Still Life with Shape-shifter (13 page)

“Darn,” I say in a voice of exaggerated regret. “I can’t. I have plans this evening. Too bad.”

Ann sits up. “Hey, take him with you to Debbie’s. She won’t mind.” In fact, Ann knows that Debbie would more than
not mind
. I’ve told her Debbie’s completely inappropriate response to Brody’s appearance in my life. Debbie would
love
to have him at her house tonight.

But I just say, “Oh, I couldn’t. How rude.”

By this time, Brody and I have had enough conversations that he can name the major players in my life. “Debbie—that’s your best friend from high school, right?”

I nod. “Her husband’s birthday is today, and she’s having me over for dinner.”

Ann jumps up. “I’ll ask her if Brody can come.”

She’s racing off to find the phone before I’ve quite registered what she’s planning. “What? Wait—
Ann
—”

I’m on my feet and about to run after her when William suddenly says, in a voice that nails me to the spot, “
I
know where I met you before.”

I glance over at Ann, who’s punching numbers into the phone, then down at William, who’s leaning slightly forward in his chair. I had that wrong before. Not prey—predator.

Brody is still lounging in his own seat. “Really? I can’t place it. Where?”

“At Maria’s house.”

At first Brody looks bewildered. “Maria—?” But I can see the exact moment he puts the pieces together. “Maria Devane. When I went there to interview her. You’re right. That was you.”

Now William’s grin widens to lupine proportions. He looks like he’s just eaten a meal raw, and liked it. “Sorry if I hurt you.”

Brody shrugs. He appears to be wholly at ease, but I’m wondering if he’s just very good at hiding stress or animosity. “Hazard of the profession. Sometimes people don’t like it when you come knocking on their doors, asking questions.”

I insert myself into the conversation. “What questions?”

Brody gestures in William’s direction. Neither man bothers to look up at me. They just continue watching each other across the table. “Last year. I was trying to get reaction interviews from people who worked with a murder victim’s wife. I went to the house of a woman named Maria Devane, and William was there, and—let’s just say he made it forcefully clear he didn’t think I should be bothering her.”

“It’s Maria Romano now,” William says, as if this one detail is the most important part of Brody’s speech.

“Maria?” I repeat, aiming the question at William. “
Your
Maria? Your sister-in-law?”

I’m finding it a little difficult to accept the magnitude of these particular coincidences. Maria took care of Ann a few months ago when Ann needed shelter; Brody showed up at Maria’s door and happened to encounter William at her side. How odd that Brody’s life has already intersected, even so tangentially, with Ann’s, with William’s. He has dedicated his recent life to finding shape-shifters, and yet, before he even knew they existed, he practically stumbled across two of them at one woman’s house.

Unless meeting William was one of the things that sent Brody on this quest to begin with. Unless Brody also encountered Ann while he was interrogating Maria. Unless that’s the reason he first showed up at my door.

I find that I can’t speak. I can scarcely breathe or swallow. Not that anyone is expecting me to contribute another comment. The men are still eying each other, measuring each other. William still looks poised to pounce, but Brody, though he keeps his face perfectly amiable, doesn’t look ready to back down. Distantly, as if the sound is coming from an alternate universe, I hear Ann’s laughter. She’s across the room, on the phone with Debbie, oblivious to the undercurrents of our conversation.

“Sister-in-law,” Brody repeats. “That explains why you were so protective.”

“My brother was out of town. I was watching out for her. You made her nervous.”

“Didn’t mean to,” Brody says. “Just trying to get information. Part of my job.”

“There are some things people don’t need to know,” William says.

Into the silence that falls between them then, Ann’s laughter sounds again, closer this time. She’s heading back toward the table, the cordless phone pressed against her ear. “You tell her,” she says, and offers me the handset. “Debbie wants to talk to you.”

I shake my head. “Tell her I’ll call her back.”

That’s when Ann senses the hostility at the table. She quirks her eyebrows but doesn’t look too alarmed. Speaking into the phone again, she says, “She’ll call you in a few minutes . . . Sure . . . Okay, tell Charles happy birthday from me!” She makes a kissing sound and disconnects. “Debbie says you should bring Brody to dinner tonight.”

“What a surprise,” I say.

Brody finally looks away from William to glance up at me. “I’d love to go,” he says, “but I’m not feeling any great sense of welcome from
you
.”

“You’re
kidding
,” I say in exaggerated shock.

He grins; Ann laughs again. But her restlessness permeates the air, blows through and dissipates the tension that holds the rest of us in place. “William. Let’s go,” she says, her voice half command and half supplication. “We want to get there before sunset.”

Unexpectedly, William swings his gaze in my direction. His eyes are dark and serious. “Do you mind if we leave?” he asks.

I realize, with a mild sense of shock, that he’s asking if I’m afraid to be left alone with Brody. He’s offering me his protection—which, I’m pretty sure, would be damn close to boundless. What wouldn’t he do to keep his lover’s family safe?

“No—not at all—go on, have a good time,” I reply, my words a little more disjointed than I’d like. “How long do you plan to be gone?”

Ann comes over to put her arm around my shoulder and kiss me on the cheek. “A few days,” she says. “Or until the weather turns.”

“Have fun,” I say.

Giving me an impish look, she skips over and kisses Brody on the cheek, too. “William’s bark is worse than his bite,” she whispers, then she laughs so hard she can hardly stand up straight.

William’s already at the door. Another hug for me, a wave of her thin hands, then she joins him, and they both slip outside. I hear a few words in her high, excited voice, then they’re gone.

Brody has slewed around in his chair to watch me, but I don’t meet his gaze. I pull out the chair across from his and collapse in it, feeling like I’ve gone a few rounds with William myself. I might need several hours to recover.

“Interesting guy,” Brody comments.

I nod. I’m thirsty but too stressed to stand up again and go back to the kitchen, so I reach for his Sprite and down a few swallows. “I’m still figuring him out.”

“I imagine that might take a while.”

Now I gather the strength to look at him. “So what did he do to you? Beat you up?”

Brody’s smile is faint. “Not that bad. Punched me a few times and told me to get the fuck away from Maria. My cameraman got the whole thing on tape if you want to see it.”

“Not particularly.” I take another drink. “So what did you think of him when you first met him?”

“I thought he was the kind of guy who overreacted. Kind of guy who’d bring a nuclear weapon when he only needed a handgun. I’m not sure I’ve changed my mind.”

I’m still holding the can up around mouth level, and I eye him over the rim. “When you met him at Maria’s house,” I say slowly, “were you looking for shape-shifters?”

His eyes narrow, but all he says is, “Nope. Just friends and family members who wanted to emote on camera, full of sympathy for the murder victim.” He takes the can away from me and finishes off the contents. “Though it turns out the victim had been killed by the shape-shifter we caught on camera a few weeks later. So maybe there was a connection after all.”

“Ann’s spent some time at Maria’s,” I say.

“Really? I guess that makes sense.” His voice is wholly neutral.

“Did you ever see her there?”

He looks at me a long moment as he analyzes the pattern the way I have. “I was at Maria Devane’s house for about five minutes one time,” he says, his voice deliberate. “I had a few civilized words with her, and a few uncivilized words with William. I didn’t see anyone or anything else. I didn’t come
here
thinking I’d meet anyone I’d met
there
. I’ve never lied to you, Melanie.”

“It’s just so hard to trust you,” I say. “When I don’t really know what you want.”

“You know exactly what I want,” he says. “I want to write a book about shape-shifters. And I want to be your friend. And I don’t want the one thing to interfere with the other thing.”

I’m listening closely. “You don’t want friendship with me to screw up your book?”

He smiles. “I don’t want my book to make you afraid to be my friend.”

“You realize there’s no such thing as shape-shifters.”

“Then I guess I won’t be writing that book after all. Might make it easier to be your friend.”

I shrug pettishly; I am both unnerved and excited by this byplay and afraid to continue it any longer. “Do you want another soda?” I ask abruptly.

He doesn’t quite laugh. “Sure.”

I fetch another can of soda, and glasses for both of us. He accepts his portion with a word of thanks, then says casually, “So Ann and William are going camping this weekend?”

“That’s right.”

“No sleeping bags, no tents, no gear at all? Not even food?”

“I guess.”

He sips his drink. “They gonna hitchhike wherever they’re going? ’Cause I didn’t see a car.”

I almost choke on my soda, but I manage to swallow a mouthful. It burns all the way down my throat. “I didn’t ask,” I say. “Makes me too nervous to know all the details of the way Ann lives.”

He nods. “I can see that.”

“I just hope it doesn’t rain on them.”

He nods again, and for a moment there is silence between us. I’m wondering if I should offer him lunch again, or at least some pretzels. Actually, I’m thinking I should let him know, kindly, of course, that it’s time for him to leave, but I don’t really want him to go. A dilemma.

He sets his glass down with a
snap
. “So are you going to invite me to Debbie’s tonight or not?”

Startled, I meet his eyes. “Do you want to go? Celebrate someone’s birthday with total strangers?”

“You bet I do.”

I spread my hands in a helpless gesture. “Okay, then. You can come.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

F
ive hours later, Brody and I are in his Honda, heading for Debbie and Charles’s house. We have not spent all the intervening time together. He has notes he needs to transcribe from his morning interview, and God knows I have enough laundry and housework to keep me occupied until the end of the world itself. So I draw him a map to the nearest library and tell him when to return, then I spend the day trying to put my home—and my mental state—back in order. I don’t know how successful Brody is at completing his tasks; I haven’t gotten too far on mine. I’m starting to think I should accustom myself to the notion that chaos is going to be my natural state from now on.

“So the car’s all fixed now? No more engine trouble?” I ask, as we pull away from my house. It’s not quite full dark; the world appears to be halfway through a complete cycle of dissolution, just now at the stage of crumbling gray. The car’s headlights throw a brave circle of illumination ahead of us, providing reassurance that the road, at least, is still solid, though the trees and bushes and houses on either side are fading into nothingness. I’m noting all this as I gaze out the window, thinking how much I like being driven down Bonhomme by someone else. It’s a rare treat.

“Well, the service light came on once this morning when I was getting on the highway, but everything seemed fine on the trip down.”

“That’s not as reassuring as it could be.”

“Time to live dangerously.”

Debbie and Charles live on the other side of town from me, so the trip usually takes twenty to twenty-five minutes. Brody seems equally willing to drive in silence or engage in banter, but I start fooling with the radio before we’ve been in the car five minutes.

“Let’s see what you’ve got on your CD player,” I say, then practically slam back against my seat as power chords played at a very high volume come muscling out of the speakers. Brody laughs and spins the dial way down.

“What the hell is that?” I demand.

He gives me a look of scorn, so withering I can discern it even in the fading light. “Def Leppard, of course. Adrenalize.”

“Seriously? An eighties hair band? That’s embarrassing.”

“Oh, man, if you don’t like Def Leppard, I don’t know if I can work on this friendship thing anymore.”

“This is the kind of music teenage boys play when they think they’re cool,” I say in disparaging tones. “Yes, and when they want to blast women out of the car.”

He glances at me again. “So what do you listen to? Let me guess, country music.”

He’s right, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it. “Maybe.”

“And when you were eighteen, your favorite singer was Madonna. Or Celine Dion. Or the Spice Girls!”

Three for three, though my Spice Girls phase was short. “Let’s not talk about music,” I say.

“Let’s not even listen to it,” he answers. He punches a button, and the silver disc slides out of the dashboard slot. The radio station that comes on in the wake of the ejected album is some talk program, but he switches it off before I can figure out if it’s brainy NPR or sports-mad KMOX. He asks, “What should I know about Debbie and Charles?”

“They were high-school sweethearts. She was a cheerleader, he was a smart, nerdy guy. Valedictorian. When he asked her out the first time, she only said yes because she felt sorry for him. She figured he was such a dork that he’d never even kissed a girl, and here he was, seventeen years old. They got married three years later.”

“So did you think she married the right guy?”

“Oh yeah. He’s one of my favorite people on the planet.”

“She owns the company where you work, right? PRZ? What’s he do?”

“He’s a lawyer.”

“They have kids?”

“Two boys.”

“Sounds like the perfect life.”

I lean back against the seat but turn my head a little to survey him. Mindful of Debbie’s comments a few weeks ago, I say, “So you want kids?”

He glances over at me, a wicked grin barely visible in the dashboard light. “I want to date a cheerleader.” When I’m silent, he bursts out laughing. “Yeah, I know you were one, too. Ann told me. Hey, it’s every teenage boy’s fantasy come true.”

“I guess all you need is to play Def Leppard on your Walkman while you make out with her under the bleachers, then you’ll have achieved every single one of the life goals you set out when you were seventeen.”

“That does sound like an awfully good afternoon.”

I manage to ignore this comment because we’ve gotten to the point where I need to start giving him turn-by-turn directions. In another five minutes, we’ve arrived on Debbie’s street. She and Charles live in a big, modern, three-story brick house in a development only a few years older than Kurt Markham’s projects. To me, the neighborhood feels featureless enough to be a suburban subdivision, but Debbie loves it. On her street alone, there are ten kids close to the ages of her own boys, and all the parents share in carpooling and after-school responsibilities.

“I never did buy into all that clean-country-living crap,” she’s told me more than once. “I’m a city girl trapped in a rural lifestyle. Bring in every big-box store you can think of! Build up the whole corridor! Give me an outlet mall! I’ll be happy.”

We pull into the driveway, and Brody reaches into the backseat to retrieve a brown paper bag whose contents clink together. “What’s that?” I demand.

“A couple of bottles of wine. Thought I should bring something. They drink, don’t they?”

I smile. “Sort of. You’ll hear Charles’s opinion on the topic soon enough.”

“Should I leave them in the car?”

“Nah. Come on in.”

Debbie’s already at the door waiting for us. She’s dressed in pressed black pants, a silver sweater, and black patent-leather pumps—casual attire for her. “Hello, hello, you’re right on time!” She greets me with a hug, then holds her hand out to Brody. “I’m Debbie Zimmer. Don’t believe anything Melanie has told you about me.”

He’s grinning as he shakes her hand. “Funny, that was going to be my line.”

We’ve barely crossed the threshold into the immaculately kept living room when Stevie and Simon come charging up from the basement. They’re eight and seven, almost carbon copies of each other, with Debbie’s rich black hair and Charles’s round moon face; they have a puppy-dog energy that always makes me happy.

“Melanie, can you come play Mario Party with us?” Simon demands. He’s the older one, the more talkative of the two, but Stevie’s the fearless one who’s always in trouble. He’s already broken three bones in three separate incidents and will undoubtedly break a dozen more before he’s of legal age.

I bend down to give each of them a hug, which they endure for about two seconds before wriggling away. “Maybe later,” I say.

“No,” Debbie contradicts. “She’s
my
guest, and
I
get all her attention tonight. This is her friend Brody,” she adds.

“I’ll play with you later, if your mom will let me,” he tells them. “I’m pretty good at video games.”

Debbie slants me a look that says,
I like that answer
, but only says, “Into the dining room, everyone. Everything’s ready to eat.”

*   *   *

E
specially as compared to the little interlude at my house after lunch, dinner is a delight. The boys are mostly well-behaved, and hilarious when they’re not. Charles is his usual well-spoken, humorous self; he tends to dominate the conversation, but it’s hard to mind when he’s so entertaining. Despite his obvious intelligence, and his somewhat intimidating size, there’s something about him that just puts people at ease. He’s a big guy, both tall and hefty, always a little disheveled but never deteriorating all the way to sloppy. A little too goofy-looking to be handsome, he has a round face, owlish green eyes, and a growing bald spot in his thin, dark hair. But he’s appealing. You meet him, and you instantly want him for a friend.

Debbie’s a lot more sharp-edged, except she knows how to conceal that fact, and the impression she always gives is one of warmth and welcome. And those are genuine parts of her personality, but underneath them she’s always watching and weighing; it’s the rare individual who fools Debbie or catches her off guard.

It’s surely on purpose that she’s seated Brody next to her, at the foot of the table, and me next to Charles, at the head; the boys are separated, one on each side to keep them out of trouble. Conversation is mostly general, but now and then Charles and I fall into a private discussion, which leaves Debbie and Brody free to try to figure out the other person without giving too much away. I get the feeling each has found in the other his or her perfect foil. They’re both skilled at conducting charming interrogations while leaving their subjects glowing with pride that
someone
, finally, has found their stories interesting. I wonder which one will manage to learn the most from the other.

The food is relatively simple, pasta and salad and bread. Charles is the cook in the household, but Debbie no doubt insisted she make his birthday meal, and this is her fallback menu. We all have seconds and thirds, complimenting the chef, then Debbie brings out the German chocolate cake she’s made for the occasion. It bristles with thirty-one small candles in a rainbow of colors. The kids watch, rapt, as Debbie and I try to light them all without scorching our fingers or having the first ones burn down all the way to the icing before we’re done.

I’m pretty good at this particular task. I strike a match and get three wicks to light before the flame begins to lick at my fingertips, then I drop that match and light another one. Debbie, by contrast, burns herself three times before the whole cake is aflame, and she is scowling and sucking on her index finger as everyone else applauds and whistles when the job is finally done.

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Stevie calls out, and I take the opportunity to pitch the traditional melody in a reasonable key. There’s more clapping, then Charles blows out the candles, needing three breaths and Stevie’s assistance before every flame is extinguished. Debbie cuts the cake, and I serve the ice cream, but the boys are restless, so Debbie shoos them into the other room to watch TV and eat their dessert. The rest of us linger around the table, exclaiming over how good the cake is and having second pieces.

“Anyone want more wine?” Debbie asks, getting to her feet. “Brody, thanks for bringing it. It’s really good.”

Charles divides a look between me and Brody. “Who’s driving?”

Brody lifts his eyebrows. “I am.”

“Then Melanie can have wine. You’ll have coffee. Or tea, if you’d rather.”

Brody’s interest is piqued, but all he says is, “Coffee’s fine.”

I explain. “Charles’s dad was killed by a drunk driver when he was ten. So he’s pretty fierce on the topic. If you’re out with him somewhere, and you’re the driver, you get one drink. Maybe.”

“He takes keys away from strangers,” Debbie says as she refills my glass. “In bars and restaurants. He calls cops to tell them drunk drivers are leaving such-and-such location.”

“I haven’t done that in years,” Charles defends himself.

“It’s mortifying,” Debbie adds.

“I think it’s kind of cool,” Brody says. “Most people aren’t brave enough to live by their principles.”

“Most people don’t
have
principles,” Charles says.

“Well, people
have
them,” Brody replies. “But sometimes they’re pretty sketchy. Or flexible. People like to say they’re honest, but leave them alone in a room with a million dollars on the table, and they’re likely to sneak a few twenties into their pockets.”

“
I
wouldn’t,” Charles says.

“He wouldn’t,” Debbie agrees, sinking into the chair that Simon has vacated so she can be closer to Charles. “And if he saw other people trying to steal the money, he’d report them.”

“You make me sound like—what’s that word they use on cop shows? A snitch.”

The word sounds funny pronounced in Charles’s earnest voice, and Brody and I both laugh. Debbie smiles and reaches up to smooth back his hair. “It’s why I married you,” she says. “For your sterling heart.”

Just then, the telephone rings, a musical jangle of three different bells on three different units, in the kitchen, the dining room, and maybe the living room. The sound cuts off abruptly in the middle of the second ring, so I assume Stevie or Simon has raced to answer. Debbie tilts her head and gives Charles an inquiring look. He seems to engage in a moment of internal debate, then shrugs. “Someone for one of the boys,” he decides.

“Oh, good,” she says. “Maybe someone wants to rent them for the weekend.”

Five seconds later, Simon tears into the room, the cordless handset still in his grip. “Mom, can I go over to Marty’s?”

Marty is a kid across the street who, according to Debbie, owns every electronic and digital device ever invented to lure a child into ignoring his homework. He has his own laptop. His family was the first to buy a Wii. He was born with a Game Boy in his hand.

“It’s your father’s birthday,” she says.

Simon is aggrieved. “I sang ‘Happy Birthday’! What more do you want?”

“Blood,” Charles says. “I want your blood. And maybe a little respect directed at your mother.”

Simon rolls his eyes. “Can I go?”

Charles makes sweeping motions with his hand. “Go. Leave. Take your sleeping bag and spend the night.”

Simon’s eyes light up, but Debbie puts her foot down. “You’re not spending the night, but yes, you can go. Be back by ten, okay?”

“Okay. Bye. Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Thank you, ungrateful child.”

He dashes out of the kitchen, talking excitedly on the phone, and a few moments later, we hear the slam of the front door. “Never have children,” Debbie says to Brody.

He grins. “Jury’s still out on that one,” he replies. He nods at Charles. “So, do you always play that little game? Guess who’s on the phone before you answer it?”

“He’s better than Caller ID,” Debbie says.

“He doesn’t guess,” I inform Brody. “He
knows
. It’s his superpower.”

Charles is nodding serenely. “It’s true. Ninety percent of the time, I know who’s calling as soon as the phone rings.”