MaryJane Davidson: Undead and Unworthy

In return she made a reasonable living and managed not to smother my grandpa with a pillow. For their part, they were living in an actual home and not dying in an impersonal hospital ward.

“Get lost,” my beloved maternal relative said warmly.

“Hi, Grandpa. Just dropped by – ”

“Did you bring me a Bud?”

“ – to say hi and tell you I got married.”

He squinted at me with watery blue eyes. His hair was lush and entirely white – it thrived on Budweiser. His eyebrows looked like angry albino caterpillars. He was in his wheelchair by the window, dressed in sweatpants and a blue checked flannel shirt, feet sock-​less in the heel-​less slippers.

He didn't need a wheelchair, but Mr. Mueller in the next room had one, and my grandpa broke every plate he could find until Nurse Jenkins relented and ordered one for him. Mueller also had a colostomy bag, but my grandpa graciously decided not to go after that as well.

Next to the Ant, and maybe the devil, he was the most evil person I'd ever known. Come to think of it, most of the male influences I'd had growing up had either been –

“Your mom still fat?”

“She's at the perfect weight for her height and age, you bony smelly man!” I snapped. Great, a new record. I'd been in the same room with him for eight seconds, and already I was screaming. “It's a miracle she isn't a sociopath, raised by a rotten old man like you!”

“Hello,” Sinclair said. “I'm Eric Sinclair, Elizabeth's husband.”

Gramps scowled at the vampire king. “You look part Indian. You got any Injun in you, boy?”

“It's possible,” Sinclair said mildly, as I moaned and chewed on a throw pillow. “I never knew my biological father.”

I spit out some feathers and stared at him. “You never knew your father?”

“He could be part black!” my darling, dying relative howled. “He could be – he could be Catholic!”

“I believe I may be Californian,” Sinclair added helpfully.

“Anyway, I got married, this is the guy, nice to see you again, don't drop dead anytime soon, because I couldn't handle another funeral this year, good-​bye.”

“Yup,” Grandpa said, smacking his teeth (he still had them all... a chronic drinker and smoker with gorgeous hair and perfect teeth). “Hope that witch is having a good time screwing the devil in Hell.”

“I don't think the devil swings that way,” I said truthfully. I had finally remembered the one reason I hadn't wrung the old buzzard's neck twenty years ago.

Sinclair cleared his throat. I prayed he wasn't eyeing my grandpa and trying to figure out which one of the two of them was older. “Oh, you knew the, ah, late Mrs. Taylor?”

“Knew her? Beat the shit out of her.”

“How sweet.”

“Twat stole my girl's husband.” A cat wandered near, and Grandpa kicked it away, sending his slipper flying. Sinclair snatched it out of the air and courteously handed it back. “She had to go down.”

“Go... down?”

“Fistfight. The Halloween I was fifteen. The cops came,” I sighed reminiscently, “and everything.”

“Bitch went to her grave with fewer teeth than I have,” my warm, friendly grandfather cackled.

“You engaged in a physical fight with a woman?”

“Slut should have kept her legs closed round a married man. 'Course,” he added, looking at me, “your father always was a worthless bastard.”

“As I recall, he got a fist in the face that night as well.”

“And woulda got a boot in the ass! If the cops hadn't cuffed me by then.”

“The arresting officer gave me a Charms Blo-​Pop,” I reminisced, “and took me over to stay with my mom. She got to read the police report.” I stooped and kissed his wrinkled forehead. And handed him the Cub grocery bag, which was full of cans of Bud.

“Who's here?” I asked, yawning as I strolled into the kitchen. Sinclair, once done laughing, had been in a rush to get back to the manse, for which I could not blame him. He'd snuck into the library to read the Book of the Dead, and I'd come to the kitchen to pretend I didn't know, and also for a smoothie.

“Here, what? Here here?” Marc was yawning, too, and scratching his ribs; he smelled like cotton balls, antiseptic, and was wearing last night's scrubs. His hair, shaved nearly bald when I met him, was now shoulder length, dark, and fell into his eyes a lot. It was a wonder how he examined anyone at the hospital. “I hate your creepy vampire superpowers.”

“Liar.”

“It's Nick,” Jessica announced, shutting the fridge and turning around, a pomegranate (a pomegranate! She ate 'em like oranges, I swear to God) in her left hand.

“Oh.”

I'd probably better leave. I had recently discovered that Detective Nick Berry, who was in love with my best friend, hated me. And not “hate” like “I hate boogers.” Hated me like plague. Hated me like famine. The fact that I deserved it didn't make things any easier. “You guys have a date?”

“No,” she said cryptically, which made me want to strangle her. When Jess didn't want to cough up, you could stick a gun in her ear, and she'd laugh at you. Must be from growing up rich. Sinclair was the same way. Stick a gun in my ear, and I'd talk until your pants fell down.

Then: “How's your grandpa?”

“Still worried that your blackness will infect me.”

“That's the plan. First you, then all the other blondes, and then on to brunettes and redheads. Once we have the womenfolk, all the babies will come out black, too. We all voted on the plan at the last Black Conspirators meeting.” Ignoring Marc's choking, she added, “Bet Sinclair had a good laugh.”

“To put it mildly. He was all soft and nostalgic at first, talking about how it was nice to have live in-​laws, but my grandpa wiped the smile off his face soon enough. But never mind that. What's Nick doing here?”

“Meh,” the Cryptic One replied.

“He's a carpenter by night? Not that we need one anymore; that gang you hired did a pretty good job.” And they did. Except for the smell of sawned wood and fresh paint, you'd think nothing had happened.

“Yeah, thanks, Jessica. What do we owe you?” Now that I was married to a rich guy, I could say something like that and not have Jessica burst into derisive laughter. But as usual she just waved a hand: don't worry about it. I was so used to her money I hardly noticed it was there. Shit, she hardly knew it was there. But she was never obnoxious about it, seeing it as something permanent and unchangeable, like her skin color and taste in music.

“So,” I continued, “not to go on and on about something – ”

“You?” Marc asked.

“Never,” Jessica declared.

I scowled at them both. “What is Nick doing here?”

“What do you care?” Marc asked, plucking an apple out of the basket on the counter and taking a wet bite. “He'd rather see you dead than in last year's Blahniks.”

I shuddered and wiped masticated apple off my cheek. “That was mean. Even for you.”

“Obviously,” Marc continued, shaking his hair out of his eyes (and into Jessica's pomegranate), “he and the richest woman in the state – ”

“Richest person,” Jessica corrected gently.

“ – have a hot sloppy date. FYI, girlfriend, you're aware he's using you for your money, right?”

“His grandpa was one of the Deeres.”

We gaped at her. This was a tidbit we hadn't heard before.

“Shut... up!” Marc nearly screamed.

“Nuh-​uh.” Jessica popped another pomegranate seed into her mouth and tried not to look smug. She sucked at it, as usual.

“As in the John Deere tractor company?” I advanced cautiously. (As in, anyone who wanted a tractor, trailer, thresher, or combine usually bought 'em from the John Deere Company.)