Vida Nocturna Part 2

She turned up the TV volume again.

CHAPTER 2.

The Bite ALEXANDER HALF-DANCED UP near Sara, holding an aluminum saute pan by its handle as a sauce bubbled away inside it. He set it on the stainless steel counter near her. She turned toward him, hiding the fact that her checkered uniform pants made her b.u.t.t look like a pair of basketb.a.l.l.s.

"This got too hot," he said.

She peered at his s.h.i.+rt, hanging strangely on his left side. "Is that a potato in your pocket?"

His sungla.s.ses briefly mirrored her face from under his black mop of hair. "Or am I just happy to see you?" he smiled, removing the object. It was a potato, or rather, half of a potato, sliced the long way, with the peeled side carved into a little Easter Island head or tiki G.o.d. "Pretty cool, huh?" he asked. "Betcha didn't know I was so artistic."

Neil called to Alexander from the stove. "Hey, Biff! You gonna bat your eyelashes at your chick all night or you gonna do some work?"

"Sorry buddy. I'm just a little tired from last night," Alexander said. "Your dad gave me your college fund to f.u.c.k him up the a.s.s three times. It really wiped me out but at least I made sixteen dollars."

"Yeah?" Neil said. "Your dad comes here to beg me for it on breaks. But I'm still workin'. Just got more stamina than you, I guess."

Alexander took a few steps toward the stove.

"Can I help?" Sara asked. She ran one hand up along her neck, fingering the hairnet that covered her dark curls.

"Yeah, stir that, would you? I got other pans to deal with." He placed the little tiki G.o.d on the lip of the exhaust hood over the stove.

There were no spoons handy so she got a small ladle from the storeroom. She t.i.tled the pan to stir the sauce with the ladle.

"Ow! s.h.i.+t!" She yelped in pain as her palm seared. The handle was blistering hot. She dropped it to the floor, jumping back to avoid being spattered. Her hand felt like she had plunged it into the deep fryer.

Alexander appeared next to her as his sauce spread to cover a good portion of the floor.

Sara gaped as Alexander picked up the pan exactly as she had held it. With his other hand he took her by the arm and hustled her to the nearby sink, running cold water over her burn.

"Why do you feel so hot?" Sara asked. "It's like your fingers are another pan handle."

He didn't answer.

"I'm sorry about your sauce," she said, cradling her throbbing hand under the tap.

"It's all right," he said. There was something about his voice ... like she wasn't hearing it with her ears. He seemed to be speaking directly into her brain, calming her. It was all right. Everything really was all right. He turned quickly away, taking the steaming pan to the dishwas.h.i.+ng area and wiping the floor with a towel.

He rinsed the towel in the water under her hand. "See? It's all taken care of. You're just fine."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, it's fine." She stared at the painless red stripe on her palm, then glanced up at him. She gripped the edge of the sink, fighting the sensation that she was floating, leaving her body behind.

If I was with someone like this, I'd never have to be afraid of anything.

His eyes met hers through the gray sungla.s.s lenses.

"You want to go out with me after work tonight," he said. His voice had a slight touch of amus.e.m.e.nt but it wasn't a question.

Her head nodded.

He nodded back slowly and his lips tightened into something like a smile. "We'll go, then."

She turned off the water as he hung the towel over the spigot, giving her a glimpse of his palms. They were as white as the rest of him; there was no red stripe from the hot pan at all. Then he was over by the stove again.

Sara sat in the break room with Miguel, one of the dishwashers, and Brian, a stocky Asian-American busboy, who stood in his street clothes next to the door. Brian's hair was short, except for the back, which hung past the shoulders of his orange T-s.h.i.+rt that read "Just one atomic bomb can really harsh your buzz."

"Yeah, you know," Brian said, "this Spanish stuff's okay, but I grew up on Korean food." He shook his head, causing his cape-like hair to swish over his shoulders. "Once you're used to Korean food, you can't ever really get into anything else."

Miguel didn't respond.

"Sorry, dude," Brian said. "I know you're Spanish and all that, but for me, I'm saying. Just for me."

"I'm not Spanish," Miguel said. "I'm Mexican."

"Hey, Sara," Brian said, "you ever try Korean food? You ought to try it. So good. Healthy, too. You probably don't know what you're missing." He shrugged into his coat and picked up his backpack.

Sara nodded. "I know it's good. I grew up on Korean food, too."

Brian's single laugh was just an exaggerated "T" sound. "You mean you tried it. Gotta have Korean parents to grow up on Korean food."

"And yet, somehow, I grew up on Korean food."

"Pff. Whatever. Crazy white chick. See 'ya folks." Brian rolled out the door like a football player spinning away from a tackler.

Sara and Miguel shared a smiling glance. When she looked away, he continued staring at her.

"Are you really going out with Alexander, Sara?"

His accent was so thick that it took a few beats for her to realize what he'd said. REE-dee was "really," and too-NIE was "tonight."

She nodded.

Miguel's dark face slackened. He looked down at the white Formica table, and the longish straight hair that obscured his forehead swayed from side to side as he shook his head slightly. .

His eyes rose from the table, wider open and somehow softer. He breathed out through his teeth and brushed the hair away from his forehead. There was a real sadness in his voice as he struggled with the English: "I know ... you are gonna to do ... what you want." He gave her a quizzical look, checking to see if he was being understood. "But be careful, okay?" He looked around the break room as if trying to find an example. Finding nothing to point to, he looked back at her. "I seen this sometime before. You think he's very powerful. But that power you see comes from something ... oscuro? Dark. Very dark, you know?"

She gave him a slight smile as she again turned her own face toward the table. "I'll be fine," she said.

He nodded very slowly, closing his eyes.

"Miguel, he's nice. Really. I burned my hand tonight and he helped me. He's all right."

"You think so? Where is he right now? Why he's not taking a break with you?"

"He's outside. Smoking."

"Mmm. Outside is freezing cold. He got a coat on?"

"No."

"It's strange."

She smiled. "It's not so strange. He's a tough guy and he's probably used to Chicago winters."

He stood up. "My break is over. I'll see you upstairs, okay?"

"Okay."

He stopped with his hand on the doork.n.o.b. "Just be careful."

"Sara? It's Mummy. Are you there?

"Well, I just thought I'd call; I worry about you, you know. I know how you have trouble with responsibility ... You want to do it on your own, I realize. But you don't always have the best taste in friends ... sometimes you make some very bad choices in your life and it seems like you're shutting me out. Call me as soon as you can."

The back seat of a car. A hazy memory of climbing in here ... willingly?

The floor vibrates. The engine groans, accelerating.

The ecstasy of being fed upon has disappeared, leaving only the emptiness. But sharper emptiness this time, stronger and more desperate.

Sara blinks. Her breath comes shallow and quick.

"You ... " she says. She swallows and tries again. "Where are you taking me?"

They say nothing. The car is still accelerating. The radio is on. The faint sounds of Christmas music mix with the engine's whine.

Sara thrashes around in the back seat, filled now with sudden, inexplicable horror. She grabs for a door latch, a window crank, anything. But there is nothing.

"You can still feed from me tonight," she says, in a voice higher-pitched and faster than her own. "I won't fight."

They stay silent. The car tears through the darkness, always louder, always faster.

She slaps and kicks at the windows, the backs of their seats, finally realizing the new wailing noise she hears is coming from her own throat. "Stop! Just stop! Please! I won't try to run. Just please stop the car now. I have a little more you can take."

"Wake up, Sara!" Mummy's voice chimed. "It's our party today! I need my big first-grader to help me in the kitchen."

Sara squinted against the glare from the ceiling light behind Mummy's head. The windows were dark.

"Is it a storm outside, Mummy?"

"No, honey," Mummy said. She stroked Sara's hair back, tucking it behind her ears. "It's very early. We have a lot of work to do, and we need everything to be perfect. And you get to help me. Won't that be fun?"

Sara followed Mummy to the kitchen. There were cookies to bake and veggies to slice and put on a big tray. There were dips to mix and olives to wrap with bacon and toothpicks. Sara washed all the pots that were too big for the dishwasher, her hands turning to puffy sponges from all the soap and water.

"You're doing a great job, Sara!" Mummy said. "Such a good helper! And later we'll put on your party dress with the big bow, and we'll do your hair to look just like Mummy's!"

It was fully bright outside when Daddy came into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Sara sang to herself as her Boo Berry cereal tumbled from the box. "...with a corncob pipe and a b.u.t.ton nose, and two eyes made out of coal..."

Daddy turned from the counter, watching her. She stopped. "Good morning, Sara," he said.

"Good morning, Daddy," Sara said, steadying the milk carton with both hands as she poured. "Wow! I've never been up earlier than you before. You're always gone in the morning, no matter how early I try to get up and see you."

Daddy sat across from Sara. "This party's a great chance to show people what we're made of. It has to be just right, so I'm taking a little time today." He leaned in close, looking right at Sara. His eyes twinkled just like Santa Claus in a Christmas story as he lowered his voice. "You were doing a good job on that song. I think it would be very nice for you to sing Frosty the Snowman for all the party guests tonight, Sara. You'll be the star of the whole party." Daddy smiled.

Daddy was always so busy, fixing people with broken hearts. He was gone more than he was home, and when he was home, he was usually working. But now he was talking to Sara in a quiet voice, looking just at her. "What do you think, Sara? Would you like to be the star tonight and have everyone clap for you?

Sara was sitting up taller in her chair, now. Daddy wanted her to sing and be the star at the very important Christmas party! He would be so proud of her! She breathed faster, soaking up his attention like a milkshake through a giant straw. "Uh-huh. I would like it, Daddy."

Daddy nodded. Sara felt warm and strong and full, like she'd just eaten after being really, really hungry. He hadn't even said anything to Mummy this morning, and he wanted her to be the star!

Mummy moaned from the corner by the pantry. "Don't do it to her, Curt. Just leave her alone."

Daddy turned, blinked. "Do what?"

Sara stirred her cereal, pus.h.i.+ng some little blue pellet marshmallows down under the surface of the blue milk.

"You know very well what. You do it to me all the G.o.dd.a.m.ned time. Everybody's always got to do better, work harder, be a star. Nothing's good enough, no matter what we do."

Daddy shook his head and winked at Sara. "Don't believe all the crazy stuff your mother says, Sara. She needs to be the focus of everyone's attention, all the time, or she gets mad. She's just upset that I didn't want her to sing tonight."

Mummy's face got red and she gave him an angry look. What Daddy had said was true. Did Mummy know that?

"But don't worry," Daddy said. "You'll be the star tonight, Sara." He finished his coffee and set the empty cup on the table, turning for the door. "And maybe you'll be such a good example to your mother that she'll try to grow up a little more. Practice your song a lot today."

Mummy s.n.a.t.c.hed the closest thing on the counter, a newspaper with a red rubber band around it, and threw it at Daddy as he went into the garage. She stood there a moment, staring at the cabinet in front of her, and then turned to Sara. She sat down across from her, sniffing.

"Well, now you know about your father," Mummy said. Her eyes were narrowed and her head was tilted sideways. It was just how she'd looked when she'd thought Sara had been using her makeup one time and had yelled and yelled, even though Sara really hadn't touched the makeup at all. Sara looked away.

"It's not fair to you, when he does that. Trying to make you get up there and sing so everyone can judge you." Mummy's voice got a little lower, sounding more serious. Her words came a little faster. "But you don't have to do it, Sara. You can just tell him you won't. You're a big enough girl to say no, aren't you?"