Along Comes a Wolfe

by Angie Counios

  When he arrived at the play structure a few days later, he’d seen a figure far in the distance, already well on her way back to the city. He decided to repeat his watch and arrive a bit earlier. His diligence paid off when he saw her round the curve toward him. She ran past without seeming to notice him in the shadow of the pines.

  He had arrived early again the next day, eager to see her, a thermos of tea and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night on the picnic table where he waited. He enjoyed the hunt, the focus it took to unwrap the mystery of how best to take her down. He worked it through in his mind, careful not to put anything on paper or leave any digital footprint of the plot. Imagining his performance, crafting it in his mind, made him sharper, honed his control.

  Except he couldn’t envision the circumstance of their meeting, the moment when he’d happen to her.

  The thermos retained its heat well and he had drunk the tea slowly, considering. The picnic area sat on a plain beyond the undulating hills and he’d be conspicuous even in the knee-high grass along her route. Besides, it was too open, too public. And the pines were too far from the path—any attempt to come at her from among them would likely alert her, and he knew how fast she was. She would elude him.

  Perhaps there was a better spot somewhere closer to the start of the path.

  These musings were interrupted by the steady tick-tock rhythm of her soles against the asphalt running path.

  He looked up to find her already in sight, moving toward him. So consumed had he been by his thoughts, he barely felt the trail of hot tea when it spilled across his slackened hand.

  She turned her head to meet his gaze—her blue eyes on him—and he forced a smile. She looked right through him and crossed to the bathroom.

  He stayed still, unsure of his next move. He set the tea down, wiped off his hand, and picked up the book he didn’t plan to read. He kept an eye on his watch. 5:37. The second hand ticked slowly. One minute. Two. After four minutes, she exited the building. He didn’t even glance up when the door banged against the stop and her feet picked up their steady rhythm, the sound fading into the distance.

  He had his answer.

  Now, three weeks later, he’s waiting. He got here early, slipped inside the farthest stall, and locked the door. His shoes are already off and in his bag, and he sits on the toilet seat, legs crossed over the hole beneath him. There must be no indication of his presence. The possibility of germs, of bodily fluids, doesn’t even enter his mind. He’s focused. Ready. He’s rehearsed his moves repeatedly, hitting all the right marks and making sure to remove any hint of noise. All his polishing, all his perfectionism, will pay off.

  He leans back against the wall. There is no electric light but a skylight creates soft shadows in the gloom. The metal mirrors reflect distorted shapes like figures in a fog. It will helps disguise his approach, but he dislikes that he won’t be able to see the show.

  He wraps the bag around his hands. It’s a white garbage bag this time—it makes less noise and, after being bitten by a particularly vicious canine, he had decided that the cheap plastic shopping bags tore too easily. He doesn’t check his watch; she never runs on a tight schedule. Her timing varies so much that he knows he might need to wait for nearly an hour. In the past, he’d almost been caught more than once, but he’s grown patient. He closes his eyes, calming his mind, absorbing the silence around him.

  When the door opens, the noise surprises him. He can’t tell if he’d fallen asleep. Footsteps cross to an open stall and the stall door clicks shut. He hears rapid breathing. It’s her, he’s certain. He lowers his feet to the ground and rises off the seat. Even this motion, the fundamental act of standing, he has trained for. Reaching over, he unlatches the door, holding it slightly ajar.

  The toilet flushes. There are only seconds left. His stall door pivots slowly open on its hinges as she crosses to the sink and turns on the tap. He rushes toward her. She doesn’t even have time to see his distorted image in the mirror before the bag is over her face. She drops to the floor.

  All the rehearsal, all the contemplation, have prepared him. He throws the entirety of his weight on top of her, keeping his body low and his legs out of range. Her fingers grasp and claw at his arms, but his jacket protects him and she cannot get a good grip. She tries to leverage herself into a different position, but he predicts her every move.

  He’s ready this time. Ready for it all. Practice has made him perfect.

  He leans against her and the tight lip of plastic digs into the flesh of her neck. Her defenses aren’t working and she realizes it. She needs air. She claws at the bag and he knows that the struggle is tipping in his favour. He twists the bag in his fist, the white plastic wrapping around his hand, and he yanks hard, his forearm hard against her neck, pressing against her windpipe. She coughs and gasps again and again.

  He leans in further, all his upper body strength pouring into his forearm, and pulls her hands away from the bag. She can’t see and she’s choking and crying and the fight has gone out of her. Her arms are weakening, the strained breaths between each gasp grow longer, her whole body heaves as it chokes on what’s left, all her world contained in the white plastic bag.

  She is slipping away. Her legs stop first, and he feels death move up through her body. Her hands slide from the bag, and he waits a moment until her chest no longer moves. He lifts his arm off her throat, then tugs off the bag.

  Her eyes are open, her tongue out. Vomit and spit are on her cheeks and in her hair. Her skin is mottled blue—no, gun-metal grey—and he stares into her bloodshot eyes. All the little spasms and twitches are gone, and he wants to keep staring—but he can’t because there is still work to do.

  chapter 7

  Dad has this great way of feeding us healthy food without it looking like a hospital tray. I’m not sure if it’s a “stay-at-home dad” thing or a “being married to a doctor” thing, but either way, he does some pretty badass tricks with greens and quinoa. He knows he has to make us healthy food or listen to Mom’s lecture on what happens to your insides when you don’t take care of your body. I guess looking at sick people all day long does that to a person.

  I’m at the bottom of the stairs when Dad yells, “Last one here can grab the milk and the glasses.”

  Heather appears out of nowhere, pushing me against the wall, racing to get to the table first.

  “You stepped on my foot.”

  “Sorry, little brother, but I beat you.”

  I head toward the kitchen and open the fridge. Seeing nothing, I yell out, “Where’s—?”

  “Don’t yell,” Mom says over my shoulder, “It’s the soy milk.”

  I wrinkle my face. “Making changes without asking? Not cool, Mom.”

  She reaches in and hands it to me. “Deal with it.”

  I take it to the table and plop the carton down in front of Heather.

  “Soy? That stuff tastes like chalk.”

  Now I have to try it. I grab another glass from the cupboard and pour myself a glass of water. I feel my family’s eyes on me. “Just in case.”

  Heather raises her empty glass in a mock toast. “To your health.”

  “It’s better for both of you.” Mom looks over at Dad. “For all of us.”

  “Sorry, hon. Tonight, I partake in the wine.”

  I shake my head. “Cheater.”

  “Now, son. Studies show—”

  I grunt my disapproval, but he cuts me off.

  “—a glass of red wine is very good—”

  Mom tries to interrupt him too, but he doesn’t stop.

  “—when that person is an adult—”

  Heather reaches for the bottle, but he pulls it away.

  “—and living on their own.”

  “Fine, old man, you win this one, but only because you made the meal.” I dig into the salad, put a billy goat’s worth on my
plate, and pass the bowl to him. “But make sure to eat your veggies.”

  Mom nudges her glass Dad’s way and he pours her a glass of vino too. She savours it, then says, “Jodi called. She and Bryan are thinking about selling their place.”

  Jodi is my oldest sister and Bryan is her husband.

  I take a slug of the soy milk, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. Yup, chalk. I put the glass down and take a long gulp of water to wash the taste away.

  Conversation moves around the table. Ollie, our golden retriever, lies under the table, his butt on my toes. Dad talks about a contract he’s working on. I have no idea what he actually does, but I know he does it at home in between the cooking and the cleaning. Mom wants to fire the receptionist at her clinic—apparently this one isn’t very good with paperwork. Heather loves college. Everyone shares their day.

  I try to appreciate this moment, to savour it all. It won’t last forever because, like Coach said, you never know what’s coming up from behind.

  chapter 8

  After supper, Heather and I clean up and give Mom and Dad some quiet time. The everyday business of the family is a lot like a good basketball game. It’s not the whole game that matters but all the small plays that lead up to the win. Playing sports is a good analogy for a family: you always have to be on the same team.

  As I put the dishes on the counter, Heather gets containers out of the drawer for the leftovers. Ollie sits in a corner, close but not underfoot, ready to catch any scraps we send his way.

  “Some of us are going out tonight. Do you want to join us?”

  She snaps the lid on the salad and chicken, and I’m already thinking they’ll make a good lunch for tomorrow.

  “Nah,” I shake my head. “I’m beat and I still need to get homework done.”

  She grabs the food and heads to the fridge. I help her with the door.

  “You just want to hang out with Sheri.”

  “I wish.”

  Fact is, I’m exhausted. It’s been a long week and knowing when to hit the pause button to regain your focus is important. I open the dishwasher and Heather stacks dishes on the racks.

  “What about you? Is what’s-his-name going to be there?”

  Some boy has been calling her lately but she’s being secretive about him. She’s still getting over her old boyfriend, so she may be thinking this new guy isn’t worth her time.

  “Isaac.”

  “Right. Isaac…” I swig down the last of my soy milk and cringe, glad it’s finished. The empty glass is the last thing to go in and I close the dishwasher.

  Heather hands me a wet cloth, and I go to the dining room to wipe the table.

  “No. He’s busy, which is fine. He’s just not—”

  I step back into the room. “Outstanding?”

  She leans on the counter, shakes her head, and laughs. “I’m only here for another year and then it’s law school. I don’t know where he’s going or where I’ll be, so what’s the point? Besides, he’s a bit wishy-washy.”

  I toss the cloth in the sink and lean on the counter beside her.

  “Hey, no judgments here. This is all between you, me, and Ollie.”

  My sister looks around at the kitchen and nods just like Mom. “Baby brother, you’re getting really good at this cleaning up thing. Who’d have thought?” She heads for the living room. “I’m leaving in ten to meet Hayley, Lindsay, and Chad at McLarens, if you change your mind.”

  “Thanks.” I won’t be going and Heather knows it, but I’m grateful she asked.

  Back in my room, I’m not in the mood for schoolwork, but I grab a seat at the desk and drag out my biology text anyway. There’s a test coming up in Mr. Harriet’s class next week and I need to memorize the biological classifications of fifty plants and animals from kingdom to species. I stare at the page. The words meld into an ugly mass of -phyla and -zoa. My eyes glaze over, and I move over to the bed and grab my phone.

  Mike’s text pops up first, something about him killing 200 lbs on the weights. I shake my head. He always thinks about size and never about speed. I move on to Sheri’s text. It’s her response to my question about the weekend.

  yes.

  visit tonight?

  It kills me, but I text back:

  can’t.

  I don’t want to leave it at that, so I add:

  text me when you’re done.

  I won’t hear from her until after her run, so I go back to my studies. Somewhere between the family and genus of a mountain lion, my head hits the pillow, and I don’t lift it until morning.

  chapter 9

  I wake up Thursday morning and wipe the little bit of drool off the book I fell asleep reading. Out of habit, I reach for my phone. The screen is too bright and I squint to see who’s texted. There’s one from Jessica, Sheri’s best friend, and one from Katie—it’s too early for girl drama so I ignore those. One from a number I don’t recognize. And two from Mike. Nothing from Sheri yet. She’s been working hard for competition lately, but it’s strange. She must have been as knock-out tired as I was. I tap on her name.

  Morning babe

  And that’s all I manage. It’s painfully early and I fall headfirst back into the pillow.

  “You’re going to be late for practice!” Mom hollers from the kitchen what seems like only seconds later.

  My phone says half an hour has passed.

  I groan quietly and drag myself out of bed. I know that as soon as my feet hit the ground the rush will begin.

  I shower and quickly pull on my Adidas sweats. I toss socks, a tee-shirt, a pair of shorts, and a towel into my bag. I double-check for deodorant. Got it. Don’t want to be late, because Coach will make us do extra laps.

  Damn—I still need a shirt to wear.

  Bzzz.

  I grab my phone off the dresser. It’s Mike.

  Hey man. On my way. Picking up breakfast. Order?

  I text back a delicious and thoroughly unhealthy choice from Mike’s favourite fast food place. I’m hoping it’ll get me through the grueling basketball practice that Coach has planned for us.

  “Anthony!”

  I pull the shirt over my head as I grab my gym bag off the bed. I text one last message to Sheri:

  Heading to practice babe. Talk later.

  I stuff the phone into my front pocket and go downstairs.

  Mom’s on me. “Practice starts in twenty minutes.” Along with being magic, Mom’s also a precise time-keeper. Although I act annoyed, I’m secretly grateful.

  “You better get going or you’ll be late for practice. Don’t need to hear you whining about Coach Davies being hard on you again.” She puts my water bottle on the counter.

  “Thanks.” I toss it in my bag.

  “You have enough gas?”

  I smile, knowing there’s an offer of money coming. It’s one of the advantages of being the youngest, the only boy, and the last teenager in the house.

  “Mike’s driving.” I hesitate. “But if you want, you can give me a little extra cash… maybe a ten?”

  She laughs and looks over at Dad, who’s deep into the newspaper at the breakfast table. “Ben, the boy needs ten dollars.”

  Dad looks up from his paper, smirking. “I’m a bank now?”

  “You know what I like about you, Dad,” I nod at the paper, “You always keep it old school.”

  He hands me a little pocket cash. “Spend it on Sheri. Women like that.”

  I take it, always grateful for whatever they give.

  “What’s practice today?”

  “Passing and handling.”

  Mom moves in with a refill for Dad’s coffee. “It’s good that Davies makes you sweat.”

  Bzzz—I take my phone out of my pocket. Mike again, right on schedule. He honks the horn outside for good measure.

&nb
sp; “When’s the next game?”

  I love having my parents in the stands. “Friday. Seven. Against Cornwall High.”

  Dad nods and I know he’s listening. Sheri says I’m the same way. It’s like they say—apples and trees, chips and blocks.

  A longer honk from Mike. He’s in no mood to run laps.

  Mom kicks the dishwasher door shut with her heel. “Tony, get moving. Ben, quit wasting his time.”

  Mike and Mom would get along great.

  I move to the kitchen and grab my lunch.

  “Nice shirt. Teal looks good on you.”

  I stare at her. “Really? You can’t just call it green?”

  She shakes her head. “What time will you be home?”

  “Supper.”

  Honk.

  “Go.”

  “Kay. Love you.” The door shuts on her reminder to walk the dog when I get home.

  At the bottom of the driveway, I toss my bag into the back of Mike’s truck, and barely plop myself onto the passenger seat before he’s moving. He has the radio station on some Top 40 garbage.

  “What the hell are you listening to?” I change the channel to an indie station that plays some pretty sick hip-hop.

  Mike just shakes his head and hands me my breakfast.

  I unwrap the breakfast sandwich. The bacon is missing.

  “Did you mess up the order?”

  He keeps his eyes on the road. “No. I ordered it right.”

  I bite into the sandwich. “Well, where’s the bacon?”

  “I ate it.”

  “You took out my sandwich, opened it, ate the bacon, and then rewrapped it and gave it to me?” I really need to hear the logic behind Mike’s thinking.

  “Yup. Fair trade. You get to listen to hip-hop. I eat your bacon.”

  I shake my head. The guy’s a great power forward but he really thinks in unusual ways.