Dad, of course, wasn’t home. During July and August my dad picked up lots of overtime from the swing shift guys. During those months my mom tended to move around the house like a woman half awake. When I finally made it downstairs there was a glass of Sprite over ice at my place at the table. My mom came from the kitchen carrying a glass of white wine for herself and a plate of salmon loaf and steamed broccoli for me. She sat at her place at the table and didn’t eat. Just sat there sipping her wine.
“I read up on that Weyer guy,” I said.
She took a long sip from her glass and made a noncommittal sound of encouragement.
“He was pretty brave to go against the Church like that, all those things he said about witches really being women suffering from a mental condition. Seems to me he was pretty far ahead of his time, sort of like a Sir Isaac Newton or a Charles Darwin nobody else has ever heard of. I can see why you admire him.”
Another sip.
Only then did she seem to remember herself and put the glass down.
She straightened her napkin in her lap and smiled at me. “Yes, he was a very brave man, a real pioneer in mental health.”
“The encyclopedia said he said witches suffered from melancholy. I thought that meant being sad.”
“It meant all kinds of things back then,” she said languidly, and took a long drink of her wine, nearly draining it.
“I heard the phone ring earlier,” I said. “Was that Dad?”
She nodded. She looked unhappy, like she’d just tasted something bitter.
“Is everything all right?”
She stood up suddenly and went into the kitchen, standing at the sink with her back to me. I heard her sniffling as she poured herself another glass of wine.
“Mom?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Your dad’s going to be working a double tonight. He’ll be home tomorrow morning.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Eat your dinner, okay? I’ll be back in a second. I’m gonna take off my makeup.”
And just like that she was gone again. I took a long time to finish my dinner, hoping she’d come out of her room again, but she didn’t. I washed off my plate and went upstairs to read The Island of Dr. Moreau.
* * *
Seeing as I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere, my mom agreed to let Eric and Jeff spend the night. I guess she figured giving me a reason to stay in was better than giving me an excuse to sneak out. She even went to the video store for us and stocked the pantry with Cheetos and Sprites and Jiffy Pop. Our movies that night included Alien, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and Cat People, which we all knew was a terrible film except that Nastassja Kinski was naked through most of it. We made popcorn, put some Sprites into a bucket of ice, and went upstairs to the media room.
Despite all my mom’s preparations and good intentions, it was an awkward evening. None of us said much, at least at first. In fact, we were at the close of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the part where Donald Sutherland points at the camera and makes that horrible open-mouthed moaning scream, before we came around to the thing we were all thinking about.
It was Eric who finally spilled it. “Tomorrow’s the full moon,” he said.
We traded glances. On the TV, the closing credits rolled.
Finally, Jeff nodded.
Then I nodded too.
“Do you think it’ll start up again?” Eric said.
Jeff looked at me and frowned. I think all three of us were thinking of how long it had been since we’d seen Alan, and why.
“I think it will,” Jeff said.
“Me too,” I said.
Eric hung his head.
“We ought to think about protecting ourselves,” Jeff said. “I mean, he came after you, Mark. If you hadn’t had Max there, he’d have torn you to pieces.”
“It wasn’t even the full moon,” Eric said. “Hell, it was broad daylight.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think that matters,” Jeff said. “I mean, it matters, but, you know, not as much. The wolf man can still kill, even if it isn’t a full moon.”
“He wasn’t a wolf man,” I said. “He looked human enough to me.”
“Well, of course,” Jeff said. “I bet he only changes when it’s the full moon. That’s why I say we need to protect ourselves.”
“How would we do that?” Eric asked.
“We’ve all got guns. Shotguns, I mean.”
“But don’t we need like silver bullets or something for that to work?” Eric said. “I don’t have anything like that.”
“I don’t think so,” Jeff said. “In An American Werewolf in London the villagers at the beginning of the movie shot the werewolf with regular shotguns.”
“You don’t know that,” Eric said. “They could have used silver in their shot.”
“Well, what about at the end of the movie? The cops shot the main character with rifles, and that killed him. I’m pretty sure the London Metropolitan Police Department doesn’t issue silver-jacketed bullets. What do you think, Mark? The Houston Police Department wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“Of course not.”
Jeff turned to Eric and held up his hands as if that closed the matter. “See?”
“I just don’t think we should take the chance, you know? If he comes into my house, I want to be prepared.”
“You’ve got that .410 Browning your dad got you for Christmas last year. How much more prepared do you need to be?”
“I don’t know,” Eric answered. He looked miserable. “Do you think maybe the gun shops would have anything? I’ve seen those dragon breath shells they sell. You know the ones that make all that fire? Maybe they’ve got silver shot as well.”
“I seriously doubt it,” Jeff said. “Besides, it’d be ridiculously expensive.”
“I’ve got some money saved up.”
Jeff shrugged.
It was too much for me. I said, “Hey you guys, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. What if…what if this guy is just a guy, you know? Not a werewolf, but just some crazy homeless guy that likes to kill people.”
“What do you mean?” Jeff asked.
“You know, maybe he just thinks he’s a werewolf.”
“No way,” Jeff said. “A man couldn’t tear people apart the way those bodies on the shrimp boat were torn apart.”
“People can do all sorts of things if they believe they can,” I countered.
“Why would anybody just think they’re a werewolf?” Jeff said. “That’s crazy.”
“Which is exactly my point,” I said. “Hell, back in the Middle Ages, the Church got people to confess to be witches and werewolves and all kinds of things.”
“Yeah, by torturing them,” Jeff said. “Plus, dude, this isn’t the Middle Ages. Put in Cat People, would you? I want to see Nastassja Kinski naked.” Then he turned to Eric and said, “Hey, I know what you could do. Your mom’s got some silver jewelry, right? Earrings and rings and such? Just take those and drop them down the barrel of your Browning. When you shoot it, those things’ll do the same thing as a bullet.”
I realized then they weren’t taking this seriously. Nothing I could say would get through to them.
With a sigh I popped in Cat People.
* * *
The next afternoon I was sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to my parents fight.
“I came home early so we could sit and talk,” my mom said. “We need to spend some time with just us. It’s important that we do that, Wes. Our marriage needs that. Can’t you just sit with me for a bit? I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“I told you. I’m covering for Gellar today. I have to go in early.”
“And you’re working another double tonight?”
“Yeah. It’s good overtime.”
“Wes, we don’t need the money. I make enough for both of us.”
“Look, Babe, I know. Believe me, I know. And hey, this’ll all die down once July gets passed us. Everybody takes their vacations in June and July. Once those are out of the way I’ll be able to take some time off. If you want, I’ll take all this overtime in comp time. I’ll build up so many hours off we can stay away for two weeks, if you want. We could take my bike out. Do a little riding down in Galveston, like we used to. Remember that, like when you were doing your residency. Remember…”
The rest faded away into mutterings I couldn’t discern.
Then she giggled and said, “Could we? Could we really?”
“Sure,” he said. “Now I got to go. Max, come!”
I heard the clatter of Max’s claws against our kitchen floor and then the back door slam. After that, the house was quiet.
Then my mom started humming a song I didn’t recognize. To me, she sounded unexpectedly happy. She turned on the water at the kitchen sink and I lost the tune over the clatter of dishes getting cleaned.
I thought then what a contradiction my mom was. Here was the smartest person I knew, and certainly the most passionate about learning I’d ever met, and yet she could be lulled into a Cinderella-like state of bliss just at the prospect of some future ride on the back of my dad’s motorcycle. She was a wonder to me.
As I sat there contemplating my mom and her many sides, I couldn’t help but turn to my own concerns. It was the first night of the full moon, and though my mom had convinced me that the werewolf stuff was just nonsense, I was still very much afraid of what the hairy man would do. My mom had convinced me that calling him a werewolf both aggrandized him, and yet somehow also belittled what he was. He believed himself to be a werewolf, of that I was sure, and that meant that tonight, his terror of fang and claw would begin anew. Death was lurking in the wilderness at the edge of my neighborhood, waiting for the moon to rise. But it also meant that he was just a man. He was no more than I was, or that my dad was. He was, ultimately, something I could wrap my mind around.
I left my perch on the stairs and went to my room. I flipped on the lights and caught sight of something moving out of the corner of my eye. For just a moment, a fraction of a second, I could have sworn I saw Heather Crawford, her throat torn out and her clothes drenched with blood, reaching toward me.
I lurched to one side, hit the lamp on the corner of my desk and knocked it to the floor, where it broke with a loud crack.
I stood there, staring at the corner of the room where I could have sworn she stood, holding my hand over my heart. I felt like it had missed a beat, though now it was thundering against my ribs.
“Mark,” my mom called out, “are you okay?”
It took me a second to answer. “Yeah, Mom. I’m fine.”
“Did I hear something break?”
“It’s all right, Mom. I got it.”
But I didn’t feel fine. I stood there staring at the corner of my room, and for the longest time I don’t think a single coherent thought went through my head. I just stared at the empty corner, trying to catch my breath.
Finally, I had to ask myself the hard questions. Was that really Heather, or my own tattered nerves?
And if it was Heather, what was she trying to tell me?