Vampires - Part II
In the three years I lived in my Cambridge apartment, I don’t think I ever lost my fascination with the Hogans who lived directly across from me. The only time they ever seemed to leave their house was at night; during the day, the house was silent, unreadable.
THIS IS PART 2 of a FOUR-PART STORY
Image: Pexels | Cottonbro
Jane and I made a game of sitting in her miniscule kitchen, trying to puzzle out what was going on in the Hogans’ house next door. The odd sounds and smells. The only time we ever heard signs of life was at night when the Hogans must have been preparing for their forays out into the real world. This is what those forays looked like: the house would remain as dark as a cave, but after about midnight various members of the Hogan family would venture out, one by one, on their bicycles. They’d flit down the street, going in different directions, each with an empty basket affixed to the front of their bike. Where were they going? As far as we could tell, there were six Hogans: the father, Joe, who was rumored to live in the basement; the mother, Eileen, who we later learned was educated and spoke fairly fluent French, and four children, one of whom was said to be mentally ill and locked away in the attic. As to where they were going … Well, after weeks of watching, that became fairly obvious since, on their return to the street, their bike baskets would be filled with all sorts of junk. Clearly they were visiting dumpsters and trash cans all over town.
Of all of the Hogans, there was really only one who interacted with the world on a regular basis, a teenaged girl named Joey, who looked, dressed and sounded like a boy. Joey would help you change your tire or walk your dog or carry your groceries upstairs; to me, she was like an ambassador from the shut down, secretive territory of the house across the street. I studied her in the hope of gaining understanding of the Hogan family, but if I asked too many questions (actually if I asked any at all), her expression would snap shut as tightly as a door slammed in my face. I learned early on there were no real answers with Joey, and the vampires (as I thought of them) who lived across from me would have to remain a mystery -- which, for someone like me, was like being condemned to struggling with an itch that was impossible to scratch.
The Hogans were weird, eccentric and smelled bad. That was about it.
One unbearably hot August weekend, my friend Sander Witlin came to stay with me. He was a painter from New York whom I’d known for years and we were looking forward to a quiet time of reminiscing as we shared a joint back and forth. Best laid plans because, as we settled down for a juicy conversation, there was suddenly a commotion across the street. It wasn’t yet midnight, but I heard a rough voice -- perhaps Eileen’s -- yell: “Fuck you!” And then all hell broke loose.