Sanju

Word on the UofM–Briarwood campus is that vampires are squatting in the wrecked old town hall building, just as the students return from spring break. It infuriates P. R. Sanju, professor at the School of International Studies. How did they decide it’s vampires and not regular squatters? Everyone has heard the story, but everyone’s heard it from someone else.

Vampires, like serial killers and school shooters, are a slice of classic Americana. The concept may not have originated on this land, but what else of America has? Tensions are building on campus—two African American janitors and a visiting professor from Vietnam were accosted by enraged students. Today Sanju reconvened his Guardian Angels program, where volunteers accompany members of vulnerable groups on walks through the campus.

“I’ll call someone for you, Prof?” Liz, the new admin assistant, had offered as he was clocking out. “It’ll get dark on your way.”

Sanju remembers her from his undergrad class some years ago. Not the best student but caring, meticulous, twinkle in her eye. Doubtless she knows that Sanju walks home to town from the university.

“No vampire repellent beats this SJW smell, dincha know?” he’d chuckled. “See you tomorrow, Liz!”

Now, as he turns into Sotheby Street, Sanju regrets his overconfidence. On lengthening spring evenings this tree-lined neighborhood bustles with residents, but today the houses resemble rows of tombs in the dusk. He feels his pocket for the silver-plated knife that arrived from Amazon yesterday.

Something comes running down a driveway and hits the sidewalk—what was that?! Sanju deflates to realize it’s a little girl—yellow cardigan over a dress, hair in two puffs tied with little yellow bows.

Sanju’s life has been a relentless battle against racism, but nothing tells him this particular child can’t be a vampire. If you believe in vampires, that . . . condition doesn’t discriminate in transmission. Not another soul is outside on Sotheby Street.

Damn. That’s gonna suck for more than just her.

With a giggle the girl stops, not five feet from him.

Now does she go for my throat?

“Halima—no!”

A woman in a printed abaya and headscarf emerges from the driveway. She emits a string of hurried words that he recognizes but doesn’t understand.

Sanju exhales.

“I’m safe,” he voices as the woman crouches up to her daughter. “I’m a professor. Up at the university.”

She eyes him warily. “We just going home. We don’t want trouble.”

“You must’ve heard—”

“We haven’t seen vampire!” she howls. “Our people not vampire! We honest immigrants!”

“I meant I could walk you two home,” he says in his softest tone.   

The woman squints at his face under the streetlight. “You not a man.”

If anyone else said that on campus they’d taste Sanju’s wrath, but he bites his tongue as her jaw unclenches. For this woman, “not-man” means safe. Vampires might be more preferable to her than walking after dark with an unknown man.

He smiles as she gives him a small nod. “Let’s go.”