letter embroidered on the breast pocket.
"What does the H stand for?"
"I like to think it stands for Hollingshead, 'cause we were doin' this con—I mean job—at the time, and that was my name. But really, the H is for Hilton. I took it from a hotel in Panama; it was the nicest place you ever saw." He pulled his duffle bag in from the hallway, its lumpy contents clattering on the wooden floorboards.
"What's in there?"
"Stuff! Everythin' you need." He dumped the bag in the sink and out poured hotel soaps and miniature bottles of shampoo and body lotion, travel toothbrushes and shaving cream, cascades of toiletries accumulated from years of world travel. "I been to every hostel, hotel and motel there is. Go 'head, take whatever ya want." He held up a little red box with the picture of a flamenco dancer on it. "This is special black soap from Spain. I never used it, but it's supposed to be good for your face."
Willie waited in the hall until she tossed her clothes out the door, then he took them downstairs and scrubbed them in the scullery sink with pumice soap. They were rinsed via his newly functional water pump and hung by the kitchen fire. This was what a date must be like. Not a dinner and movie kind of date, more like a laundromat date.
Maybe someday he could take her to the movies, the young man thought as he smoothed out the wet wrinkles in her dress, and to a fancy restaurant. They would order steak and lobster and the finest beer money could buy. Of course, they would have to drive to Bangor—but wait. Never mind; he was going to be dead later tonight. Best not to make plans.
Maggie holed up in that bathroom for hours, just like a woman. Finally he knocked softly on the door and she appeared, looking lost and forlorn. He ignored the girl's red eyes.
"There's a campfire up in my room. Ya comin'?"
She smiled sadly. "Sure. I guess."
Without the conveniences which had been moved to the wine cellar, and with the empty bed frame, Willie's room looked pretty sparse, but he set up a cozy place in front of a roaring fire with blankets and pillows borrowed from the other bedrooms. Set in the middle was a collection of candles, china plates, silver forks and crystal goblets, hot dogs, marshmallows, pineapple juice and rum. Like a date.
"Mr. Loomis, are you planning to get me drunk?" Maggie laughed a little awkwardly and sat down, clutching a pillow to her. Willie handed her a wiener on a fork, which she proceeded to roast.
"That's up to you," he shrugged. "I'm sure gonna get me drunk."
And so they spent the afternoon, eating and drinking, talking and just watching the fire. Maggie recalled happy childhood memories and funny diner anecdotes about precocious children and dime tippers. She told him her dreams of saving enough money to go to college and become a successful businesswoman, then getting married and having lots of children.
Willie had little to contribute to the conversation, having no desire to share his sordid past or his nonexistent future. So when asked, he changed the subject to gangster movies. When it got too warm, he shed the penguin suit jacket and shirt and kicked back in the tuxedo pants, sleeveless undershirt and suspenders. The servant felt less self-conscious since his bug bites and bruises had faded away and long hours of sawing wood had put on some muscle mass. And, except for his face, the scars hardly showed at all. Maggie poured another round.
"Slow down, lady. You're really putting that away."
"Daddy's little girl," she laughed. "I thought you wanted to party. Hey, I have a new drinking game. You have to do a shot every time you hear thunder or a dog howling."
"Can't, I'm ready to pass out." He fell back onto the pillows. Maggie curled up next to him and he took her into his arms and closed his eyes. They laid quietly together, listening to the fire crackle.
"Thank you for all this, Willie. I'm having a nice time."
"Good."
She looked up into his face. "Do you want to make love?" Maggie asked tentatively.
"No."
"Oh." She put her head back on his chest. "Is it because of Barnabas?"
"No, 'cause of you. C'mon, you know ya don't want me; you're just drunk. Or are ya thinkin' I would help you get outta here if we fu—made love? You must think I'm the biggest creep in the world."
"No. I just thought, hey, you're alone and I'm alone and maybe we could be alone together."
Willie smirked. "Where'd you get that cheap pickup line?"
"From some creep I met at the Blue Whale; his initials are Willie Loomis." She pulled herself up and, brushing the stray hair away, studied his face and kissed him.
Maggie was playing him like a fiddle. Of course she was. The young man had set her up to do just that, because he couldn't release the girl or help her escape—she had to dupe him. But now, as they were lying each other's arms, it felt too real, and Willie started to both hurt inside and become unmistakably aroused.
"What about Joe?" he finally blurted out.
"Joe thinks I'm dead. I try not to think about him anymore."
Willie could stand it no longer. "I think about you all the time."
He pushed her to the side and climbed on top. Heat pulsated through their bodies as his lips smashed into hers with the release of months of pent up passion. His hand groped under the robe as hers fumbled with his fly.
If she so much as touched it, Willie was afraid he was going to explode before they had begun. He looked away toward the window to temporarily refocus his thoughts, and realized the sun was disappearing behind a cluster of trees. Shit!
Willie rolled off and onto his back, breathing heavily. Maggie sat up, bewildered.
"Sorry, shouldn't a' done that. I'm really drunk," he said. He looked around for some cold water to dump on his head, then remembered that his pitcher and basin were in the wine cellar.
Maggie shrugged. "It's alright. Joe and I…never…he wants to wait." she responded quietly, staring at the fire.
Willie sighed. "Joe is gay."
The young woman turned to him abruptly. "What? No, you're wrong. He asked me to marry him."
"Sometimes people want to be somethin' different from what they are, so they pretend it ain't so."
Maggie thought for a moment. "I didn't know there were any gay people in Collinsport."
Willie laughed at her naiveté. "You prob'ly thought there weren't any vampires neither." The mention of Barnabas brought the memory of their situation back to the foreground. Maggie looked sadly at her companion as he settled into a cocoon of pillows. "I'm takin' a nap…Don't forget to go back down to your cell before sunset, but be careful, 'cause I left the front door unlocked—oww." He pulled his truck keys out of his back pocket and tossed them on the floor. "Do you get what I'm sayin'?"
"Yes."
Maggie crawled under his arm and wrapped herself tightly around his chest as she fought off a rising sense of fear and foreboding. With a pained expression, he squeezed back. They clung to each other with the desperation of shipwrecked sailors to a piece of driftwood, until the boy fell asleep.
It was years later. Willie and his lovely wife were picnicking on the beach as their happy hoard of children frolicked nearby in the sand and surf. The boys were strapping, blond little Willies and the girls were mini Maggies with thick, chestnut ponytails. Under an umbrella, Sam Evans painted a seascape, so preoccupied that he dipped the brush into his beer bottle instead of the water can. Carolyn strolled by wearing a microscopic polka-dot bikini. She winked at Willie and tossed her hair before going on her way. Maggie smacked him with the book she was reading.
"Eyes back here, lover boy."
"And all the other parts, too." The young man leaned over to kiss his wife but got a face full of sand instead. Burke Devlin and Vicky were jogging along the beach.
"Hey, big man, watch it!" Willie scrambled to his feet, yelling at him. Burke made a U turn.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Loomis. I wasn't looking where I was going."
"Yeah, well, I don't wanna see you on this beach again, or there's gonna be trouble."
Yes, sir."
Burke scurried away, and Willie sat again on the blanket. Now Barnabas was seated next to him, wearing his wool three-piece suit and sunglasses.
"Lovely day," the gentleman remarked.
"Yeah. And sunny. How come you're outside during the daytime?"
"I am no longer a vampire; I have been cured, and it's all thanks to you, son. I've come to reward you for all your hard work." The older man took out his billfold. "Will a million dollars be okay?"
The room was dark and empty when Willie woke from his dream. He lay there, hugging a pillow, for a long time, staring into space. It was chilly again. Maggie had fled, and he would be all alone again in that dismal old house with the vampire. But not for long. By now Barnabas knew that his bride had broken out, and was deciding how to dispatch his duplicitous servant. Hopefully something quick that wouldn't hurt too much.
By the dying embers in the fireplace, he rose and changed into his old clothes, returning the tuxedo to his armoire. Prom night was over.
No sense putting it off any longer; it was time for the shit hit the fan. He stared at his reflection in the dresser mirror and took a deep breath. Okay, Loomis, this is it. Go out with a bang.
"And don't be a chicken shit," the man said aloud as he reached for—the door to his room was locked from the outside. That was stupid. He pulled a laminated card from his wallet and, sliding it along the door's strike plate, popped it open.
Barnabas was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, smoldering and sullen.
"Hey, you're up." Willie said, dragging his feet down the steps. "Guess I fell asleep." He yawned. "My head feels fuzzy."
"You reek of alcohol and that woman."
"Don't forget hotdogs! We had a party. It was that kinda day, ya know?" He spun around on the newel post of the banister. "You never said not to have a party."
"In case you're curious, fear not, our guest is safely secured once more in the wine cellar." Willie stopped swinging. "However, when I came upon her, Miss Evans was behind the steering mechanism of your truck, with your keys, about to take flight."
Their eyes locked. The servant held his breath. "I'm sorry, I-I didn't know—"
"Spare me," the vampire snapped. "I realized the crux of your ridiculous charade long before she did." Willie was dumbfounded. Barnabas couldn't have known. His mind's door had been sealed shut. "Did you honestly believe this foolish skullduggery could succeed? I warned what would happen if you insisted on sacrificing yourself for that self-seeking harlot." The monster snarled, advancing upon him. Willie may have been confused by the jumble of diatribe that came out of Barnabas' mouth, but his expression was unmistakable.
In spite of his intended bravado, Willie spun around and bolted up the stairs, but as he grabbed the railing for support, a broken spindle came off in his hand, and he tumbled back down the steps to the floor. Undaunted, Barnabas continued his approach. An experienced street fighter, the young man rolled and came up on his feet. He backed away and brandished the spindle, realizing that for once, he was armed and the vampire, recently bereft of his cane, was not.
Suddenly Barnabas halted in his tracks; he seemed anxious, even frightened, Confused, Willie looked around to see why and discovered he was standing in close proximity to one of the master's prize statuary. His jaw clenched, Willie swung the spindle dangerously near its head.
"Back off, bloodsucker, or the naked lady gets it!"
Glaring, Barnabas retreated without a word as his rebellious servant flew upstairs to his room and locked the door from the inside. He huddled in front of the dead fireplace clutching his wooden weapon.
So, after all that, the closed door in his mind meant nothing? Was it just another game the vampire invented to mess with his head? More than anything, Willie wanted to believe that was not true. He needed that last shred of self-respect to hold on to. Barnabas had to have been bluffing; he had just found a loophole. Maybe he had a portal to Maggie's mind as well and had been reading her thoughts, not his.
Willie held up the nearly empty bottle of rum, chuckling quietly. Shit, he had had a lot to drink. The look on Barnabas' face—oh my god. Sure, there would be hell to pay tomorrow, but for tonight he was reprieved. Probably. The young man pushed his dresser in front of the door, just in case.
Then he remembered Maggie and his smile disappeared. The plan had failed. She was supposed to have run away without the guard knowing. Instead, she got drunk and fell asleep beside him. He couldn't tell her not to do that, she was supposed to figure it out. Everybody else around there could read minds. In retrospect, the boss was right; it had been a stupid plan.
Even if Willie was safe for now, what would the vampire do to Maggie? She wasn't dead, he reassured himself. Barnabas would have said something, gloated over it. But the old man had such a mean temper, maybe he hit her. No, he wouldn't do that; Barnabas prided himself as a gentleman. Of course, to Willie's experience that meant the master always spoke politely while smashing his face into a wall.
Willie built a new fire, finished off the rum and settled into the pillows. He did not die today as planned, but he most certainly would tomorrow, and next time he would have more guts. But he had to get Maggie out of the house first. There was no point to getting killed while saving the woman you love if she wasn't saved. No drinking next time. No games—just out the door and down the road. Keep the truck; I won't need it anymore.
When you're an old married lady, maybe you'll think about me once in a while, and remember I wasn't a coward; I was your hero.
