The Craving

by Jason Starr

  When Simon had suggested going to the Seaport today he’d made no connection that he’d been returning to the area where, for all he knew, Michael and the guys were hanging out at this very moment. Like yesterday when he’d caught himself heading toward the Battery Park playground, he didn’t know if coming here was just a coincidence, or if something was pulling him unconsciously. He remembered Michael saying, Welcome back to us, with his weird Germanic accent, and the voice in Simon’s head was so clear that it sounded as if Michael himself were here next to him, whispering in his ear.

  “Maybe you should call Levinson,” Alison said.

  “What?” Simon was startled, thinking she’d said, Call Hartman, even though that didn’t make any sense. Then it hit and he said, “Oh. What for?”

  “To adjust your medication,” she said, as if it were obvious.

  “It’s not my medication,” he said, thinking at least this wasn’t a lie since he wasn’t on any medication. “It’s just going to take a little time, that’s all.”

  He had the rest of the juice box and felt almost normal. He didn’t know why he’d had such a strong panicked reaction, but he took it as a positive sign that he’d been able to avoid a full transformation. It gave him hope that it was possible that he could control all of this, and he wouldn’t have to live his life in constant fear.

  “Simon,” Alison said in the tone she had when she was very angry or very serious; it was hard to tell which was the case this time.

  “Yeah,” Simon said.

  She looked so intense; it was hard to maintain eye contact with her.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked.

  He wanted to blurt it out, get it all over with, say, Yes, there is something I’m not telling you. I don’t have lycanthropic disorder. I don’t think I’m a werewolf, I actually am one. And I’m terrified that if you know the truth you’ll leave me and take Jeremy away, so I’m hoping, no, I’m praying, I can figure out some way to control this, to keep it a secret forever, but still live a normal, functional life.

  But instead he heard himself say, “Not telling you about what?”

  Before continuing, Alison looked around. There were a lot of people nearby, but no one seemed to be eavesdropping. Most people were just hanging out, eating, resting in wooden lounge chairs, or admiring the view. Maybe twenty yards away, a boy, maybe ten years old, was begging his mother for change to put into a coin-operated telescope, which was fixed on some point in the distance, maybe the Statue of Liberty. The boy was saying, “Please, Ma, I really wanna use it,” and the mom was saying, “The answer is no,” and then Simon realized that the conversation was taking place way too far away for an average person to overhear.

  “Do you want to be in this marriage?” Alison asked.

  “What?” Simon said. “What kind of ques—”

  “I just want you to be honest with me,” she said. “You don’t have to be afraid to tell me the truth. If you want out and this is, I don’t know, your way of trying to tell me, I understand. I mean, I don’t understand, but I won’t be angry at you for telling me how you feel.”

  Like before, Alison didn’t sound like herself; she sounded like some self-help book. Simon held her hand and pulled her toward him, trying to focus on her, instead of how amazing she smelled and how badly he wanted her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You know that’s not true.”

  “How do I know?” She seemed strong, in control, but he knew she was just overcompensating, trying not to get emotional in public. “All I know is you’ve been avoiding intimacy and now we’re spending time together for the first time in ages and it seems to give you panic attacks.”

  “It’s not you,” Simon said.

  “If it’s not me,” she said, “then who is it?”

  He knew what she was getting at. “Come on, you know there’s no one else.”

  “I want to believe that, I really do, and you know I never get jealous. But it’s hard when … well, when I see the way women look at you.”

  “What do you mean?” Simon said, but it was hard to pretend to be shocked when he knew exactly what she meant.

  “Come on, I see the way women are checking you out lately,” Alison said. “Just before in the elevator, that cute blonde was totally staring at you. Maybe it’s just an, I don’t know, available vibe you’re sending out.”

  Simon hadn’t noticed the blonde. He’d been getting so much female attention lately, maybe he was becoming oblivious to it.

  Simon put his arms around her waist and pulled her in close—it was okay, he was in control—and said, “It’s true, I have noticed women paying more attention to me lately, but it’s not on my end, I swear. Maybe they’re just attracted to my wisdom.”

  “Your wisdom?”

  “Yeah,” Simon said, smiling to show he was joking. “Maybe I’m getting better with age, like cheese.”

  “Oh no, now he thinks he’s cheese,” Alison said. “I’m not going to have to find you a psychiatrist who cures that disorder too, am I?”

  They were suddenly kissing. With his nose so close to her face, the scent of her skin was even more overwhelming. While he was aware of the effect this was having on his body, he tried to accept it, to go with it. Hadn’t Michael once said that too, that you just have to go with it? Or maybe not—maybe it was something he’d said to himself—but it was helpful nevertheless.

  Accept it, accept it, he kept telling himself, as he continued kissing her. His tongue was rougher than it used to be—more like a dog’s than a human’s—but if she noticed she didn’t seem to care. Going by the way she was moaning softly and moving her hips up against him, she seemed to be pretty distracted.

  Then, realizing they were in public, she pulled back, not too far—their noses were almost touching—and said, “I think we need to get a room.”

  “Accept it.” Simon didn’t mean to say this out loud.

  “What?” Alison was confused.

  “I mean it’s a good thing we already live together,” Simon said, and then he got distracted, looking beyond Alison toward the area in Brooklyn, past DUMBO, where the Hartman Brewery was located. Simon was certain that Michael was there at this very moment. He was probably hanging out with Charlie and Ramon and maybe with other werewolves. Simon pictured Michael, with his thick gray hair, jet black eyes, and usual affectless expression. The vision was so clear it had to be real.

  Alison must’ve seen something in Simon’s eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He kissed her again, holding her tight, loving that he was able to control himself and be close with his wife. Then with his lips still against hers he said, “Nothing at all.”

  The rest of the day was pretty much perfect. Jeremy woke up from his nap and the family took a nice walk to Chinatown. After they had lunch at their favorite dim sum place—Simon managed not to OD on pork dumplings, even though he wanted to, by repeating his Accept it mantra—they bought fruit and vegetables to last a few days and then caught a bus uptown at Canal and Hudson. It wasn’t a particularly exciting day and nothing memorable happened—just a lot of small talk and tending to Jeremy—but that was what made it so great. It was a family Saturday like the other family Saturdays they used to have before he lost his job and this whole werewolf nightmare started.

  But now Simon felt like he had new hope. Not only had repeating his new mantra helped temper his meat cravings, it seemed to curb the attention from random women. He was still getting noticed much more than he had in his pre-werewolf days—even the older Chinese woman serving the dim sum had given him a kind of seductive look while she was doling out the shrimp dumplings—but women weren’t completely fawning over him the way they’d been lately. On the bus Simon was aware of a few women noticing him, the way they would notice any attractive guy, but the attention wasn’t out of control.

  When they got back to the apartment, Simon suggested that Alison go to the gym. Her s
chedule hadn’t given her much opportunity to work out lately, and she was glad to have the time to herself. Simon and Jeremy played a game Simon had invented called “apartment tag,” which involved almost constant running around the apartment. They were both having a blast, but they had to stop when the doorman called up with a noise complaint from the neighbors downstairs.

  When Alison returned all sweaty—God, she smelled amazing—Simon, needing to exert himself in a big way, went for a run. In the park he wanted to let loose, but his mantra helped restrain him and he was content jogging at a normal pace around the park’s six-mile “big loop.”

  Back at home, around nine, Alison had put Jeremy to bed.

  “He fell right asleep; I was surprised,” Alison said. “I mean after he had that long nap this afternoon. Maybe he’s growing. So how do you feel?”

  Simon knew she was really saying, Do you want to have sex? To make her intention even more clear, Alison bit down on her lower lip seductively. She’d showered, so her natural scent was masked by odors of shampoo, conditioner, soap, and skin moisturizer, but when Simon focused he could still make out her natural scent and he couldn’t help getting turned on.

  “Today was nice,” Alison said, moving closer to Simon.

  Even if she didn’t notice the growing bulge in his sweats, she sensed he was getting excited, and he could smell her excitement.

  “I know,” Simon said. “We should have family days more often.”

  “I’m not just talking about that,” Alison said. “I’m talking about us. It was nice kissing you at the Seaport.”

  Seeing the image of Michael, watching, waiting on the roof of the brewery, Simon said, “I know, it was really nice.”

  “We should have a regular date night,” Alison said. “I know we’ve talked about it before with Dr. Hagan, but this time we should stick to it. We can get Christina to babysit one fixed night a week, let’s say Thursday nights because I usually don’t have any big meetings on Fridays, and then we can go out. Even if it’s just out to dinner or to get coffee or take a walk around the neighborhood. It’s time spent together and I think that’s important.”

  “Sounds like a great idea,” Simon said. “Let’s go for it.”

  “Okay,” Alison said, moving closer to him so that their bodies were practically touching. “Going for it sounds like a good idea to me.”

  Simon was thinking, Accept it, accept it, but being so close to Alison when she was so turned on was way too arousing, and he was terrified of what might happen next.

  “Just relax,” she said, and he could feel the heat from her breath on his face. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  But I’m going to bite you.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m … I’m just not ready yet.”

  She waited, then said, “I understand,” but he could tell she didn’t.

  “We made progress today,” Simon said, realizing he was sweating badly; even his face was wet. “I mean I think we’re getting there, slowly but surely.”

  Alison didn’t seem convinced. She said, “Well, you let me know when you want me again,” and then kissed him quickly on the lips and went down the hallway toward the bedroom without saying good night.

  Simon understood why Alison was frustrated, but he tried to stay positive. While it was true things were a long way from normal in their marriage, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever have a regular sex life again, he had to look at the bright side—he was making progress, and if he continued to make progress every day, maybe normal, or at least almost normal, wasn’t so far away.

  On Sunday morning, Simon was up early, and after his usual extended sets of push-ups and sit-ups, he heard Jeremy stirring in his room. He hugged him—making sure not to get too carried away like the other morning—and then set him up in front of the TV with a sippy cup of milk and a couple of waffles. While Simon could have eaten twenty sausage links, he was content with just eight. He had to eat them ultra slowly to savor the flavor, but he took this as another example of the progress he was making. Maybe soon he’d be able to get by on just three or four links in the morning, and maybe over time the meat cravings would subside entirely. Maybe he’d be happy having fruit and yogurt in the morning, and he’d get satisfaction from eating fruit and vegetables and cereal. While he couldn’t imagine a meatless existence—and the whole idea of it actually seemed like torture—nothing was out of the question.

  Simon let Alison sleep late, till about ten. He felt bad about disappointing her sexually again last night, so to help make up for it he prepared her a breakfast of coffee, fruit salad, and oatmeal and had it waiting for her when she came into the dining room.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” she said.

  “I wanted to,” he said. “You’ve been working hard and I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve been doing.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “It’s nice to hear you say that.”

  Simon sat with her while she ate. He tried to have some coffee, but the bitterness repulsed him, so he sipped from a glass of water instead.

  After breakfast, Alison went on “Jeremy duty,” sitting with him on the living room floor in front of the TV while drawing in coloring books with magic markers. Simon slipped away into the bathroom and did his morning shave and body-hair trim. He was trimming the hair on his right leg—he hadn’t trimmed his leg hair in a couple of days and it was getting out of control—when Alison called urgently from the living room, “Simon, come out here!”

  Fearing that something had happened to Jeremy, Simon left the razor and rushed into the living room. Jeremy was still happily coloring and Alison was gripped by something on TV.

  “I thought it was an emergency,” Simon said.

  “Sorry,” Alison said, “but it is kind of incredible and I didn’t want you to miss it.”

  Simon saw that Alison was watching the New York City Marathon. He knew the marathon was today; he’d seen them setting up for it in the park last night.

  “Miss what?” he asked.

  “Just look,” she said.

  They were showing the front-runners. Two slim black guys, probably from Kenya—a Kenyan always seemed to win the marathon—and slightly in front of them a noticeably stockier, much more muscular white guy. It was definitely unusual to see a big guy like that among the leaders.

  “Can you believe it?” Alison said.

  “Yeah, that is pretty weird,” Simon said.

  “They’re saying he never even ran in a marathon before,” she said. “And he’s a New York City fireman. Can you even imagine how big a news story this is going to be?”

  The word fireman gave Simon a jolt. But even though at that moment he knew what was happening and the huge effect this was going to have on his life, he didn’t want to believe what he was seeing. He wanted to believe it was some mistake. It was a hallucination, he was just imagining he was watching this, or he was still asleep, he hadn’t woken up yet today, and this was just a dream.

  But this wasn’t a dream—that reality was setting in fast. This was a nightmare, except he wasn’t asleep—the nightmare was reality.

  Alison said, “Isn’t it incredible?” as Simon stared at the screen, mesmerized, watching Charlie, the fireman/stay-at-home dad from Michael’s pack, taking over the lead from the Kenyans, as the race was in its final stage in Central Park—it looked like the runners were near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Then the angle switched to a close-up of Charlie, and in his expression Simon recognized that look of total euphoria and freedom. It was so familiar, he could’ve been watching himself.

  Simon was so absorbed watching Charlie that he lost self-awareness for several seconds, maybe longer, and then he suddenly realized he had a much, much bigger problem.

  He was turning into a werewolf.

  SEVEN

  Something rough and wet was touching Geri’s face. She woke up, startled, slapping her cheek. What the hell? Then Wonka jumped off of her, screeching, and Geri
realized she’d fallen asleep on the couch.

  “Jesus,” Geri said, trying to catch her breath and orient herself. She glanced at the window—it was dawn, Sunday morning. She’d been up most of the night, reading whatever she could find online about Diane Coles’s murder in Michigan and ruminating about how it could possibly be connected to the Olivia Becker disappearance. She was also obsessing about the murder in Washington Heights, frustrated that they hadn’t gotten a break yet. She hated unresolved cases, and now she had two of them to deal with. Ter-freakin’-rific.

  From what Geri could tell, the police in Michigan hadn’t made much headway in the Coles case. Last Wednesday afternoon at approximately two P.M. Diane Coles had returned home from shopping at a nearby drugstore. When she was exiting the car, she was shot and killed at close range. Ballistics had determined that the gun was a S&W.38. The police had no suspects in the shooting and no known motive. Her parents claimed she had been “distraught lately” and had “a lot of anxiety” perhaps over a recent breakup with a boyfriend in Manhattan. One article contained interviews with neighbors, saying the usual, about how shocked they were about the murder, how nothing bad ever happened in the neighborhood, and the detective involved in the investigation was quoted, basically saying that the cops had zip.