Somehow the construction site looked even more depressing than the last time I’d been there. The place was haunted by the ghost of “supposed to be.” Chalk outlines showing where the interior framework was supposed to be situated had long since faded into pale scribbles. Sitting in what was supposed to be the living room, a roll of insulation looked as if it was molding from exposure to the rain. Frayed plastic sheeting that was supposed to be protecting the framework flapped shroudlike in the breeze.
It looked as if Buster unpacked his tools every day and did just enough to make it look as if he was working, without making any actual progress. I stared at the sleeping Buster, my lip curled back. I let my fangs fully extend. This man had kept my friends dangling for months. He’d made Jolene cry. This was not going to be a happy meeting for him.
With one lithe, soundless spring, I hopped into the back of the truck and sat on the lip of the bed. I cleared my throat and hollered, “Buster!” startling him into consciousness.
“Wha!” he shouted, sitting up. “Whassat?”
“Wake up, Buster, we need to talk.”
“Debbie?” He yawned, scratching his head and blinking in the low purpling light of the setting sun. “Honey, I told you, I’m sorry I said that about your sister—”
Buster’s eyes slowly came into focus, and he realized that I was not his angry live-in girlfriend.
“Oh, hey, Jane,” he said, yawning again. “Whassup?”
“We need to talk about your timeline for completing the house, Buster. I mean, walls painted, hardware on cabinets, light switches screwed in place, everything. What’s your ETA?”
Buster cleared his throat and tried to use his “professional” voice. “Well, it’s hard to say. So much of that depends on when I can get materials and extra guys out here to do some of the work. I’m just one person, you know.”
“Cut the crap, Buster. What month are you aiming for?”
“It’s OK, the McClaines explained it all to me,” Buster said in a conspiratorial whisper. “They want Zeb and Jolene to give up on the house by the holidays. Jim McClaine even promised me a bonus if I could get them to move back in with Jolene’s parents before her due date.”
I exhaled loudly through my nostrils. One day, when Jolene’s hormone levels were normal, we were going to have a long talk about her dad.
“The McClaines aren’t bankrolling this project,” I told him. “I am.”
“That’s not what Jim—gak!” Buster yelped as I yanked him up by the collar and pulled him out of the truck and into the barely framed house. Still holding his shirt, I hoisted him against the strongest of the wooden ribs and pinned him by the throat. Normally, I would be nervous around this much exposed, fractured wood, but Buster was too frightened to think about staking me. “Listen to me, Buster, look at me. Really look at me.”
He spluttered and coughed, taking in the too-bright eyes, the pale skin, the fading light glistening off long, sharp fangs. “Yeah, I’m a vampire. I’m a vampire going through a really rough emotional transition. And Zeb and Jolene are among the few people in my life who don’t piss me off right now, so I’d like to keep them happy. If that means checking up on you every day, beating the tar out of you to make sure you’re sober and doing the work you promised, I’m going to do it.”
I dropped him to his feet, and he promptly sank to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “But the McClaines—”
“The McClaines have told you it’s in your best interest not to finish the house. Don’t worry about that. Right now, I think you need to decide which of us scares you more.”
“I don’t do the work that I used to do,” he mumbled, rubbing at his reddened throat.
“Because of the drinking? Well, consider me your own personal recovery program. The steps are, you build my friends’ house—on time and in good condition—and then you get to keep all of your limbs. Sound fair?”
Buster nodded, mute with fear. He sobered considerably as we went room to room in the shell of the house, discussing what would have to be redone, how long each phase should take. By the time I was ready to leave, Buster seemed almost excited about coming back the next day. Or, at least, excited to keep all of his limbs.
“Bright and early tomorrow, Buster,” I told him. “And if Zeb or Jolene asks, we didn’t have this conversation.”
Buster’s smile was stiff, as if he couldn’t remember how to be a “people pleaser” and was working to recall the skill. “What conversation?”
Eventually, Mama found the shop. The bad news was that Mama found the shop in time for the first meeting of the reconstituted chapter of the Friends and Family of the Undead.
The good news was that seeing that many vampires gathered in one place freaked Emery out so badly that he found an excuse for leaving just a few minutes after he walked in. Maybe we could hold the monthly FFOTU meetings every week …
The FFOTU used to meet at the Traveler’s Bowl, a restaurant featuring healthy “global” cuisine that spiraled into bankruptcy, not just because the owners tried to sell soy cheese to Hollow residents but because the police seized all of the “glass sculptures” they sold at the restaurant gift shop. It took Police Chief Don Parker several visits to recognize that they were bongs and not very complicated ashtrays. Unfortunately, it only took his son, DJ, one visit. Once you sell a bong to the offspring of a small-town police chief, it’s a pretty safe bet that anyone who so much as pauses in your parking lot will be ticketed. With their handful of customers scared off, the owners had no choice but to close.
The support group consisted of twenty or so people of all races, ages, and socioeconomic classes, all of whom were bonded through the shock of knowing that (1) a loved one had died, and (2) that loved one still walked around and sometimes had violent episodes. Plus, there’s the embarrassment and stigma that can come with being associated with the undead in a small rural town like the Hollow, where vampires still occasionally suffered household “accidents” involving pointy wooden objects. It helped new vampires and their families to be able to meet in a safe location just to talk or vent or learn that your newly turned son is not avoiding Sunday dinners because he doesn’t love you anymore but because you serve said dinners with the good silver and he can no longer digest solid food.
The group operated under guidelines that were a mishmash of Alcoholics Anonymous and PFLAG. We did not reveal our last names. Personal information revealed during the meetings was confidential. We were not required to disclose whether we were vampire or human. But after a few meetings, you figured out who was eating the snacks and who wasn’t. The common ground was that each member hurt. Each offered understanding and sympathy to the other members. Each tried to keep a sense of humor.
Zeb and Jolene actually met at an FFOTU meeting. Jolene was still recovering from the dusting of her recently turned childhood friend, and Zeb was still weirded out by my new dietary habits. Zeb brought me into the group a few months later.
The meeting started out well enough. I’d set up complimentary drinks and snacks around the “lounging area” as a sort of welcome gesture. I’d even invited Cindy in the hopes of giving her some resources to deal with her awkward family situation. I gave her the usual latte, and she sat in the back, not attempting to socialize with anyone.