by Brian Olsen
“What a delicious tart,” Alan recited. “I’d like a bite of that.”
“How dare you, Reverend,” Caitlin replied. “I’m not that kind of...shit!”
“Girl,” Alan corrected.
“We missed our stop!” Caitlin wailed. The doors had just closed, and she could see the West Fourth Street station moving past them through the windows.
“It’s okay,” Alan said soothingly. “Fourteenth Street and Eighth Avenue is the next stop. We’ll get off there, you can switch to the L train to Sixth. You’ll be even closer.”
Caitlin’s play was rehearsing and performing at a small venue on West Thirteenth Street near the corner of Sixth Avenue in the Village. The train was now headed further west, away from where she needed to be.
“I guess,” she said anxiously. “As long as I don’t have to wait for it long. What about you? Are you going to be late?”
“I’ve got plenty of time,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”
She stowed her script back in her bag and watched the tunnel walls zoom past through the window. Finally the train pulled into the Fourteenth Street station and slowed to a stop. The doors opened and the moving crowd of exiting passengers pulled her along. In the doorway she got knocked back by a woman fighting her way on to the train.
“Wait for everyone to get off first!” Caitlin shouted.
She pushed her way clear of the crowd to the middle of the platform, and turned to wait for Alan.
“I’m not going to wait for the L,” she said as he caught up with her. “I don’t want to risk it, I’m going to power-walk.”
“Okay,” he said. He was struggling with the zipper to his coat. “Let me just get this before we go outside.”
The crowd thinned out as Alan wrestled with his jacket.
“Oh, for...” Caitlin said. “You are helpless. Gimme.”
“It sticks!” he protested.
She shooed his hands away and did up his coat.
“Can we go now?” she asked.
They made their way up the stairs to the main level of the station, then headed towards the staircase leading up to Fourteenth Street. As they started up the steps, Caitlin felt a buzz from the pocket of her jeans.
“Text,” she said to Alan, who was engrossed in his zipper, which had gotten stuck again.
They kept walking up the stairs as she pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the screen. There was a text message from Aasim, the show’s assistant stage manager, telling her that rehearsal would be delayed because the director was running late.
She tripped on a step and fell forward, catching herself with her hands. The phone clattered to the ground.
“Shit!” she cried.
“Ouch!” Alan said. He had tripped at the same time, and had banged his knee on the hard steps. “If we’re going to climb stairs together at least one of us needs to be looking where we’re going. Ooh, that smarts. How’s your phone?”
She picked it up. “Undamaged. That’s a relief. I can’t afford a new one right now. You okay?”
He was rubbing his knee. “Yeah, a little sore but it’s fine.”
She put her phone away and they continued up the stairs. They arrived on the street and looked around in confusion. There was something wrong with the buildings surrounding them.
“This...” Caitlin started. “Wait.”
“Did we...?” Alan trailed off. “This isn’t Eighth Avenue.”
Cars and pedestrians passed them by, oblivious to the duo’s confusion. Caitlin looked behind her, at the subway sign above the entrance to the stairs, then up at the street signs hanging over the busy intersection.
“This is the F train,” she said. “We’re at Fourteenth and Sixth Avenue, not Eighth.”
“How...no,” Alan said. “We were on the A.”
“Maybe it switched tracks at West Fourth Street?” Caitlin suggested.
“I guess...” he replied, unsure. “I was pretty sure that was the Eighth Avenue station we got off at, but...I must have been wrong.”
Caitlin was unsure as well. The two station platforms didn’t look much like each other. She was having a hard time imagining how they had mistaken one for the other – but she couldn’t think of any other explanation.
“Well, it’s cold,” she said. “Let’s walk. We can figure this out later. At least I’m closer to the theater. Which way are you going?”
Alan looked around him. “I’m so disorientated. Uh...I’ll walk the block with you and then cut over west, I guess. I’m farther away now, but I’ve still got time.”
They started walking south. A wind roared up Sixth Avenue, and Caitlin burrowed deeper into her heavy winter coat to protect herself from the icy blast.
Halfway down the block, Alan slowed to a stop. They were just outside another entrance to the subway, and a young boy was leaning up against the wall. His back was to them, but Caitlin guessed from his height he was young, maybe twelve or thirteen. He was black, with hair died a bright blue. He was dressed poorly for the weather – jeans and a denim jacket, both torn and threadbare. A plain black t-shirt showed through a large hole in the back of the coat. He was missing a sneaker.
The boy was breathing heavily. He seemed sick. Caitlin would have walked right by without even noticing him. Life in the city.
“Hey,” Alan said. “You okay?”
The boy’s only response was to flinch away from the sound, pressing himself closer to the wall.
“Is he all right?”
Caitlin turned at the sound of the voice. A middle-aged woman wearing a fur coat had been about to go past them to the subway when she spotted the boy. A man of about the same age stopped when she stopped, looking at his watch impatiently.
“I don’t know,” Caitlin said softly. “We only just saw him.”
“You all right, sweetie?” the woman asked.
“We’re going to be late,” the man said to her.
“Just a minute,” the woman said. Cautiously, she approached the boy. “Are you feeling sick? Do you need a doctor?” She rested a gloved hand lightly on his shoulder.
The boy whipped his head around and bit down hard on her forearm.
The woman screamed in agony. She tore herself away from the boy. Her fur coat ripped and a bloody chunk of her arm fell from his mouth to the ground. The man rushed to catch her as her legs gave out.
As the boy stood facing them, all four got a good look at him for the first time. The woman screamed again, in horror this time rather than pain. Alan cried out in shock.
The boy’s face was twisted, as if it were a wet painting that someone had smeared. His eyes were a cold gray. His nose and upper lip ran together, and the whole lower half of his face protruded out a couple of inches. Sharp teeth dripped with the woman’s blood. Mottled patches of fur grew irregularly on his face, neck and hands. His right wrist split into two appendages – his hand, and below it what looked like a dog’s paw, dangling dead and useless.
The boy bared his teeth in a growl, then leaped at the woman who had tried to help him. Before he could get his teeth around her throat, Caitlin grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him away from his terrified victim. He was strong but small, and she was able to throw him into the wall he had been cowering against a moment before.
The boy regained his balance and then launched himself at Caitlin. She was ready, and punched him square in the face. Her comfy mitten dulled the impact somewhat, but it was enough to send the boy reeling. He whimpered, then ran off towards Fourteenth Street. The crowd of spectators that had gathered scattered out of his way.
“What was that?” the woman screamed, holding her wounded arm tight against her body, matting her fur coat with blood. “Did you see that? What was wrong with him?”
“It was a deranged hobo child!” the man screamed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “No more helping people! I’m calling the police!”
“Ask for an ambulance first,” Caitlin said.
; “No,” the woman said, “I don’t want to wait here, it might come back. Taxi! Taxi!”
A taxi stopped in response to the one good arm she had used to beckon it. She opened the door and allowed Alan to help her inside.
“Beth Israel, please!” she said.
“Don’t bleed on my seat!” the driver cried out as she closed the door.
“Hello, yes, my wife has been attacked by a homeless person!” the man yelled into his phone as he followed the woman into the cab. He slammed the door shut behind him and the cab zoomed away.
“Huh,” Alan said.
Around them, everything had returned to normal, just another weekday afternoon on Sixth Avenue. Those who had witnessed the strange encounter had continued on their way.
Caitlin’s blood was pounding in her ears. She felt lightheaded, and leaned against the wall for support.
Alan rushed to her side. “Are you all right? Did he get you?”
“No,” she said, grasping his hand. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m just...I haven’t been in a real fight since...”
“Sit down,” Alan commanded.
Caitlin slid until she was sitting on the cold sidewalk. She leaned her back against the building and took a few deep breaths. Her racing heartbeat slowed.
“Better?” Alan asked.
“Better,” she said. “Colder, but better. Sorry.”
“For what?” he asked. “You kicked his ass. Saved that woman.”
“And then had a panic attack. Some action hero I am. Should we do something?”
“Like what?” Alan asked.
“I don’t know. Go after him? Find out what’s wrong with him?”
“That guy’s already calling the police,” he pointed out. “Let them handle it. There’s no grand evil scheme for us to foil this time, just a disfigured kid and some good old fashioned New York City street crime.”
“I guess,” Caitlin said, though she still felt unsettled. What kind of disfigurement could have caused a dog’s paw to grow directly out of the underside of the boy’s wrist?
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you to the theater.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s right around the corner. I don’t want you to be late.”
Alan hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you if you’re...”
“I’m fine,” she said. “The adrenaline’s wearing off. Go save the world.”
“I’ll do my best. Call me if you need me.”
She waved goodbye as he darted across Sixth Avenue, then turned and continued on her way. She turned onto West Thirteenth Street and arrived at last at The Amanda Dillon Theater.
The Dillon was both an old and a new off-off-Broadway venue. The space had been a theater for decades but it had been abandoned since at least before Caitlin had moved to New York four-and-a-half years ago. Some time the previous summer the building was purchased and the new owner renovated, renamed, and reopened the theater. It was a rental space – the Dillon’s staff didn’t produce any shows themselves, but all companies performing there had to be approved by the owner and artistic director, Lidia Piotrowski.
Caitlin opened the door to the building and stepped into the welcoming warmth. She instantly felt at ease. The room felt more like the parlor of a family home than a lobby. The small desk in front of her was the only indication that this was a theater – it was used as the box office on show days, though now it was covered in promotional postcards for other shows in different theaters. A set of stairs next to the desk, against the wall, led up to Lidia’s apartment, off limits to everyone else. On the other side of the desk, comfortable old chairs and a couch were set in a circle around a battered coffee table. Behind the couch was a large window looking out onto the street. A faux-fireplace – at least, Caitlin assumed it was faux as she had never seen it lit – was set into the wall opposite the stairs, and hanging above it was a large portrait of the theater’s namesake, Amanda Dillon.
Lidia was seated on the couch in the lobby, holding an ice pack to her head. Her kindly face was heavily lined and topped with long white hair done up in a neat bun. Her deep-set brown eyes usually twinkled with a youthful enthusiasm that belied her sixty-plus years, but now they were filled with worry. Lidia winced with pain as she readjusted the ice pack.
“Lidia! Are you okay?” Caitlin said, rushing to her side. “What happened?”
“Caitlin, hello, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said in her slight Polish accent. “I fell, that’s all.”
“Almost took the door with her.”
The gravelly voice came from the far side of the room. Caitlin turned to see Brennan McAuley, the theater’s resident technical director and building superintendent. He had his tools out and was fixing the lock on the door to the basement. McAuley – nobody called him Brennan – was in his thirties, round-faced with rust-colored hair. He was tall and solidly built and looked like he had finished a bar fight or three in his day. A lot of Caitlin’s castmates, particularly the boys, thought McAuley was hot, in a dangerous kind of way, but Caitlin found him off-putting. He didn’t seem like much of a theater person, and he was always lurking around Lidia.
“I was coming up from the basement, up the steps,” Lidia explained. “I grabbed the handle and got dizzy. It came loose and I hit my head on the floor.”
“Lucky she didn’t fall down the stairs,” McAuley said.
“Let me see it,” Caitlin said, reaching for the ice pack.
“Don’t fuss, dear, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Lidia replied, waving Caitlin away. She put the ice pack down on the coffee table. “See? Barely a bruise.”
Caitlin squinted. “Hmm. You’ve got a nasty bump but I guess you’ll live. Do you get these spells a lot?”
“No, no, I didn’t eat lunch today,” Lidia said. She sounded irritated. “Leave it be.”
She turned away from Caitlin and looked behind her, out of the large front window. She turned her head, looking up and down the street.
Caitlin heard a buzz. McAuley pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.
“We’re good, Professor,” he said to Lidia. “Everything’s taken care of.”
Lidia turned back from the window. “Oh, oh, that’s good,” she said, visibly relaxing. “That’s good.”
McAuley met Caitlin’s inquisitive glance.
“The door, I mean,” he said, putting his phone away. He jiggled the handle, then pushed it closed. There was a click of the lock catching. “Good as new.”
Before Caitlin could ask anything else, a young woman strolled into the lobby through the black curtain covering the hallway that led to the theater.
“You made it!” said the new arrival. “Just in time to hurry up and wait.”
“I didn’t think I’d get here at all,” Caitlin replied. “I had the craziest commute today.”
Tamsin Walker was one of the first friends Caitlin had made in New York. They bore an uncanny resemblance to each other – both with the same blonde hair and blue eyes, both pale, both the same height, and there was even a similarity in their features. When Caitlin first moved to the city and started going on auditions, she would see Tamsin constantly, always going up for the same parts. After one particularly grueling audition involving an hour of terrible improvisation where the director made them embody various elements – “You’re fire! Now you’re water! Now you’re strontium!” – they had commiserated with a drink and quickly hit it off.
The Wrong Tart was the first show Caitlin and Tamsin had ever done together. For once, their similarities had worked in their favor and they had been cast as the identical twin sisters, Ginny and Jeannie.
Tamsin sat down in a chair opposite Caitlin and Lidia. “What happened? We’ve got time, everyone’s just farting around in there waiting for Bebe.”
“Well, the A train was unusually hellish, but that was the least stressful part of my day,” Caitlin replied. “I got attacked by some kid, right around the corner from here.”
Lidia gasped. “Oh, oh my,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she said. “A little shaky, but fine. He bit some woman on the arm pretty bad, though.”
Lidia put her hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. She was about to speak again when McAuley cut her off.
“I gotta make a phone call, Professor,” he said. “You’re good up here?”
“What? Yes, yes, I’m fine, Mister McAuley, thank you.”
With one last wary look at Lidia, McAuley disappeared down the steps to the cellar, pulling the door closed behind him.
“You were saying, Caitlin?” Lidia prompted her.
“Did you say the kid bit a woman?” Tamsin asked. “Like, with his mouth?”
“Right on the arm. I was with Alan. He’s my roommate,” she added for Lidia’s benefit. “We were walking here and saw this kid leaning against the wall next to the entrance to the train. He looked sick. Alan and this random woman tried to help him, and he attacked her. Bit her, then went for her throat. I socked him in the jaw and he ran off.”
“You hit him?” Tamsin said in amazement. “You’re such a superhero!”
“I feel bad about it, now,” Caitlin replied. “He looked more scared than angry. I think he was really sick. His face was all messed up.”
“In what way?” Lidia asked intently.
“His features were all sort of...off-kilter,” she said. “And he had patches of fur, and big sharp teeth.”
“Oh my god, he’s a werewolf,” Tamsin said. “You fought off a werewolf. That lady he bit is a werewolf now.”
“It’s a little bright out for werewolves,” Caitlin pointed out. “It was scary, though.”
“And you’re sure you’re all right?” Lidia asked. “He didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m fine, not a scratch,” she said. “I’m sure the woman he bit will be fine, too. Took a good chunk out of her arm but she’s at the hospital by now.”
Lidia sat back in the couch. “Oh, that’s a relief,” she said. She patted Caitlin’s knee. “I’ve become very fond of you girls.”