A Self Made Monster (14 page)

Claire nodded.

“Have a nice time.”

Claire nodded agreeably.

Mrs. Tandy could not have been more pleased with her tenant. Claire worked hard and was dedicated to learning. And she was never a minute late with the rent.

Driving to the library, Claire tried to concentrate on today’s task. She still had a lot of research to do. Dr. Smith, her history professor, had assigned the class a twenty page research paper requiring at least thirty sources. Claire liked her topic—the economic aftermath of the Athenian-Spartan War—but she was also intimidated by it. The topic was complex and demanded thorough research.

Despite the task’s appeal and enormity, Claire was distracted. She was wondering, as she usually did in her minutes of spare time, if she would ever really graduate. Her immediate answer was always, “Yes.” But then again, she never dreamed that she would be divorced at age twenty-five and be a college freshman at twenty-seven. And now to look back and think that marrying Stephen would have ever worked.

“You were an idiot,” Claire accused herself for the thousandth time.

To hasten the divorce, she agreed to half the possessions and half the money brought by the house’s sale. The bungalow sold for eighty-eight. By the time legal fees and taxes and moving costs and other debts were subtracted, Claire had almost enough make it through four years of tuition and board. If her grades were good enough, she might earn a scholarship. After one semester, she had a 3.6 GPA: good for a Tailor freshman. But not good enough for the money she needed.

The thought of grades pulled her back to today’s task. She trotted up the library steps, determined to find twenty sources by five p.m. The library was deserted, thanks to spring break. A librarian smiled as Claire walked past the check out desk, then returned to her magazine.

Edward looked up at the sound of books crashing to the floor. The room had been silent all morning, save for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. He saw a tallish woman, long brunette hair tied into a ponytail, disappear behind a row of hooks. Edward guessed the woman was a young faculty member, or perhaps a bookish townie.

He returned to his notes about Dylan Thomas. Edward already had an idea for Holly’s paper. The paper would examine Thomas’s use of sexual metaphor. As he bragged to Holly, Thomas’s poetry was so obscure that the paper could claim nearly anything. The challenge would be to imitate Holly’s confused and confusing prose, yet write an “A” paper. He decided to write the paper in his own style, then rewrite it to imitate Holly’s style later.

Edward wrote five pages in ninety minutes. He liked the paper so far, and figured he could finish it in a few days. He yawned, stretched, and walked to the water fountain. As he bent over for a drink, he heard several books crash to the floor.

He walked across the room and found the tall woman sitting on the floor, surrounded by books.

Claire looked up, startled.

“Let me help,” Edward offered.

“That’s been about par for the course,” Claire sighed after the last book was replaced. “I’ve gotten nowhere today.” She stood and swept hair from her forehead.

“Me too. I’ve spun my wheels.” Edward wondered why he was lying, then realized that he did not want to upset the woman. She was pleasant, long and lilting. And her slight Southern drawl was charming. He wanted to listen to her talk more. He followed her back to her desk, which was covered with notes and open books.

“What are you looking up?” He glanced at her notes. They were written in a script as graceful as the author.

“The war between
Athens
and
Sparta
.”

“That’s a good topic. I had a class with Dr. Smith, and that was a pretty good war.”

“A good war?”

“Yeah. For one thing, it lasted so long. Twenty six years, right?”

“Twenty seven,” Claire corrected softly.

“And when your general dies during the second year of the war!”

“You mean the Athenian general? Pericles?”

Edward snapped his fingers. “That’s him.” Edward launched into a monologue about Pericles’s skill in oratory, and how good the general was at inflating the Athenians with righteous indignation. He was about to discuss Pericles’s death, but caught himself.

“I don’t know when to shut up,” he grinned. “Sorry to keep you from your research.”

“Not at all.” She looked up, her smile brightening the room. “I’m tryin’ to find some notes about Socrates’s role in the war. It’s very interesting.”

Then it dawned on Edward. “You’re a student, aren’t you?”

“Yes. The world’s oldest freshman.” She felt uneasy admitting she was a freshman at the age of twenty-seven; her uneasiness made her accent more pronounced. “Maybe when I’m forty, I can start on a Masters.”

“I think that’s terrific.” Edward was intrigued. She was six years older than he was in age and three years younger in academe. He wondered if he would have the courage to start college at her age. He extended his hand. “My name’s Edward Head.”

“Claire Sweet.” She shook his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Edward.”

Claire’s ease disarmed Edward, and he indulged in self-mockery. “Sometimes people call me Edward Know It All because I’ve such a big mouth, as you already know.”

“How ‘bout I call you Eddie mortar board?” Her accent was in full bloom.

“I’d enjoy that name.” He laughed freely. “It fits me like a glove.”

“Like a mortar board.”

The next day, Edward and Claire shared a desk. They worked efficiently, and got a lot done. At four thirty, Edward closed his books.

“You’re a fast worker,” Claire remarked.

“And a thirsty one. Let’s go get a pop. The library’s about to close.”

“I could go for a burger too,” Claire said, “but I’ve got to get back. I want to rest a while before I go to work. But I’ll see your tomorrow.”

Edward savored Claire’s walk down the stairs. She was simultaneously casual and elegant in her old shirt and faded jeans. He told himself he was a spaz for being interested in a woman seven years older. The thought of even holding her hand made him feel foolish. And the thought of sleeping with Claire…he shook his head. His inexperience embarrassed him, and he feared that, despite Claire’s disposition, it would amuse her.

But his banana, he promised himself, was about to be peeled. As soon as he finished the Dylan Thomas paper, he would be in Holly’s bucket seat. He closed his eyes and imagined Holly’s breasts, jiggling like a silicone-filled porn starlet’s. By the time he got home, he was figuring ways to hide his mini-cam in his bedroom.

The third day of spring break was rainy and dark. Sullen clouds crowded out the sun and dumped an inch of rain. The few students who stayed on campus during break holed themselves up in their rooms, watching soap operas, listening to CD’s, or Web surfing on their computers.

But the weather did not bother Edward. He dressed quickly, brushed his teeth and gargled twice. He did not want to offend Claire with bad breath. Then he drove to the library. The old wiper blades could not remove the rain quickly enough. The humidity did not help either; Edward continually wiped the glass to keep a portion of the windshield clear. Despite the difficulties, Edward whistled and hummed. He was happy. He was sharing a library table with Claire.

The librarian’s eyes widened, surprised to see him chipper on a rainy morning. Edward shook the water off like an eager puppy and left a water trail up the stairs to the table. His books and papers were on the table, where he had left them yesterday. Claire was not there yet, so he had a chance to comb his hair. He settled down to work and occasionally glanced at the clock.

Ninety minutes passed, and Edward’s glances grew frequent. She should be here by now, he thought. By noon, Edward wanted to call Claire and almost looked up her number in the student directory. But he decided that she probably had a cold, or perhaps she had to work.

Or perhaps she was leery.

Yesterday, he had brushed her hand. Despite the innocence of the touch, Edward’s hormones sang and soared. He’d even excused himself and walked to the water cooler, waiting for the flush to fade from his face.

His normal pasty color returned, but he remained charged. He fidgeted and grinned like an idiot. At one point, he giggled for no other reason than the joy of sitting across from this lovely woman.

“Punchy?” Claire had asked.

“Are you offering a punch?”

“Wouldn’t want to hurt you. Just a body slam if you don’t shut up.”

Then he did it. He patted her hand.

The pat was quick and light, but Edward agonized over it all evening. He kept seeing Claire’s long bare arm. Now he feared that she had thought about the pat all night too, and she did not like it.

Here you sit, he mocked himself, writing a paper for a fuck. Edward the Know It All knows nothing. A twenty-one year old virgin: something of a curiosity in the new millennium, certainly. Claire isn’t interested in you! You have no looks, no wit, no presence! What are you going to do? Write a paper for her too?

He slammed shut the books and hurried to his car. He drove recklessly and even ran a stop sign. He barreled into his driveway, nearly striking the garage door. He sat in the car and wondered why he had come home. The apartment was empty, and he had no guests to invite and no one to talk with on the phone.

Finally, feeling anxious, he drove to a grocery store and bought two one-quart bottles of beer. He drank in the parking lot. The beer dulled his anxiety, and he began giving names to the grocery shoppers. He wondered what the Forty Year Old Housewife bought for tonight’s dinner…pot roast and potatoes? And what about the Elderly Couple? The Old Man was happy to get out of the house, but the Old Woman was pissed because she could not get out of the house without him. And the Scolding Mom? Her Five Year Old threw a tantrum in the store because he could not have a second candy bar.

Edward was on his second bottle of beer when a woman walked out of the store. She pushed a cart full of groceries and nearly bumped into another cart. Edward named her the Worried Wife. He imagined she was fretting about her husband’s late nights at the office. His late nights were actually spent with a blond-from-a-bottle. She was enraged by his cheating, but even more frightened by the future. Her husband’s salary was not large; she estimated that he could afford no more than $300 a month of child support and alimony. How could she survive on a lousy $300, even if she returned to the Wal-Mart?

The Worried Wife loaded the groceries into her rusted car.

Edward sat up. The Worried Wife was Claire Sweet. Claire got into the car. It coughed oily blue smoke and struggled onto
Main Street
. Edward waited until Claire was nearly out of view, then started his car. He followed her, careful to remain twenty yards behind.

She turned left onto Pine and followed it to Byron. At the end of Byron was a two-flat. The flat’s white paint was peeling, and the old pink paint underneath stood out like scars. With a sack of groceries in each arm, Claire hurried up the steps to her apartment.

Edward had parked twenty yards back. As he trotted down the sidewalk, he saw Claire enter her apartment. The lights went on, and Claire’s silhouette appeared behind the white curtains. He wanted to sprint up the stairs and surprise her with a bouquet of roses and a six pack of Coke: “My favorite drink in the world,” as she had remarked yesterday.

“You funny Know It All, bringing me Coke and flowers,” she would say. They would sit and laugh. He would again pat her hand. And he would entertain the improbable notion that love was more exciting than sex.

He did not run up the stairs with Coke and flowers, or even with his last quart of beer. He did not have the nerve to let love make him act so recklessly.

Still, Edward wanted to do something. He tore a sheet of paper from a notebook and wrote, “Hello. Hope you’re well”, then left the note on the car’s threadbare front seat.

Alex had driven 75 miles an hour all the way to
Benton
Harbor
. When the sun came up, backlighting the trees atop the vast stretches of Lake Michigan’s dunes along 1-94, he checked into a roadside motel. He slept until dusk, then dyed his hair jet black. He put on mirror shades and got into his car.

On the way to a supermarket, he mused that his disguises might soon be pointless. If he did not find good blood soon, his appearance could change wildly. His voice was different—it was higher and raspier, as if his vocal chords had been sanded. His left earlobe had grown a hole too, and the hazel eye was turning black.

At the supermarket he bought five of the bloodiest steaks he could find. Back in his motel room, he took each steak and, gripping both ends, wrung it out like a wet bath towel. He drained the blood into drinking glasses. The steaks filled two glasses, and he drank the blood while watching a re-run of
Clone
City
, an old show about embittered human clones and their second class societal status.

The steak blood would hold him for only a day or so. He felt like a starving man who had only houseplants to eat. Worse, his changing physical appearance was a sign that his schizophrenia was deepening; his irrationality would become an invincible enemy.