Deficiency

NINE

He didn't do anything with the body. Just leave her in bed, he thought. Keep the door closed and the window open a little to help contain the stench and forget about her. She wasn't going anywhere. It never occurred to him that she might have relatives or friends or even that someone like him might come along and ask for a room.

Up at the first sign of light, he put on his running shoes and did what he had planned. He ran a good two and a half miles, barely feeling an ache in his legs or feet. At times he thought he was literally Mercury, off the ground, actually gliding over the macadam. His breathing was wonderfully regular and easy. Actually, he could have gone five miles, but he was hungry this morning and was looking forward to a big breakfast.

The house had a very large kitchen, which during the heyday of the Catskill resort era was probably justified and well used. Now, the old lady had turned off all but a small refrigerator. Fortunately, she, or perhaps Kristin, had gone shopping recently. There were fresh eggs, milk, coffee, bread, and a bag of oranges. He loved fresh orange juice even though all the nutrition passed through him along with the waste. He loved everything that was full of good food value. He was never fond of fast foods or greasy foods. In fact, if anyone could pose as the poster boy for good eating habits, it was he. How ironic. But this was not a morning to waste over disappointments or problems. This was a morning full of rejoicing. He would continue his celebration by buying himself some new clothes. He never wore again what he had worn during a feeding. It wasn't some imaginative or superstitious thing either. He could smell the scent of them, especially after a feeding when his senses were so heightened and no amount of dry cleaning, no washing, no cologne, nothing could remove or disguise it.

It occurred to him in a truly vague way that there was a thin line of remorse streaming through his conscience. Only a surgical removal such as the old lady upstairs in bed didn't bother him at all, not that he was actually troubled enough to consider anything a bother. It was just something that gave him a moment's pause. He wished there was some way he could draw what he needed and not leave them so fatally depleted, but alas, in the end it was always either they or he, and frankly he wasn't in the altruism business. He always had to protect himself and never pass up an opportunity.

I have such insecurity, he thought shaking his head. That's the one thing he had yet to overcome and conquer: this terrible sense of fear that he would find himself on some desert or suddenly lose the ability to draw nectar from the flowers. He had that fear since it all began.

Actually, that memory, the memory of the first time, was still vivid. He liked to compare it to a woman losing her virginity. Even at the point of Alzheimer's disease, she would remember that, he thought.

It all happened purely accidentally, this entirely new existence, this grand life. Some nerd of an assistant got himself stoned and forgot to feed him through his IV. He nearly died, but fortunately Doctor Toby... yes, that was her name...

Toby... stopped by after she had attended some social event. The ordinarylooking woman with her dull brown hair and pockmarked cheeks had actually gone to a beauty salon and had her hair styled and colored. What's more, she was wearing makeup. The pallid complexion was well hidden and even her pockmarks were diminished. She had a firm bosom. So many times she had pressed it to him or he had brushed across her breasts and realized that although she wasn't wearing a bra, she held her form. In the eyes of others he saw the thought that her voluptuous figure, most of the time well hidden under her lab robe, was a waste. Not only didn't she have the face it deserved, but she didn't radiate any sexual energy or interest.

This particular evening, the evening he was to break his cherry, she came flying through the special living quarters surprisingly still laughing over something funny that had been told to her or had happened to her, her eyes still full of tiny explosions, which he imagined to be the aftermath of her drinking champagne and dancing and being romanced by someone she fancied. He heard her giggle again when she entered his bedroom. She didn't check the clipboards, which was her fatal mistake. If she had, she would have corrected the error and all would have gone on as it was. Not that it was much of a life, any of a life, in fact. Her blunder was his blessing actually.

When he set eyes on her, he was lying in bed, naked, struggling to breathe actually, just like some of his recent victims. Her eyes, on the other hand, were so full of fantasy, she was blinded to his problem. He saw the way her bosom rose and fell beneath the low-cut black dress, and he felt himself aroused with such speed and intensity, he was actually frightened for a moment. Later he would compare it to accelerating in an automobile and realizing he was going far too fast to negotiate the upcoming turn. He understood that panic could disable him and he fought it back and beat it down in time to take control. That was what he had done this time. She drew closer, intending to give him a quick examination. What happened was beyond his own expectations and far beyond his control. His arms, his hands, and his legs -- every part of him moved as if it had its own mind. Whatever he wanted back in the command center made absolutely no difference.

When she reached out to touch his forehead, finally becoming concerned at his pallor, he seized her wrist and drew her down to him. She tried to resist, but he was driven now by a force hitherto undiscovered deep within him, so asleep not even he had ever realized its existence.

She cried out and tried to pull away, but he was all over her, tearing away her dress, twisting and turning her so he could get on top of her and suck on her mouth, drawing the very air out of her lungs. He could actually see them in his mind's eye, both of them like balloons collapsing. Her eyes had become neon bulbs brightening with such fear they were close to bursting. He wondered if she could feel or even see the life being drawn out of her. His prick was more like a beak, drawing the nectar. Every part of his body had become a portal ingesting, a sponge soaking her up. He was illuminated with the power of it. She was literally being absorbed into him.

Her final cries were so thin and low, only someone or something with his acute sense of hearing could know she had uttered any sound at all. Her eyes, once full of light, began to dim and then grow dark and icy. Once he was satiated, her body looked nauseating, like the rotting skin of a banana. Even flies would avoid it.

He stepped away and then dressed himself. What he realized was he was stronger, more full of energy than he had ever been. Not the shots, not the pills, not the IVs, nothing made him feel as good as this had, and like some lion cub that had been given its first taste of meat, he lunged forward on the unsuspecting world that to him had suddenly become a grand feast, a table of delectable delights.

How could he ever forget that? Even now, reliving it in his thoughts, he felt himself aroused. Eat a good breakfast, go get some exciting new clothes, and go forth to seek a new sexual encounter, if not to feed, than to enjoy, for every sense in his body needed to be satiated. He wanted to hear wonderful music, eat delicious foods, smell the aroma from a beautiful woman's skin and hair and feel the softness of her breasts and the promise between her thighs and especially see the enjoyment in her face, too, for when he was like this, he was capable of giving them so much pleasure it even made him jealous and wonder if he was getting as much as he was giving.

Whoever the lucky woman was today, she would never forget him, he thought and laughed.

He started to prepare his eggs when the phone rang. He stared at it on the kitchen wall while it rang and then he decided he had better answer it.

"May I speak with Mrs. Martin, please," he was asked by a very official, drysounding man.

"She is unable to come to the phone," he replied. "She can't talk to anyone." It was all true, he thought smiling.

"Oh, well, of course. This is Dr. Anderson. I wanted to let her know she could have Kristin's body moved to the funeral parlor today."

"Right, right. I'm her nephew," he said. He always thought well and quickly on his feet after a feed. "I'll see to that immediately."

"Thank you. I'm sorry," the doctor added.

"Aren't we all?" he replied. It was something the doctor obviously hadn't been prepared to hear. He was silent a moment and then said good-bye. Now what to do? he thought gazing around the kitchen. He really would like to remain here a while longer. It was so convenient and comfortable. He started to rifle through drawers until he found the phone book and flipped to the Yellow Pages. Thanks to the GPS system in his car, he had a very good concept of the area and its surrounding hamlets. He located a funeral parlor in a place nearby called Woodbourne and phoned. When the gentleman who took such great care to make his consonants crisp and his vowels full answered, he introduced himself to the man as Stanley Martin, a nephew and only mature and living close relative of the deceased Kristin Martin. Not surprisingly, the undertaker already knew of the death. Next to the deceased, he was probably the first to know. After all, it was his business to know death, to tap in on its calls like some FBI agent plugged into a suspect's phone lines.

"We'll take care of her immediately," the undertaker said and assured him everything would be handled properly and with the most possible respect.

"My aunt will be eternally grateful," he told him. She was already in eternity. The gratitude would follow. "I'll be by to discuss the arrangements as soon as possible."

"We understand," the undertaker said.

Was there anyone more understanding than an undertaker? His role, his objectives were crystal clear. He made no value judgements after he tried to get the bereaved to buy as expensive a funeral as he could, but even that he did subtly, never implying any choice was wrong or disrespectful. In a way he's like me, he thought.

He sucks the living as much as he can and then he leaves them alone and moves on to the next customer.

He turned on the old radio in a wooden casing, found a station with soft but upbeat music, and sat at the kitchen table to enjoy his breakfast. He took a deep breath and then gazed out the windows facing the east. The sun had already begun to paste itself on the grass and flowers.

He couldn't wait to wallow in its falling rays and have it paste itself on his smile and his heart as well.

The third time Curt heard someone at the law office make reference to Terri and her being on the scene of another young woman's death, he felt a fist of anger in his chest opening and closing with the regularity of a second heart. The rage was inexplicable, even illogical, but nevertheless made its presence clearly known through his snappy replies and the furious way he went at his work. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes would not stay on the pages of the brief before him. His gaze kept wandering toward the framed picture of Terri after her medical school graduation. His father had bought her the new stethoscope and had presented it to her that day. She wore it in the picture. His father's camera had caught the sunlight glittering off it, making it look like a halo at rest. He recalled being as petulant as a jealous sibling. His parents hadn't made as much of a big deal over his graduation from law school, he thought. Thanks to the O. J. Simpson so-called Dream Team, lawyers, who never enjoyed great popularity, were now the most notorious subjects of derogatory humor ever created. There were probably more lawyer jokes flowing through cyberspace than anything else. He had no tolerance for them anymore and either forced a smile or looked away and changed the subject. Everyone telling the jokes with him in hearing range usually said something like "Present company excluded of course."

Teachers hated it when people in their presence said "Those who can, do and those who can't, teach," didn't they? Yet some of the teachers he knew wouldn't hesitate to tell the latest lawyer joke.

"They hate us until they need us and then they hate us even more," Howard Sages told him a few days ago when a new lawyer joke was being circulated at the county courthouse. Some lawyers were just as responsible for passing the jokes around. To him they were like black people who used the word nigger freely.

There were jokes about doctors, for sure, jokes about their penurious ways, their greed, but Howard's remark about people hating lawyers even more when they needed them didn't apply to doctors. People worshipped their doctors, looked upon them as true miracle workers, saviors who had the skill and the wisdom to frustrate and defeat Death. If a lawyer did a good job, it was understood somehow that he or she did it because he or she was well tuned into the corrupt system. They knew how to play the game and they did it with every available trick or method, regardless of the underlying sense of unfairness. For example, if his client was sued by someone, he would recommend a countersuit, knowing that the legal costs would injure them both and both lawyers would then try to convince the clients to settle and endure less pain. Right and wrong had little to do with it. Use the system to defeat the opponent: prolong, delay, work every convolution until the injured party relented and settled. What was true in civil law was just as true in criminal law. Wear down the prosecutors and the courts and get your client off with the least punishment possible, no matter what he or she had done.

Maybe he should have become a doctor, too, Curt thought, and then he thought how much such a pursuit would have been beyond him. He almost failed chemistry in high school, and he was never fond of the sight of blood. He even fainted once when he had blood taken, something no one knew, not even Terri. And then, the whole idea of touching and cutting and exploring a human corpse was revolting to him. It turned his stomach just to think about it. Sometimes lately, although he would never dare say anything, he thought about Terri examining sick people and he wondered if she could inadvertently transmit something to him. He tried convincing himself that it was such a ridiculous thought, he shouldn't even permit himself to think it, but he couldn't help it. He had even had a nightmare about himself wearing a surgical mask and surgical gloves while he made love to her and in the nightmare, she turned out to be a corpse. That was when he literally jumped up and nearly fell out of his bed. He was so nauseated afterward, too. He had to take something before he could get back to sleep and when he did, he was afraid to close his eyes, afraid the nightmare still stuck like honey to the inside of his eyelids. Another thing he had never told her.

A knock on his opened door snapped him out of his musings. He looked up at one of his partners, Bill Kleckner. Since Curt's father left the firm, he and the lanky, six-feet-four former high school and college basketball star had taken over most of the litigation. Bill had that troubled expression on his face that usually blossomed at the realization of a critical problem. His light brown hair was short on the sides, but fell over his forehead to the point of covering his eyes. He had the habitual habit of running his fingers through the strands in a repeated motion while talking, even in court, which drove Curt crazy and surely annoyed some judges. Bill's eyes were narrow, dark, and full of concern at the moment as well.

"What's up?"

"You know Dawn Kotein, Dick's wife."

Dick Kotein had been on the same high school basketball team and had gone on to play college ball, too, although not as impressively as Bill had. Now Dick was an architect working out of a Monticello office and building a great reputation. He had thrown some work their way lately.

"So?"

"You know she works at Community General."

"I know all this, Bill. Is there a point?"

He sat, folded his hands and pressed them against his long, flat chest upon which he wore a loose white shirt and an out of style wide tie.

"She works for Dr. Stern in pathology."

"I love it when you come in here and interrupt me and give me pages and pages of information I know. It reinforces my belief in tape replays in sports."

"She told Melanie something a few minutes ago."

"Why didn't you say she told your wife Melanie? You left out something I know."

"Which," Bill said ignoring him, "she claimed no one knows yet, but soon will, about the Martin woman whom Terri tried to save last night." Curt stopped smiling. He put the pages down on his desk and sat back in his chair.

"And what would that be, Bill?"

"She said she died of an extreme case of beriberi, which is a disease caused by a vitamin deficiency. One of the B's, I think."

Curt stared at him.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Bill asked. "I mean, why is it a secret?" Curt swallowed.

That fist of anger was opening and closing again, growing, too. He put his right palm over his chest as if he thought Bill would soon be able to see it palpitating.

"I didn't know. She didn't tell me that," he said. Bill nodded and then shrugged.

"Maybe she didn't know either. Anyway, it's going to cause a stir around here, don't you think? Two young women die of vitamin deficiency diseases within a week of each other?"

Curt nodded.

"Maybe."

"And here's our Terri right in the middle of it all or unfortunately at the wrong places at the wrong time, huh?"

"Unfortunately. I don't think we need to lose any sleep over it," Curt said. "I've got to get back to this," he said tapping the brief. "I'm in court this afternoon."

"Right. Just thought you'd like to know. You going to Roary's for lunch?"

"I'm not going to have time," he said.

"Don't work harder than I do. It makes me look bad," Bill joked, pretended to flip a basketball at a net, and left the office.

Curt stared after him.

Trust, he thought.

Trust is more important than love in a relationship.

The fist beating in his heart thumped on.