Best New Werewolf Tales (Vol. 1) (5 page)

He said, “I’ve got to get going.”

“Just like that? You’re leaving me?”

Richard swallowed back whatever emotions were bubbling to the surface. He could feel a cold shiver sashaying up his spine as his stomach churned into concrete. “Look,” he said, faking a smile. “I’m happy. This is great. We’re going to start a family and I think that’s excellent, but I have to go––Steve’s waiting. Let’s talk about it later.”

Jennifer’s eyes morphed into slits. She wasn’t thrilled but she didn’t want to fight. “Will you call me?”

“I’ll try, but you know how work gets. If I don’t get a chance to call you tonight I’ll see you in three days.”

“Are you mad?”

“Mad?” Richard smiled, and this time he didn’t fake it. “I’m not mad. This is great news, honey…  really. Like I said, I’m just surprised. I thought we were going to adopt.” He kissed her then. It was uncomfortable and clunky and the opposite of affectionate. And although he wanted to restate the fact that he loved her, somehow he couldn’t find the words.

He turned away with a sigh, made for the car, and tossed his travel bag into the trunk. After he jumped behind the wheel he gave his wife a little nod and hit the road. Lips pursed, dimples lost, he didn’t look back. He didn’t even wave. Five minutes later he parked against the curb so he could cry his eyes out without driving into a tree.

* * *

They’d been sitting next to each other for thirty-five long minutes and Steven Wendelle knew damn-well that something was bothering Richard from the moment he sat down in the car. He could see it in Richard’s eyes and hear in his voice, which wasn’t exactly non-stop with discussion. The pain appeared to be rooted directly into the lines of his face, chewing at him like a virus, turning him into an old man before his time. But Steven was a good friend, his
best
friend, and sometimes a best friend must bite his tongue. He figured this was one of those times. Besides, the conversation would happen sooner or later. It always did, once Richard was ready. He wasn’t the type of guy to bottle things up forever.

Thirty-five minutes became forty-five. Forty-five became an hour and fifteen. The grace period was over; it was time to put dinner on the table.

“Okay,” Steve said. “Spill it.”

“What’s that?” Richard’s voice was little more than a croak.

“I’m not blind, you know. I’m not stupid either. Clearly, something’s wrong. Tell me what’s bothering you, otherwise the rest of our journey is gonna be painful.”

Richard took a moment, not because he didn’t want to talk with his friend but because he needed a moment to put his thoughts into words. Finally he settled on, “It’s Jenn.”

“I figured. You guys fighting?”

“I wish it were so simple. No, we’re not fighting. In fact, we’ve been getting along wonderfully.”

Steven’s face turned grave. He tapped a hand against his leg, saying, “She’s sick.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, that’s not it.”

“No?”

“No. She’s not sick, she’s––oh, this stinks.”

“What is it?”

Fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “She’s pregnant.”

“What?”

“You heard me. She’s
pregnant.
”

“Oh shit.”

“I know.”

“I thought you said she couldn’t get pregnant?”

“That’s what the doctor told us. Twice.”

Steve looked absolutely stunned. Time rolled by. Finally the question was asked, the one Richard had been asking himself all morning. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

A deep breath. “I don’t think I can. It’ll ruin everything.”

“You can’t let her have the baby, you know. Don’t even think it.”

“Oh, I know. Letting the pregnancy continue isn’t an option, but she won’t have an abortion. I can’t even ask.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. An abortion is out of the question.”

“If not that, what? What’s left?”

“Well, to be honest, I was thinking of poisoning her. I’d be careful not to kill her, of course. But a high dose of those-morning after pills might, well––you know. Maybe I could crush them up and slip ‘em into her food for a week or two.”

“Will that work?”

Richard’s voice suggested it was a long shot, when he said, “Honestly, I can’t really say. I think you’re supposed to take them the next day, after sex. I don’t know––I don’t know what to do, Steve. I’m lost.”

They drove for another hour, stopped for lunch, and continued on. Conversation was minimal and for the most part, light-hearted. At one point Steve offered, “If there’s anything I can do, just ask.” But there was nothing he could do, nothing obvious anyhow, and both men knew it.

Day became evening.

They drove along a forgotten highway that few cars traveled. Cedar trees to the left of them, cedar trees to the right. A large hawk flew overhead as they turned onto a dirt road that led to a pathway that could hardly be deemed a trail. Deep in the woods, they were. Lost with the black bears and the insects, the crows and the deer. Lost in a place they called their own. Steve had purchased the land years earlier.
Picked it up for a song
, he said.
The money he paid his lawyer to square the deal was equal to value of the land,
he said. Steven Wendelle was no bullshit artist, and Richard knew he spoke the truth. Twenty acres of nothing––it was absolutely perfect.

As the sun began setting and the moon began to rise, they stripped down to their underwear and placed their clothing in the car. Sitting on a log, hands in their laps, they waited. Quietly. Peacefully. The August air was warm. It was fresh. The fact that Richard lied about working for the weekend wasn’t relevant. He loved his wife and she loved him. He also loved the sounds of the forest, which were comforting and serene. All thoughts concerning Jennifer and the seed in her belly was set aside. Other things were swiftly becoming more significant.

Richard was the first to feel the change coming on. He felt it in his spine and in his teeth. His knees popped and his shoulders buckled. Then, as he watched his hands grow long and his fingers turn to claws, he tried to articulate how much he enjoyed the transformation. What escaped his throat could only be described as a growl. Animal thoughts consumed him. A thirst for blood boiled inside his brain.

Steve didn’t notice these things happening to Richard; he was too busy becoming a monster.

The hunt would soon begin.

* * *

On the third day, right around the time Jennifer was expecting her husband to arrive home from his monthly trip, there was a knock on the door. She looked out the window and was surprised to find a police car in the driveway. She opened the door cautiously, wondering if she had done something wrong.

Two officers stood by the door. Expressions were solemn. The one that spoke first looked young enough to be in high school. He was lanky with eyes that bugged out of his head. The other cop, thirty years his senior, had a chocolate complexion and dark hair.

Jennifer sized them up quickly: the veteran was showing the rookie the ropes; they probably didn’t have a thing in common.

“Mrs. Beach?” The rookie said, clasping his fingers together.

“Yes?”

The veteran stepped forward with his chin raised, taking control of the situation. In his hand was an envelope, which he gripped very tightly. “Are you Mrs.
Jennifer
Beach?”

Jenn nodded. “What seems to be the problem?”

The older cop removed his hat and held it near his chest. The rookie followed suit.

“Mrs. Beach, my name is Officer Wright and this is Lieutenant Moscowitz. I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.”

Jennifer’s eyes danced from man to man. She looked at the hats in their hands and the way they were standing. She looked into eyes brimming with shame. The rookie’s shoulders dropped an inch as his stare found the floor. Oh, shit. They were about to say something terrible. They were about to say––

“There’s been an accident.”

Something inside Jennifer collapsed. Or died. The earth tilted on one corner and the air thinned. As the room began to spin she managed to say, “It’s Richard.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“There’s been an accident.”

“Right again, Mrs. Beach––on highway 78. I’m sorry to inform you––

(oh please God no)

––that your husband––

(don’t say it, for the love of God)

––is no longer with us, Mrs. Beach,––

(I don’t want to hear this…  please tell me I’m dreaming)

––I’m afraid that he’s dead.”

A question tumbled from her lips: “What happened?”

“It happened this morning around seven-thirty; a head-on collision. There were no survivors.”

A one-sided conversation was laid out like brickwork. Officer Wright explained and described and enlightened and in the end it didn’t amount to a hill of beans. Richard was dead, gone forever. Nothing else mattered.

At some point the envelope was placed inside her trembling fingers and the officers offered condolences that came from the heart. A short while later they left her to grieve. Alone. She couldn’t be more alone if she tried. And when she closed the door on a world that was eternally altered, she wondered how she’d ever find the strength to face the day.

* * *

The next three days were arguably––or perhaps not so arguably––the hardest days of Jennifer’s life. She was still a young woman, twenty-nine this past March, and her life had been cruising along rather smoothly. On paper it may not have seemed that way. Her mother died when she was barely eight years old. The death had been hard on her, of course. But that was twenty-one years ago and twenty-one years is a long time for a woman not quite thirty years old. She could remember her mom’s face, but mostly from photographs. She could remember her mother’s voice, somewhat, and she had the memory of her mom gardening in the backyard. After that it was just little clips and snippets, not full-blown memories, really. More like recollections.

Her father was a different story.

He was an alcoholic she visited twice a year; his name was Ted. He wasn’t a terrible man; he never intentionally hurt Jennifer or abused her physically, but he prayed at the altar of intoxication and was very devoted to his religion.

Ted took a bus into town on the day of the funeral and offered what he was able in terms of condolences. But Jennifer could smell the whiskey coming from his mouth and see it in his blood-red eyes. And when he announced that he couldn’t stay Jennifer felt a weight lift from her shoulders that was heavier than she realized. She was already dealing with one catastrophe. When she looked into her father’s slack-jawed face she felt like she was dealing with another.

It wasn’t a perfect life, as no life is. Her mother was dead and her father was––for lack of a better word––gone. But it wasn’t a bad life either, and she wasn’t an only child. She had a younger sister named Kate who was just as bright and beautiful as she was. And it was Kate that embraced her after the funeral, although the reasons for it were not what Jennifer expected.

* * *

It was a day of tears. Richard and Steven were buried in the same cemetery at the same time. A double funeral at noon, two separate wakes shortly after. Jennifer hosted one; Steven Wendelle’s parents hosted the other. For Jennifer, the last of her guests didn’t leave until almost seven. And when they did, Jennifer and Kate found themselves sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded with food and beverages. The refrigerator had already been filled to capacity; the countertops were equally loaded. Jennifer was grateful for the generosity of her friends and family, but what she was supposed to do with so many provisions was beyond her.

Kate said, “I’d like to stay with you, if that’s alright.”

Jennifer was drinking rum and coke, unlike Kate who was drinking gin. Alcohol wasn’t something they indulged in often due to the negative influence it had on their childhood. But here, now, it was just what the doctor ordered.

Jennifer took a drink, then said, “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. Honest I will. You should be home with Mike, not here with me.”

Mike was Kate’s husband. They had been married four years.

Kate, who was looking a little tired, said, “Actually, no. I don’t think so. I want to stay here. Do you mind?”

“Why? Is everything alright?”

Eyes fixed on the table, Kate fought against a faltering voice. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and said, “I’m not offering charity, I’m asking for a favor.” She looked up, expecting her sister to press for details. When it didn’t happen she reluctantly explained her situation. “Mike and I are finished. He’s been cheating on me, and we’ve been fighting, and our fights have been getting physical.”

Jennifer was shocked. “He’s beating you?”

“Not exactly.” Kate shrugged. She took a drink. Ice cubes clinked inside the glass, accentuating the silence of the room. “To be honest, we’ve been beating on each other. He never hit me first, but he hit me a few times after I hit him. And I
have
hit him.
Hard
. And he deserved it. But I can’t do this any longer. I can’t sit in the house alone, wondering when he’s coming home, or
if
he’s coming home. I’ve been following him around at night and he’s been––oh, God. It’s so bad. Everything is
so
screwed up.” Kate swallowed back a sob, before saying, “If Richard was still, well––you know––
alive
(the word came out in a whisper), I wouldn’t ask. I’d probably just deal with my problems until Mike kicked me out or moved out himself. But if you’re going to be
here
alone, and I’m going to be
there
alone––crying, or fighting with my asshole husband, well––” A tear rolled down her face. “I want to be here with you. I’m asking if I can stay.”

Jennifer took Kate by the hand. Nobody would call her selfish at a time like this, but somehow, that’s how she felt. She had been so caught up in her own life that she failed to glimpse into her sister’s. Kate’s world had been falling apart for however long and she didn’t even realize it. It was shameful, really. And yes, it
was
selfish. Worst of all, Kate was more than just family; she was Jennifer’s truest friend.