White Picket Fence
PG-13. 10/23/2006.

As it happened, they never needed the post office box, or any of the rest of it. They stayed with Meredith's cousin for a terse two weeks, in which the poor woman would shake and drop whatever she was holding every time Edgar walked into the room, and then Meredith cashed in the bonds she'd been saving from her inheritance, and got a loan, and within another week they had their three-bedroom house. It had a big kitchen for Meredith, and a garden for Edgar, and even a private bathroom for Shelley.

And Thomas never called. Or wrote. Or anything. They never heard from him again. A few times Shelley missed him and felt like calling one of her friends to ask them how her father was doing, but--something always stopped her.

No news is good news.

Meredith went to the butcher's every week and brought back a half-dozen bags of pig's blood, in addition to steak or hamburger or whatever else she planned on cooking. Shelley bought Edgar a mug that said "KISS THE CHEF" as a joke, and when he needed to, he served himself. They didn't give it another thought.

Or, at least, Meredith didn't. She had a real talent for allowing herself to be blissfully unaware of things.

Edgar thought about it, of course. He lived it. He slowly learned to accept what he needed to do, but there was a secret hollow part of him that cringed from the sterility of microwaved blood slugged down like burnt coffee. He never admitted it, and as time went on, he learned to accept that, as well.

It was Shelley that thought about it the most, in her waking world, in sleep. In the beginning there was only a quiet tender pity, wanting to cure his wish to be just like every other human, wanting more than anything to heal him any way she could. The more time passed the more her love for him grew: the more she wanted to tell him, the more she waited and watched for some sure sign that he felt the same. Once she told him there'd be no turning back.

The dreams started simply enough. They began as true dreams, then moved on to waking mindscapes, scenes she went into whenever her thoughts wandered, whenever she idled. First it was just this: Edgar, shivering, huddling in a chair at the kitchen table, toes curled tightly over the edge of the seat, tears in his eyes. He'd waited too long. And she took a red bag from the drawer in the fridge, and with a skill borne from imagined long practice, poured the blood into his mug and stuck it in the microwave. She watched him shaking in his seat with his hungry eyes on her until the bell rang. Then everything would slow down, and she'd take out the mug, swish the blood in the cup as she walked to him. Their eyes would lock. She would hold the mug to his lips, he would drink--and she would be the one left shivering, from a different kind of need.

But was it really all that different? As the dreams progressed, she began to doubt.

Soon there was no bag. Soon she'd take the mug from its place in the cupboard and the blood would magically flow from her wrist--stigmata, a sacred spring. Then soon there was the feeling, when he drank, that the cup was a extension of her own veins--he would swallow and she would feel a tug down her arm, through her whole body, as the mug emptied.

After that there was nothing so complex. There was just him curled in the chair, hunger shining in his eyes, and the blood dripping from her wrist in elegant drops on the table until his lips fastened on the source, and he began to suck. At this point the dreams became dangerous: she sat in class and fell into them, only to sit up with a start when the bell rang, wet and paranoid that the others could tell what had taken place in her mind, would see the desire written in the lines of her body, the redness of her lips.

Later in the dreams, finally, she would feel the bite with a piercing sweetness like eating raw lemon or diving in icy water. From then on it was all small variations on the theme: her bedroom or the living room instead of the kitchen, her throat instead of her wrist, his request instead of her offer.

She couldn't bring more than the feeding into it--never a kiss, no other touching, as if those were things reserved only for experience. Experience she couldn't put off much longer without going insane.

Much more worldly than their Hope Falls counterparts, the new neighbors quickly decided that Edgar was some kind of extremist goth, that he used prosthetics or maybe even had been surgically altered to look the way he did. Once they'd settled on that explanation, it was simple to conclude that he was a friendly and intelligent, if eccentric, young man. He fell into the role they laid out for him, at least to some extent--he started wearing more black, got an earring and a pair of Fluevong boots. In addition to the neighborhood work he did--landscaping, accounting, odd jobs--he got a job working the counter at the local tattoo parlor.

Shelley decided, without informing him, that his birthday fell on the same day as her own. His gift to her was a big cedar wardrobe he'd made on his own in the garden shed. Somehow her surprise gift to him, of a used van that she'd been saving for ever since they moved, seemed inadequate in comparison, to her. He seemed to feel differently.

Her heart seemed to swell at the look in his eyes as he thanked her. She hoped he didn't notice the flush that came over her when he took her hand and kissed it.

Christmas, she decided. Christmas. Only a few months away.

She thought about talking to her mother about her feelings for Edgar, but she worried it might ruin everything. Meredith would watch them like a hawk after that, making sure they were never alone together in the house--certainly not in each other's rooms. As things were, it was as if Meredith thought of them as brother and sister, and, well--if things might progress anything like Shelley imagined they could, why ruin that extra element of privacy?

The time passed quickly. Her community college let out for winter break, and she talked Edgar into switching his work hours to the afternoon so that his evenings would be free. They went Christmas shopping together: for Meredith, for small things to give the neighbors and a few friends from school and work. Mostly they came home to have dinner with Meredith, but one night Shelley talked him into going to the amusement park with her, claiming that her date canceled at the last minute. She watched his look of wonder, on the Ferris wheel, laughed when he grabbed onto her on the roller coaster. Such a lovely boy. He tasted his first bite of cotton candy, that night, and she didn't hear what he said about it because she was too busy picturing how his mouth might taste, if he kissed her. Soon.

So he'd have something to open under the tree, something for Meredith to witness, Shelley found Edgar a bound volume of a dozen tragedies in the original Greek. On Christmas Eve, she placed it with the small mound of packages, noticing another there with her name on it, addressed in Edgar's signature script. She was tempted to shake it, but too hesitant to try.

She spent the rest of the day with Edgar and Meredith in the kitchen, making a feast that would leave them with leftovers for a week but would look lovely spread on the big dining room table. She chopped vegetables and did other prep work, while Meredith assembled the dishes and Edgar worked on dessert. Every once in a while he'd shyly tap one of them on the shoulder (usually herself, Shelley noticed, quietly pleased) for guidance, but he was actually very capable in the kitchen--as in everything he did, it seemed.

The meal was warm, cheerful--they were a real family now, weren't they? When things grew quiet, Meredith would find something to begin the conversation anew, always so lively. She looked at least ten years younger than she had when they left Thomas and Hope Falls behind. Shelley wondered how that would change when Meredith found out about her and Edgar--if there was anything to find out about.

Shelley discreetly knocked on the underside of the wood table. Only Edgar looked up, but he said nothing.

After dinner they all bundled up and went out into the garden, where the air was still and crisp, watching the twinkling lights on the eaves of the house. After an hour or two, Meredith retired and went to bed. Shelley could barely resist speaking up early, but--no, no cheating, not with this.

She dreamt they were in his bed, with the full moon looking in. He had her wrist turned so it lay over her mouth, so when he bit and began to drink she could imagine she felt the pressure of his mouth right through flesh and bone, that they were kissing through the fragile barrier.

She woke up to motion, and, sweating, heated, sat up too fast. For just a moment the world spun and then she saw Edgar was bouncing on the foot of her bed like a puppy. A small moaning sound escaped her lips before she could stop it, but he didn't seem to notice. "Shelley, Shelley, its Christmas morning," he said, big genuine grin spread across his face. "Come on, there's presents."

"Okay, okay, calm down, bat boy, I'll be there in a second." Edgar's contagious smile was catching on her already,and she swatted him away, so he padded barefoot out of the room, turning to glance back at her once.

Since he'd still been in his pajama pants and tee, she didn't bother getting dressed either, just pulled on a robe over her oversized t-shirt, finger-combed her hair, and walked down the hall to the living room.

"Good morning, Shelley," Meredith said, all sing-song.

"Here, Shelley, here, it's from me," said Edgar, shoving the box she'd seen yesterday into her hands. "I hope you like it," he added, shyness clouding over his excitement. Shelley ripped open the paper, letting it fall to the ground, dropping to sit on the couch in order to lift the top off the box inside. She pulled wads of tissue paper out of the way, and found--a book with a blank cover. "Open it," he urged, almost whispering, leaning a careful distance over her shoulder.

It was a sketchbook. Or--a journal? Filled from front to back with little pencil and ink drawings and notes. Intricate little depictions of customers from the tattoo shop, the flowers in the yard, Meredith washing dishes. Things scrawled down much more roughly than his usual elegant hand: To ask: what is 'several'? and I had a dream that I was flying and in the morning there was a feather on the windowsill.

Edgar's journal. Months of experiencing and discovering and learning. And he gave it to her.

"Edgar, when did you--" but she stopped when she realized what she somehow had overlooked at first glance: he had drawn her. Written about her. Not once but on almost every other page, studies of her gestures, her face in a dozen or more different expressions. She swallowed and blinked back tears, almost not daring to hope this meant what she thought, what she wanted it to mean. "When did you do all this? I've never seen this book before."

"I kept it in the shed. Or sometimes under my pillow." She had to close her eyes, thinking that she was holding something that had been in his bed, that he'd touched a thousand times or more. "I hope you don't mind. Do you mind? I wasn't ever going to show anyone, but when it was filled I thought--" he misunderstood the expression on her face. "Maybe I was wrong."

"No, Edgar, no, it's beautiful." She grabbed for his hand and then thought better, got up and hugged him, held him tight. "Thank you," she said in his ear, and though he'd been standing stiff in the circle of her arms, he relaxed at the words, and reached up to place his hands gently on her shoulders.

After perhaps a moment too long Shelley pulled away and glanced guiltily at her mother--who was busy looking through the book herself. "Oh, Edgar, why didn't you tell us you could draw so well?"

He didn't answer, and Shelley ran over to the tree to get the present she bought for him, wishing once again she had something to equal what he gave to her. Maybe. Maybe he'll think so.

Much later in the day, Shelley knew it was almost time. Edgar usually had his meal around sunset, while Meredith was making dinner, but since they'd had the big feast the night before, they'd just had an early dinner of leftovers--so the kitchen work was all over, and the room was empty. Meredith was out caroling with some of the other neighborhood ladies.

Shelley had made it a habit, months ago, of not being in the room when Edgar drank his mug of blood--just watching it could send her teetering over the edge into fantasy, and she didn't want to do anything embarrassing in front of him. Tonight she deliberately sat at the table and waited.

Edgar came in and didn't even see her, went straight to the refrigerator and took out a fresh bag. When he stood straight again and was about to go to the cabinet for his mug, he must have sensed her watching him, because he stood stark still for a moment, and then turned to face her.

"Shelley." He looked down at the packet of blood in his hand. "Um, just a second, I didn't know you were there." He took a hesitant step toward the fridge, obviously planning on putting his food back before anything else.

"No, Edgar--wait." He stopped. "I mean, I guess you can put that back if you want. You don't have to. I just--I need to talk to you about something."

Edgar blinked at her, long and slow, and swallowed. "Can it...wait?"

She looked at her hands, surprised to find herself shaking, just a little. "I'd rather it didn't."

"All right," he said, almost immediately, and did put the blood away again. Maybe it was too hard to look at it and know he couldn't have it yet. I know that feeling, she thought, and that gave her the courage to look him in the eye again, as he drew up a chair on the other side of the table. "What is it, Shelley?"

"I..." Shelley halted, took a deep breath and tried to start again. "Sorry, this was so easier to say in my head." She compulsively reached for and took his hand, across the length of the table, some tangible link between them. "Edgar, would you...I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime?"

Edgar shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but didn't try to take back his hand. "How do you mean?"

"Like, on a...date."

He was so still, caught in the headlights. "I don't think that would be appropriate."

"Why not?" She squeezed Edgar's hand, desperately. Could she have been so wrong?

"What about David?"

"Oh!" she said, releasing his hand in surprise. Shelley hadn't realized Edgar even knew about her old boyfriend. "We haven't seen each other since I started school. I ended it. He was just--" She faltered--how far did she dare to go, this soon? But she couldn't stop. "--just for distraction. He didn't mean anything. Edgar, I--I'm in love with you."

Shelley blushed, and turned away, too scared to see how he'd react, regretting every word. "I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to wish away the tremor in her voice. "I didn't mean to tell you that."

Nothing but silence from him for a long, immeasurable time, but she couldn't turn to look. Shelley was considering making a mad dash to her bedroom to cry--and then she felt the warm pressure of his hand on her shoulder. "Is it true?"

She slowly rotated her head to look at him standing just behind her. "Yes." She stood awkwardly and nearly knocked the chair over. "Yes."

Edgar's eyes were wide and...sad? "I don't know what to say, Shelley. I thought...I never thought I'd hear you say..." He looked down at the floor and his thumbs hooked in his pockets. "I guess I finally gave up hoping."

Shelley nearly tackled him, and at the last instant realized she might have misunderstood. "Do you mean...you..."

"Since I first saw you." Edgar glanced up, crooked grin tugging at his mouth. "Well, almost, anyway."

"Oh, Edgar," and now she couldn't hold back, practically leapt forward to wrap her arms around him. "Oh my god, I was so scared, Edgar, I've wanted to tell you for so long, I--"

"Shhhh." Edgar returned her hug, smoothing her loose hair, tightening their embrace. "Yes, I'll go on a date with you, Shelley," and then they were both laughing and holding on for dear life. Edgar smelled like night air, like whispered secrets and unspoken promises. His small frame folded into hers just perfectly; she'd hugged him dozens of times before but never really noticed.

Shelley pulled back, and looked into his eyes. "Can I kiss you?" She lifted one hand to his cheek; he leaned his head into her palm.

"Shelley, I..." And it seemed he forgot to finish, looking at her. His head tilted down and she took the opportunity, licking her lips, just barely brushing them against his. When he didn't pull away she did it again, and this time he responded: moving his hands from her back to cup her shoulders, increasing the pressure of their mouths. Closed-mouth kisses repeated over and over, each one prolonged a little more. Shelley could feel a dizzy heat rising in her, and finally couldn't help but run her tongue over his lips, tasting his skin.

And he pushed her away, both of them panting, his eyes wide again. "Shelley, I'm sorry, I have to--" and he turned toward the fridge so he didn't have to say what he needed out loud.

And she almost left him to it, in case she scared him away entirely, but--no. She'd gone too far to chicken out now. Who knew how much longer she'd have to wait, if she didn't try while she still had the nerve. "Edgar, wait."

He didn't turn. "Shelley, please--you should go. Shall I meet you in the garden later?" She hated the guarded distance in his voice.

"No. Please, Edgar, let me--" She practically darted across the room, getting between him and the refrigerator, holding out her arm, palm up, before he'd have time to protest. "Let me."

He backed away a quarter-step, at least. His breathing still hadn't slowed. He looked at her arm, the veins showing clear at her wrist through her fair skin, and then into her eyes. "No, Shelley, I can't, this..."

"Please." Shelley tilted back her wrist, as if to reinforce her intent. "Edgar, don't you want to? I want--" and she just couldn't finish on the first try. "I want to give you this. Won't you let me?"

Looking as if it were against his will to do even that, Edgar grabbed her other arm and pulled her closer to him. "I--I can't, what if I--I won't know when...I'll hurt you." His eyes were unfocused and he swallowed, tearing his eyes from the veins in her offered wrist to look again at her face. "Why are you doing this?"

"I..." Shelley frowned, not sure of the words, how to say what he would need to hear. "I want to know what it's like. I want to...be a part of you." She closed her eyes and shivered, her dream from the night before blossoming in her mind's eye. "Please tell me you understand."

He didn't answer right away; he took the arm she'd been holding out to him, lightly grasping the forearm. He let go with his other hand and wrapped that arm around her lower back. She used her free hand to touch his cheek, again, he eyes still locked with his.

And then Edgar lowered his head and kissed her wrist. "I love you," he whispered, the expression on his face some mix of pain and hunger and confusion. He walked forward and brought her with him, so that she was leaning against the fridge, its electric hum a small vibration against her back.

He placed a kiss on her vein, again, and the next time his mouth descended, it was to bite.

Shelley gasped; the feeling was everything she'd ever dreamed, made real. She realized she'd reflexively closed her eyes, and opened them to see he was still looking at her, knowing he saw the flush that rose in her cheeks. She had the deep, comforting feeling, as she melted into the sensation of the tug on her veins, that it was not she who'd become a part of him, but the other way around, as if he now lived in some deep place inside of her, that no one else would ever see or reach. She thought maybe she whimpered; she was too busy watching his eyes to tell, too intent on the feelings growing inside her.

When he carefully pulled his teeth from her skin and lifted his head, she was shaking, a little dizzy, and when she took the small step forward necessary to kiss him, she noticed the sticky wetness already cooling between her thighs. His mouth tasted like her blood and she moaned into the kiss before she could stop herself, realizing her knees had weakened and that he was all but holding her up. They pulled out of the kiss gradually, giving her time to settle back on her feet and regain her bearings.

"Thank you," he said softly, when they finally stood apart again. He looked down at her wrist, where blood still welled sluggishly from the bite marks. "We'll need to bandage that. I think...it'll take a while to heal."

She nodded. "I know. It's all right." And together they walked to her bathroom. They didn't say anything as he cleaned and bandaged her wrist, but when they looked at each other they would smile, just a little, just enough to remind each other how this had happened.

From the other end of the house, she heard the front door open. "Oh crap. I'd better go and pull on a sweater or something. I don't want Mom to see." She ran over to her closet and pulled it open.

"No, of course not." She looked and he had turned to look out of her room into the hall, something ashamed and guilty about his stance.

"No! No, Edgar, I didn't mean...I just don't want her to know about us yet. You know how she is with me and boys and I don't want...I just don't want to ruin it. You know?"

He held her gaze for a long moment, and then nodded. "All right. It's our secret. For now."

"Okay." Shelley accidentally allowed her eyes to drift to her bed and then back at him; she turned back to the closet and found a Christmas sweater Meredith had given her, put it on and buttoned it up clumsily. "There."

"Shall we?" And Edgar gestured, his eyes crinkling as he smiled, toward the hallway that led back to the living room.

"Yeah," she said, and followed, smiling back at what she thought this might become.

End.

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