WOLFMAN AND JANICE 
“You through?” she asked him.
Sitting very straight, his face raised to the full moon, Frank held up a furry finger meaning not quite.
She sighed.
He gripped his knees and howled some more.
They were sitting at opposite ends of an iron patio bench, Janice in her pink terry cloth robe and slippers, a magazine open in her lap, Frank still in his shirt and tie, his face and hands and bare feet covered in thick brown fur. His right ankle was shackled and attached by a chain to a leg of the bench, with a few feet of slack. A putter and several golf balls lay close at hand.
When Frank was finally through howling he sat back, spent. “There,” he said.
“Is it absolutely necessary to be quite so loud?” she asked.
He looked at her. “You trying to be funny?”
“No, Frank,” she told him wearily. “Believe me.”
“It’s not something I can control. It’s a . . . what’s the word . . . when you can’t control something you do.”
“‘Weakness.’”
“No, come on, what is it, it’s a . . . it’s a . . .” He held his head in both hands. “I can’t think when I’m like this.”
“‘Compulsion,’” she told him.
He pointed at her. “Exactly. It’s a compulsion. You know what a compulsion is, Jan?”
“I just gave you the word.”
“All right, then.”
“All I’m asking, could you possibly lower the volume a little.”
“Howl quietly, you mean?” He whispered, “Owooo.”
She sat there looking at him. “Don’t be a wiseass, Frank. On top of everything else, don’t be a wiseass.”
“I’m saying I can’t help it.”
“Being a wiseass?”
“Howling loud.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She returned to her magazine. “I don’t have to like it.”
“Hey.” He leaned toward her along the bench, jabbing at his chest. “You think I like this? Any of this? You think I’m having a good time here, Jan?”
“You’re spitting on me.”
He drew back, apologizing, and wiped his mouth with his necktie.
She explained to him, “The only reason I mention the volume, Mrs. Krapilowski heard you last night.”
“Thought she was supposed to be so deaf.”
“She got her hearing aid adjusted. She was telling me all about it.”
“What’d she say?”
“About the howling, Jan. What’d she say about the howling?”
“She wanted to know if we’d gotten a dog.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her yes, as a matter of fact we had, a very large one.”
“You’re kidding.”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘No, Mrs. K, that was just my husband, that was just Frank.’”
“Tell her to mind her own goddamn business.”
“You tell her.”
“I will,” he said, giving his ankle a yank. “Let me out of this and I’ll go over there right now.”
“All right, take it easy.”
“You think I’m kidding? Unlock this thing and watch me.”
“You’re getting worked up, Frank,” she warned.
“She doesn’t scare me.”
“I should hope not, the woman’s eighty-two years old.”
“I don’t care, I’ll go over there right now and kick her ass.”
“All right, easy, big fella.”
“I’ll crush . . . her fucking . . . skull.”
Janice got to her feet and pointed down at him: “Stop it, Frank. Right now. You can stop.”
He sat there breathing hard.
“Settle down,” she commanded.
His breathing began to taper off.
“Look at me, Frank. Look at me.”
“Quit bossing, will you?”
“You okay now?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said irritably.
She remained standing there. “Would you like me to bring the little TV out? Do you want to watch some television?”
“No. Sit down, Jan. Please,” he added.
She sat and began rummaging through a large straw bag at her feet. “I’ve got your Golfer’s Digest.” She pulled out a small magazine. “You want it?”
“Is that the July issue?”
She scanned the cover. “Uhhhh, yes.”
“Already read it.”
She put it back and pulled out a stack of large Dixie cups. “Need to pee?”
“No. Listen, I’m fine, Jan.” He reached down for the putter near his feet and stood up with it. “Really. I’m fine.”
“All right, then.” She reopened her magazine and looked for her place.
Frank set up a ball and putted toward the mouth of a Dixie cup at the other end of the patio. “Get in there,” he told the ball, but it veered off. He nudged another one in place. “What’re you reading?”
“Article.”
“‘Why Men Are Such Stupid, Brutal Slobs and Women So Intelligent, Loving, and Kind.’”
“It’s a gardening magazine.”
“‘Why Men Are Such Lousy Gardeners and Women So—’”
“Frank?”
He putted, watched it, and shook his head. “Pathetic.” He set the putter against the bench and sat down heavily. “Absolutely pathetic.”
“This isn’t a very good surface,” she offered.
“That’s not it. But thank you,” he added. He sat there gazing at the moon.
She went on reading.
After a while he gave a quiet chuckle.
She looked at him. “What.”
“Told her we got a dog, huh?”
She smiled. “A big’n’.”
“A goddamn wolfhound.”
They laughed together.
He was still laughing while she sat there looking down at her hands. “Frank?” she said when he was through.
“Yeah?”
“Mrs. Krapilowski also wanted to know if we’d seen her cat anywhere.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Remember her cat? Billy Boy? Apparently he’s been missing. For a while now.”
“And she’s wondering if our new dog ate him?”
She looked at him. “Did you?”
“Jesus Christ, Jan.”
“Did you, Frank?”
“In the first place, how could I? When? You’ve been with me every time, right here.”
“Not that first time. I wasn’t with you then. You were on your own all night.”
He looked off.
She waited.
“How long’s the thing been missing?” he asked.
“About three months,” she told him, significantly.
“Yeah, well . . . so what if I did?”
“Aw, nice going, Frank,” she said with disgust.
He turned to her. “You never even liked that cat. He used to crap on your geraniums.”
“That doesn’t make it okay to eat him, for God’s sake.”
“I didn’t say I did. I don’t know what the hell I did that night.” He looked off again. “The last thing I remember, I was doing the dishes. That’s the very last thing I remember, washing the dishes.”
“Frank, we’ve been over this. I was washing, you were drying.”
“Whatever.”
“Then all of a sudden—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“—you flung the salad bowl against the wall, turned into a werewolf, and ran out of the house. I didn’t see you again until morning.”
He stared into the distance. “I remember running. I do remember that. Running through the dark, from yard to yard . . .”
“By the way, do you happen to know how old that bowl was?”
“Swinging myself over fences . . .”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Leaping over lawn chairs . . .”
“Frank.”
He snapped out of it. “What.”
“I’m saying, that bowl you broke?”
“You already told me. It belonged to your grandmother.”
“My great-grandmother. That bowl had been in our family for over a hundred—”
“Well I’m sorry, Jan, y’know? But I can hardly be held accountable for—”
“Wait a minute, now,” she told him, a finger in the air. “First you threw the bowl. That was Frank. Then you turned into a werewolf. So don’t try your ‘compulsion’ defense on me.”
“Okay, so why did I throw the bowl? Answer me that.”
“I have no idea. You were putting it in the wrong cabinet—it goes in the cabinet with the punch bowl and the colander and you were putting it in with the little bowls. I happened to point it out to you, and that was it—there goes the bowl, there goes Frank.”
“I can imagine how you ‘pointed it out’ to me.”
She nodded at him. “Right. I see. So this is all my fault.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you think, isn’t it. My constant bitchiness finally awakened the werewolf within. Well, I’m sorry, Frank, but I’m not taking the rap for this.”
“Nobody’s asking you to.”
“No way, mister.” She turned away, shaking her head.
“Jan . . .”
“I know I tend to be somewhat assertive—okay, bossy.” She angrily flicked away a tear. “I’m aware of that,” she said. “But dammit, somebody has to take charge. Somebody has to say, ‘This is the correct way to do things.’ We don’t, for example, put the big salad bowl in with the little salad bowls. Yes, it’s a salad bowl but it belongs with the other big items: the mixing bowl, the punch bowl, the colander. Things go in their place.” She looked at him. “Otherwise, do you know what we have? What we end up with, Frank?”
He threw back his head and howled.
She nodded. “Exactly.”
“Owoooooo!” he cried again.
She returned to her magazine, a hand over her Frank-side ear.
“Ow-ow-owoooooo!” he added.
When he was finally through he sat back, catching his breath.
Janice touched a finger to her tongue and turned a page.
“This the new dog?” asked Mrs. Krapilowski.
“Mrs. K!” said Janice, springing to her feet, spilling her magazine.
The small old woman was standing at the edge of the patio in her nightgown, leaning on her cane with both hands. “I like the beard. My late husband tried growing one but it came in all patchy. He looked like a bum, which of course he was. Yours is nice and full, though.”
Frank vaguely touched his face. “Thank you.”
“I would shave the forehead, though,” she added, hobbling up. “So. What’s all the howling about? Hm?”
Janice said, “The thing is, Mrs. K . . .”
Frank said, “I was just . . . you know . . .”
“Howling, right. My late husband used to howl quite a lot—in fact whenever he was drunk, which was most of the time—but in the house, with the windows closed. We didn’t want to disturb the neighbors, you see. We were concerned about that. I was, anyway. I didn’t feel we had the right to be keeping people awake with our noise. I realized how inconsiderate that would be.”
“It’s not that simple, Mrs. K,” Janice told her.
“Oh, I know that, dear. Those were simpler times, we were simpler people, with simpler values—respect for the rights of others, for example. Quaint, old-fashioned notions like that.”
“Mrs. K, Frank is a werewolf.”
“I sympathize. My late husband was frequently a monster. But do you see the point I’m trying to make here? I think you’re both very nice people, I really do, and I’m awfully sorry about your marital problems—I often wanted to chain my husband up . . .” She paused, turning slowly to Frank. “By the way,” she said, “did you eat my cat?”
Frank looked over at Janice.
“Don’t look at her, I’m talking to you. Did you eat my Billy Boy?”
“Not . . . as far as I know.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He doesn’t remember, Mrs. K.”
“He doesn’t remember if he ate a cat? An entire cat?” She studied Frank, who sat with his head hung. “What’re we dealing with here?”
“A werewolf, Mrs. K, and he really doesn’t remember.”
Mrs. Krapilowski nodded at him knowingly. “My late husband used to use that one, too.” She spread her arms and spoke in a whiny voice: “‘How can I be blamed for something I don’t even remember doing?’” She dropped her arms. “I used to tell him, ‘Well, I remember, sweetheart, every detail,’ and I still remember. He was a worthless drunk, a sadistic sonofabitch, and a lousy lay. But after he finally died I found myself a true companion, a trustworthy friend, a comfort in my twilight years.” Approaching Frank, she spoke to his bowed head: “My own . . . dear . . . delightful . . . Billy Boy.”
“Stay out of this.” She poked him in the arm with her cane. “So, how was he? Nice and plump, huh? How’d he taste? And don’t say ‘Like chicken’ or I’ll beat you right across your ugly, stinking—”
“Stop it. Leave him be.”
Mrs. Krapilowski pointed her cane at Janice: “Shut the hell up or you’ll get the same, girlie.”
With a horrible growl Frank sprang from the bench onto all fours.
“Frank, no!” Janice shouted.
He was about to take a bite out of Mrs. Krapilowski’s ankle but the old woman smacked him on the head with her cane. “Get away, get away,” she told him, stepping backward as he crawled after her.
“Frank, don’t, please,” Janice begged.
He crawled as far as the chain allowed and swiped at the old woman, left and right.
Mrs. Krapilowski, out of his reach, shouted at Janice, “I want him put down! He ate my Billy Boy and he tried to eat me and I want him destroyed!”
“He can’t help himself, Mrs. K, it’s a—”
“‘Compulsion,’ right,” she said, sneeringly. “That was my late husband’s favorite one.” She did his whiny voice again: “‘I can’t help myself!’ Yeah, bullshit. Now listen to me, both of you. I want quiet. I want peace and quiet. I’m eighty-two years old,” she explained, with growing self-pity, “and I’m all alone—thanks to Dogboy here—and all I’m asking, all I would like, is to be allowed to sleep at night. Is that really so much to ask? I put it to you, is that really so terribly much?”
“We’ll keep it down, Mrs. K,” Janice told her. “I promise.”
“You do that, dearie. Muzzle him, drug him, I don’t care, whatever it takes—or I’m calling the dogcatcher.”
Frank growled at her.
“Want some more of this?” she asked him, holding the cane near his face. He swiped at it but she lifted it away, saying, “Ha,” and went hobbling off.
“Goodnight, Mrs. K,” Janice called out.
“We’ll see,” Mrs. Krapilowski called back.
Frank, still on all fours, was growling after her, straining at his chain.
Janice stayed where she was: “Okay, Frank. It’s okay now. She’s gone. Let her go. Just let her go.”
But he continued growling, deep in the werewolf state now.
She stepped closer, carefully. “Frank, listen to me. Are you listening?”
His growling dropped down a notch.
She knelt close to him, sitting on her heels, hands clenched in her lap. “You are not an animal,” she told him in a loud voice. “Do you hear me? Do you understand? You are Frank Peterson, of the law firm Hopper, Atwell, and Peterson. You enjoy barbecuing. You have a beautiful house and a lovely wife. You’re a marvelous golfer. You drive a Lexus. You’re a Libra. You tend to put things in the wrong place. You’re afraid of flying. You’re afraid of Ronald McDonald. And you are very afraid of the dark.”
He was quiet by now, though still looking off in the direction Mrs. Krapilowski had gone.
“You’re Frank,” she said, and helped him to his feet. “You’re Frank,” she repeated, returning him to the bench. They sat down at his end, close to one another. Frank stared at her. She placed her hand on his furry cheek. “You’re my husband,” she said. They sat there looking into one another’s eyes.
Frank finally spoke: “You really think I’m a marvelous golfer?”
Janice sighed, dropping her hand. She got up heavily and returned to her end of the bench.
“No?” he said, watching her. “You were just saying that?”
She picked up her magazine.
He looked around. “Where’s Mrs. K? What happened? Where’d she go?”
“Back to bed.” She opened her magazine and began flipping through it indifferently.
Frank sat there staring off. “Y’know . . . I could be a marvelous golfer—well, maybe not marvelous but pretty damn decent—if I could just get my putting game down. I’ll make a fantastic drive, an exquisite approach shot, I’m on the green in two, and then I’ll three-putt.” He shook his head. “Drives me nuts.”
Janice quit turning pages and began slowly raising her face to the moon.
“There’s an excellent piece in the Digest this month,” Frank went on, “all about putting. I like what he says, especially this one part . . .”
Janice sat there gazing at the moon with sorrowful longing, sighing deeply.
Frank got to his feet with the putter and nudged a ball into place: “How did he put it? Something like, ‘As you’re about to putt, imagine a current running from your hands down the shaft to the ball, and from the ball to the hole, its inevitable destination.’ I like that: ‘Its inevitable destination.’” He carefully drew back the putter.
Janice began howling.
Afterward they sat back, limp, utterly spent.
“That,” he said, “was absolutely . . .”
“Wonderful,” she said, taking his hand without looking.
“The way you were harmonizing, Jan—where’d you ever learn that?”
She shook her head. “It just came out.”
“We were doing a damn duet together.”
“I feel so relaxed.”
They sat there holding hands, enjoying the moon.
“Beautiful-looking thing,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“Like a pearl.”
“Or one of those giant cheese wheels.”
“Swiss.”
He smiled. “Right.”
“That would be nice right now,” she said, “wouldn’t it? With some rye crackers?”
“And black olives,” he suggested.
“And a nice, freshly dead animal,” she added.
“There you go.”
“Still warm.”
“Now you’re talking.”
They sat there, famished.
“Maybe Mrs. K will come back,” he offered.
“That would be nice,” she agreed, and looked at him. “But what are you going to eat?”
They howled with laughter.