EPISODE FOUR

OYSTERS AND OLD FRIENDS

     Sunset occurs precisely at 6:30 pm in October.

     I was up and dressed by 6:35.

     I wasn’t exactly sure where I should start, but I knew I didn’t want to sit around and wait for the inevitable. Someone would come. Who? I had no clue.

     The wind gusted fiercely as I stepped out of my building, The Fairmont, on Market Street. Two large potted mums flanked the double doors, welcoming the upcoming holidays with orange accents and silk bows. Wreaths of jack-o’-lanterns and fall leaves were securely hung with clear string, resembling fishing line.

     I headed toward Market Square, which, after the modernization, was more of a circle, and sat down at one of the green metal tables where most of the nightlife seemed to gather. I made sure to drink a pint of AB- before heading out; no point in making things more complicated.

     By 7:20, I spotted her—a familiar face in the crowd. Patience was drinking beers on the other side of the courtyard as if they had just lifted prohibition. I nodded at her from where I sat, and I could see the look of terror on her face. She’d been busted. The soft, multicolored lights of the square helped to dilute the yellow tinge of her skin to where she almost looked healthy—almost.

     I considered my options and then made my move. I crossed the growing crowd of the square and joined her, my own drink in hand.

     “Patience, isn’t it?” I asked, more of a greeting than a question. The wind shifted, and I could smell her sickness. My nose twitched.

     “Candy,” she said back, her sheepish grin reaching her eyes. “What do we do now?”

     I sat down, my glance skirting the perimeter of the square and coming back to Patience.

     “We chat,” I said.

     She looked at her beer and followed the foam with her finger.

     “I suppose we talk about drinking, and how we shouldn’t be?” she said, her eyes not meeting mine.

     She was tightly wrapped in several layers of clothing, with a well-worn knit hat secured over most of her head and fingerless gloves like the ones I sometimes wear while typing. Her eyes were glassy against the occasional burst of wind.

     “Have you eaten anything?” I asked, more interested in what she hadn’t consumed that night than what she had.

     “Not really,” she said, her hand trembling slightly as she raised the glass to her lips.

     I thought about my options again; apparently, tonight would be filled with them. 

     I could scold her like a child, tell her everything she was doing wrong, that she was dying, killing herself one glass at a time.

     I could keep to myself—my business. My gaze followed a group of aging businessmen across the square, then shifted to a trio of women determined to enjoy themselves. Laughter burst from their table at irregular intervals. The businessmen occasionally looked back before returning to their own drowned-out conversation. Not a vampire in sight.

     Instead, I said, “I could help you, if you like.”

     She stopped mid-gulp and set the glass down, her eyes still not reaching mine.

     “What do you mean? Help me how?”

     “You’re dying, but I think you already know that—I can smell it on you,” I said. I watched as she steadied her hands by gripping the beer glass tighter. “I can change that.”

     “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m fine. I don’t need anyone’s help,” she lifted the glass to trembling lips and finished the last sip. She began to stand, and I grabbed her hand.

     “You’re a terrible liar,” I said. “Most alcoholics become quite impressive liars, but not you.” I finished my drink, my hand still on hers. “Maybe we should get something to eat.”

     “I can’t, I have…”

     “Nothing to do but die,” I said. “Why not sit here and die a little with me?”

     There was a flash of something that crossed her features—fear? Relief? It didn’t matter. She settled back in her seat, her eyes finally meeting mine.

     “What a shitty thing to say to someone,” she said, her chin raised slightly.

     “Shitty, but true,” I pulled up one of her sleeves, revealing several multi-colored bruises. “I don’t have to be a doctor to know a corpse when I see one.”

     She pulled back, fixing her sleeve and gazing grimly at me. “I’m fine.”

     “Well, I’m in the mood for oysters, sit here. I’ll be right back, my treat,” I said, looking at her and making sure my demand would be followed. She nodded, her gaze fixed on mine.

     “I’ll wait here,” she said.

     A few moments later, I returned with two of the night’s specials: Monster Fish Sandwiches with fries and coleslaw, along with a dozen raw oyster shooters.

     Patience gagged at the sight of the oysters.

     “Don’t worry, they’re mine.” I slung back six of the little beauties before continuing the conversation. “So, what’s your last name?”

     “Steven’s, Patience Steven’s,” she said, finally breaking the trance of watching me—the watery, still-moving creatures sliding down my throat—and adjusting the bun on her sandwich.

     We ate in silence for a while. At first, Patience was only interested in moving the food around her plate; then, gradually, she started to eat. By the time we both finished, there was a wave of relief coming from her small, weathered form.

     “You eat more than any woman I’ve ever met,” she said. “At least one for your size.”

     “I eat like this because I know what it’s like to be starving, to have nothing, and to feel the pain of emptiness growing in my stomach until that’s all I can think about,” I said.

     Patience looked at me, her face twisted, then eased into a smile.

     “I’ve also never heard anyone talk like you. I guess it’s the writer in you,” she said. “I’ve never read any of your books, but I bet they’re dark and full of sorrow.”

     “Isn’t life?”

     “I suppose,” she said, her hand coming to rest on her empty beer glass. “Any chance we can finish with a beer? My last one, I promise.”

     “Of course,” I said, and I could feel my canines begin to ache. “I know it will be.”