PROLOGUE
Orlando, Florida 2017
One of my last memories of life before things began to slide downhill was being with Pa-Pa at Orlando International Airport. In those days, the shops and shelves overflowed with stuff to buy. Soon, we and our neighbors would be unable to afford any of it, much less to travel by air. As recently as two years earlier we’d taken a family vacation to London for Christmas. Recollections of the trip seem disconnected from life today, worn away with the passage of time, like the glyphs in an ancient ruin. Sometimes I wonder if any of those events even happened, but were false memories born out of the confusion of infancy.
Pa-Pa, my grandfather, seemed so tall back then. As I stood holding his tan, gnarled hand, my eyes were level with his belly, bulging over the old, brown woven leather belt.
“Pa-Pa, when will Mr. Elvis get here?”
“Soon, real soon.”
Mr. Elvis, our next door neighbor, needed a ride home. I begged to come along because I had another agenda. Cynthia Meadows, celebrity fashion model and budding movie star, reigned supreme in every female heart between six and sixteen, in addition to the vast following she enjoyed among young men and adults. The revelation she was a lycan, occurring four years earlier, dulled the enthusiasm of many grownups but fans my age didn’t care. The majority of us weren’t even sure what being lycan meant. To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world and I wanted to be just like her.
On that memorable day, the place swarmed with travelers. Mobs swirled all around in pursuit of more flights than I could count, gathering in lines at security checkpoints.
“Come along, Jess,” Pa-Pa uttered in his raspy voice.
My full first name is Jeslali. My father chose the unique handle, and promptly deserted us. According to Mom, it means something in Polynesian. Except for official situations, everyone cuts the minor tongue twister to “Jess” and, if they know what’s good for them, never mention the other.
Pa-Pa worked for the Transportation Security Administration, or TSA, as a supervisory screener and had identification allowing us to bypass the lines.
“Mr. Elvis won’t expect us to show up at the gate.” Since the events of September 11, 2001, being able to meet arriving visitors as soon as they entered the airport became almost impossible without the kind of ID Pa-Pa had. “Who knows,” he added with a wink. “We might even run across your friend.”
At the thought of meeting Cynthia Meadows, whose professional name was The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia, my heart skipped a beat.
In the firm, gentle way he had, Pa-Pa led me where we had to go, past the long lines simmering with frustration. They queued toward a row of bored screeners who showed no inclination to move things along. Pa-Pa glanced beyond to the supervisor’s station.
“Asswipes,” he grumbled as we cruised by the sea of aggravation. To my snigger at hearing the crudity, his face became serious. “Don’t you dare tell Nana or your mom.” In reply, I made my dimply smile. Everyone said that was when the resemblance between us seemed strongest.
Once inside the checkpoint, I saw the object of his comment. A half dozen supervisory people chatted away, ignoring the languishing passenger lines. Even at seven years old, I understood the situation was messed up.
Pa-Pa took a moment to unhitch the leash linking us together. “Pa-Pa, why do I have to always wear this?” I didn’t understand the situation. Even in those days, no youngster was safe alone in public areas. A moment’s distraction by a parent and the child might be lost forever. Once a practice indigenous to Third World countries, human traffickers brought the crime to America to stay. With his penchant for detail, we always arrived early to any appointment. Since we had twenty minutes to kill, Pa-Pa bought ice cream.
He often did stuff and gave me treats I thought Mom and Nana wouldn’t approve of, such as a cone from the airport ice cream shop which even then was pretty pricey. I remember him, a blockish face seeming huge, under thinning white hair never able to cover his baldness, and glasses with rectangular lenses. He leaned forward, so close I saw the pores in his chin and smelled the Old Spice aftershave lotion he always wore. The second ice cream cone floated before me, accompanied by a conspiratorial smile. I can’t think about such moments too long because even today I choke up. “Remember, this stays our little secret,” he said with a wink. There I was: seven years old, square-faced, with Nana’s pouty lower lip, Mom’s eye shape, Pa-Pa’s wide jaw with pointed chin down to the dimpled cleft, and bright chocolate-colored eyes. All of it framed by a page boy haircut that made me look like a china doll.
Anyway, we were in the confectionary store, a niche off the concourse to the gates. The details, chiseled in my mind to this day, remind me how much has changed. We sat at a little white table with dainty chairs constructed to resemble cast iron, but were actually molded PVC. The afternoon sun slanted in, making metallic blue pinpoints sparkle off the dust particles suspended in the air. The chrome fixtures behind the serving counter glittered brightly. I remember how the row of faucets in the shape of animal’s heads captured my imagination, especially the one with soda water squirting from an elephant’s trunk. The whole place had a cloying sugary smell. A gaily colored sign on the wall behind the cash register advertised the variety of offerings and their prices.
The mindless pleasures associated with addressing a child’s insatiable need for sweets had taken hold. I’d settled to the task of devouring the second cone when a small commotion came from the direction of the gates. Sitting across from me, Pa-Pa had a good view. I turned toward what captured his interest. Far down the tiled concourse, a knot of people advanced toward us. Several carried cameras. Others suspended microphones from thin silver poles above the moving throng that surrounded a woman. Taller than anyone else, she bore the most beautiful glossy black head of hair I’d ever seen. She and her magnificent mane glided languidly down the concourse. As the crowd neared, I heard individuals asking her questions.
Suddenly Pa-Pa lurched to his feet. “Jess, it’s your friend Cynthia Meadows.”
How he found out she’d be here at this time and place, I’ll never figure out. She drew near, surrounded by an entourage and, around them, a flock of media people. The whole heaving mass of humanity rolled our way like a tidal wave. “What do I do?” I was on the verge of panic.
His eyes twinkled. Pulling me behind him, we headed to the coalescing crowd. “Leave it to Pa-Pa.”
Her face and person filled Mom’s fashion and entertainment magazines. She guest-starred on many of the TV shows I watched. Most of the age appropriate products she endorsed, from books to toys or clothes, sat in my room. Despite Nana’s complaints after learning she was a werewolf, a poster of her covered a good part of the wall over my bed. Not the picture wearing the black thong Pa-Pa always batted eyebrows at. Mine showed six feet of creamy white skin and sable hair in a ruffled red dress, holding a guitar. From four feet off the floor, on the edge of the crowd, I barely caught sight of the ebony crown. A gulf of jostling shoulders and backs stood between us.
“Please, let the little one through,” Pa-Pa pleaded, pressing ahead.
Frustrated at not being able to get closer, he abruptly lifted me skyward.
Heads and shoulders dropped below my field of vision. A second later, I was at eye level with my idol. The sudden elevation caught her attention, and she turned our way. Down below, Pa-Pa must have heard me shudder in apoplectic shock when the crowd separated, leaving me suspended above the mosaic floor with skinny tan legs dangling and face to face with her.
“Hello, I’m Cynthia Meadows,” she said in a voice deeper than I imagined and with a Mediterranean accent. A rangy pale arm, ending in a slim hand and long fingers tapering elegantly to nails matching the lip gloss, reached out in introduction. I took the smooth offering, only for a second, letting go as if I’d touched a live wire. My heart raced. By then Pa-Pa put me down. From her height, Cynthia’s smile beamed down. I believe she understood my anxiety. Meanwhile, after taking a minute to gather his wits, Pa-Pa returned to the picture. He took her hand, pumping it as if he intended to shake the arm free of the shoulder.
“What is your name, little one?” she asked when Pa-Pa finally let go.
“Jeslali, but we call her Jess.” Pa-Pa stole the response I prepared, and for a second I hated him.
Again, she understood the proper thing to do. Ignoring Pa-Pa she took my hand, immediately putting me at ease. “Such a polite young lady.” She sounded like she meant it. “You’re about the same age as my older bubbies.” She referred to the triplets of lycan Samantha White and her vampire husband Jim.
In the years to follow, as an adult working in the Orlando airport, I met many celebrities passing through. None had the innate warmth The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia showed that day. I would have spent hours with her, and I thought maybe she felt the same, but it wasn’t to be. Thirty minutes later, Mr. Elvis paged us from Baggage Claim. Pa-Pa made apologies and she departed, with reluctance I think, to resume the interview.
“Quite a haul you have,” Pa-Pa said when we were alone.
“Oh thank you for bringing me,” I squealed, leaping to his side and throwing arms around him.
The pink ball cap, with Cynthia’s autograph emblazoned across the bill in black marker, fell to the floor. Pa-Pa snapped it up. “We don’t want to get it dirty.”
After examining the sacred object, I carefully removed a flake of wafer cookie before returning it to the table. With the hat partially covering an autographed eight-by-ten photograph, a single seductive eye of depthless black stared up at me.
“Come on.” Pa-Pa ripped me out of the lingering trance. “Mr. Elvis must be fuming.”
Mr. Elvis wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t exactly happy with us. The ride home passed in silence, with him unimpressed by my attempts to enter into conversation regarding the recent adventure with The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia. On the other hand, Nana would have much to say.
For the convenience of Pa-Pa’s job, they bought a house less than ten miles from the airport. I was three months old when Mom and I moved in. The home sat in a gated community of sixty on a single street named Marlborough Drive that looped back like a needle’s eye. Every amenity, from schools to stores, lay within walking distance or a bike’s ride. Pa-Pa bragged how they hardly drove the cars, a good thing considering where the price of gas went soon after they moved in.
A wrought iron arch reached across the entrance to the Viera Lakes development of which our neighborhood, Marlborough Place, was a part. Rust streamed down the black metal, staining the faded yellow stucco coating the cinderblock supports.
The Kelly green letters of the Publix supermarket stood out against the cream-colored façade and hovered above the trees. Magnolias and palms planted in grassy islands shaded the parking lot from the overpowering sunlight, even though June hadn’t quite arrived. At the entrance to Marlborough, Pa-Pa punched in an access code. I watched the heavy black gates swing inward with a ponderous creak of metal. They always reminded me of a castle’s drawbridge counterweight. Beyond stretched a clean, off-white paved road. The live oaks planted every fifty feet between sidewalk and curb on both sides hadn’t met overhead yet, but they threw down a lot of shadow. Behind them, shrubbery carved into various geometric shapes pressed against the front and flanks of the houses, filled bordering flower beds.
“There’s Mr. and Mrs. Shelly walking Candy.” I waved from the backseat to a middle-aged couple accompanying a Labrador retriever. They returned the greeting as we passed.
The closed car interior, with the air conditioner blower going full blast, couldn’t entirely keep out the buzz of lawnmowers, edging equipment, and trimmers. They gnawed away at excess parts of the lush greenery and tropical color. We cruised by the manicured lawns, toward our house at the top of the loop’s curve. As the only home with a red tiled roof, you couldn’t miss it.
Nana, Mom, and Thumper, our Yorkshire terrier, waited in the doorway. They stood abreast in half of the double mahogany-stained wooden door. Mr. Elvis thanked Pa-Pa and left as the Yorkie rocketed toward me, a tan and gray blur. He was nearly eight, but still had the energy of a puppy. I lifted the stout, short-legged body. A barrage of wet pink tongue soon lashed my face while the stubby tail on the other end went to vibrate.
“Stop it.” I giggled, putting down the little guy.
After spotting the collection of Cynthia memorabilia, accompanied by the wide grin I wore as we walked into the foyer, Nana had things figured out in about two seconds. To her, lycans and vampires, commonly called The Others represented unadulterated evil. Everyone knew, before coming out, they’d preyed on humanity. However, without direct evidence tying individuals to specific crimes, most remained safe from prosecution; in America, at least. The distinction was lost on Nana. Mom took a more neutral view, while Pa-Pa believed that with individuals of their community like Cynthia leading the way, peaceful blending was possible.
By both category and proportion, my family reflected a cross section of the country’s attitudes toward the creatures with which we’d unknowingly shared the planet for two thousand years. They needed every bit of Cynthia’s beauty, good deeds, and winning ways to counteract organizations like the Tenth Legion, who would destroy them.
“It’s bad enough we allow her to keep the posters and books, and all the other stuff about that woman.” Nana was shouting at Pa-Pa. “Am I the only one who remembers she used to eat people?”
Pa-Pa was a tall man, a shade under six feet, but on the rare occasions Nana got on a tear he seemed to shrink down to leprechaun dimensions. “I saw no harm in it,” he offered in subdued tones. Mom—five-eight, with curly, thin brown hair cut off at the nape—weighed in. “Nothing was ever proved that she killed anyone.”
A pair of plump arms flew skyward and Nana snapped in frustration. “She didn’t live off canned tuna, Stephanie.”
Regaining a measure of confidence, Pa-pa returned to the fray. “You’re probably right, Deborah, but as soon as they found a way around feeding on people they did the proper thing and stopped.” The fact that given names flew back and forth suggested the growing passion of the discussion. To this day, I’m not used to hearing Mom referred to as Stephanie, or Nana as Deborah. As for Pa-Pa, his name, Albert, almost never crossed my ken.
Not one to back down when she had a head of steam, Nana stood contentiously on the tile floor with arms folded, beside the carved oak dining set. “Not all of them.” She referred to the feral lycans and vampires living in remote parts of the world, clinging to the ways of the hunt.
“You’re not being fair,” Pa-Pa responded. “The large majority want only to live in peace. Also, they’re willing to spend a big chunk of their corporation’s resources to round up the rogues of their kind. Anyway, since they came out to the world Cynthia’s done a lot of good.”
“She saved thousands during the European drought,” Mom added. Her characteristic temperance, regained after the earlier, more passionate exchanges, had a calming effect.
“Some have even found religion.” My frail voice offered.
Nana rolled a pair of skeptical eyes. “We’ll see how long that lasts. The first time one runs out of his treated meat, they’ll be back to stealing babies.”
“Until then, they deserve a chance,” Pa-Pa said.
Outnumbered, Nana abandoned the argument and stalked off to her bedroom. “Just keep all the vampire junk in your room. If I find any out here, it goes in the trash.”
I opened my mouth to point out Cynthia was lycan, not vampire, but simultaneous head snaps and cautionary expressions from Mom and Pa-Pa warned me off.
I don’t want to give the wrong impression. We were a close and loving family. Nana had been married to Pa-Pa over thirty years. In most situations, she deferred to him. On certain topics, she could have her moments, the issue of The Others being one. Appearing as they did without warning, and giving reality to all the dark legends, was both traumatic and divisive. Not only our family but religions, political parties, and national governments debated the matter. We learned in Sunday school how on the way to Damascus, divine love converted a coldhearted tax collector named Saul into a leader of the early church. Couldn’t a similar change occur among willing members of the new community?
Nana couldn’t take the bloom off meeting Cynthia Meadows. While family emotions cooled down, I retreated to the solitude of my room to relive as many details of the day as I could remember. Little did I know, like a rock thrown into a pond, the episode would reverberate through time. In a distant future, its ripples would affect me and mine when most needed.
Pa-Pa, my grandfather, seemed so tall back then. As I stood holding his tan, gnarled hand, my eyes were level with his belly, bulging over the old, brown woven leather belt.
“Pa-Pa, when will Mr. Elvis get here?”
“Soon, real soon.”
Mr. Elvis, our next door neighbor, needed a ride home. I begged to come along because I had another agenda. Cynthia Meadows, celebrity fashion model and budding movie star, reigned supreme in every female heart between six and sixteen, in addition to the vast following she enjoyed among young men and adults. The revelation she was a lycan, occurring four years earlier, dulled the enthusiasm of many grownups but fans my age didn’t care. The majority of us weren’t even sure what being lycan meant. To me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world and I wanted to be just like her.
On that memorable day, the place swarmed with travelers. Mobs swirled all around in pursuit of more flights than I could count, gathering in lines at security checkpoints.
“Come along, Jess,” Pa-Pa uttered in his raspy voice.
My full first name is Jeslali. My father chose the unique handle, and promptly deserted us. According to Mom, it means something in Polynesian. Except for official situations, everyone cuts the minor tongue twister to “Jess” and, if they know what’s good for them, never mention the other.
Pa-Pa worked for the Transportation Security Administration, or TSA, as a supervisory screener and had identification allowing us to bypass the lines.
“Mr. Elvis won’t expect us to show up at the gate.” Since the events of September 11, 2001, being able to meet arriving visitors as soon as they entered the airport became almost impossible without the kind of ID Pa-Pa had. “Who knows,” he added with a wink. “We might even run across your friend.”
At the thought of meeting Cynthia Meadows, whose professional name was The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia, my heart skipped a beat.
In the firm, gentle way he had, Pa-Pa led me where we had to go, past the long lines simmering with frustration. They queued toward a row of bored screeners who showed no inclination to move things along. Pa-Pa glanced beyond to the supervisor’s station.
“Asswipes,” he grumbled as we cruised by the sea of aggravation. To my snigger at hearing the crudity, his face became serious. “Don’t you dare tell Nana or your mom.” In reply, I made my dimply smile. Everyone said that was when the resemblance between us seemed strongest.
Once inside the checkpoint, I saw the object of his comment. A half dozen supervisory people chatted away, ignoring the languishing passenger lines. Even at seven years old, I understood the situation was messed up.
Pa-Pa took a moment to unhitch the leash linking us together. “Pa-Pa, why do I have to always wear this?” I didn’t understand the situation. Even in those days, no youngster was safe alone in public areas. A moment’s distraction by a parent and the child might be lost forever. Once a practice indigenous to Third World countries, human traffickers brought the crime to America to stay. With his penchant for detail, we always arrived early to any appointment. Since we had twenty minutes to kill, Pa-Pa bought ice cream.
He often did stuff and gave me treats I thought Mom and Nana wouldn’t approve of, such as a cone from the airport ice cream shop which even then was pretty pricey. I remember him, a blockish face seeming huge, under thinning white hair never able to cover his baldness, and glasses with rectangular lenses. He leaned forward, so close I saw the pores in his chin and smelled the Old Spice aftershave lotion he always wore. The second ice cream cone floated before me, accompanied by a conspiratorial smile. I can’t think about such moments too long because even today I choke up. “Remember, this stays our little secret,” he said with a wink. There I was: seven years old, square-faced, with Nana’s pouty lower lip, Mom’s eye shape, Pa-Pa’s wide jaw with pointed chin down to the dimpled cleft, and bright chocolate-colored eyes. All of it framed by a page boy haircut that made me look like a china doll.
Anyway, we were in the confectionary store, a niche off the concourse to the gates. The details, chiseled in my mind to this day, remind me how much has changed. We sat at a little white table with dainty chairs constructed to resemble cast iron, but were actually molded PVC. The afternoon sun slanted in, making metallic blue pinpoints sparkle off the dust particles suspended in the air. The chrome fixtures behind the serving counter glittered brightly. I remember how the row of faucets in the shape of animal’s heads captured my imagination, especially the one with soda water squirting from an elephant’s trunk. The whole place had a cloying sugary smell. A gaily colored sign on the wall behind the cash register advertised the variety of offerings and their prices.
The mindless pleasures associated with addressing a child’s insatiable need for sweets had taken hold. I’d settled to the task of devouring the second cone when a small commotion came from the direction of the gates. Sitting across from me, Pa-Pa had a good view. I turned toward what captured his interest. Far down the tiled concourse, a knot of people advanced toward us. Several carried cameras. Others suspended microphones from thin silver poles above the moving throng that surrounded a woman. Taller than anyone else, she bore the most beautiful glossy black head of hair I’d ever seen. She and her magnificent mane glided languidly down the concourse. As the crowd neared, I heard individuals asking her questions.
Suddenly Pa-Pa lurched to his feet. “Jess, it’s your friend Cynthia Meadows.”
How he found out she’d be here at this time and place, I’ll never figure out. She drew near, surrounded by an entourage and, around them, a flock of media people. The whole heaving mass of humanity rolled our way like a tidal wave. “What do I do?” I was on the verge of panic.
His eyes twinkled. Pulling me behind him, we headed to the coalescing crowd. “Leave it to Pa-Pa.”
Her face and person filled Mom’s fashion and entertainment magazines. She guest-starred on many of the TV shows I watched. Most of the age appropriate products she endorsed, from books to toys or clothes, sat in my room. Despite Nana’s complaints after learning she was a werewolf, a poster of her covered a good part of the wall over my bed. Not the picture wearing the black thong Pa-Pa always batted eyebrows at. Mine showed six feet of creamy white skin and sable hair in a ruffled red dress, holding a guitar. From four feet off the floor, on the edge of the crowd, I barely caught sight of the ebony crown. A gulf of jostling shoulders and backs stood between us.
“Please, let the little one through,” Pa-Pa pleaded, pressing ahead.
Frustrated at not being able to get closer, he abruptly lifted me skyward.
Heads and shoulders dropped below my field of vision. A second later, I was at eye level with my idol. The sudden elevation caught her attention, and she turned our way. Down below, Pa-Pa must have heard me shudder in apoplectic shock when the crowd separated, leaving me suspended above the mosaic floor with skinny tan legs dangling and face to face with her.
“Hello, I’m Cynthia Meadows,” she said in a voice deeper than I imagined and with a Mediterranean accent. A rangy pale arm, ending in a slim hand and long fingers tapering elegantly to nails matching the lip gloss, reached out in introduction. I took the smooth offering, only for a second, letting go as if I’d touched a live wire. My heart raced. By then Pa-Pa put me down. From her height, Cynthia’s smile beamed down. I believe she understood my anxiety. Meanwhile, after taking a minute to gather his wits, Pa-Pa returned to the picture. He took her hand, pumping it as if he intended to shake the arm free of the shoulder.
“What is your name, little one?” she asked when Pa-Pa finally let go.
“Jeslali, but we call her Jess.” Pa-Pa stole the response I prepared, and for a second I hated him.
Again, she understood the proper thing to do. Ignoring Pa-Pa she took my hand, immediately putting me at ease. “Such a polite young lady.” She sounded like she meant it. “You’re about the same age as my older bubbies.” She referred to the triplets of lycan Samantha White and her vampire husband Jim.
In the years to follow, as an adult working in the Orlando airport, I met many celebrities passing through. None had the innate warmth The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia showed that day. I would have spent hours with her, and I thought maybe she felt the same, but it wasn’t to be. Thirty minutes later, Mr. Elvis paged us from Baggage Claim. Pa-Pa made apologies and she departed, with reluctance I think, to resume the interview.
“Quite a haul you have,” Pa-Pa said when we were alone.
“Oh thank you for bringing me,” I squealed, leaping to his side and throwing arms around him.
The pink ball cap, with Cynthia’s autograph emblazoned across the bill in black marker, fell to the floor. Pa-Pa snapped it up. “We don’t want to get it dirty.”
After examining the sacred object, I carefully removed a flake of wafer cookie before returning it to the table. With the hat partially covering an autographed eight-by-ten photograph, a single seductive eye of depthless black stared up at me.
“Come on.” Pa-Pa ripped me out of the lingering trance. “Mr. Elvis must be fuming.”
Mr. Elvis wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t exactly happy with us. The ride home passed in silence, with him unimpressed by my attempts to enter into conversation regarding the recent adventure with The Fashion Model Known as Cynthia. On the other hand, Nana would have much to say.
For the convenience of Pa-Pa’s job, they bought a house less than ten miles from the airport. I was three months old when Mom and I moved in. The home sat in a gated community of sixty on a single street named Marlborough Drive that looped back like a needle’s eye. Every amenity, from schools to stores, lay within walking distance or a bike’s ride. Pa-Pa bragged how they hardly drove the cars, a good thing considering where the price of gas went soon after they moved in.
A wrought iron arch reached across the entrance to the Viera Lakes development of which our neighborhood, Marlborough Place, was a part. Rust streamed down the black metal, staining the faded yellow stucco coating the cinderblock supports.
The Kelly green letters of the Publix supermarket stood out against the cream-colored façade and hovered above the trees. Magnolias and palms planted in grassy islands shaded the parking lot from the overpowering sunlight, even though June hadn’t quite arrived. At the entrance to Marlborough, Pa-Pa punched in an access code. I watched the heavy black gates swing inward with a ponderous creak of metal. They always reminded me of a castle’s drawbridge counterweight. Beyond stretched a clean, off-white paved road. The live oaks planted every fifty feet between sidewalk and curb on both sides hadn’t met overhead yet, but they threw down a lot of shadow. Behind them, shrubbery carved into various geometric shapes pressed against the front and flanks of the houses, filled bordering flower beds.
“There’s Mr. and Mrs. Shelly walking Candy.” I waved from the backseat to a middle-aged couple accompanying a Labrador retriever. They returned the greeting as we passed.
The closed car interior, with the air conditioner blower going full blast, couldn’t entirely keep out the buzz of lawnmowers, edging equipment, and trimmers. They gnawed away at excess parts of the lush greenery and tropical color. We cruised by the manicured lawns, toward our house at the top of the loop’s curve. As the only home with a red tiled roof, you couldn’t miss it.
Nana, Mom, and Thumper, our Yorkshire terrier, waited in the doorway. They stood abreast in half of the double mahogany-stained wooden door. Mr. Elvis thanked Pa-Pa and left as the Yorkie rocketed toward me, a tan and gray blur. He was nearly eight, but still had the energy of a puppy. I lifted the stout, short-legged body. A barrage of wet pink tongue soon lashed my face while the stubby tail on the other end went to vibrate.
“Stop it.” I giggled, putting down the little guy.
After spotting the collection of Cynthia memorabilia, accompanied by the wide grin I wore as we walked into the foyer, Nana had things figured out in about two seconds. To her, lycans and vampires, commonly called The Others represented unadulterated evil. Everyone knew, before coming out, they’d preyed on humanity. However, without direct evidence tying individuals to specific crimes, most remained safe from prosecution; in America, at least. The distinction was lost on Nana. Mom took a more neutral view, while Pa-Pa believed that with individuals of their community like Cynthia leading the way, peaceful blending was possible.
By both category and proportion, my family reflected a cross section of the country’s attitudes toward the creatures with which we’d unknowingly shared the planet for two thousand years. They needed every bit of Cynthia’s beauty, good deeds, and winning ways to counteract organizations like the Tenth Legion, who would destroy them.
“It’s bad enough we allow her to keep the posters and books, and all the other stuff about that woman.” Nana was shouting at Pa-Pa. “Am I the only one who remembers she used to eat people?”
Pa-Pa was a tall man, a shade under six feet, but on the rare occasions Nana got on a tear he seemed to shrink down to leprechaun dimensions. “I saw no harm in it,” he offered in subdued tones. Mom—five-eight, with curly, thin brown hair cut off at the nape—weighed in. “Nothing was ever proved that she killed anyone.”
A pair of plump arms flew skyward and Nana snapped in frustration. “She didn’t live off canned tuna, Stephanie.”
Regaining a measure of confidence, Pa-pa returned to the fray. “You’re probably right, Deborah, but as soon as they found a way around feeding on people they did the proper thing and stopped.” The fact that given names flew back and forth suggested the growing passion of the discussion. To this day, I’m not used to hearing Mom referred to as Stephanie, or Nana as Deborah. As for Pa-Pa, his name, Albert, almost never crossed my ken.
Not one to back down when she had a head of steam, Nana stood contentiously on the tile floor with arms folded, beside the carved oak dining set. “Not all of them.” She referred to the feral lycans and vampires living in remote parts of the world, clinging to the ways of the hunt.
“You’re not being fair,” Pa-Pa responded. “The large majority want only to live in peace. Also, they’re willing to spend a big chunk of their corporation’s resources to round up the rogues of their kind. Anyway, since they came out to the world Cynthia’s done a lot of good.”
“She saved thousands during the European drought,” Mom added. Her characteristic temperance, regained after the earlier, more passionate exchanges, had a calming effect.
“Some have even found religion.” My frail voice offered.
Nana rolled a pair of skeptical eyes. “We’ll see how long that lasts. The first time one runs out of his treated meat, they’ll be back to stealing babies.”
“Until then, they deserve a chance,” Pa-Pa said.
Outnumbered, Nana abandoned the argument and stalked off to her bedroom. “Just keep all the vampire junk in your room. If I find any out here, it goes in the trash.”
I opened my mouth to point out Cynthia was lycan, not vampire, but simultaneous head snaps and cautionary expressions from Mom and Pa-Pa warned me off.
I don’t want to give the wrong impression. We were a close and loving family. Nana had been married to Pa-Pa over thirty years. In most situations, she deferred to him. On certain topics, she could have her moments, the issue of The Others being one. Appearing as they did without warning, and giving reality to all the dark legends, was both traumatic and divisive. Not only our family but religions, political parties, and national governments debated the matter. We learned in Sunday school how on the way to Damascus, divine love converted a coldhearted tax collector named Saul into a leader of the early church. Couldn’t a similar change occur among willing members of the new community?
Nana couldn’t take the bloom off meeting Cynthia Meadows. While family emotions cooled down, I retreated to the solitude of my room to relive as many details of the day as I could remember. Little did I know, like a rock thrown into a pond, the episode would reverberate through time. In a distant future, its ripples would affect me and mine when most needed.
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