I guess I shouldn’t complain. The alternative would have been worse, to loose me upon an unsuspecting world. Better that one man suffer for the good of many, I suppose. It’s not even that I was treated unkindly, or inhumanely, considering…. But I do not like confinement of any kind, I am afraid, and bomb shelters do not tend to be very roomy, if you know what I mean.
When I was five, my mother sat me down, along with my cousin Sebastian, and explained to me the nature of the beast that lived within me. I had no preconceived ideas about werewolves at that young age, had not even seen them in films, but Sebastian, being five years older than I, and incredibly more mature to my young mind, had a passing acquaintance with the idea and was suitably impressed. She swore him to secrecy, which he solemnly promised to uphold. And then she entrusted him with something very important: seeing that little Max was taken to the shelter every month at the proper time.
My cousin seemed enchanted with the idea. Laying a protective arm on my shoulders, he said that he would take care of me, cross his heart and hope to die. I already adored Sebastian; he was my playmate and my guide. He always had time for me and never scolded. I never saw the side of him that the rest of the world saw: the broody, sullen child who became the dark, sometimes sinister young man. To me he was simply Bastian, my playmate.
And thus our routine began. On the afternoon of the night of the full moon, Sebastian would come for me after lunch, and he would take my little hand in his, and we would kiss my mother good-bye and head out toward the backyard to our own private little play area, which is how I regarded the shelter at that time. And we would play together, sometimes games of war with our little army figures, or marbles—we each had our own drawstring bags full of aggies and nibblies and the like—or simple card games, like Old Maid or Go Fish. We had books to read as well, and often he read to me, although I was able to read myself, having precociously taught myself to read at the age of two. But I enjoyed listening to him and would sit in his lap, spellbound, while he read fairy tales of all sorts and adventure stories. Naturally Little Red Riding Hood was among the repertoire, and he would tell me in the most serious voice that the wolf in the story was my father, and for years I believed him until one day I asked my mother and she dispelled that particular myth. Yes, my father was a werewolf, but he wasn’t that particular werewolf. And that’s the way it was.
And before the moon was completely full, my mother would come out to retrieve Sebastian, kissing me and calling me her little wolf, and tuck me up to sleep. I would be so tired from our play that I think I basically slept through the first few transformations. But later, I was awake for them, and I began to be aware of what they actually entailed.
Imagine, if you will, what it must be like to change your whole physical structure. To actually become something else. Not another person, but an animal, a beast of the field. My bones feel as if they are being torn apart and reformed, a most painful feeling, very intense, which radiates through my entire skeleton, centering on my spinal column. My whole center of balance shifts, my inner equilibrium regroups as I change from a biped to a quadruped, my legs become even longer and quite sinewy, ending in four padded paws rather than hands and feet. The facial bones rearrange themselves, particularly the mandible and zygomatic bones as they reshape themselves to the contours of the wolf’s skull, the top of the skull flattens, which in itself is not a pleasant process and is particularly hard on the coronal suture. It’s little wonder that I often suffer from terrible headaches the next day. And once this amazing metamorphosis takes place and my own pale skin is covered with the thick fur of the wolf, then the final change, the ultimate indignity: from my cute little tailbone sprouts a long tail. And damn, I am here to tell you that that hurts.
At about this point, though, my tale gets confused, for the mind of the wolf takes over the thought processes, becomes the commander of the vessel, so to speak, and I, Maximillian Montague, know no more until the next day when I return to consciousness and pray that the wolf has not been up to no good. Which is why the concern over having a safe place to go where the wolf cannot harm anyone.
The theory is, fortified by various myths and legends, that the presence of a human being is anathema to the wolf and rather dangerous to the aforementioned person, involving pain, and biting, and bloodletting. Well, you can imagine what it involves, things I would just as soon avoid for my own sake as well as that of the beast which dwells within. That sort of behavior is likely to put you on the local radar, make you a target for hunters of all types, amateurs and professionals alike, another reason that I generally prefer to blend in with the background, unlike my flamboyant better half who seems to attract attention wherever he goes. There, I’ve mentioned Richard again. So sue me.
I realize that this must be something of an anticlimax, as most of you were probably expecting lurid tales of blood and guts and howling at moon and the like, but I’m afraid that I can’t provide them for you. Although I cannot swear that I’ve never shed blood, at least I hope that is not the case, and I have no memory of it, if so. I think I prefer it that way, if you must know the truth. Sometimes when I read in the paper after a full moon of a missing child or a dead pet found in someone’s yard, I have to wonder a bit, but then I remind myself that I stay safe and secure and away from mankind during the full phase of the selenic bitch.
No, I don’t run back to Webster Groves once a month to use the bomb shelter; that would get old in a real hurry.
One of the things I was looking for when searching for a home was a place that would replace Mother’s underground asylum for just that reason, and because I wanted to be self-sufficient as well. As self-sufficient as I could be, under the circumstances, as I still require locking in, but now I have Richard, who watches over me like a mother hen. When he is here. I use that phrase a lot, don’t I? Can’t help it; it’s the truth. As I grew older, Diana sometimes alternated with Sebastian, and even Rachel a few times, during my monthly ritual.
Saturday, May 19, 1962
RACHEL.
I still remember the first time I met Rachel. Or became aware of her, I should say, as she had lived next door to me all her life, but we had managed somehow to not cross paths. I was about six at the time, Rachel about the same, as we are only months apart in age. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside, as I mentioned before, what with piano lessons and homeschooling and not being naturally inclined in that direction. But my mother occasionally sent me out the door with instructions to get some air and behave myself, which was rather redundant as well as quite unnecessary, as I was the least likely child to cause trouble, I think. But I supposed it’s written in the bylaws for mothers somewhere, along with all the other little speeches and words of wisdom with which they regale us throughout our childhood, ranging from “Clean your plate” to “I’ll give you something to cry for” and everything else in between.
I was lying in the grass, on this particular occasion, lost in the adventures of The Three Musketeers—yes, I was reading Dumas at that age—when a shadow fell over the pages. I squinted up in annoyance to see a little girl standing over me, regarding me curiously like some sort of new species of insect. I wasn’t used to being around other children, being homeschooled as I was, and I just looked back at her without saying anything.
“Hey,” she greeted me, flopping down beside me on the grass. “Whatcha doing?”
I looked from her to the book and back again, giving her a look like, isn’t it obvious?
“You just move in?” she asked curiously.
“No,” I replied disdainfully, “I’ve always lived here.”
“Really? How come I never see you then?” Rachel was never one to beat around the bush, even as a child.
I shrugged. “Maybe ’cause you aren’t looking in the right place,” I suggested, not looking up from my book. She laughed, pushing her face up against mine so that I had to notice her. “You’re in my way,” I pointed out.
“I know,” she returned. “What’s y
our name? I’m Rachel.”
“I’m Max.”
I finally deigned to give her more than a cursory glance, as I realized she didn’t intend to leave any time soon. At that time she had light reddish-brown hair that fell down her back in a long ponytail and greenish-blue eyes. And the friendliest smile I had ever seen. I found it to be quite contagious, and I felt myself soon smiling back at her against my will.
“You know what, Maxie?” she said—yes, that name came out of her lips the first time she met me—“I think we’re gonna be good friends!”
“If you say so.” I was a bit more skeptical. My only friends were my family, which at that time was my mother, my grandfather, and my cousin Sebastian.
“I say so.” She nodded with all the confidence that I came to realize was simply Rachel Sheldon. Even at that age, she was single-minded and opinionated. She quickly managed to charm my mother, who then welcomed her visits, encouraging her to come over as often as she liked. And pretty soon she was a common sight in our household, traipsing in and out as if she lived there. Sebastian even treated her nicely, a first for him as he tended to be rather surly toward most people. Not that I realized that at the time, but as I grew up I became more aware of his anti-social attitudes.
I hear you all now: what has this to do with werewolves and such, you’re blithering again. I know, I know.
At any rate, it took me about six months to get around to telling Rachel my secret. I knew that I shouldn’t tell, because my mother had instilled that thought in me from my very early childhood. It was our special secret, “our” meaning “our family.” But haven’t you ever done something you were told not to? Of course, we all have. And I, not being a perfect child, did too. I remember her first reaction when I informed her that I was a werewolf. I was gratified at the look of interest that filled her eyes, as if she saw me in a new light or something. Which undoubtedly she did. After all, that isn’t something you hear every day, now is it? Yes, more tea would be lovely, hand me a biscuit, would you, old dear, and by the way I happen to be a werewolf? A bit out of the ordinary, you must admit.
WHEN Richard and I were house-hunting—well, more or less house-hunting, as we were actually just out along 94, enjoying the drive, and scouting out new locations to shag in (no comments, please)—we came upon this stone cottage, the one where we now reside, and besides the house, one of the first things that I noticed about it was that it had an outbuilding in the woods near the house, probably used for some type of storage. It was made of stone, too, and seemed to be rather secure. Another plus in my eyes, naturally. And another reason that I chose this to be my home. Mine and Richard’s.
So, during my times of the month—and for all you out there who are snickering, quit it, the wolf doesn’t like it!—Richard accompanies me to that little shack in the woods. Yes, when he is there, of course, otherwise either Rachel or Sebastian does the honors for me. And whoever it is locks me in and I am left to my own devices. The wolf isn’t enamored of this idea, but tough shit. It’s better than letting him loose to do what he will, after all. I can only imagine what he does as it is, as the next morning I often wake up to find bruises and cuts all over myself as if he has been trying to escape his “imprisonment.” But that is a small price to pay for the security of knowing that I am not hurting anyone. And as I believe I mentioned once before, the wolf howls are not taken too seriously out here in the country as I am. When I was a boy, I couldn’t be heard outside of the bomb shelter itself, so that was not a problem.
And the morning after, Richard comes to unlock my cage, helps me back to our house, tends to any cuts and/or bruises with soft words and iodine, ministering to my body’s needs before addressing those of my soul. Let me tell you, morning-after-full-moon sex is not easy, as I am often rather weary from my exertions from the night before and sore as well. But it is damn good!
Sometimes it hurts to live life to the max, but Richard makes it all worthwhile.
Chapter 7
If It Quacks Like a Duck…
I SIT wrapped up in my flannel bathrobe, comfortably ensconced on my own couch, glancing over the morning paper. The Tribune, of course. Flannel is warm, by the way, so I don’t want to hear any old fogie cracks. The wolf doesn’t like to be cold and neither do I. I read the paper on a daily basis, naturally. I have to check that the typesetter has managed to get my column right, don’t I? And somewhere in the back of my mind I have this impossible dream that maybe someday they will change my name to its proper spelling, but so far that hasn’t happened. I think the error is here to stay. Heavy sigh. While I am doing this, my legs crossed comfortably while attempting to maintain a modicum of decorum, (translate that as trying to keep my rod and tackle from showing), my cup of coffee warming my free hand, I am trying not to pay too much attention to Sebastian and Diana, who are both here with me, while Richard is enjoying a shower in our room.
Which is, in fact, where I would be myself, had not my sister and my cousin caught me just preparatory to entering into that fabulous water world with my lover, and why I am sitting here like this now while Richard does a solo and Diana tells me every so often to please close my legs, she doesn’t need a show. I just shrug and remind her that it’s her fault that I’m not washing Richard’s back at this moment, as well as other parts, and that shuts her up. At least for a little bit.
Sebastian is leaning against the bookcase, smoking one of his little cigar things, whatever you call them. Cherry somethings I think they are. It’s an affectation he acquired in his teens. He had had his ass parked up against my piano until I told him in no uncertain terms to move it or lose it. Diana is doing the Diana thing; she paces back and forth over the carpet between us in her best imitation of an expectant father, because she can’t stand to sit still for long. Says it helps her think. And expend nervous energy. Whatever.
“Max, are you even listening?” She comes to a halt in front of me, lucky me, dropping her hands onto the pages of my newspaper, so that I am forced to glance up at her since I can’t see through her.
“I am now,” I reply, rustling the paper to shake her offending presence off it, which involves moving myself, and as a result, my robe slips a bit. A mini peepshow. She rolls her eyes at me, as I recinch it. “You’re getting as bad as him,” an obvious reference to Richard.
“Nobody’s that bad,” Sebastian comments drily. I shoot him a dirty look, which he ignores. As always. But he’s right; my lover has a way of prancing about in the altogether, with little or no regard to who might be watching. Major exhibitionist, that one.
Diana continues once more with her frantic pacing and her ranting, now that she has my attention again. “I mean, what the hell is she thinking about? Church of Divine Providence? Sounds like a traveling salvation show, if you ask me.”
Sebastian snorts. “Maybe you should cut back on the Neil Diamond,” he recommends in his usual witty fashion. “It’s Amy that I don’t trust, myself. Why is Juliet even hanging out with her? And in a church of all places?”
None of us is what I exactly call religious, certainly not my mother.
“Exactly!” Diana waves her arms over her head as if she is trying to flag a cab. “Mother, in church? I can kinda sorta understand the Amy thing; she still has hopes that Max will decide that he prefers tacos to hot dogs, but not the church thing, not at all!”
God, she can be so crude sometimes! And if you haven’t noticed, there is no love lost between my cousin and my lover. Diana loves Richard, to an extent, but she doesn’t like the way he treats me at times, the way he mysteriously disappears, which I have mentioned before. When he returns, and he invariably does return, she tends to cut him cold until he jollies her up again, which doesn’t take very long, using his patented tried-and-true glib-tongued Richard ways. Sebastian simply despises him, and the feeling is quite mutual. Which is another reason why when they showed up on our doorstep—fortunately just having missed the main event, just as we were about to step into the shower, having taken t
he pause that refreshes to enjoy some serious cuddle-time—Richard kissed me sweetly, told me to have fun and to join him later, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Which, at this rate, ain’t a happenin’ thing. Dammit.
Sighing, I turn back to the want ads. Not that I am reading them, mind you, or even care about what is printed there, but it just happens to be the page I am on, and I would rather look like I am busy than participate in this mindless discussion of my mother and her strange ways. After all, I’m sure it’s just a phase she’s going through. Like her black light/strobe light phase, when she plastered the living room with those damn black light posters, all velvety and black-like and eerily Peter Maxian—primarily dragons and wizards, do you believe it?—and refused to have any sort of normal lighting. She damn near ruined my eyesight with those things. Ever try to focus on something when the world is coming at you in bursts of imagery that only last for the smallest fraction of a second? Not a pleasant thing, I assure you. Add to that her Pioneer stereo blasting “Whole Lotta Love” and I think you get the idea.
“Do you think maybe Rachel goes there too?” Diana turns toward Sebastian now, to my relief. Go bother him, I think to myself, pretending to be engrossed in a multicolored insert/coupon advertising the grand opening of some brand new restaurant in Rock Hill. Nouveau Italian. Live music. Actually, it doesn’t look half bad, I think to myself, as I mentally picture Richard and me sitting at one of the tables, trying out new Sicilian dishes, with an Ezio Pinza-wannabe serenading us beside our table, when the paper flies out of my hands in a most vicious way.
To the Max Page 10