Mostly.
“So you might turn into a bear when you’re walking the streets of a major city?” I asked him one day.
“I try not to be in an urban area when I think I’m going to change.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe if you always stayed in town, you’d never turn into anything except a German shepherd or a Labrador retriever.”
He had not answered that. I filed the suggestion away as something to mention again if the time ever seemed right.
Something else happened as he grew older: His periods in animal form became longer and longer, until he was only human about half the time—and then even less. These days, he’s in the shape of a man only about one week out of every month. I live in absolute terror of the day he changes into another creature and never changes back.
“That won’t happen,” he once told me.
“But how do you know?”
He’d laughed. “Because I’ll be dead before then.”
“What?”
He’d shrugged and given the most minimal answer, clearly sorry he’d brought it up. “Shape-shifters tend not to live very long lives. Too much wear and tear on the body, maybe. Or too much time in the form of animals that die much sooner than humans do. If I spend half a month as a collie, well, that’s a much bigger percentage of a dog’s life than it is of a man’s life. It ages me.”
“Then don’t be a dog anymore,” I said urgently. “Be a—Be a giant sea tortoise! They live for centuries! Slow down the process. Reverse it!”
I hadn’t been kidding, but he’d laughed. “You have no reason to believe you’ll live any longer than I will,” he teased. “You could go in a car accident—or a plane crash. You could get cancer or meningitis. A gas leak could cause your house to blow up. Anything could—”
“I get the point! I could die! But the probability is that I will live to eighty or so. And you’re telling me that your probability is significantly less—”
He’d shrugged again. “I’m saying I don’t know. I’m not going to worry about it. I can change my shape but I can’t change my destiny. I’m at peace with whatever happens.”
I wasn’t, of course. I fretted about that conversation for days, for weeks, until I finally realized that my anxiety did nothing but irritate him and exhaust me. It was clear I couldn’t change him; I couldn’t even change myself.
Christina and William, though born to the same set of parents, seem to be governed by an entirely different set of rules. William, who is five years younger than Dante, has always been animal more often than he’s been human, and he’s never been anything except a dog or a wolf. He claims to be able to decide when to shift between states, which raises the very interesting question of why he is so rarely human. There is a permanent wildness to his face that always reminds me of new Dante. If you didn’t know William was a shape-shifter, you’d think he was one of those children raised by feral animals in a cave somewhere, not rescued by man until he was ten or twelve years old. You get the sense that he has learned to mimic human behaviors but that they will never be instinctive to him. He left home when he was fifteen, and it is rare, these days, that his siblings know exactly where he is.
By contrast, Christina is the most normal of the three. Younger than William by three years, she’s always human, except for two or three days a month; those days are usually associated with her menstrual cycle. According to her, if the need is great enough, she can resist changing, even when her body longs for transmogrification. Like Dante, she experiences useful symptoms that let her know alteration is imminent. She can make sure she’s locked in her house, away from shocked strangers and prying eyes, when she allows the metamorphosis to take her. The shapes she takes are varied, though she has never been explicit about them, at least not with me.
Their mother had been a shape-shifter, too, more like Christina than William and, from what I can tell, gifted with a preternatural patience and tranquillity. She died the summer Dante graduated from college; I never met her, which I regret to this day.
Of their father, never a word is spoken.
There might be stranger families in the world, but I have never been able to imagine what they might be like.
Work is endless. I actually nod off during the staff meeting my boss holds right after lunch, when my coworkers and I are all at our dullest. Fourteen of us are grouped around a conference table meant to hold ten, and the temperature inside the room must be close to eighty. Kathleen is sitting near the head of the table, taking notes by hand. The bruises on her face have turned from purple to a greenish-yellow, still visible under her makeup. She is wearing a new ring on her right hand, a star sapphire flanked by diamonds.
“That sumbitch gave it to her last night,” Ellen whispers to me when I draw her attention to the new jewelry. “She was walking around this morning showing it off to everyone. ‘See what Ritchie bought me! Isn’t it beautiful?’ I said, ‘Kathleen, honey, why’d he get you something so nice? Is it your anniversary? I know your birthday’s not till February.’ And she said, happy as you please, ‘We had an argument Monday night and he just wanted to say he was sorry.’ And I said, ‘Well, sugar, maybe next time you ought to let him carve your face open with a butcher knife. Then he’ll owe you a car.’”
I put a hand to my mouth to muffle my laugh. “What did she say then?”
“She told me I was a stupid bitch and to mind my own business.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Well, she just turned around and walked away, but I knew what she was thinking.”
“Maybe he’ll be nice to her for a while.”
“Well, then, happy days for sure.”
When the meeting finally comes to its conclusion, we all jostle toward the door, and I find myself unexpectedly falling in step beside Kathleen. Almost before I know the words are forming in my mouth, I say, “I’ve been admiring your ring. Is it new?”
Her face lights up. She extends her right hand so I can see her fingers. “Isn’t it beautiful? My husband gave it to me.”
I don’t know how to answer. I finally say, “I’m sure he loves you very much.”
Ellen is behind me, so I can’t see her face, but I know she’s rolling her eyes. The thing is, he probably does love her, in a tortured and unhealthy way. The question isn’t whether she loves him back, but whether she should. The question is: Is he safe to love?
Dante wants to go out to dinner, even though it’s Friday night, which means restaurants will be crowded. We pick a small place with outdoor seating that’s airy and open enough to keep Dante from getting edgy. Although it’s mid-September, the days are still fairly warm, and the heat lamps strategically set up around the perimeter of the patio keep the area perfectly comfortable at night.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” our waitress asks. She’s about twenty-five, pretty and buxom, with shiny brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and lipstick that looks so much like bubblegum I wonder if it came with a miniature comic wrapping.
“How about a beer?” Dante says.
She reels off the selections and he picks some kind of heavy Irish stout. I ask for lemonade. Dante makes a face at me as soon as the waitress leaves.
“I’m not going to get drunk, you know,” he says. “You don’t have to choose nonalcoholic beverages so you can be the designated driver.”
He loves to drive; whenever he’s in town and we go anywhere together, he automatically slips behind the steering wheel. I’m usually nervous for the first fifteen minutes, wondering if his fine motor coordination has deteriorated during his travels; but, so far anyway, he doesn’t seem to have lost a jot of his competence.
“I don’t feel like drinking,” I say. “Alcohol messes up my sleep patterns, and I haven’t gotten much sleep this week as it is.”
“Well, I’ll only be around a few more days,” he says. “You can catch up next week.”
He says the words so casually; he must have no idea how they lacerate my heart. “You’ll make it
through Sunday, won’t you?” I say, trying to joke. “Otherwise, I guess I’ll have to drive you out to Christina’s. You can sit in the front seat with your head sticking out the window.”
He gives this sally a brief smile. “I ought to be good through Monday at least. I guess we’ll see.”
“Last time it was eight days. The time before that, ten days.”
He nods. “So Monday or Tuesday sounds about right.”
“What are you going to get to eat?”
“I was looking at the steak tartare.”
I’m silent. I always find it disturbing that he likes his meat so rare. It makes me think about how he must eat when he’s in animal form, catching small creatures and devouring them raw. No wonder shape-shifters have a short life expectancy. God knows what kinds of toxins they absorb with their strange diets.
“Or the sushi,” he adds.
“Maybe you should have a salad,” I say. “You know, get some greens. And some fruit while you’re at it. You don’t want to develop scurvy.”
He gives me a look filled with mockery. “Heartworms, more likely,” he says. “Rabies. I don’t think it’s malnutrition that’s going to do me in.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I plead. “It makes me so sad.”
“I’m a realist. You’re a romantic.”
“Well, maybe I am. Indulge me, just for tonight. Don’t talk about death. And don’t eat uncooked food!”
The waitress returns to deliver our drinks and take our orders. “What would you suggest?” he asks her. “My girlfriend thinks I should eat something healthy, but I want something that tastes good. And has a lot of calories.”
“Our specialty is beef stew,” she says. “It’s got vegetables in it, is that healthy? But it’s really hearty. Most people can’t eat the whole bowl.”
He folds his menu and hands it to her. “I bet I can. Let me have the stew. And some bread. And another beer.”
I’m the one who gets a salad, though I’ve already lost my appetite, as well as any inclination to talk. But silence never bothers Dante. I suppose that’s because he lives for weeks at a time without exchanging words with anyone. He leans back in his chair and looks around at the other diners with idle interest.
I always wish I could tell what he’s thinking when he studies strangers in this way. Is he wondering if they, like he, conceal shocking secrets even though they look so normal? Is he wishing he could try on their ordinary lives, if only for a day or two, if only to see what he’s missed all these years? Is his wolf brain or his cougar brain wondering what they would taste like if he ripped out their throats and began munching on their flesh for dinner?
I hate that such thoughts even cross my mind. I never voice them. But every time I see Dante grow as still and focused as a predator, his eyes on some stranger across a room, those terrible images fill my head.
The food is good, and Dante does indeed manage to polish off the whole bowl of stew. And a third beer. I eat most of my salad, split a dessert with him, and take the car keys from his hands as we leave.
“You remember the rule,” I say, keeping my voice light. “More than two beers and I drive.”
“I remember,” he says amiably enough.
The alcohol has made him amorous, though. During the entirety of the short ride home, he sits half turned toward me, his left hand resting on my leg, his fingers curled around the inside of my thigh. I love to feel the weight of his hand, not moving, not stroking, simply there, a silent statement of intimate connection. Of possession, perhaps. It comes as no surprise to me that I feel as if I belong to him.
We’re barely inside the door before he takes me in his arms, kissing me hungrily and pulling at the straps of my dress as if he cannot wait for the thirty seconds it will take me to undo the ties and buttons myself. I cling to him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine, though our feverish kisses impede both of our efforts to undress. We break apart long enough to shed our clothes in a tangled pile just a few feet from the door, and then we’re kissing madly again.
Moving in tandem like mating dragonflies, we’ve taken a few steps toward the bedroom, but it’s too far away and the need is too great. His erection is between us and we rub against each other, moaning in low voices; and then he is inside me, half lifting me in his arms, as he thrusts and pulls back and thrusts again. I feel my fingers biting into the flesh of his shoulders; I must hold on to him with all my strength or get flung into the void. While his hips work, he plants breathless kisses all over my face, but not as if he is even aware he is kissing me. His mouth against my skin is just another form of speech, an expression of desire, as involuntary and absentminded as a gasp of pain or pleasure.
I come and then he does, and we both fight for air, holding tight to each other as our bodies recollect themselves and our souls filter back inside our skin. He sets me on my feet and I am keenly aware of the cool hardwood floor beneath my soles, the slick sweat that greases my stomach and his, the sharp scents produced by both of our bodies. There is no odor in the world that replicates the smell of sex. There is no rapture that can match it.
A half hour later, we are lying face-to-face in bed, both of us having showered and brushed our teeth for the night. Neither of us has bothered to put on nightclothes, and we lie side by side in that drowsy, companionable state of affection that usually follows lovemaking. We are engaging in the light foreplay we didn’t have the patience for earlier, though I don’t think it will lead to another bout of sex. He is running his hand idly up and down the curve of my hip and leaning in now and then to kiss me. I am working my fingers into the knotted muscles of his back and neck, pausing now and then just to caress the ridged surfaces of his chest. He is thinner than I like, but in top physical shape. His body is that of an athlete preparing for a marathon session of training.
My hand tangles in the cord around his neck and I tug on it gently, which obligingly brings his mouth down to mine. I am still holding the strip of leather when he lifts his head, and now I examine it more closely. There’s a little light spilling in through the window—enough for me to see that this isn’t the same cord he was wearing when he returned a few days ago.
“This is new, isn’t it?” I ask, rubbing the pieces of leather together so that the key twirls in a heavy dance.
“Yeah. Picked it up this morning.”
“What was wrong with the old one? Was it starting to fray?”
“It was too short.”
It takes me a moment to work that out. He’d been wearing the same cord for the past five years; the key had lain against his chest just at the breastbone. What has suddenly made it insufficient?
And then I realize: The cord is perfectly fine when he’s in human shape, but not when he turns into an animal. It is still around his neck, of course—it is the only thing he is determined to never lose, though he does try to keep a pack of small supplies with him that he can carry even when he is in animal form. If the cord is too short, he must be changing into bigger and bigger beasts.
If he becomes an animal whose neck is too thick, too burly, he might be strangled by his single link to his human soul.
“Dante,” I breathe.
He rolls onto his back and the strap slips through my fingers. “Don’t get all fussy on me,” he says.
I sit up. Fussy is not nearly desperate enough to describe how I feel. “Dante,” I say again. “Tell me what’s happening to you.”
He kind of shakes his head against the pillow; his hands make a small gesture of fatalism. “This last time, I was some pretty big creatures. A bear for at least a week. I could feel the cord tight against my windpipe, though it didn’t hurt and it didn’t bind. But I’ve been moving through Kansas and Colorado a lot over the past few months. What if I turn into a buffalo? What if I turn into a moose? That band wouldn’t be long enough.”
I pull insistently on the key. “This one wouldn’t be, either!” I exclaim.
“Maybe not,” he says. “I think I’m g
oing to buy a bungee cord, or maybe just some industrial strength elastic, and sew the leather to that. Give myself some room to expand.”
“But a buffalo—I mean, what’s the collar size of an animal like that?” I say, trying to dial back my anxiety. Or, at least, to sound like I’ve dialed it back.
“Pretty damn big,” he admits.
“Maybe you should think of a different plan,” I say. “Wear it around your wrist.”
“I’d lose it the first day I changed,” he says.
“Your waist?”
“Thought about that,” he says. “Maybe. But there’s bound to be a similar problem. I mean, anything small enough to stay around my waist will turn into a tourniquet on a big animal.”
“Yeah, but at least you won’t choke to death in the first five minutes of transformation,” I say. “If you had to, you could probably claw it off before it did any substantial damage.”
“If I was a wolf or a big cat,” he agrees. “But buffalo or bison? Not so sure.”
“What about wearing it as part of your harness?” I say. That’s how he carries the pack with him most of the time—the harness slips over his back, shoulders, and stomach, leaving his limbs free no matter what shape he assumes. The pack holds only the barest essentials: a twenty-dollar bill, a debit card, and a pair of slick running pants folded into the smallest possible shape so he has something to cover his nakedness when he resumes his human body. While he’s gone, one of my daily tasks is to check his bank account to make sure he hasn’t lost his backpack and a stranger isn’t making purchases with his card.
Whenever I see new account activity—usually the purchase of running shoes and a sweatshirt—my heart always lifts. He’s himself again; he’ll be back with me soon. That isn’t always true, of course. Sometimes he’s hundreds of miles away and human for just a few hours, but he still needs to buy clothes if he’s anywhere he might run into other people.
He shakes his head again. “The backpack I can afford to lose. The key I can’t. I’ve got to be able to figure out a way to keep it on me all the time.”