In Vino Veritas

by

Heather Farthing (c) 2023, all rights reserved

“I warned you!” I laugh as I pull open Spooky’s door, his head lolling awkwardly as he looks up at me with those pale, pale blue eyes.

“I am perfectly fine,” he drawls through a mushy German accent. “Ich bin völlig nüchtern.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, stifling another giggle. “Say the alphabet starting with ‘m.’”

“M…” he mumbles. “M…m…n-nein!” He declares it with an obstinate finality, fumbling at his seatbelt.

“Let me get that,” I insist gently, unbuckling him and taking his hands in mine, leaned across him like a table and hoping he doesn’t throw up.

“Your hair smells…synthetic,” he grumbles as I help him, wavering, to his feet. “Deine Narben sind wunderschön. You should show them more, my dear.”

“Oh, really?” I ask dryly. “I don’t generally let people close enough to my wigs to smell them. Anything else I should know about my appearance?”

“T-they look good on you!” he smiles cheerfully. “Narben erzählen eine Geschichte, a story about der menschliche Zustand, of a life lived!”

He holds out his arms grandly, as if standing before an invisible audience.

“I’m sure it’s a lovely story,” I agree, leaning him against the hood of the car.

“Nein, nein, my love!” he insists urgently. “Truly! Eine Schönheit, die der Poesie würdig ist! You only mus-must to show it!”

He makes a grab at my wig, I dodge him easy and send him tumbling into the dirt, giggling softly even as I make sure he hasn’t hurt himself.

“You’re going to wake the neighbors!” I chortle, helping him back up, watching him sway. “Quiet down and I’ll bring you wig-shopping sometime. You can help me pick out one with real hair.”

“But why?” he asks, again reaching for my wig as I swat him away and lean him back on the hood of the car. “Warum? Warum? W-warum-m? You make no sense!”

“I’m not making sense?” I cackle. “I should record this so you can hear yourself.”

“Nein! Nein, liebchen!” he insists, stamping his feet, wavering, hands on knees for balance, throat working on overtime.

Won’t be long now.

“Menschen! Menschen, liebes Mädchen!” he declares. “Your stories—Deine Geschichten. Such…such clever little words, but you focus on…the wrong…things!”

He leans over and spills a bellyful of beer and cocktails onto the grass beside the car, missing my shoes, looking tired and sick when he stands back up, wiping his face with a napkin pocketed from the restaurant.

“Du bist ein nettes Mädchen, meine Liebe,” he sighs, letting the paper fall to the stinking ground. “But you lack focus when it matters!”

“Alright, great philosopher,” I smile, stepping around the puddle to take him in my arms and lead him to the RV. “Let’s get you in bed.”

“G-great philosopher? J—ja—ja...ngh! The greatest mind of the age, clearly!” Spooky shouts, bile on his breath, an inch from my left ear.

“Oh?” I snicker. “Someone’s feeling high and mighty.”

“Nein, nein, nein, mein liebchen,” he implores, barely making it through the door and into the laundry room. “You…aren’t…paying attention! Zu den richtigen Dingen! Sie bleiben beim Aussehen und Standort stehen und fragen nichts anderes!”

“You can regale me of my moral failings in the morning,” I tell him consolingly as I guide him to the bed.

“Nein, nein, listen, listen!” he pleads, grabbing my hand and holding it close. “I found it! I found something that can help you!”

“I’m sure you did,” I agree gently. “Arms up.”

Obediently, he holds his arms over his head so I can pull the band shirt over his head, ruffling the soft, blond hair as the fabric slides over him.

“The keel—the keel is the key,” he insists. “Listen, listen, liebchen! The keel!”

“It’s a recreational vehicle, not a boat,” I tell him, waving him to lay back so I can get his boots off.

“Nein, nein!” he continues. “Die Bücher! I found it, but Ich habe es dir nicht gesagt. I didn’t tell you—b-because I—I have trust issues.”

“You don’t say?” I reply dryly.

“Yes, but it’s n-not my fault,” he rambles as he holds his right leg for me to undo the laces and pull off the sock, revealing glossy black toenails. “It is…it is me, and it’s just me!”

“I know,” I mutter soothingly, grabbing for his other leg.

“Nein!” he shouts, pounding his fist against the soft, Halloween-themed bedding. “He understands, you see?”

“I see,” I agree, sliding off the other boot.

“Nein! You’re not listening! Liebchen!” he growls. “I found the book. This man is…is brilliant. The most learned. The finest mind in your age. Truly, his brilliance is unmatched!”

“You can read it to me tomorrow,” I tell him again, sliding the sock off his foot as he looks up at me from a reclining position from his elbows, skin raising goosebumps over bluish veins.

“Ja!” he agrees. “Tomorrow. We will read it then. He knows!”

I force him back with a gentle shove as I unbuckle his studded belt and pull it through the loops.

“You are beautiful,” he observes soberly, looking up at me in a way that raises color to my cheeks.

“Bet you won’t remember that in the morning,” I chuckle, unzipping his pants and hoping he’s not reading too much with his beer goggles on.

“I will, because I always do,” he giggles. “You’re beautiful, and you smell good.”

“Good to know.”

I slide his pants down to his knees, revealing the black silk boxers that weren’t cheap, and then the pale knees, slipping one leg off at a time from the ankle until the waistband comes free.

“Alright,” I tell him, gently but firmly. “Onto the pillows with you.”

I take the town-themed throw blanket from the foot of the bed and shake it unfolded, laying it across his thin form.

“Good night, Spooky,” I say in a low voice as not to wake him, the eyes already closed.

“No!” he declares with a sudden start, grabbing my hand like a viper’s strike. “Stay. You’re warm and I like it.”

“You’re drunk and you have no idea what you’re talking about!” I laugh.

“N-no, you’re warm and it’s—con—comfort…I like it,” he mumbles, tightening his grip. “I pretend I don’t, because it isn’t right and I shouldn’t, but I do. It’s nice.”

“You really should get some sleep.”

“I sleep better when you’re nearb—when you’re close,” he begs. “I say I don’t, because humans are social animals, and I’m not.”

“Not social or not an animal?” I ask, humoring him by sliding into bed with him.

He wraps himself around me chastely, one arm across me, face nuzzled into the hollow between my neck and my right shoulder.

“N-neither,” he yawns. “You can ask Johnny. He knows.”

“I will, but you have to get some sleep, first.”

“Alles für dich, mein spuk,” he sighs, breathing going deep and even.

“You are going to be so mad in the morning,” I laugh, replaying some of the nonsense he said in my head and wishing I had been cruel enough to record it so I could play it for him as he nurses a hangover, surly and nauseous, in the morning.

Then something clicks and the mumbled, slurred, almost indecipherable German makes sense.

“Wait, John A. Keel?!” I shriek, sitting up with a start.

“Sshh,” he sighs, putting a painted finger across my lips. “Schlaf jetzt.”