It was like stumbling upon strange naked men in the field was an everyday occurrence for her. Whatever had been going on in her mind, none of it mattered. She had been kind to Bobby. And for that he felt he owed her more than his usual gruff demeanor. He hadn’t felt or allowed kindness in some time. He would never mention love, but something was there, an unspoken bond stronger than mere acquaintanceship, neither would approach. And she took him home. Gave him access to a hot shower and a warm meal of kimchi flavored Maruchan Ramen Noodles.
Bobby remembered thinking about Seoul, South Korea then and how it had been years since he’d tasted anything with kimchi. The spices and the shower and the clothes she allowed him to borrow were more kind than words could describe. He was eternally grateful. He’d never had the pleasure of meeting a woman as kind as she, except for maybe Karen, Mags’ little sister, Johnathan’s wife.
As Bobby ate, he discovered another uncanny aspect of his new benefactor. Bluntness. He’d just slurped up what remained in the bowl when Luna asked, “Do you know you’re a werewolf?” Bobby nearly spit. “A what?” he asked on the verge of laughing. But he searched her eyes and found no humor there, only curiosity, and perhaps a little concern as well. He’d thought it was maybe pity, but from what he could gather, Luna did not strike him as a woman who pitied. Pity is not a kind virtue.
“I don’t know what I am,” Bobby had said, stabbing at the lone noodle that remained in the bowl. “But…”
“But you change. Something happens every twenty-nine days or so, give or take, you become something…well…My Memaw called the creature rougarou. I think that’s French for ‘white wolf,’ or close enough to it. But the others from her coven simply called the condition lycanthropy,” Luna said matter-of-factly.
“Coven?” Bobby had asked.
“Is that a problem?”
Bobby did not look at her. Inwardly, he was dismayed. He’d never imagined It, the thing inside him, his, How did she say it? condition, had a name. How does she know so much? Why does this all feel so normal for her? Doubt had bubbled, but he quickly dismissed it. Sanity lost its seat in Congress when he started waking up naked, bloodied, and with broken shards of memory, glimmers of some unpleasant, impossible thing every month for the last year. Too often, Bobby could admit that much to himself. Too many risks. Too many nights.
“That’s okay, hun, you don’t have to say it out loud, but you know what I’m talking about. What you’re doing is dangerous. Letting the wolf run free,” Luna continued.
“What am I supposed to do?” Bobby finally had said.
Silence lingered between them for some time. Neither would speak, but Bobby had thought about it, he’d thought about It a lot. But suicide was somehow not an option for him. He’d tried before, God knows he did. Several times, but he always pulled back at the last moment, as if some cruel cosmic force was keeping him from jumping in front of moving cars, or some overpass, or his favorite, overdosing on pills and booze. Whatever or whoever the puppeteer was, it kept him in his condition. Not allowing him to end the pain, the loneliness, the misery of being what he was.
“Look,” Luna had said, “my grandpappy was an avid baseball fan, even played for the Galveston White Caps minor league during the 1950s, or so I was constantly reminded when he was among the living. Anyways, even after he stopped playing professionally, he loved ‘going to the bat,’ as he called it. He built a small batting cage here on the property. It’s mostly overgrown now with vine, but it hasn’t rusted away. The links and the gate are still strong. Strong enough…”
Bobby recalled glaring at her. His eyes darting back to his barren bowl. For the first time in a long while, he felt…ashamed.
“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. I’m just offering you a safe…well, a relatively safe place to keep yourself when the moon is full. It beats the hell outta letting it roam willy-nilly, don’t you think?”
“What do you want?” Bobby remembered asking bluntly. He hadn’t wanted to ask, he thought Luna was too kind of person to have any ulterior motive, other than helping an absolute and total stranger. He didn’t want to believe her kindness was some cruel ruse, but he’d lived on the streets long enough to know better than to trust anyone, no matter how you felt about them.
“Huh?” Luna had sounded genuinely taken back.
“What do you want?” Bobby repeated.
“Nothing, Bobby…” Luna looked hurt, or so he remembered. “I’m just offering. I’m not selling you some timeshare…though the idea sounds pretty good, right? Maybe find some other rougarous. Maybe set up a row of cages. Charge rent. Make some good money doing that, huh, hun?” Her sarcasm had been thin, but evident.
Bobby recalled feeling embarrassed. He couldn’t look at her. He had felt ashamed for even asking, questioning her motives, despite having just met her. But could he really be blamed? How long had he been living on the streets? How many people had gazed upon him with that look, the look of superiority and disgust? How many signs had he held asking for just a little bit of change to buy a cheeseburger or maybe something a little stronger to make the cold and lonely sufferable nights with the memory of yesteryear a little bit easier and had been ignored? God forbid he held a sign that said ‘Help a Veteran.’
Yet, strangely, Bobby recalled feeling as if he had somehow sinned against the integrity of whatever this bond was they shared. But he had to ask. And now he knew. Luna was only trying to help.
“Sorry…” he had mumbled.
Luna had said nothing more. She collected his empty bowl, offering a second helping, of which Bobby refused graciously. While she washed his dish, Bobby’s attention was drawn to his odd surroundings. Her cupboards were open; there were no doors or hinges. On each shelf was an overflowing assortment of mason jars of various sizes, each filled with, of what Bobby could make out, different kinds of herbs. There was some dill weed, and perhaps, if he was seeing it right, basil, lavender, and, What was it? Some kind of purple mugwort.
He had come across the strange looking herb as a suggested natural supplement once to treat hypochondria and psychoneuroses, or for his case, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which so happened to be the diagnosis the good doctors had given him just before discharging him from the Army. There were other things, he remembered, in large mason jars, frogs, both complete and ones with just legs, a couple of chicken feet, nasty black and withered. On the top shelf, there was even a stone mortar and pestle, which had looked freshly used. Bobby recalled the stove, half expecting to see a large black caldron, but found only a tea kettle instead.
There was a rather impressive collection of what he assumed to be cookbooks arranged precariously on a very fat bookshelf. Most of the binders were written in French, or perhaps it was Haitian. They certainly looked old, antique even, of that Bobby was sure. Dust covered everything, except for one book, whose track looked fresh compared to the rest of her library. This one had an engraved pentagon perched near the top of the leather binder. Over on the flamingo-pink Northstar refrigerator, surrounding the magnetic ‘to-do-list’ pinup was a collection of odd pictures. Some looked to Bobby like Egyptian, a man with a dogs head wearing a skirt was bizarre enough, but the lady with the six arms and sharp teeth and blue skin was downright frightening.
There were other pictures as well, symbols of things Bobby had a less understanding of than all the rest. His attention had been brought full circle, Luna was watching him with a playful smirk across her face, her green irises glowing beautifully in the morning sunlight, contrasting with her dark skin. Just then Bobby remembered noticing a dismal looking plant pot sitting on the window sill. It was a gnarled looking thing, some kind of plant with roots that fractured and split apart like a barren willow tree.
“Should I even ask?” Bobby had said, finding his own sly smirk.
Luna had grinned.
His first encounter with Luna had been two months ago now. Two months; two changes; twice locked up behind the steel frame of the batting cage.
The sun was disappearing now, well beyond the horizon. Bobby could feel the familiar panic setting hard in his heart. The celestial clock was cruelly ticking away—tick—tock—tick—tock. He had to keep moving. Passing Ed’s Gas Station, he crossed the street and then humped it over a set of railroad tracks that traversed all the way to Dallas before interchanging to Oklahoma, and from there, Kansas.
From the looks of the weeds growing around the pumps and the boarded up windows, and the strangely deflated price of $.075 cents a gallon, he assumed the area had been abandoned for some time. Not far, not far, he thought, tossing himself through a thicket of blackberry bushes. The thorns tore at his skin, adding to the pain of his already heightened senses. A few paces ahead, he spotted a familiar large oak tree. While still moving, he craned his neck and gazed miserably at the deep, aggravated claw marks tattooed down its side. He shivered. For so long he’d ignored the problem and made up excuses. No—no—I just got drunk. Bad dreams mixed with bad booze and worse dumpster dives. No way is this real. I’m just a terrible and tragic drunk—poor homeless vet living on the streets instead of a warm bed. Warm bed…
Luna had offered, the last two visits, she’d opened the door, kindly, without pity. But for reasons all his own, Bobby refused her offer. Maybe someday, he lied to himself. Luna had helped him realize his, as she called it, condition.
“I’m a rougarou, a fucking werewolf! Jesus-H-Christ…” Bobby had to give voice to the words in his head every now and again, just to believe the utter ridiculousness of it all. If the words were not enough, the pain sure helped him remember, and the blacking out, and the nightmarish memories that followed the next day. Maybe this would have been easier for Ricky. He was always into all that horror shit. But he’s dead—dead, and I’m not. Cosmic fucking blunder.
So, yes, thanks to Luna, Bobby could no longer hide from the thing inside him, the monster, the beast, the wolf. She put the truth in front of him, now he would have to find some way to deal with it. Something better than an old, worn batting cage.
Bobby came into a clearing. The moon was bright and overhead, as if some god-like being was illuminating its creation, calling for its supernatural creatures to come forth into the world. Off in the distance he could make out the modest, white two-story ramshackle home of Luna—he never asked her last name. Beside the home, some yards down a dirt path, the batting cage shone like New Jerusalem coming down from heaven.
Bobby ran. His skin was beginning to itch…and then burn. Sweat rolled off him in droves. His head felt as if he’d been hit with a sledgehammer. His breath came in deep, languorous growls. The pain came in lightning bolts coursing through his veins.
Bobby ran faster.
Is Luna there? I can’t see her…Where…? Where…?
Bobby kept running. His feet screamed with each bounding step. His shoes, pants, and shirt felt tight. His skin broke open, revealing dark hair underneath. She has to be there, has to.
The door to the house opened, light poured out into the dark, and out stepped the frail shadow of the happyish, black woman known to Bobby simply as Luna, who he’d come to love, though he’d never admit it openly.
He could see with what he assumed to be now yellow-devil eyes. She was wearing a sky-blue ankle-length skirt and flower-print sleeveless shirt. A large and overflowing plum scarf covering her shoulders flowed behind her as she ran to meet him at the gate. Her dark skin seemed to glow hot behind his devil eyes as he pounded the dirt toward her, to reach her, to reach the cage before he lost consciousness. Before it was too late.
“Cutting it close, are we?” Luna called out. A half smirk, half concern cloud drifted on her face.
Bobby didn’t waste precious breath with a response. He undressed as he ran. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it fly in the wind behind him. Undid his silver pants button and bounded through the open gate. Quickly, he kicked off his beat-up Jordan’s and shoved his pants over his ankles and tossed both toward Luna who caught them but held the discarded clothes at arm’s length, making a funny face with her nose. Bobby wasn’t wearing any underwear. Lastly he handed Luna his only treasure possession, a sun-spotted and greasy black Operation Iraqi Freedom Veteran hat. The brass Combat Action Badge and service ribbon pin sparkled in the moonlight. He paused handing it to her, his hand still on the brim, shaking.
His strange, mythical eyes bore into Luna with a deep profound sadness no one could describe, except for maybe Johnathan and Jake, and even that son-of-a-bitch Ricky…
Luna took the hat tenderly. Turning it over in her palm, she seemed to notice the faded picture clipped within. The one of five teenagers standing beside each other in a row of smiling faces. Young. Joking. The innocence of youth. They were obvious friends standing in front of a modest looking farm house. She peeled back one of the edges of the photo without dislodging it from its hiding place and read out loud the words written on the back.
Suicide Squad—1995
Bobby was watching her, struggling to hold on to his humanity. His manhood shriveled in the cold. He didn’t care.
“I’ll wash your clothes,” Luna thumbed behind her, toward his shirt left lying in the dirt. “And I’ll keep this safe for you.” She gestured to the hat he had placed in her hand.
Bobby nodded, unable to speak. What would I say? What words would come out? Screams of agony? Laughing? Or would the sounds be from It, the wolf, howling?
Luna smiled ‘It’s time’ without really having to say the words herself. Bobby backed away from the gate. Luna closed the fence on protesting hinges, “See you in the morning, okay?” she said, locking the final steel chain and then disappeared toward the house.
Bobby fell to his knees. His teeth chattered and then chipped. He spit them out in fat droplets of blood. His flesh tore in one final, wet rip. Thick, black fur came up from underneath. Bones cracked and repositioned. His hands looked impossibly long. He was reminded again, for a moment, of Ricky and all his dumb horror movie marathon sleepovers when they were kids—Hell, what was that one Ricky just had to watch almost every other weekend? Bobby searched his memory. An American Werewolf in London! That’s the one! Bobby thought of the movie now. Looking at himself, he realized he’d never be able to watch the damn movie ever again.
His back snapped as it reformed into a hunch. He screamed, and then faded in the dark, snarling, yellow pool.
***
Luna
Hours later, Luna snuck a glance out her kitchen window. It was pitch black outside. The moon did little to penetrate the vines covering her grandfather’s old batting cage. Yet, something came into focus, stirring amongst the dark. She jerked back. Is that…? She leaned closer, her flat stomach balanced against the sink. She inched closer to the window. Nothing. Moving closer still, she breathed loudly. Two sharp yellow eyes glared back at her from the bleakness. Behind the fence, thank God. Unmoving. Unflinching. Safe? Relatively. Regardless, the eyes felt penetrating.
Luna ran back to the living room, dead-bolted the door, and then threw herself on the overstuffed couch. She buried her head in a pillow, unable to shake those horrible yellow eyes.
Devil’s eyes.
CHAPTER 8
MR. STEELE GOES TO WASHINGTON
Johnathan
George Bush International Airport is a pain to navigate. All airports, according to Johnathan, are a big pain in the ass, except for maybe the smaller ones in smaller cities. But not Houston. Oh-no. Houston’s main international airport was expansive, which meant for Johnathan even more area to transverse on foot, from parking, to check-in, to security, to terminal, you could easily walk five miles, if not more. And the worst of it was the security check-point. Passing through that was something he loved the least.
Even now as he pulled onto John F. Kennedy Boulevard, nightmares of crowded lines with strangers bumping into him and bins and belt conveyors and large X-Ray machines buzzing, scanning, probing, danced behind his eyes. And the worst of it, if the security checkpoint was crowded, the crowd of people
waiting would look at him with pitiful glares, ogling his prosthetic leg as he would hobble on his cane through the body-scanner.
Johnathan recalled flying not that long ago. There had been a little girl holding her mother’s hand. The mother, thirty-something, her attention drawn to the contents of her plastic bin, was checking and double checking her pockets to ensure they were free of any metal. The little girl looked at Johnathan, who stood behind them, waiting like everyone else to walk past the thin, red line. She looked quizzically, then her eyes fell to where his left leg should have been. Her gaze wandered over to the prosthetic plastic-looking leg, shining in the fluorescent glow on the belt conveyor.
Johnathan could see it all so clearly now. Her eyes wide. Her mouth agape. She pulled at her mother’s PattyBoutik cowl neck blouse top. “Mommy—mommy, where is that man’s leg? Why? Why is it like that? It looks funny…” And then the mother’s gaze fell distractedly down at Johnathan’s missing leg. Realization dawned in a flood of embarrassment over the poor woman’s face. The mother hushed her girl and pushed her through the checkpoint. Yes, come one, come all. Come and take a look at the freak…Jesus, if I’m lucky, maybe someone nice is working security and will let me get wanded instead having to take my leg off, Johnathan thought, he prayed, he hoped.
He drove past the Park-n-Ride and pulled into C-terminal parking garage, the one linked with United Airlines, or so the sign said. God knows I’ll probably end up flying out of B-terminal. The Park-n-Ride only cost about ten bucks a week, and the C-terminal parking garage was twenty per day, but it was well worth the extra cost. Johnathan loathed airport shuttles just about as much as going through security. Last time he rode on one, some ballooned nine-year-old boy, mustard stained t-shirt and everything, glared at him unblinkingly. The boy’s father, who just so happened to be sitting next to Johnathan on the shuttle, nudged him and asked, “Lose it in the war?”
Dwelling Page 6