Charlotte's Web
So let's start off with a little fan fiction for E.B. White's Charlotte's Web, why don't we? Humanized AU, for your viewing pleasure.
“Well, Wilbur,” said Miss Charlotte A. Cavatica, pouring a steaming cup of tea. “What brings you once more to my little corner of the world?”
Charity. Hope. Fear. Desperation. Panic. Friendship.
“I don’t know where else to go, really,” said Wilbur softly.
“No, I don’t expect you would,” she mused, sipping her drink. “I must say that I thought you’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.”
It wasn’t untrue. “Yes, Miss.”
“Oh, really now, Wilbur. You may call me Charlotte. We’re not in school anymore.” An unkind reminder. Two years ago he was in school, and if he’d known then what he knew now, he might be in a much better position.
“Charlotte. Please. I squandered it the last time. But I can’t survive like this. Please help me? Please?”
She looked at him over the rims of her glasses, her huge grey eyes mild and unblinking. She was pale and small and the most beautiful creature Wilbur had ever seen, and totally untouchable. He couldn’t imagine a man-or woman-that could stand up to Charlotte. She was…what was the word she’d taught his class? Ethereal. Otherworldly. Like a gorgeous ghost wandering around in high-heeled boots.
“You were not a talented writer, Wilbur,” she finally said. “Nor were you very bright. I think you should know that I never reasonably expected that you would ever amount to anything truly spectacular.”
He held his ground. Charlotte could be harsh, but she wasn’t cruel, he didn’t think. She wouldn’t just spit in his face when he came pleading for help.
“But you were humble, and radiant, in a certain way…you worked harder than any of my other students, and you had a good heart.” She sipped the tea. “And I always thought that was much more valuable than any talented hackery.” Charlotte smiled slightly. “Bus your tables. I’ll be here when you get off your break.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, and hurried away. He might make it. He might.
--
Two years ago he was a student. Two years ago Charlotte was his favorite teacher, for Creative Writing, his favorite subject. They’d been almost like friends, Wilbur thought…Charlotte gave him advice about his writing and his life, when he asked for it. Wilbur ran errands for her-he was her student aide, in his last year of high school. They’d talked a great deal about their lives; Wilbur had always lived in the city, that he could remember, but Charlotte grew up on a small farm in Maine and had travelled all over the world. She’d done everything: acting, singing, dancing, painting, everything artistic and unusual in the world, but she’d always wanted to write. She’d farmed in Maine and in Provence, waitressed in Washington D.C. and in Calcutta. She’d worked as a bank clerk in Havana and had a gun pulled on her. She’d taught school in every county in the state, in Quebec, deep down in Georgia, out in California, way far out in the middle of Nowhere, Utah. Wilbur told her about Aunt Fern and wanting to grow up to do something useful…nothing really flashy, but just good and honest and maybe with a little recognition. Charlotte had liked that.
Two years ago she sat him down and patiently explained that his prospects were not good and that his only chance, if he wanted to get out of the dead-end future he was facing at the end of high school, was to go to college. And Charlotte was prepared to help him fight and kick his way to the top of the pile and get his scholarships and go off to the best school he could get into.
Wilbur wanted to go to college. His Aunt Fern had gone to college, and he loved Aunt Fern…she was better and kinder to him than anyone else had ever been. She’d taken him in when his parents had died. But she couldn’t afford to send him to college-she could barely afford to keep the both of them fed. Aunt Fern needed his help around the house, keeping the wolf away from the door, and college couldn’t do that. But it was possible, just maybe, that Uncle’s gang could.
Uncle wasn’t really Wilbur’s uncle. He was a big tough bruiser of a guy, and he took a shine to Wilbur, for some unknown reason. Probably because Wilbur was big and strong and young, fresh-faced and pink with good health. He was a useful young man.
So he’d said no, thank you, to Miss Charlotte and finished-barely-high school. And he’d tried his hand at working for Uncle.
It was misery. He spent two years afraid for himself and for Aunt Fern, and making next to no money, and being a burden to his family. So he made himself less and less useful, less and less involved, until he almost wasn’t there anymore. Of course, one didn’t quit a gang, but Wilbur wasn’t in a gang-that, at least, would have completely broke Aunt Fern’s heart-he just worked for one. But now what could he do? He got a minimum-wage job bussing tables in a café and brought home every pitiful cent he made.
And one night, Miss Charlotte appeared in the restaurant.
“Come with me,” she instructed him, when he was dismissed for the night. “Oh, wait, never mind. Does your Aunt Fern expect you home?”
“Yes. I could give her a call.”
“No. Go home, Wilbur.” Charlotte pulled a slim silver card case from her handbag and pressed a card into his hand. “You have my phone number. Call me tomorrow and come by. We’ll talk.”
“I don’t work until six. Won’t you have school?”
Charlotte smiled slightly. “No. I’m not employed by the state anymore. I’m a writer now.”
Who would fire Charlotte? Strange doings. Wilbur put the card in his pocket, where he surely wouldn’t forget it. “Okay.”
“Good night, Wilbur.”
“Do you want someone to walk you home?”
Charlotte smiled again, as if amused. “No. I’ll be perfectly safe. Good night.”
“Good night, Charlotte.”
--
Wilbur sat in Charlotte’s parlor the next day. It was a close, crowded little room, full of antique furniture. The walls festooned with portraits of maybe fifty different people, all in identical oval frames, all bearing some slight resemblance to Charlotte herself-thin, large-eyed, attractive people with small mouths and broad, smooth foreheads. In the gaps were framed and mounted cross stitch, embroidery, tatting, weaving, even knitting and crochet and knotting, all types of thread-based fiber craft.
Wilbur had been placed in a small, elderly wingback chair, its twin facing him, next to a slim, ancient sofa-more pew that couch. On the coffee-table beside him was a silver carafe and tiny tea set, placed on a doily on a silver slaver. Charlotte herself spoke from the bathroom.
“Now, I’ve been up for most of the night,” she said. Wilbur could see her through the living room arch and the water closet’s open door. She was raised on the very tips of her toes and was applying mascara. That morning, she’d opened the door in leggings and a tank top, an oversized hand-made openwork sweater doing its best to slip off her tiny shoulders and drown her. Wilbur hadn’t noticed anything different about her face, except that she was paler, but even that didn’t really register to him. It was strange, watching his sensible, serious former teacher putting on makeup like an ordinary girl. “And I think there might be a way to help you. Pour the coffee, will you? Save a cup.”
Wilbur carefully maneuvered the carafe. It looked even smaller in his hands than it did on the table. “What’s your plan?”
“Don’t be impatient, Wilbur, let me explain it all out to you.” He glanced up to watch her curling her eyelashes and blinking, carefully checking her makeup. She put the mascara down and picked up a tube of lipstick. “Now, we’ll just wait until Templeton arrives and gives me my dose, and I’ll tell you everything. He should hear it, too. He could prove to be very useful.”
“Templeton?” The high-school custodian? The guy who collected garbage and hoarded it? And unless Wilbur had heard wrong, according to the whispers of pretty much the entire student body, an excellent source for E and a blunt, if you caught him at the right time. “Why is he coming here?”
“To drop off my dose. I told you.” Charlotte was putting on another coat of eye makeup. Twisting the little vial shut, she dusted a pale lilac eye shadow on her eyelids and looked at herself critically. She nodded, closed the light, and walked, barefoot, into the parlor. As she went, she began to pull her long, pin-straight black hair into a loose braid. Catching Wilbur’s horrified expression, she wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Wilbur. You don’t really think I’d buy drugs off of that scoundrel, do you?”
“W-Well, what else can I think?” he asked, still worried. Charlotte gave him a reassuring smile and picked up one of the coffees, blowing the steam off of it.
“Don’t get yourself upset, Wilbur,” she said calmly. “Templeton’s an old friend. He’s been very helpful to me in the past, and we have something of a business relationship. We’ve known each other for years. His particular choice of employment makes him a capital bounder, but not anything terribly dangerous at all.” She looked at him slyly over the rim of the cup. “And I do not purchase his wares, so don’t worry.”
Wilbur swallowed and took a slug of coffee to try to cover it. It was hot and sweet and bitter, black and thick. He choked a little and added some cream. “Then…can I ask what you do buy from him?”
“You’ll see,” she murmured. “It’s nothing terribly alarming.”
They sat for a little while. Wilbur looked around the room, reaching for a conversation topic to bring up. The roll-top desk in the corner by the window helped. “So, you said you’re writing these days?”
“Yes. Writing and sometimes even publishing,” she said with a small smirk. “In newspapers, magazines. I wrote a play for an old friend some time ago, and I think that is playing at the moment. And I’m working on a collection of short stories. Fairy tales. For children.”
“Can I read it?”
“Certainly. In fact, if you could read it aloud, I could hear where I’ve made mistakes. Here, just let me-” She rose to her feet and went to collect and bundle of papers off of the desktop, when the doorbell rang. “Ah. That would be the last of our party. The stories can wait.”
Charlotte hurried to the door and Wilbur sat back in the chair, shocked. Perhaps it went to show that you just didn’t know someone by how they behaved professionally. Charlotte, spending any time with Templeton? And when they weren’t at school? It was utterly bizarre. Charlotte was so respectable and serious and polite and even friendly, and Templeton…Templeton was dirty and rude and vulgar and creepy. How could they possibly be friends?
But Charlotte had a plan, and she was willing to share it with him. And he would grab with both hands whatever she proposed…he needed her advice desperately.
Wilbur could hear the conversation out in the hallway, even though he didn’t want to eavesdrop. Then again, he was all a flutter with curiosity about Charlotte’s friendship with Templeton. He never would’ve guessed it himself.
“Jesus Christ, you look pale,” Templeton said by way of a greeting. Wilbur hadn’t thought about his scratchy, Southern twang in a long time. “You sick or on the rag or something?”
“Good morning, Templeton. Do you have it?”
“No, not on me. How would that look if I got pulled over, huh?”
Charlotte tsked. “I have company. We can’t do it now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s an old student. Wilbur. You remember him.”
“Yeah, the fat kid? How’s the little porker doing?”
“Don’t call him that. Come into my parlor and sit down and play pretend that you’re a gentleman.”
“And what about the stuff?”
Charlotte came back into the sitting room wearing a thin, unconvincing smile. “Wilbur? You remember Mr. Templeton, I’m sure. Mr. Templeton, this is Wilbur Avery.”
“All right, kid, how’s it going?” Templeton said, nodding and throwing himself, gangly limbs flying, onto the couch. “What are you doing here?”
“Wilbur has come to me for some help,” Charlotte explained. “And I think you may be useful.”
“Well, be still my heart,” he drawled. “If all you’re going to do is take advantage of my philanthropic nature, I’ll save you the attempt and leave now.”
Charlotte smiled, exposing her teeth. Wilbur had never seen her grin before. The amusement that the expression should’ve indicated didn’t show anywhere else on her face. “Please, stay. Have some coffee. Besides, we still have a business transaction.” She picked with the small cup that she’d had Wilbur save. “Excuse me. I need to take care of something in the kitchen.”
When Charlotte was gone, Templeton lurched up and swung an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders. “You better get out of here, kid,” he said flatly. “She’s up to something.”
“Charlotte? But she’s my friend. She’s agreed to help me. I need her.”
“Listen, piggy, she’s hurting for her fix and you might be the one to supply it. I wouldn’t stick around if I were you. I always wondered when she’d start takin’ and stop paying, but I didn’t think it’d been from some naïve little grubber like you…”
“What are you talking about?” Wilbur pushed Templeton’s arm off. “What are you selling her, anyway?”
“You don’t wanna know, man. She’s crazy. I don’t think she can help herself. But she pays real well, even if her standards are high and her tastes are kinda screwy. But you’re young and fresh and I bet she thinks that’s great, but you’re not going to want to be here when it all goes down.”
Wilbur swallowed hard, his cheeks blushing dark red. “Wh-What are you talking about?”
Templeton shook his head. “What do you think she’s doing in that kitchen right now, man? She’s bleeding herself!”
What? “What?”
“She told you I was coming, right? She tell you why?”
“She said something about a dose…”
Templeton grinned. “Yeah, prim little word for it. She buys my blood, piggy. Fresh brewed. And she drinks it.”
Wilbur’s face crumpled in disgust. “She drinks blood?” That wasn’t his Charlotte! She was a normal, decent woman! She didn’t drink human blood!
“Like a baby drinks milk. Some kind of disease in her brain, I dunno. Vampire kind of thing. She thinks it keeps her alive. I think a little sunshine could fix it, but there you go. Some weird thing about needing to keep as much blood as she can inside, since she’s anemic or some shit…she’s scared of bleeding out and dying.”
“And you…you sell her your buh-blood? To drink?”
He leaned close with an oily smile. “I wouldn’t do it, but she pays real nice and we’re friends from way back. Plus…in case you haven’t noticed, she’s hotter than Texas asphalt. Chick this crazy is always one step away from going nympho, and I like to help a friend out in dire straits like those...”
Wilbur didn’t want to think about Charlotte ‘going nympho.’ It wasn’t a situation that lent itself to any type of reality. “This is crazy! You’re lying!”
“Oh yeah? She didn’t want her precious little student to see it, but she’s gettin’ desperate for some red stuff, and she’s in that kitchen right now, bleeding out into that little teacup. And she’s going to come in here and drink it nice and close to her chest, pretty as a perfect little lady. It’s called auto-vampirism.” Templeton frowned suddenly. “And I’m telling you, piggy, she’s going to lose it someday soon. She’s licking her chops thinking about bleeding you nice and dry. So you better get out of here, if you know what’s good for you. Don’t wanna end up like Mr. Charlotte, do you?”
There had ever been a Mr. Charlotte? No, duh, stupid, this was just some silly scare story Templeton made up because he was a jerk. Charlotte wouldn’t buy his blood-who knew what kinds of nasty garbage was swimming around in his veins from drugs and narcotics and God knew whatever else.
“You’re crazy.”
“Says you. But I’m not the one who’s going to end up hung by my ankles from her shower faucet, dripping into a bucket…”
Wilbur shuddered just as Charlotte reappeared. She had her teacup and sipped it happily as she curled up in her chair, licking her lips. “Thank you for your patience. Now then. Where were we?”
“Something about me being useful,” Templeton said, rolling his eyes, as if the previous conversation with Wilbur had never happened. “I live to serve.”
Wilbur watched Charlotte with that teacup. She did hold it close to her chest, both hands wrapped around it. And she was pale-very, very pale. He suddenly noticed pale purple circles under her eyes, almost exactly matching the color of her eyeshadow above. Her pupils were blown wide and spacey. She looked drugged. What was she doing?!
“Wilbur needs help,” she said calmly. “He needs to get into school and get a real job. What do you know about in a practical line that is a respectable job for a young man? Bussing tables will not get us where we need to go.”
“I got a ton of unrespectable jobs that’ll pay you more than bussing,” Templeton said. “On the legal side…eh, not much. I’d take him on and get him picking around in the trash for treasure, but he hasn’t got the right eye for it. He’d throw away anything, wouldn’t you, piggy?”
“Quit calling me that,” Wilbur grumbled.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” Templeton ran a hand over his chin, the sparse growth of a few days without a shave sprouted stiff and unpleasant along his jaw. “Respectable, respectable…how do you feel about junkyards? I got a guy who’s about ready to worship me as a carven idol for some of the stuff I bring him…he could get you workin’ a compactor.”
“Do they ever dispose of bodies in this junkyard, Templeton?” Charlotte asked, in such a reasonable tone of voice that Wilbur almost didn’t catch the madness of the very question. She took a deep drink from her cup. “Because that kind of smearing of what is left of his good name is not what we need.”
“None that I know of, but I don’t run with that crowd. You know me, Charlotte, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“I’ve heard it, though not from anything I would call a competent authority,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Well, Wilbur? Do you think you could work in a junkyard?”
“Sure. I’ll work anywhere that pays me more the bussing tables.”
“I’ll talk to my guy. You better come along with me, kid, if you wanna make a good impression.” Templeton looked over at Charlotte. “And you’re going to owe me.”
“Of course.” Charlotte threw back the last of her drink and licked her lips thoughtfully. “Mm. As for schools…let me show you some applications. Community colleges are marvelous inventions, really…”
--
Wilbur went to the library later that day to use a computer. He searched first for ‘Charlotte A. Cavatica’ and found plenty of published works and not a scrap of biography. No details about a life overseas. No birthplace, no birth date…nothing, except at the very bottom of the search pile, a small announcement from twenty years ago.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Cavatica are please to announce the engagement of their daughter, Charlotte A. Cavatica, to Mr. E. B. Webb.’
Templeton was right. There had been a Mr. Charlotte.
But no amount of searching could yield details about Mr. E. B. Webb. He didn’t exist, at least technologically. And if Charlotte had lived all over the world, there was no knowing where he was from.
Where was he now?
He looked up blood-drinking in humans and came up with something call Renfield Syndrome. If Templeton could be trusted-and he right about the husband, wasn’t he?-this was what Charlotte had.
Then Wilbur looked up the community colleges and printed out some applications. After all, even if she was sick, she had good ideas.
“Well, Wilbur,” said Miss Charlotte A. Cavatica, pouring a steaming cup of tea. “What brings you once more to my little corner of the world?”
Charity. Hope. Fear. Desperation. Panic. Friendship.
“I don’t know where else to go, really,” said Wilbur softly.
“No, I don’t expect you would,” she mused, sipping her drink. “I must say that I thought you’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire.”
It wasn’t untrue. “Yes, Miss.”
“Oh, really now, Wilbur. You may call me Charlotte. We’re not in school anymore.” An unkind reminder. Two years ago he was in school, and if he’d known then what he knew now, he might be in a much better position.
“Charlotte. Please. I squandered it the last time. But I can’t survive like this. Please help me? Please?”
She looked at him over the rims of her glasses, her huge grey eyes mild and unblinking. She was pale and small and the most beautiful creature Wilbur had ever seen, and totally untouchable. He couldn’t imagine a man-or woman-that could stand up to Charlotte. She was…what was the word she’d taught his class? Ethereal. Otherworldly. Like a gorgeous ghost wandering around in high-heeled boots.
“You were not a talented writer, Wilbur,” she finally said. “Nor were you very bright. I think you should know that I never reasonably expected that you would ever amount to anything truly spectacular.”
He held his ground. Charlotte could be harsh, but she wasn’t cruel, he didn’t think. She wouldn’t just spit in his face when he came pleading for help.
“But you were humble, and radiant, in a certain way…you worked harder than any of my other students, and you had a good heart.” She sipped the tea. “And I always thought that was much more valuable than any talented hackery.” Charlotte smiled slightly. “Bus your tables. I’ll be here when you get off your break.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, and hurried away. He might make it. He might.
--
Two years ago he was a student. Two years ago Charlotte was his favorite teacher, for Creative Writing, his favorite subject. They’d been almost like friends, Wilbur thought…Charlotte gave him advice about his writing and his life, when he asked for it. Wilbur ran errands for her-he was her student aide, in his last year of high school. They’d talked a great deal about their lives; Wilbur had always lived in the city, that he could remember, but Charlotte grew up on a small farm in Maine and had travelled all over the world. She’d done everything: acting, singing, dancing, painting, everything artistic and unusual in the world, but she’d always wanted to write. She’d farmed in Maine and in Provence, waitressed in Washington D.C. and in Calcutta. She’d worked as a bank clerk in Havana and had a gun pulled on her. She’d taught school in every county in the state, in Quebec, deep down in Georgia, out in California, way far out in the middle of Nowhere, Utah. Wilbur told her about Aunt Fern and wanting to grow up to do something useful…nothing really flashy, but just good and honest and maybe with a little recognition. Charlotte had liked that.
Two years ago she sat him down and patiently explained that his prospects were not good and that his only chance, if he wanted to get out of the dead-end future he was facing at the end of high school, was to go to college. And Charlotte was prepared to help him fight and kick his way to the top of the pile and get his scholarships and go off to the best school he could get into.
Wilbur wanted to go to college. His Aunt Fern had gone to college, and he loved Aunt Fern…she was better and kinder to him than anyone else had ever been. She’d taken him in when his parents had died. But she couldn’t afford to send him to college-she could barely afford to keep the both of them fed. Aunt Fern needed his help around the house, keeping the wolf away from the door, and college couldn’t do that. But it was possible, just maybe, that Uncle’s gang could.
Uncle wasn’t really Wilbur’s uncle. He was a big tough bruiser of a guy, and he took a shine to Wilbur, for some unknown reason. Probably because Wilbur was big and strong and young, fresh-faced and pink with good health. He was a useful young man.
So he’d said no, thank you, to Miss Charlotte and finished-barely-high school. And he’d tried his hand at working for Uncle.
It was misery. He spent two years afraid for himself and for Aunt Fern, and making next to no money, and being a burden to his family. So he made himself less and less useful, less and less involved, until he almost wasn’t there anymore. Of course, one didn’t quit a gang, but Wilbur wasn’t in a gang-that, at least, would have completely broke Aunt Fern’s heart-he just worked for one. But now what could he do? He got a minimum-wage job bussing tables in a café and brought home every pitiful cent he made.
And one night, Miss Charlotte appeared in the restaurant.
“Come with me,” she instructed him, when he was dismissed for the night. “Oh, wait, never mind. Does your Aunt Fern expect you home?”
“Yes. I could give her a call.”
“No. Go home, Wilbur.” Charlotte pulled a slim silver card case from her handbag and pressed a card into his hand. “You have my phone number. Call me tomorrow and come by. We’ll talk.”
“I don’t work until six. Won’t you have school?”
Charlotte smiled slightly. “No. I’m not employed by the state anymore. I’m a writer now.”
Who would fire Charlotte? Strange doings. Wilbur put the card in his pocket, where he surely wouldn’t forget it. “Okay.”
“Good night, Wilbur.”
“Do you want someone to walk you home?”
Charlotte smiled again, as if amused. “No. I’ll be perfectly safe. Good night.”
“Good night, Charlotte.”
--
Wilbur sat in Charlotte’s parlor the next day. It was a close, crowded little room, full of antique furniture. The walls festooned with portraits of maybe fifty different people, all in identical oval frames, all bearing some slight resemblance to Charlotte herself-thin, large-eyed, attractive people with small mouths and broad, smooth foreheads. In the gaps were framed and mounted cross stitch, embroidery, tatting, weaving, even knitting and crochet and knotting, all types of thread-based fiber craft.
Wilbur had been placed in a small, elderly wingback chair, its twin facing him, next to a slim, ancient sofa-more pew that couch. On the coffee-table beside him was a silver carafe and tiny tea set, placed on a doily on a silver slaver. Charlotte herself spoke from the bathroom.
“Now, I’ve been up for most of the night,” she said. Wilbur could see her through the living room arch and the water closet’s open door. She was raised on the very tips of her toes and was applying mascara. That morning, she’d opened the door in leggings and a tank top, an oversized hand-made openwork sweater doing its best to slip off her tiny shoulders and drown her. Wilbur hadn’t noticed anything different about her face, except that she was paler, but even that didn’t really register to him. It was strange, watching his sensible, serious former teacher putting on makeup like an ordinary girl. “And I think there might be a way to help you. Pour the coffee, will you? Save a cup.”
Wilbur carefully maneuvered the carafe. It looked even smaller in his hands than it did on the table. “What’s your plan?”
“Don’t be impatient, Wilbur, let me explain it all out to you.” He glanced up to watch her curling her eyelashes and blinking, carefully checking her makeup. She put the mascara down and picked up a tube of lipstick. “Now, we’ll just wait until Templeton arrives and gives me my dose, and I’ll tell you everything. He should hear it, too. He could prove to be very useful.”
“Templeton?” The high-school custodian? The guy who collected garbage and hoarded it? And unless Wilbur had heard wrong, according to the whispers of pretty much the entire student body, an excellent source for E and a blunt, if you caught him at the right time. “Why is he coming here?”
“To drop off my dose. I told you.” Charlotte was putting on another coat of eye makeup. Twisting the little vial shut, she dusted a pale lilac eye shadow on her eyelids and looked at herself critically. She nodded, closed the light, and walked, barefoot, into the parlor. As she went, she began to pull her long, pin-straight black hair into a loose braid. Catching Wilbur’s horrified expression, she wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Wilbur. You don’t really think I’d buy drugs off of that scoundrel, do you?”
“W-Well, what else can I think?” he asked, still worried. Charlotte gave him a reassuring smile and picked up one of the coffees, blowing the steam off of it.
“Don’t get yourself upset, Wilbur,” she said calmly. “Templeton’s an old friend. He’s been very helpful to me in the past, and we have something of a business relationship. We’ve known each other for years. His particular choice of employment makes him a capital bounder, but not anything terribly dangerous at all.” She looked at him slyly over the rim of the cup. “And I do not purchase his wares, so don’t worry.”
Wilbur swallowed and took a slug of coffee to try to cover it. It was hot and sweet and bitter, black and thick. He choked a little and added some cream. “Then…can I ask what you do buy from him?”
“You’ll see,” she murmured. “It’s nothing terribly alarming.”
They sat for a little while. Wilbur looked around the room, reaching for a conversation topic to bring up. The roll-top desk in the corner by the window helped. “So, you said you’re writing these days?”
“Yes. Writing and sometimes even publishing,” she said with a small smirk. “In newspapers, magazines. I wrote a play for an old friend some time ago, and I think that is playing at the moment. And I’m working on a collection of short stories. Fairy tales. For children.”
“Can I read it?”
“Certainly. In fact, if you could read it aloud, I could hear where I’ve made mistakes. Here, just let me-” She rose to her feet and went to collect and bundle of papers off of the desktop, when the doorbell rang. “Ah. That would be the last of our party. The stories can wait.”
Charlotte hurried to the door and Wilbur sat back in the chair, shocked. Perhaps it went to show that you just didn’t know someone by how they behaved professionally. Charlotte, spending any time with Templeton? And when they weren’t at school? It was utterly bizarre. Charlotte was so respectable and serious and polite and even friendly, and Templeton…Templeton was dirty and rude and vulgar and creepy. How could they possibly be friends?
But Charlotte had a plan, and she was willing to share it with him. And he would grab with both hands whatever she proposed…he needed her advice desperately.
Wilbur could hear the conversation out in the hallway, even though he didn’t want to eavesdrop. Then again, he was all a flutter with curiosity about Charlotte’s friendship with Templeton. He never would’ve guessed it himself.
“Jesus Christ, you look pale,” Templeton said by way of a greeting. Wilbur hadn’t thought about his scratchy, Southern twang in a long time. “You sick or on the rag or something?”
“Good morning, Templeton. Do you have it?”
“No, not on me. How would that look if I got pulled over, huh?”
Charlotte tsked. “I have company. We can’t do it now.”
“Why not?”
“It’s an old student. Wilbur. You remember him.”
“Yeah, the fat kid? How’s the little porker doing?”
“Don’t call him that. Come into my parlor and sit down and play pretend that you’re a gentleman.”
“And what about the stuff?”
Charlotte came back into the sitting room wearing a thin, unconvincing smile. “Wilbur? You remember Mr. Templeton, I’m sure. Mr. Templeton, this is Wilbur Avery.”
“All right, kid, how’s it going?” Templeton said, nodding and throwing himself, gangly limbs flying, onto the couch. “What are you doing here?”
“Wilbur has come to me for some help,” Charlotte explained. “And I think you may be useful.”
“Well, be still my heart,” he drawled. “If all you’re going to do is take advantage of my philanthropic nature, I’ll save you the attempt and leave now.”
Charlotte smiled, exposing her teeth. Wilbur had never seen her grin before. The amusement that the expression should’ve indicated didn’t show anywhere else on her face. “Please, stay. Have some coffee. Besides, we still have a business transaction.” She picked with the small cup that she’d had Wilbur save. “Excuse me. I need to take care of something in the kitchen.”
When Charlotte was gone, Templeton lurched up and swung an arm around Wilbur’s shoulders. “You better get out of here, kid,” he said flatly. “She’s up to something.”
“Charlotte? But she’s my friend. She’s agreed to help me. I need her.”
“Listen, piggy, she’s hurting for her fix and you might be the one to supply it. I wouldn’t stick around if I were you. I always wondered when she’d start takin’ and stop paying, but I didn’t think it’d been from some naïve little grubber like you…”
“What are you talking about?” Wilbur pushed Templeton’s arm off. “What are you selling her, anyway?”
“You don’t wanna know, man. She’s crazy. I don’t think she can help herself. But she pays real well, even if her standards are high and her tastes are kinda screwy. But you’re young and fresh and I bet she thinks that’s great, but you’re not going to want to be here when it all goes down.”
Wilbur swallowed hard, his cheeks blushing dark red. “Wh-What are you talking about?”
Templeton shook his head. “What do you think she’s doing in that kitchen right now, man? She’s bleeding herself!”
What? “What?”
“She told you I was coming, right? She tell you why?”
“She said something about a dose…”
Templeton grinned. “Yeah, prim little word for it. She buys my blood, piggy. Fresh brewed. And she drinks it.”
Wilbur’s face crumpled in disgust. “She drinks blood?” That wasn’t his Charlotte! She was a normal, decent woman! She didn’t drink human blood!
“Like a baby drinks milk. Some kind of disease in her brain, I dunno. Vampire kind of thing. She thinks it keeps her alive. I think a little sunshine could fix it, but there you go. Some weird thing about needing to keep as much blood as she can inside, since she’s anemic or some shit…she’s scared of bleeding out and dying.”
“And you…you sell her your buh-blood? To drink?”
He leaned close with an oily smile. “I wouldn’t do it, but she pays real nice and we’re friends from way back. Plus…in case you haven’t noticed, she’s hotter than Texas asphalt. Chick this crazy is always one step away from going nympho, and I like to help a friend out in dire straits like those...”
Wilbur didn’t want to think about Charlotte ‘going nympho.’ It wasn’t a situation that lent itself to any type of reality. “This is crazy! You’re lying!”
“Oh yeah? She didn’t want her precious little student to see it, but she’s gettin’ desperate for some red stuff, and she’s in that kitchen right now, bleeding out into that little teacup. And she’s going to come in here and drink it nice and close to her chest, pretty as a perfect little lady. It’s called auto-vampirism.” Templeton frowned suddenly. “And I’m telling you, piggy, she’s going to lose it someday soon. She’s licking her chops thinking about bleeding you nice and dry. So you better get out of here, if you know what’s good for you. Don’t wanna end up like Mr. Charlotte, do you?”
There had ever been a Mr. Charlotte? No, duh, stupid, this was just some silly scare story Templeton made up because he was a jerk. Charlotte wouldn’t buy his blood-who knew what kinds of nasty garbage was swimming around in his veins from drugs and narcotics and God knew whatever else.
“You’re crazy.”
“Says you. But I’m not the one who’s going to end up hung by my ankles from her shower faucet, dripping into a bucket…”
Wilbur shuddered just as Charlotte reappeared. She had her teacup and sipped it happily as she curled up in her chair, licking her lips. “Thank you for your patience. Now then. Where were we?”
“Something about me being useful,” Templeton said, rolling his eyes, as if the previous conversation with Wilbur had never happened. “I live to serve.”
Wilbur watched Charlotte with that teacup. She did hold it close to her chest, both hands wrapped around it. And she was pale-very, very pale. He suddenly noticed pale purple circles under her eyes, almost exactly matching the color of her eyeshadow above. Her pupils were blown wide and spacey. She looked drugged. What was she doing?!
“Wilbur needs help,” she said calmly. “He needs to get into school and get a real job. What do you know about in a practical line that is a respectable job for a young man? Bussing tables will not get us where we need to go.”
“I got a ton of unrespectable jobs that’ll pay you more than bussing,” Templeton said. “On the legal side…eh, not much. I’d take him on and get him picking around in the trash for treasure, but he hasn’t got the right eye for it. He’d throw away anything, wouldn’t you, piggy?”
“Quit calling me that,” Wilbur grumbled.
“Yeah, didn’t think so.” Templeton ran a hand over his chin, the sparse growth of a few days without a shave sprouted stiff and unpleasant along his jaw. “Respectable, respectable…how do you feel about junkyards? I got a guy who’s about ready to worship me as a carven idol for some of the stuff I bring him…he could get you workin’ a compactor.”
“Do they ever dispose of bodies in this junkyard, Templeton?” Charlotte asked, in such a reasonable tone of voice that Wilbur almost didn’t catch the madness of the very question. She took a deep drink from her cup. “Because that kind of smearing of what is left of his good name is not what we need.”
“None that I know of, but I don’t run with that crowd. You know me, Charlotte, I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
“I’ve heard it, though not from anything I would call a competent authority,” Charlotte said sweetly. “Well, Wilbur? Do you think you could work in a junkyard?”
“Sure. I’ll work anywhere that pays me more the bussing tables.”
“I’ll talk to my guy. You better come along with me, kid, if you wanna make a good impression.” Templeton looked over at Charlotte. “And you’re going to owe me.”
“Of course.” Charlotte threw back the last of her drink and licked her lips thoughtfully. “Mm. As for schools…let me show you some applications. Community colleges are marvelous inventions, really…”
--
Wilbur went to the library later that day to use a computer. He searched first for ‘Charlotte A. Cavatica’ and found plenty of published works and not a scrap of biography. No details about a life overseas. No birthplace, no birth date…nothing, except at the very bottom of the search pile, a small announcement from twenty years ago.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Cavatica are please to announce the engagement of their daughter, Charlotte A. Cavatica, to Mr. E. B. Webb.’
Templeton was right. There had been a Mr. Charlotte.
But no amount of searching could yield details about Mr. E. B. Webb. He didn’t exist, at least technologically. And if Charlotte had lived all over the world, there was no knowing where he was from.
Where was he now?
He looked up blood-drinking in humans and came up with something call Renfield Syndrome. If Templeton could be trusted-and he right about the husband, wasn’t he?-this was what Charlotte had.
Then Wilbur looked up the community colleges and printed out some applications. After all, even if she was sick, she had good ideas.