The Vampires of Eden

It seems like several lifetimes ago, when I finally turned onto the narrow two-lane road leading into Chouteauville. I found myself slowing down to stare at everything. The crooked line of telephone poles running before me seemed very picturesque. Big cities do not have such things. I drove my truck through the tiny village and down the slope of Maria Street to the river. I parked the truck and walked to the water’s edge. I gazed across the massive gliding force of the river at the weathered limestone formations protruding from the bluffs on the other side. As a boy I had imagined these crumbling battlements and towers to be the ruins of an ancient civilization. The rocks were still bewitching, cast in the enchanting glow of a wintry afternoon.

I glanced around, whispering to myself, “What now?”

Turning away from the river—I had to yank each foot out of the muck to break the suction that held me fast—I trudged up the slippery path I had come down. I passed by my white Chevy and wandered like a ghost over the streets of my hometown. My shadow danced out in front of me, or swung off to traipse along (as a loony companion) at my side, or it disappeared altogether, wavering behind me as I walked directly towards the light.

On Labadie Road I passed by the only large houses in the village. I glanced down at the boats in the marina nestled in their slips behind a sheltering breakwater. All of a sudden there was a small dog accosting me; his hackles raised, baring his fangs, growling viciously.

“Get back, you little bastard!” I shouted, more annoyed than anything else at the ridiculous creature’s effrontery.

I heard a man’s voice summon the dog; it whirled around and scampered back to be snatched up into his master’s arms.

The man looked familiar to me. The effects of money, I supposed, having been around those sorts enough in my younger days to now wish to cast them all together in a disposable lot. He was past the age of retirement, possessing a distinguished crop of closely cut, gray hair, a ruddy complexion and the refined, cautious aplomb one acquires from enjoying, over the years, the absolute security of money. It was a face expressive of that infinite reserve reflected from the Romanesque façades of many small-town American banks. He continued to stare at me intently. It was a little vexing. I was about to walk off when he addressed me.

“Sorry for the annoyance. I’m Chuck Derry.” He approached me with his hand extended. The dog in his other arm glanced anxiously up at his master’s face.

“Paul Hereford.” I emulated the man’s protocol of presenting the full name, as if reading from a program. His bearing, demeanor and the steely resolution in his eyes signaled that he belonged to the tiny gentry class of Chouteauville. “He’s a real tiger,” I offered in a congenial voice.

The man laughed hollowly in a practiced rite of good manners. “Well, my wife loves him.”

I nodded amiably.

“Hereford?” He acted as if he recollected hearing the name somewhere; I surmised the cultured fellow must be familiar with my novels. “Do you live around here?” His curiosity seemed strangely forced.

“No. Or, at least, not yet. I grew up here. I used to live right over there.” I pointed in the general direction of the squat little yellow house of my childhood. It was green now. “A long time ago,” I added.

“Yes, yes.” He began nodding his head eagerly; the riddle was solved. “I believe I knew your mother. Charlotte?”

“Oh. Yes.” I studied his guarded eyes more closely. I was about to confess I didn’t remember him, but it didn’t seem to make any sense to articulate the obvious. She may have met him after I moved away to attend college, but then again, she may have known him before then. There’s no reason why I should have known about him.

I fought the compulsion to say something more, to engage the man in polite discourse, now that a connection had arisen. I actually wanted to ask him how he knew my mother, but I was afraid to broach the subject.

The nervous dog trembled as he reposed in his master’s arms, panting lightly, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He drew his tongue in now and eyed me suspiciously, ready to go on a war footing any second should his master say but the word.

“I live right there.” Derry pointed to an immense structure composed of blond wood and large panes of glass, reflecting the world’s blank, envious stares. The whole edifice was wrapped around, on all three levels, by decks and elaborate stair structures. “I own the marina down there.” His proud face seemed to censure his own boasting while yet addressing the necessity of affixing himself in this milieu where I had discovered him.

“Ah, I see.”

“I remember your mother told me you were a writer.”

“Was a writer,” I laughed lightly. “That’s about right.” It had been seven years since I’d published anything.

Mr. Derry’s mouth opened soundlessly as he grappled with my clumsy responses. He was merely striving to be sociable. I felt uncomfortable and just wanted to get away from him.

“You say you’re moving back here?”

“Possibly,” I said tersely. I was reluctant to encourage his curiosity.

“Well, it’s good to meet you.” Not wishing to detain me against my wishes he adroitly concluded the affair, much to my relief.

“Yes.” We shook hands once more.

I strode off towards my truck, reproaching myself for having acted rudely to one of the locals, possibly the most prominent, when all he had done was offer the hand of friendship. Why had I brushed it aside? The dogged resilience of old habits, possibly, but it was rather distressing to see that part of me triumphing so decisively over the ephemeral good intentions I had lugged with me across so many state lines.

Unwilling to leave the land just yet, I kept walking, moving away from the village. It calmed my nerves to have the great river flowing along there beside me. The cottonwood trees became friendly acquaintances who had known me in my childhood. The land was unfolding, becoming more familiar to me, as an old face will do, after a long separation.