The Cayvee makes
its home in the gap between the back of the fridge and the wall. The fridge
has not been moved in years and there is a collection of cobwebs there that
looks like a quilt or a silky sheer blanket. All of the spiders who created
these webs have long since moved away.
The Cayvee dwells
among these deserted cobwebs and appears to be a part of these deserted
cobwebs. If someone pulled out the fridge and swept the cobwebs away, they
would most likely sweep the Cayvee away too without ever noticing that it had
been there.
Imagine a
translucent grey bat with a single long needle tooth and you may gain some idea of what the Cayvee looks like.
You could watch it and watch it, if you could find it, but you would never see
it move. It maintains its position, holds its stillness, week after week, month
after month, sometimes even year after year. Like the Kangaroo Rat or the
Desert Turtle, who can both wait quietly for years for their next drink of
water, the Cayvee can exist, dormant, behind the fridge, among the webs, waiting
for that rare moment when conditions finally come right and it can at last feed
once more.
It had been
four years since Linda had last left the fridge door open overnight. It had
happened in the dead of winter, so nothing had spoiled. The only tangible consequence
was that Kendrick had got up in the morning, padded into the kitchen, and tutted
loudly when he found the fridge door ajar and the inside light casting its slender glow out onto the ceramic floor. His 'tut' wasn’t loud enough for Linda to hear. She has fallen
asleep again, despite the fuzzy pop song which persisted on the clock radio.
The fridge door was closed up and nothing more was ever said about it.
Four years
later, it was Kendrick who forgot to close the door fully. He was getting a
beer from the container at the bottom, the fourth of the evening, so he never
noticed that the door had not swung shut. Linda found it that way in the
morning and complained loudly to Kendrick, who had forgotten about Linda’s own
earlier failing in the same regard. If he had remembered, he would surely have
defended himself more thoroughly. It was summer and thundery, and the milk had
turned slightly. It wasn’t the end of the world though. Hardly that.
On both
occasions, the Cayvee had awakened at the unceasing throb of the fridge light.
It had emerged from its cobweb cocoon and squeezed through the tiny gap at the
side of the fridge. It had slipped inside, blind and deaf but alive to the
sustenance inside. It had climbed and clawed, pierced with its single fang.
And then it has feasted.
By morning,
it was back among the cobwebs and the milk had turned again. The Cayvee didn’t know.
It cared nothing for dairy products.
That Friday
evening, Kendrick returned with the food, all fresh and chip-shop-pungent, with
as much speed as he could manage. Although the vinegar was already seeping
through the double-bagged fare, the chips were still vibrant and ‘roof-of-the-mouth’
hot-hot.
Linda had
laid two plates out on the table, but Kendrick eschewed such niceties. The bag
was the thing, that intrinsic part of the affair. From hot oil to mouth with
minimal interference, that was the key. Only one further intervention was required.
The final touch to make everything perfect.
Kendrick
cracked open the fridge and foraged in the back, behind the half jar of spaghetti
sauce and the ancient bottle of apple cider vinegar. He pulled out the plastic
bottle, raised it high and stared.
“Bloody
hell.”
“What?” His
wife paused in her chip bite.
“I swear,
one minute it’s full and the next minute it’s all completely gone.”
“Ketchup
isn’t everything.”
“It’s an
integral part.”
“Maybe you
can squeeze a bit out.”
Kendrick
held the bottle up to the light.
“Not a chance. It’s drained.”
“The kids
are sleeping over; the food is here. Let’s just enjoy.”
“But the
ketchup…”
“Kendrick…”
“It’s like
somebody actually drinks it or something. It’s like there’s a 'Ketchup Vampire' lurking around here somewhere, lapping it all up.”
“The movie’s starting.”
Deep in the tiny space behind the back of the fridge, the Cayvee stirs minutely as if something
has momentarily evoked it. Perhaps a dark eye opens and peers out but, if so,
it is only for the shortest moment. Its belly is full, and the world is secure
for the foreseeable future. It is time to rest and rest and wait.
A time to
feast will come again, some day.
The Cayvee sleeps.
