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Nothing wanted to laugh； but he could not。 The thought of all those years stored up in the being who lay beside him； belly warm with his blood； mouth slick with his spit 。 。 。 no； he could not laugh。 The sheer weight of those years overwhelmed him。 He wondered how it was for Christian。 Surely three hundred and sixty…eight years of feeling could not be borne。 Had Christian stopped feeling？ Did he simply look upon the world； watchful； shutting out joy to keep back the pain of all the years？
Nothing pressed his face into the pillow。 His eyes had gone hot and wet。 He kissed Christian's throat； his mouth。 It was just a mouth again； a rather cold mouth now； with a dark sweet taste on the tongue。 Two of the top front teeth were unusually sharp 。 。 。 but Christian didn't smile much。 Probably no one ever noticed those teeth。
〃Will I live that long？〃 Nothing asked。
〃Perhaps。 If you're smarter than Molochai and Twig； and more cautious than Zillah。〃 Christian stroked Nothing's head。 〃I can see the true color of your hair at the roots。 Golden…brown。 It was that color when you were a baby。〃
〃I need a dye job。〃 Absently he twirled a piece of his hair； put it in his mouth。 Then he took a deep breath and asked； 〃What's it like to live such a long time？〃
Christian didn't reply。 He glanced at the window and said； 〃I have to leave。 I'm to be at the club at eleven。〃
Nothing wanted to hold Christian； to take away those years； to do something for him。 〃I could e with you；〃 he said。
〃Thank you； but no。 I'll lose my job if I keep slipping you drinks。 You stay here with the others。 When they wake up they'll want to go out。〃 Christian stepped into a pair of impossibly long black trousers； buttoned a black shirt up to his chin。 He turned to go。 At the bedroom door he paused。
〃Christian？〃 said Nothing。
〃I would not wish it upon anyone；〃 Christian told him。 He disappeared into the dark recesses of the trailer。 A moment later Nothing heard the front door close。 Then the Bel Air was grinding out of the driveway； heading down Violin Road toward town。
Nothing lay among the cool tangled sheets； staring at the rags of mist that drifted past the window and obscured the rosebushes。 For a while he played with his damp pubic hair； uncurling strands of it； gently tugging at them； letting them spring back。 It wasn't often he had a bed to himself anymore。 Usually he slept in a sweaty knot of blankets； hair； limbs。 He would wake to find Molochai's fingers in his mouth or drooling on his pillow。 Often he woke to the perverse； sometimes scatological endearments that Zillah liked to murmur in his ear。 So he relished this bit of privacy。 He lay and let his mind drift where it would。
How old was Christian now？ He calculated and came up with three hundred and eighty…three years。 Nothing's mind tried to balk at the thought of all those years； but he would not let it。 No； he told himself。 You might be that old yourself someday； so think about it。
That was so much time。 Unless you found others of your kind； others who lived as long； you were bound to spend a lot of that time alone。 Others…he made himself think it： humans …would just die on you。 Steve and Ghost would die； and he would still be young and roaring…but he would not think about Steve and Ghost
Still； he had Zillah； his father； his lover。 And he had Molochai and Twig and Christian。 They would be there with him； alive。 But there must be others of their race who were alone。 Christian had been。 Maybe that was why Christian seemed so reserved； yet so hungry for love when someone offered it。 Just because you got used to being alone didn't mean you had to like it
Maybe time passed differently in New Orleans。 Maybe a sort of dream…time existed there； a time that could stretch a single day or press three hundred and eighty…three years。 In New Orleans he had been conceived by the bright sperm of Zillah。 In New Orleans Christian had made love to Jessy。 His mother。 That thin； dark…haired girl of sixteen。 That girl who had died giving bloody birth to him。
Nothing tried to imagine that summer in the French Quarter。 The endless sweltering days above the bar。 Christian's long bony hands moving over Jessy's slick breasts； her distended belly。 Her belly that cradled him； unborn。 He wished he could be Christian's hands。 He wished he could feel Jessy's weight above him； her skin slick as if with oil。 He imagined Christian thrusting up into her； parting her womb； nudging up against the fetus there。 Me； he thought。 In the womb； had he been bathed with Christian's semen？ Had it nourished him along with the blood of Jessy？
And there in the womb； half…formed； had something in him known even then whose child he was？ Had he longed to be nourished by Zillah's sperm instead of Christian's？ Had something in him wanted his father？ Was that why he had spent the first fifteen years of his life alone； always alone； always searching for a place he might belong…for a perfect love？
Well； he had it now。 Body and soul and all the realm between。
He remembered the night outside the Sacred Yew； now a month past； and all that had transpired on the cold sidewalk。 The night of punishment and revelation。 He had awakened sometime past sunset the next evening…even then he was beginning to get used to the hours his new family kept sleeping most of the day and howling all night。 He woke back at the trailer； in Christian's bed。 Zillah lay beside him； his head turned slightly away； his hair making colored stripes on the pillow。 In slumber； Zillah's face was almost innocent。
When you could not see those eyes。
Father； Nothing thought。
He had slipped quietly out of bed； not wanting to wake Zillah yet。 He had looked at himself in the bathroom mirror； still able to meet his own eyes； and he had told himself： For a week now you have been fucking your own father。 His tongue has been in your mouth more times than you could count。 You've sucked him off。。。you've swallowed stuff that could have been your brothers and sisters！
But he could not disgust himself。 He could not make himself ashamed。 He knew these were things he was supposed to feel； things the rational daylight world would expect him to feel。 But he could not force himself to feel them。 In a world of night； in a world of blood； what did such pallid rules matter？
He wasn't sure he could ever have felt the things expected of him in the normal world； not even when he had been an unwilling part of it。 Its morals had never been his； its baubles of status had never hypnotized him with their false glitter。 He tried to imagine his friends back home making love with their fathers： Julie humping her fastidious attorney dad； Laine sucking off his hippie…throwback old man who grew stunted pot plants in his study and was supposed to be a genius at puter language。 The idea did not offend him； it was sort of gross； because most of the fathers were not what Nothing would call hot…looking； but he could not label it with words like wrong or bad。 He wondered if he had ever known what those words meant。 Were members of his race born with some sort of amoral instinct that shielded them from the guilt of killing to stay alive？