Teeth_ Vampire Tales - Ellen Datlow [112]
“Are your parents on a trip?” you say. “They must really trust you to leave you here alone.”
“They trust Charles,” I say with a sly smile.
That makes you smile at Charles, too, entrusted to take care of his little sister. And it makes me think of my parents, down in the dirt basement, buried six feet under with pennies in the sockets of their eyes.
Mr. DuChamp said that that was so they could pay the ferryman to take them to the shores of the dead. Mr. DuChamp thought of everything.
3. CHOOSE GUESTS WHO ARE INTERESTING AND FUN, AND WHO WILL INVIGORATE THE CONVERSATION.
You pick up your spoon and dig it into the soup like you’re scooping out a melon. I am fairly sure that when you do start eating, you will make slurping sounds.
You do. Strike three. I look over at Charles with my eyebrows up, but he is ignoring me.
“So,” you say, around your soup, “did Charles tell you where we met?”
I shake my head, although I know. Of course I know. It’s always the same. I can’t imagine why you think I’d be interested. Mr. DuChamp always used to say that guests should never talk about themselves. They should make polite conversation on topics of interest to everyone.
“It was at a concert.” You say the name of a band. A band I’ve never heard of.
“They were okay,” said Charles, “but you were amazing.”
Only the fact that it would be a massive breach of etiquette prevents me from making a gagging sound.
You both get into a long, dull conversation weighing the merits of Ladyhawke, Franz Ferdinand, Le Tigre, the Faint, and the Killers. Charles forgets himself so far as to exclaim how happy he is that Devo are making another album. Your blank stare is warning enough for him to clear his throat and suggest that you would like more wine.
You would. In fact, you drink it so fast that he pours yet another glassful. A fine bright color has come into your cheeks. Your eyes shine. I doubt you have ever looked lovelier.
Mr. DuChamp always used to say that appearances weren’t everything. He said that the way a woman carried herself, the way she spoke, and the perfection of her manners were more important than how red her lips and cheeks were, or how shining her eyes. “Looks fade,” he said, “except, of course, in our case.” He would raise a glass to me. “‘Age cannot wither her,’” he would say, “‘nor custom stale her infinite variety.’”
Whatever that meant.
I lift the soup spoon to my mouth, smile, and lower it again. It was Mr. DuChamp who taught me how to pretend that I was eating, how gestures and laughter distracted your guests so that they’d never notice you didn’t take a bite of food.
Mr. DuChamp taught us lots of things. He taught Charles to stand up when a lady entered the room, and how to take a lady’s coat. He told me never to refer to an adult by his or her first name and to sit with my legs uncrossed, always. He didn’t like pants and didn’t approve of girls wearing them. He taught us to be punctual for all social engagements, even though once he moved in with us, the only social engagements we ever had were with him.
When he first came, it was horrible. I woke in the middle of the night because I heard something downstairs. I thought it was my parents fighting—they fought a lot: about the house, which always needed repairs, about her habit of hiding booze and pills, about girls in the office who called him on the weekends. I padded down to the kitchen in my nightgown to see the new Corian countertops splashed with blood.
Mom was on the floor with a strange man hunched over her. All I could see of Dad was his foot sticking out from behind the island.
I must have gasped. Mr. DuChamp looked up. The lower half of his face was red.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”
I made it all the way to the stairs before he caught me.
4. DON’T SCRIMP ON FOOD AND DRINK. ARRANGE IT ATTRACTIVELY AND LET GUESTS HELP THEMSELVES!
Charles clears our soup bowls and returns carrying the main course. It’s lasagna, which is the only thing I know how to cook. I know Mr. DuChamp would say I ought to learn more elegant cooking: how to