Minutes of the Bi-Monthly Meeting of the Count Dracula Society: Twin Falls, Idaho Chapter

Minutes of the Bi-Monthly Meeting of The Count Dracula Society: Twin Falls, Idaho Chapter 

In the first version of this story, we meet in our usual spot behind Farmer Davies’ barn. The sun has just slipped behind haystacks and the pigs are happy, making we’ve-just-been-fed oinks. We wish Helen Barnes, a happy 40th birthday and present her with a box of donut holes we got at Dunkin.’ We forgot to bring candles, but Helen makes a wish anyway and Jim Ferris says does this mean you’re going back to my place after the meeting? And Helen says, you’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you, hon? And Jim says, I’ll wait, doll. The two of them are dating. It’s honestly a bore.   

We review some old business, including the abstract for the paper we’re jointly presenting in Kansas City at the annual Dracula conference. There’s some dispute about the title, but eventually we settle on “Jet Black Joys: The Link between Whitby’s Lost Jewelry Industry and Images of Darkness in Dracula.” Jim announces he’s got a surprise. Reaching inside his cape, he pulls out a jet necklace that resembles one we’ve only seen in history books. In the glow of our flashlights, it shines like a thunderbolt. and for a moment we’re stunned, like when a tornado hits and there’s a sudden drop in air pressure.

Where’d you get that? Helen says.   

Then we’re all crowding around Jim, jostling to get a better view of the gemstones.

This is a birthday gift for Helen, Jim announces, sliding the necklace around her throat.

[For our newest members, it’s important to add that Helen always dresses in the long, silk nightgown Lucy wore the night she sleepwalked around Whitby and was bitten by Dracula for the first time]. We try to loan her our jackets, some of them tweed and quite warm, but she always declines, in the interest of authenticity.   

We are mesmerized by her necklace, which seems to reflect the moonlight, blinding us, taking us back to the 19th Century, when maidens looped garlic chains around their beds to ward off the Count’s deadly bite. 

I adore it, she says shyly. Thanks so much, Jim. Let’s go to Applebee’s after this for margaritas and chocolate sundaes.   

In the second version of this story, I, Colin J. Loomer, show up at Helen’s house an hour before the meeting with a bouquet of roses, and a bottle of Coco Chanel perfume, wrapped in expensive striped paper by a saleswoman at Saks, before the store went out of business.

You shouldn’t have, Helen says, squeezing my arm. But I’m glad you did.

She ushers me into the living room, where a photo of her, me, and our two children in a log flume at Disney’s Splash Mountain still graces the fireplace mantel. [The fact that Helen has never removed this picture is significant in the second version].

Happy birthday, sweetheart, I say, watching her unwrap the perfume.

It’s perfect, she says, dabbing it behind her ears.

Where are the boys?

Cub Scouts. Listen, I’ve been thinking. They miss you so much and the truth is . . . I do too. It’s just not the same around here without my honey bear.

She walks over and sits on my lap. She’s wearing a lace nightgown that rides up her thighs.

She says, You know what would be the best birthday present of all? For us to get back together.

You read my mind, cupcake. Could we skip the Dracula meeting? Just this once.

Her eyes are black stars. When my teeth touch her neck, I feel her shiver.

In the third version of this story, I, Colin J. Loomer, show up early to the barn. I tell Helen I need to make some special preparations for the meeting, so she should put the boys to bed and greet the babysitter. We’ve been separated for one year and three days. [This is an important point in the third version.] She knows planning is not my strong suit. She thinks I need time to get paper hats or noisemakers or other silly nonsense.

The meeting is supposed to start promptly at eight p.m. At 7:30, I hide behind Farmer Davies’ massive oak tree, which should have been destroyed in the last tornado but emerged unscathed against all odds. The pigs are making a racket and I think of bacon sizzling on the grill. At 7:33, Helen appears wearing the nightgown I bought her at Dillard’s for our twelfth wedding anniversary. Twelve years equals silk. Does that sound like someone who’s thoughtless or overbearing? Selfish or uncommunicative? Note that she’s still wearing the nightgown and hasn’t swapped it for a new one. At 7:35, Jim Ferris shows up, sporting his cheesy cape, black faded to grey, nothing Dracula would be caught dead in. His pompadour and fangs are ridiculous, too. They embrace. Their kiss lasts for 43 seconds. They whisper things I can’t hear, but I can assure you whatever they’re saying has nothing to do with Dracula Society business, which shows you they’re not serious about the club or Bram Stoker or anything remotely important.

An hour before the meeting, when I was sitting in what used to be my kitchen, drinking black coffee from what used to be my favorite mug, Helen said it’s been a year, I think we should make it official and get divorced. You could have knocked me over with a top hat. I thought my efforts at winning her back were successful – how I fixed the back door lock, how I haven’t touched even one drop of beer in six months, the effort I make to listen when she speaks. Divorced. What an ugly word.  

At 7:39, Jim tells my wife he has a surprise for her. A surprise!

It’s in the car, he says. I was racing to get here and left it on the front seat. I’ll be right back.

What loser announces he has a surprise and then fails to produce it?

Jim heads for the big gravel patch that doubles as Farmer Davies’ parking area. He doesn’t hear me follow. He’s not thinking of anything but what he’ll do to my wife, in what used to be my bed, when the meeting is over.

I make a better Dracula than he does. I’m taller, thinner, smarter. Here’s the thing about the Count. He’s a loner. There’s no place for him among humans. He can’t even speak their language, though he tries.   

Clouds slide in front of the moon A crow makes a raucous, clicking sound. Something thuds against the hard soil, near the cornfields. I picture my wife in her silk nightgown, waiting.    

Respectfully submitted by

Colin J. Loomer