The Northside Community Center where Council meetings were held was a sprawling complex of red brick buildings whose sole purpose was to provide a contained and safe place for Were families. In addition to a gymnasium and a swimming pool, various craft and hobby rooms, meeting rooms, and large conference areas could serve as venues for Were events and ceremonies.
If a non Furry strayed into the Community Center, they were very politely given a tour and told that memberships were on a waiting list. Of course, no one ever got a phone call saying that they were approved and eventually people gave up.
In the middle of the complex was a circular building set aside for the Were Council. The meeting room was circular as well and it was where I sat listening to Sylvia Elizabeth Hawthorne drone on. She should count her lucky stars that I was biting the inside of my lip and clasping my hands together so tightly beneath the table that I nearly ripped off my own knuckles.
Although Sylvia Elizabeth Hawthorne — the way she introduced herself — wasn’t a member of the Council, she was the Recording Secretary, a job she took very, very seriously.
Evidently, I’d made a typo on my report and she saw it as her duty to point out the error in front of the entire Council. Oh, and she tossed in a lecture on grammar, too.
I think my biggest mistake had been writing and printing out the report without benefit of Sylvia Elizabeth Hawthorne’s assistance. Note to self: don’t do that again, even if it meant having to suck up to her. I inwardly groaned at the thought.
I was an educated woman. I knew the difference between its and it's and there, they’re, and their. Okay, maybe I erred occasionally with lie and lay, but I would never be so tacky as to point out someone's failings in a public forum. Well, not exactly public. The Council was not open to visitors.
“Thank you, Sylvia,” I said, hoping to cut the criticism short and failing.
I didn’t look at the other members as I stood. Sylvia didn’t stop talking.
This was only my third meeting and I was still very conscious of the dynamics of the group. When my father spoke, the other Council members watched him carefully, like staring at him would keep his power in check. I thought they were just a teensy bit afraid of him which both surprised and amused me.
I was the dangerous one.
The other members ignored me. They didn’t acknowledge me. They didn’t talk to me. Right at the moment, however, they were looking smug and amused and it was all because of Sylvia Elizabeth Hawthorne.
My father had asked me to make recommendations about whether the Council makeup should change. In other words, should we have as many women as men?
My report spelled out my advice — take it slow. Integrate one woman at a time. The sad fact was that our culture was paternalistic. Were women behaved like a fifties television show. We waited for the men of the family to come home to make the tough decisions. We ensured that our houses were spotless, that his meals were on time and delicious, and that sex was never refused and sometimes initiated. Men ate before women and — although things had changed in the last three months — some traditional female Furries still walked a few paces behind their mates.
Were women needed to be brought into the 21st century gradually and with great gentleness. Someone had to repeatedly tell them that they would not be punished for having a thought.
It’s not as if they had to remain in a subservient role. I’d broken free. My grandmother had, as well. I knew other women who had, but we were all subjected to an intense scrutiny and an active kind of humming disapproval.
You know when you walked into a room and everyone stopped talking? Or when people didn’t quite meet your eyes? That’s what it was like for a Were woman who hadn’t done what was “expected” of her.
“Thank you,” I said again, hoping Sylvia would finally come to a stopping point. She was into transitive verbs now and I could feel my eyes beginning to glaze over.
The pounding on the double oak doors finally shut Sylvia up. All of us looked in that direction.
Council meetings were considered sacrosanct. No self-respecting Furry would interrupt.
Before Sylvia Elizabeth Hawthorne could make it to the door, it opened to reveal a windswept member of our clan.
I abruptly sat. Evidently, badgering me at work wasn’t enough for the woman.
Doreen Rice was short, what someone might call plump, and reminded me of a pigeon, one of those that strutted toward you with an arrogant glint in its eye. You’d better have some bird food or else.
Her hair was black and cut in a bowl shape. Her brown eyes were narrowed as she took in the semi-circular shaped desk and each one of us in return. As the newest member of the Council, I sat on the end which meant I was closest to Doreen. And the door. The better to run from the room if necessary.
“You can’t grant him the divorce,” she said, moving her gaze to my father. “Michael can’t be allowed to abandon me and Ronald.”
I had to hand it to her. Not many people — and few women — had the courage to glare at Hamish Boyd.
“You can’t allow him to walk away. Ronald needs him.”
Ronald was twenty-three and without any ambition whatsoever other than to bed as many females as possible. I knew this personally because I’d been hit on by the darling boy more than once. Even the fact that I was almost ten years older hadn’t seemed to bother Ronald. Nothing did. He was as laid back as anyone I’d ever met. Plus he had a nose ring.
(I didn’t understand the allure of a nose ring, myself. It reminded me of something a cow wore. It must hurt like hell when he transformed, but I wasn’t going to ask. It wasn’t a good idea to evince any kind of curiosity around Ronald. He saw it as interest which was the last thing I wanted.)
I suspected that my father did a mental double take at the idea of Ronald needing his father, but he didn’t reveal any of his thoughts. He was like that.
Hamish Boyd was tall and commanding with a shock of white hair, a square face and direct blue eyes. When I was a little girl I used to think he was Optimus Prime. Except that he transformed into a wolf once a month — or whenever it suited him.
“It isn’t fair,” Doreen said, her voice rising to a near shout. “The least he could do is offer his family a little loyalty.”
Michael Rice had met a lovely young Furry who’d just graduated from UTSA. It had been, according to Michael, love at first sight.
I didn’t know what it was with men, whether they were Were or a human male. Somewhere along the line they looked in the mirror and noticed that they were getting older. You could almost see their feet skidding to a stop. They started doing things like using Rogaine and dyeing their temples, working out, and trying to capture their youthful vigor by taking a little blue pill.
Had that been the case with my father? To this day I don’t know why he felt the need to have two concubines. My mother was a beautiful woman with a great figure. Maybe they had philosophical differences. Who knows? It was a subject I’d never broached with either of them.
Doreen’s voice had been rising over the past few minutes which was a tactical error. My father didn’t like being screamed at. As the head of the Council he could summon the Sergeant at Arms and have Doreen carried from the room if that’s what it took. Or he could do it himself.
I was almost wishing he would.
Instead, he said in a voice that was kinder than she deserved, “State your case, Doreen.”
She caught herself mid-complaint and looked at him in surprise.
“You must have your reasons for not wanting this divorce. State them.”
I wanted to warn her that when my father commanded you in that voice he wasn’t messing around. I knew because I’d probably pushed his buttons more than any other living creature. As I’d grown older, however, I’d developed good survival instincts and knew when to avoid certain situations. And when to shut up.
I wouldn’t have been in Doreen’s shoes for anything.
“He’s my husband,” she said, her voice halting. She wrapped her arms around her waist, staring up at him in defiance. Or what would have been defiance if she hadn’t started to cry.
The desk where the Council members sat was on a dais which meant that we were seated above her, making her look even smaller in comparison. Doreen may have annoyed me, but I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. I wanted to go to her and give her a hug, gently escort her from the room, hand her a tissue or ten, and get her a big cup of tea.
Instead, I was forced to sit and watch the woman try to frame the words to save her marriage.
“He’s my husband,” she repeated, her voice tremulous. “We’ve been married twenty-five years. He has no right to give that up and begin another life.”
“He has every right,” my father said. “Especially given your behavior of late.”
Doreen looked up at him, eyes widening.
“Is it true that you’ve refused your husband your bed?” he asked.
“He snores.”
My father didn’t comment.
“Did you refuse to run with him in the Hunt?”
She looked away. He didn’t say a word, waiting for her answer.
“Yes,” she finally said. “He gets too uncontrollable afterward.”
Since I’d had that problem with a male companion at times, I understood exactly what she was saying. However, she was married to the man and while marriage conveyed protection in the Were community it also required some degree of participation.
Doreen wasn’t doing herself any favors right now. But at least she was being honest. Lying to my father was never a good idea.
“Did you open a separate checking and savings account? And make your son co-signer?”
Setting up a son over his father was a definite no no and the reason I thought the divorce would be approved. A male offspring could challenge his father for dominance. The woman fomenting that sort of behavior was wolfie non grata in the Were community.
“I don’t see why that makes any difference,” she said. “He’s still my husband. He can’t just start setting up house with a woman only a few years older than Ronald.”
There was that, too. The least Michael could have done was select a woman who wasn’t quite as attractive or nubile. I doubted, however, that my opinion was shared by the other members of the Council.
The sound of thunder was eerily appropriate as Doreen stood there staring at my father. I couldn’t help but wonder if he had a sound making machine in the back. He had a talent for dramatic moments. He often came into a gathering last and stood in the doorway until everyone realized he was there. Conversation would fade as they turned to watch him. Only then would he make his entrance. His experience as an attorney, especially one who appeared before a jury quite often, had made him an eloquent speaker as well.
He was pausing for dramatic effect right at the moment.
I started doodling on my itinerary. The way this was going we wouldn’t get out of here until midnight. I looked forward to going home and greeting the Brood. The aspirin I’d taken during the day had helped with the soreness in my back, but I still wanted a hot bath and to collapse in my comfy bed.
We should be almost finished with the next item on the itinerary — Visitor Approval — but Doreen had messed up the schedule.
I fervently hoped that we wouldn’t have a parade of people through here tonight.
When a member of one of the other five clans moved into our area, they were required to come before the Council and apply for what amounted to a visa. We wanted to know who was in our territory.
Strangers were given a specific time to either assimilate and ask for membership in the clan or remain aloof, becoming peregrinus, which meant stranger from afar. I only knew two families, both from the Russian clan, who had chosen to remain peregrinus.
My father leaned back in the oversized leather chair. It wouldn’t dare squeak. He folded his arms, looked down at Doreen, and made a pronouncement in a stentorian voice.
“Marriage is a sacred institution in our culture, Doreen. You have not treated it so. A wife is to cleave unto her husband. A husband is to offer his wife respect and honor.”
I was concentrating on my doodle, a selection of circles within circles. If I looked up, I was afraid I might give away my thoughts. My father had two concubines and he was lecturing Doreen on the sanctity of marriage? Excuse me?
“We will take your words under consideration, just as we have taken your husband’s. When we have made our decision, you will be informed.”
I, for one, hoped it was soon. Otherwise, Doreen would continue to be a PITA.
Sylvia Elizabeth Hawthorne, who’d blessedly retreated to the background in the past few minutes, came forward and accompanied Doreen to the door, an action that was done with a minimum of fuss and a surprising absence of hysteria.
I was beginning to feel a little draggy. I might be a special Furry and all that, but I still got tired.
The door opened and he walked in, the last person I expected to see. Mark Avery. Someone I once thought could be the yin to my yang, the salt to my pepper and all that.
I was suddenly not tired anymore. I was feeling very alert and very Pranic, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing for Mark.