by Jason Starr
Since when did Charlie toast in German?
“Prost,” Simon said, and took a sip.
“Ah, you didn’t look me in the eye when you said prost,” Charlie said. “Michael said that means you’ll have seven years of bad sex.”
“How about seven years of no sex?”
“Yeah,” Charlie said, “like that’s gonna happen.”
“It’s happening already,” Simon said.
Charlie put down the glass, looking concerned. “You’re joking, right?”
“What?” Simon said. “You mean, you can have sex without…”
“A condom?”
“No,” Simon said. “I mean without … you know … transforming.”
“Oh yeah, I wolfed out a couple times. That’s what Ramon calls it—wolfing out.” Charlie smiled. “But Michael helped us out with it. I don’t mean actually helped us out, but he taught me how to deal with it. You know, gave me strategies.”
“What about when you get angry and excited?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like today. When I saw you on TV, I was surprised, as you can imagine, and maybe my heart rate surged, and I … well, I at least started to turn. It was terrifying. I thought I’d kill my wife and son. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing,” Simon said. “I mean, I somehow stopped it. I turned on the shower, got under cold water, and that made me change back.”
“It probably wasn’t the water,” Charlie said.
“Really? Then what was it?”
Charlie was about to answer, and then his expression changed, as if a new thought had suddenly come to him, and he said, “That’s why you need Michael; that’s why you need us. You should come to the brewery tonight. We’re meeting up at, like, nine o’clock.”
Simon shook his head and couldn’t help laughing. Go back to the brewery? Where he’d killed that crazy she-wolf, Olivia? Where he’d had the most horrific night of his life? And hang out with Michael, the homicidal maniac who’d caused it all?
“As appealing as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Simon said.
“Sorry to hear that.” Charlie was suddenly avoiding eye contact again, looking concerned. He took a long swig of beer, finishing the pint, then said, “I really shouldn’t be here. Michael told me not to see you.” He closed his eyes and flared his nostrils. Then his eyes opened and he said, “He’s not here, but it was still a big mistake.” He stood.
“Where’re you going?” Simon asked.
“Gotta get outta here,” Charlie said. “My ex wants me to take Nicky tonight. But do me a favor? If you see Michael again, I mean when you see him again, don’t tell him I saw you today, okay? And definitely don’t tell him I told you anything about the brewery. Let’s keep this our secret, okay?” He sounded like a child who’d done something wrong and was afraid he’d get in trouble for it with his parents.
“It’s not a big deal,” Simon said.
“It is a big deal,” Charlie said seriously, raising his voice.
The college kids looked over, and then the waitress came out with a tray of plain hamburgers. Charlie’s nostrils flared again, and Simon’s probably did too.
“Here you go,” the waitress said. “Ten rare burgers, no buns, no fries.”
When she placed the tray on the table, Charlie sat back down and grabbed one of the burgers and ate it in two bites. Simon was eating with his hands as well, devouring the meat as if it were the first meal he’d had in weeks.
In silence they polished off the other burgers, completely focused on the chewing and swallowing of the food, not looking up from the plate. Simon felt as if the rest of the world disappeared, and it was just him and the food, but when he swallowed the last bite he saw that they had put on quite a show. Everyone in the garden was watching them, including the waitress, and a couple of the guys from the kitchen had even come out to watch. At first Simon was confused—what was the big deal about two guys eating some meat?—and then it kicked in that to most people two guys wolfing down burgers like they were going to the chair probably seemed pretty weird.
Simon tried to explain the behavior away with a wide smile, as if saying, It’s okay, nothing to see here, it’s all under control.
Yeah, like anyone believed that.
Finally eyes shifted away as people in the garden resumed their conversation and the staff resumed going about their business.
“I should really get going,” Charlie said, tapping the side of his running shorts, realizing he didn’t have his wallet. “Oh, shoot, I left my wallet home, couldn’t run a marathon with it.”
“It’s okay, it’s on me,” Simon said.
“Thanks, bro,” Charlie said.
He came around the table and extended his arms as if about to hug Simon. Simon was anticipating the hug, the security of Charlie’s strong arms around him, pulling him in close.
But then Charlie backed away and said, “Hope to see you soon,” and left without looking back.
NINE
“Did your husband give you any idea where he was going?”
Alison Burns was in the living room on the couch and two cops; one stocky with a receding hairline, Officer Granger, who was asking all of the questions, and a taller, younger officer, Roberts—who barely seemed to be paying attention, chomping on gum—were on chairs across from her. This was the third time the stocky cop had asked her if Simon had told her where he was going, and it was getting pretty annoying.
“I told you,” she said, “I have no idea.”
“Is there someplace he usually goes when you have a fight? A bar? A diner?”
“Maybe the gym. That’s the only place I can think of.”
She’d already given them the address of the New York Sports Club where Simon worked out, but the cops hadn’t seemed very interested.
“Look, honestly, at this point there’s very little we can do, ma’am,” Granger said. “If I were you, I’d call around to some places and see if you can find him, but even if we find him there’s really not much we can do.”
“Can’t you get him help, at least hold him for twenty-four or forty-eight hours, or whatever the law is?”
“Not without just cause. If he’s causing a public disturbance we could take him in, or if you want to file a formal complaint, but do you really want to go down that route? Do you really think you’re in danger?”
“You saw what he did to the bathroom door,” Alison said, “and you should’ve heard him, growling like an animal.”
“I understand, ma’am, but he didn’t actually do anything to you, or to anyone. And you said he’s under the care of a psychiatrist, right?”
“Yeah, but it isn’t helping. He’s crazier than ever.”
“What exactly’s wrong with him? I mean officially. Is he schizophrenic, manic-depressive … ?”
Alison uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. “No, he has a, well, behavioral disorder. Or he might have one anyway.”
“Behavioral disorder? What does that mean? He’s on meds?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been violent before?” Granger asked. “I know you said he’s never hit you or been abusive in any way, but does he have a history of violence in other relationships?”
“No, his problems have been pretty recent.” Alison paused, figuring out how to explain this, then went with, “You see, I think, or we think he has something called lyncanthropic disorder. It’s a condition where a person believes he’s a werewolf.”
This got Officer Roberts’s full attention.
“A werewolf?” Granger said, smirking.
“Yes,” Alison said, ultra serious. “You see, his ex-boss was killed—it was a big story in the news last month—and Simon felt responsible. This is what we believe anyway, and he’s been trying to deal with it in therapy.”
Roberts laughed, then said, “When you think you’re a werewolf it definitely sounds like it’s time for some therapy.”
<
br /> Granger laughed too.
While it annoyed Alison that the cops didn’t seem to be taking this seriously, she understood that, out of context, what she was describing probably sounded pretty bizarre.
“It seemed like he was getting better,” she said. “I mean, he was able to relate to me better, and was starting to have more normal behavior, but this afternoon it was so awful. Just to see him act that way was just so disturbing and terrifying.”
Granger was looking away toward the dining room table, where Alison had left the large knife she’d threatened Simon with.
“Did your husband take that knife out?” Granger asked.
“No.” Alison didn’t want to tell them what she had done, fearing it would make her look like the crazy one, and they’d be less likely to help her. “The knife has nothing to do with it. I was just cutting something, some vegetables, and left it there.” She ignored the cops’ skeptical expressions. “Look, the important thing is I’m afraid, okay? I don’t know who my husband is anymore, or what he’s capable of. And I’m really worried about my son; he was right there when it happened. Can you imagine what it was like for him to hear his father raging like that? Excuse me, one sec.”
Alison went down the hall to Jeremy’s room. He was sitting on his bed, calmly, Indian-style, playing with his Leapster.
“Mommy’s almost done, sweetie, okay?”
Either Jeremy didn’t hear her or he was ignoring her.
“Mommy loves you, sweetie.”
Still no reaction.
Alison left, angry at Simon for putting them through all this—it was so selfish, just so damn selfish—when she saw the officers near the front door about to leave.
“Wait,” she said, “where’re you going?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Granger said, “but we have to go now.”
The “ma’am” talk was getting annoying, especially when he wasn’t being at all helpful.
“But you can’t leave. What if he comes back? What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know, but you might want to reach out to his shrink, see if he has some ideas,” Granger said.
“But I’m really afraid. What if he comes back here raging again?”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Why can’t I get a restraining order or something?”
“If he hasn’t hurt you or threatened you directly, you won’t be able to get an order of protection,” Granger said. “But if he does hurt you or threaten you, call 911.”
“So what’re you saying? I have to wait to get hurt before you’ll do anything?”
“We don’t arrest people for the crimes they might commit,” Granger said. “And I’m afraid growling in the bathroom and pretending to be a werewolf isn’t a crime.”
Roberts was smiling again.
“But he could hurt someone or hurt himself,” Alison said. “He’s unstable.”
“This is New York,” Granger said. “If we arrested unstable people there’d be nobody left. Look, I hope the situation resolves on its own. If it doesn’t, give us a call.”
“Have a great day,” Roberts said, still smirking.
When the officers were gone Alison bolted the door with both locks and put on the chain. This was horrible, feeling threatened by her own husband. And it wasn’t as if she’d married some violent, dangerous guy—or at least he didn’t use to be dangerous. If anything, he used to be on the wimpy side. He used to avoid conflict, had once told her he’d never even been in a fight. Once they had seen a mouse in the apartment and he’d jumped on a chair, terrified. And now this was the man she was afraid of, from whom she felt like she had to protect herself?
She had to get a grip, be logical about all this. Was Simon really a danger to her? Okay, so he’d lost it in the bathroom, acting like an animal, but as Granger had said, he hadn’t actually threatened her or hurt her. He was probably more of a danger to himself right now than to her, Jeremy, or anyone else. Besides, it wasn’t like she was in a horror movie, trapped in a house in a remote location with a crazed killer after her. She was in a luxury co-op apartment building in one of the biggest cities in the world and her husband was having an emotional breakdown. No one was out to get her.
She checked on Jeremy again. He’d stopped playing with his Leapster and was lying on the bed on his back, blank-faced, staring at the ceiling.
“Jeremy, sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Alison realized the ridiculousness of her question. What’s wrong except his father thought he was a werewolf and he’d just seen his mother threaten his father with a knife?
Sitting next to Jeremy, gently moving strands of hair away from his face with her fingers, trying to come up with the words to undo the trauma and make it all better, she said, “Sometimes mommies and daddies fight, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”
But even this seemed hypocritical and fake. Sure, mommies and daddies fight, but what was going on in the household lately was way beyond typical marital fighting.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” she said. “I promise.”
She still felt like a liar. How could she really promise anything? How did she know that things would get better? What if things were as good as they were going to get right now, and there was only more dysfunction and misery in store for them?
Figuring distraction might be a better strategy, Alison played with Jeremy for a while. At first he wasn’t responsive, but he gradually got into it and even laughed a little. Three-year-olds were so resilient; Alison wished she had some more of that quality herself. Though she was trying to hide it the best she could from Jeremy, she was still feeling very emotional about the whole situation and felt as if she’d overreacted. Yes, Simon’s behavior had been disturbing and selfish, but she regretted going for the knife and threatening him the way she had. Jeremy shouldn’t have had to see that, and she might have pushed Simon further over the edge. How could she have done that? Despite all the craziness of the past month, he was still Jeremy’s father, he was still her husband, and she still loved him very much. Bottom line, she wanted Simon back; she didn’t want to push him further away.
She went to her purse, took out her Droid. She was about to call him, to make sure he was okay, when she thought, was calling the right thing to do? What if that just antagonized him even more?
She had a better idea—she’d call his psychiatrist. Dr. Levinson would tell her what to do, and he should probably be informed about what was going on anyway.
Because she’d put Simon in touch with Levinson—she’d called dozens of psychiatrists in the city and he was the only one who’d actually treated a patient with lyncanthropic disorder—she had his number programmed into her cell. She got his voice mail—ughh, that’s right, it was Sunday. But, wait, he had an emergency contact number. This definitely seemed to qualify as an emergency.
She called and heard five or six rings. She was trying to think of the message she would leave when the call connected and he—she recognized his voice—said, “Yes?”
“Hi, Dr. Levinson, this is Alison Burns. My husband is a patient of yours.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?” He sounded almost out of breath.
“Alison. Alison Burns.”
“And what’s this in reference to?”
“My husband, Simon, is a patient of yours. Simon. Simon Burns.”
“Simon?”
“Yes, Simon Burns.” She spelled: “B-U-R-N-S.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have a … Oh, wait, yes, right, I’m sorry. Simon, that’s right. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, though. How’s he doing?”
Within a few seconds Alison went from confused to upset to enraged.
“Hello?” Levinson asked.
“I’m here,” Alison said, fuming. “What do you mean, you haven’t seen him in quite a while? He had an appointment with you a couple of days ago.”
“I think there must be some mistake,” Levinson said. “I haven’t s
een your husband in, let me see, about a month.”
“I see.” Alison’s face was burning.
“I saw him once,” Levinson said, “but then he canceled his next appointment and never showed up again. Why? Did he lead you to believe he was still seeing me?”
Feeling like an idiot, as if she’d been totally duped, she said, “Something like that.”
“And I take it there’s some crisis or you wouldn’t be calling me on my emergency line.”