KattyK

Malicious satisfaction glows in Danny as he watches Vlad kneel down—so humbling, he must be seething—and begin unlacing the size nine red Converse. But when the sneakers come off and Danny’s sweat-stained socks are exposed, Vlad’s frown turns into a grimace.

“I can’t.” He shoots to his feet, shaking his head. “I am not touching a teenager’s feet.”

“You have to.”

“I refuse.”

“You don’t want to upset me, do you?”

“I would rather palpate roadkill. At least it smells better.”

Embarrassment flashes through Danny. (His feet aren’t that rank, are they? He put these socks on two days ago. They’re still good, right?) Then his eyes spark red and the room begins to darken. The scent of ozone foretells an imminent storm. Vlad glances uneasily around the grand foyer of his taxpayer-funded house.

“All right, all right, I’ll do it! Just calm down! Please, Daniel.”

The shadows begin to lift. Vlad sighs heavily.

“Like I said,” Danny mutters, “make it a good massage.”

“Oh, I will.” A gleam enters Vlad’s eye. “I’ll give you the VIP treatment, Daniel. A real pedicure. But the first step in any beauty routine is to start with a clean surface, so let’s adjourn to the upstairs bathroom, shall we?” He ends with a smile that looks forced at gunpoint.

“Wait, are you saying you’re gonna wash my feet?”

“A simple foot bath, then the massage, yes. Heaven only knows the last time your feet—erm, will ever be spoiled like this again.”

Danny purses his lips, watches Vlad sweat for a few moments. He stands from his chair. “Okay. But you’d better not have some kind of weird foot fetish or anything.”

“I give you my word.”

A useless vow, but at least Danny knows that Vlad knows he means business.

The main bathroom is impressive. Gaudy, but impressive. So is Vlad’s collection of personal care products: fancy oils and soaps, lotions and creams, all in expensive-looking bottles. Even the towels are nice. Not like the cheap, fall-apart-after-the-first-wash Wal-Mart brand stuff that Danny’s parents buy.

Vlad removes his suit jacket and tosses it on the bathroom countertop, then proceeds to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. Danny sits on the edge of the spa bathtub and silently watches him. His eyes linger on the prominent veins, large hands with well-groomed nails, the fascinating geometry of muscles and flexing tendons. Suddenly Vlad pauses. Sniffs the air. Turns his wary eyes to Danny.

“What?” Danny asks.

“Do you smell that?”

“Uh, smell what?”

Nervous sweat explodes from Danny’s armpits. He can smell it, all right: the scent of flowers blooming after a late spring rain. Damp earth, budding trees; a sweet freshness heralding the end of another school year and the beginning of freedom. It’s the smell of longing.

“Anyway, quit stalling,” Danny says hastily. “Sam and Tucker’ll be back soon and I want to make the most of this.” He tries for an insolent smile and barely succeeds.

Grimly, Vlad grabs a bottle of liquid soap and turns on the tap.

As the foot washing begins, the insolent smirk on Danny’s face gradually levels out, then takes a downhill turn. Heat rises to his face. His cheeks and ears redden. He hunches his shoulders, curling into himself as his embarrassment increases.

It feels good. He wasn’t expecting that.

Vlad leans against the side of the bathtub, washing Danny’s feet with a degree of care that Danny thought the man incapable of ever expressing. The hands that just a few weeks ago were punching him in the jaw and hurling ectoblasts and swinging plasma swords with the intent to maim now scrub his feet with firm but gentle strokes. 

Vlad has never touched him like this before. No one has ever touched Danny like this before. He suppresses a reflexive urge to squeal as Vlad’s slippery fingers work the soapy lather between his toes. He clamps down on his bottom lip, as if that will keep him from giggling or moaning or whatever humiliating sound is bound to squeak its way out of his mouth. His heart pounds. His skin prickles with heat. The silence grows heavier with every second, until it feels like it’s crushing him under its oppressive gravity.

This is more of a punishment to Danny than to Vlad.

At last, Danny’s feet are guided under the faucet. Vlad rinses the suds away, then then dries them with one of those fluffy, expensive towels. When he reaches for a bottle of massage oil, Danny can’t stand it.

“That’s okay, you don’t have to,” he blurts.

Vlad glowers at him. “You specifically requested a foot massage.”

“I know, but, um. The washing was so good, it felt like a massage.” His face twitches at the unintentional compliment. “Anyway, this is boring. Can you make some cookies? I mean”—another mortified expression—“I command you to make cookies.” Too harsh? He winces again.

Vlad lifts his eyebrows, and suddenly Danny feels the power he’s held all afternoon drain away.

It was an illusion, his hold on Vlad. (Had he ever been in control? Or had Vlad simply allowed him to think he was? Why would he do that? What did he have to gain?) Danny’s heart shrinks inside him as Vlad slowly rises to his full height. His shadow falls over Danny, and the temperature in the bathroom abruptly drops ten degrees. Slowly Vlad’s hands curl to form fists, sinew stretching over hard knuckles.

And then they suddenly relax.

“What kind of cookies would you like, dear boy?” Vlad clasps his hands together.

“Uh.” Danny’s terror isn’t relieved at all. A scrim of frost spreads across the gleaming silver bath fixtures. “Ch-chocolate chip?” 

Vlad smiles. It’s like a bank of knives unsheathing themselves. “Chocolate chip. Classic. Of course. Anything else?”

A head start? Danny thinks.

Just then, a thunderclap almost sends him exploding out of his skin. Vlad twists around to look out the bathroom window. In the sky just north of the house, Vortex rips open the clouds like a diva parting the curtains. 

“WHERE IS HE?”

The walls shake.

Vlad turns, and his human form flashes away. Danny recoils as Plasmius glares down at him.

“I suppose we’ll have to take a raincheck on those cookies, won’t we?”

Life Is Better Than Death by Martin Mull (1979)

If only mama had the strength to say no When papa had that funny look in his eye I could still just be a misspent evening On a 1940s Fourth of July

But I know mama well, yes I do And I can say the same for papa too There were fireworks but not just in the sky And I was born and I'm alive and I'll die

(Could it be that) Life is better than death Well, it could be, but don't hold your breath (don't hold your breath) Life can only be life with the kids in the car and the wife

Now if I should take a long running jump, y'all Like so many folks have asked me to do I can make the obituary column next to folks as fascinating as you

But frankly I would miss watching sports And just hanging round the house in my shorts (in my shorts) It's just 'cause papa loved the Fourth of July (that's why) Why I was born and I'm alive and I'll die

(Could it be that) Life is better than death Well, it could be, but don't hold your breath (as near as I can tell, folks) Life can only be life with the kids in the car and the wife

Life is better, better than death Well, it could be, but don't hold your breath (that's true) Life is better, is better than death Well, it could be, but don't hold your breath

Let's prove a point here! Just the dead people sing along now, c'mon, let me hear you.

[Silence]

Rise up! I can't hear you.

You see Life is better, better than death Well, it could be, but don't hold your breath (here we go) Life is better, better than death Well, it could be, but don't hold your breath