Vampire Miami by Philip Tucker Page B

had been
painted on it with surprising talent, depicting a man from the
waist up, his hands raised as if in supplication to the heavens,
face tilted, pain and fervor in his eyes. An ocean of gray Hebrew
letters swam behind him as if painted on the surface of the ocean,
swelling and pinching in size so that the whole effect was
mesmerizing.
    They stood when they heard the steel door to the
Palisades begin to grate and rattle. Maria Elena climbed tiredly to
her feet, and hauled Selah up after her. They don’t like what I
do, she had said on the drive home, but I’m one of them. I
grew up in the area. They won’t kick me out, no matter what they
say.
    And she was right. Yawning, rubbing her eyes
like a child, Selah filed in after her new friend under the
disapproving glare of an unknown watchman and into the small marble
lobby where only a solitary lantern illuminated a face-down novel.
They passed through and into the courtyard, and Selah was surprised
to see people already at work. A dozen men and women crouched
amongst the rows of vegetables, which filled most of the courtyard,
tending and weeding. Apparently, the irrigation system was
malfunctioning, and two guys were standing at the base of a pipe
that fed down from the courtyard’s ceiling into a water tank in the
corner. A third man was up on the sixth floor, leaning out and
shaking the pipe, trying to get it aligned correctly with the
gutter feed.
    Maria Elena ignored all this and said a sleepy
goodbye, giving Selah a tight hug and then wandering off toward a
far stairwell. Selah thought of following her, crashing with her
for the day, but that would be cowardice. She stood for a while,
watching the people work, repressing yawns and standing with her
arms crossed against the wall. A couple of kids fed the goats while
an old man milked one of them, squirting fresh blasts into a shiny
metal pail.
    Selah went upstairs. Up that staircase, past the
spot where she’d cried and hid the night before. Down the hall
toward Mama B’s room. Their room, perhaps. People nodded warily to
her as she passed them. Up to the door, and saw that it was cracked
open. She stared at that. The only door in the whole hall that
wasn’t either wide open, residents already downstairs, or
completely closed.
    Selah studied the grain of the door’s wood.
Frowned at nothing, chin lowered to her chest. She thought of the
wild girl who had fled this room but eight hours ago, burning with
wounded pride and anger, determined to prove her grandmother wrong.
To show her that she could take care of herself, could pursue her
wild investigation and uncover crucial clues that would lead to her
father’s liberation. That girl felt like a different person. She
hadn’t yet walked through that strange night world of IDs and
forced gaiety. Hadn’t danced with a vampire, or faced probable
death in a terrifying little room with a drain for blood in its
center.
    She entered just as a kettle began to shriek.
Mama B was up. She could hear her in the kitchen, humming a tune,
the clink of porcelain, and then the kettle’s shriek was suddenly
cut off. Selah walked across the living room and stood in the
kitchen door. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks over the stove,
small copper pots beside them. Built-in shelving in the corner held
a display of plates, cups, mugs, spices. A bundle of garlic in a
bowl, a portrait of Jesus against one wall. The walls of the
kitchen were painted a beautiful, soft Tuscan yellow, and in what
little dawn light came through the chinks in the hurricane
shutters, it seemed a gentle, comforting place. Mama B was bending
down to turn a valve of a small gas tank that was tubed up to the
stove, and with a grunt, she straightened and took up the cherry
red kettle and poured water into a mug. The smell of instant coffee
filled the room.
    Selah said, “Hi.”
    Mama B set down the kettle. She began to
tremble, and then turned and crossed the room and buried Selah in
her arms, held her close,