Hemlock Grove (8 page)

“Have you ever attacked anyone?” he said. “As the wolf?”

“No,” said Peter.

“Have you ever … wanted to?”

“I’ve never had a reason to.”

“I’ve never believed in God,” said Roman in the too-fast blurt of an illicit confession.

“And Nicolae to his dying day didn’t believe that squirrels don’t hatch from eggs,” said Peter, using calculated glibness as a derailer. He was not comfortable with this degree of intimacy. He did not like where this was going. The layers of outer affectation peeled away to reveal the other boy’s inner need. His need that he thought Peter could somehow meet. The only thing that scared Peter off more than other people’s needs was a cage, though in the end what was the difference?

Roman continued heedless. “I see things sometimes,” he said. “I see these … shadows that I don’t always know if they’re real or not.”

So there you had it. Behind that aloof and mercurial façade was a battle, and he had to decide the outcome: Was he the hero or the villain? And so what could be more black-and-white than a quest to slay the monster that was terrorizing the countryside? Wow. Peter didn’t want to touch that with your dick.

“Roman,” said Peter, “maybe this is the kind of thing you should be talking about with the guidance counselor.”

Roman didn’t say anything for a while.

“Do you think you could leave me alone now?” he said.

Peter stood and walked off the court, glancing behind him once at Roman’s thin back against the distended fence.

A Very Hirsute Young Man

After school Peter lay shirtless in the hammock, idly listening to his iPod and stroking the dark hair under his navel. He felt uncharacteristic stirrings of remorse. Of course it would be the nobler thing to offer the
upir
some kind of support, but Peter was generally suspicious of his nobler impulses. And though he regretted the pain this
vargulf
was causing, and would continue to in all likelihood before its inevitable self-termination, pain was as much a part of this life as the summer and the winter and the rain, and there was no greater asshole than the one who believed you can cure it. That you ought to. Peter did not consider himself a defeatist, but Nicolae had taught him not to scratch where it doesn’t itch, and he had a highly evolved sense of what was and was not his problem.

He heard the sound of tires on the gravel lane and looked up to see the approach of a sheriff’s cruiser. He removed the headphones and got up as it parked in the drive and Neck and Nose emerged from the car, followed by a petite black woman in jeans and a turtleneck. Not a cop. She appeared as blandly unwelcome as a juvie shrink or any of the social workers who were no stranger to the Rumanceks’ door. But there are frogs deadlier than sharks and she smelled no less sweet than a brewing storm like trouble.

“Peter Rumancek?” said Nose.

“Hello, officers,” said Peter in a friendly voice loud enough for Lynda to hear inside and dispose of anything better disposed of.

“Having a nice nap there, young Peter?” said Neck.

“Yes sir,” said Peter.

“That’s the life, nice little afternoon nappy-poo, isn’t it, Pete?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, we’ll try not to take up too much of your time here. Just a little word, if it’s not imposing.” He drew out the syllable
pose
in a faux British intonation.

“Yes sir.”

The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. Peter was below average height for his age, and she barely came to his chin. She glanced at his torso.

“You’re a very hirsute young man, aren’t you?” she said.

“You’d have to tell me what
hirsute
means, ma’am,” said Peter.

There was a flush inside and then Lynda appeared in the doorway. Peter glanced over and gave a discreet head shake not to worry. Yet.

“It means, forgive me for saying so, furry,” she said.

“Oh. Guilty, ma’am. We Rumanceks generate very healthy amounts of testosterone.”

Neck snickered.

“That’s good,” she said. “Peter, my name is Dr. Chasseur, and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”

“Well gee, ma’am, I didn’t realize I was that hairy.”

Neck guffawed.

“No, no,” said Chasseur. “I just … well, hello.”

Fetchit was rubbing up against her ankles with amorous insistence. She lowered to his haunches and scratched his ears.

She looked up at Peter from the crouch. “I’m here regarding the animal attacks.”

Peter’s balls twitched.

“Any theories yourself on that score?” she said.

“No ma’am. But I’ve heard some good ones.”

“I bet you have.” She rose and regarded him amiably. “I suppose you aren’t by any chance a werewolf, Peter?”

“Beg pardon?” said Peter. Some of the old tongue’s more imaginative curses flashed behind his eyes.

“When the moon is full, do you walk in the skin of a wolf?”

“No sir,” he said. “Ma’am,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Now that’s settled.”

“Could I possibly ask … why, ma’am?”

“Do you know Christina Wendall?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

“And you know she was the one who discovered Lisa Willoughby.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Can you think of any reason she might have to believe you were a werewolf, Peter?”

Peter thought fast. “Because I told her. Ma’am.”

“Was there a particular reason you told her?”

“Well … because she asked.”

“Was there a particular reason she asked?”

“My middle and index fingers are the same length.” He held out his hand palm forward. Neck whistled.

“And this is an attribute of werewolfism?” said Chasseur.

“I thought it meant you were a lesbian,” said Neck.

“I believe you’re actually referring to a greater discrepancy between the length of the index and ring fingers in homosexual women indicating higher levels of androgen,” said Chasseur. Back to Peter: “So this means you’re a werewolf.”

“She seemed to think so, ma’am. But I’m not really an expert on your whole werewolf/lesbian situation.”

“Then you continue to deny all werewolf allegations?”

“Yes ma’am. There’s no such thing, ma’am.”

“And you really believe that, Peter?”

“I thought it was scientific fact, ma’am.”

“Proving a negative is a misuse of both the terms
science
and
fact
, Peter.”

He pinched his fingers. “I thought it was just this close to scientific fact, ma’am.”

She nodded. “Have you ever heard the term
clinical lycanthropy
, Peter?” she asked. Every time she used his name it was putting a pat of butter on a slice of botulism.

“No ma’am.”

“It describes a condition that causes the subject to believe he or she is a werewolf—and act accordingly.”

“It takes all kinds to make a world, ma’am.”

“Did you know either Lisa Willoughby or Brooke Bluebell?”

“No ma’am.”

“What were you and Roman Godfrey doing at Kilderry Park the night of October second?” demanded Nose.

“We were catching fireflies, sir.”

Nose glowered, but a quick glance from the woman censured his natural retaliatory bullying instinct. Peter, who had been in his day a person of interest to an assortment of law enforcement agencies, wondered (among other things) what gave a specialist from the Fish and Wildlife Service such a calmly confident and dexterous technique in the questioning of a human person.

“Does Roman Godfrey think he’s a werewolf?” said Chasseur.

“I don’t have his power of attorney,” said Peter.

“Hazard a guess.”

“I would guess not.”

Fetchit began toying with Nose’s shoelace and Nose glared down at the sass from this quarter.

Peter scooped the cat in his arms.

“Cat person?” said Chasseur.

“All creatures great and small, ma’am.” He kissed the cat to rest his case and it squirmed from his grasp, having more pressing things to do than receive freely offered affection.

After the conclusion of the interview Peter waited until the crunch of the cruiser was well up the lane before going inside, slipping on a sweater, and telling his mother not to wait up. She said to pick up some bread and some cigarettes and to watch himself. He said, “I will.”

A Few Other Adjectives

Godfrey House was a massive and utilitarian Georgian Colonial that overlooked the river on the summit of the highest hill in town, the province of management, and had the appearance to those below of a squat, blunt, and obscurely disapproving tusk. The property was enclosed on three sides by a forest of red oaks containing a population of occluded and vaguely horned shapes calling a low and sporadic
hoo hoo … hoo hoo …
In the circular drive was Roman’s Jaguar and a black Ford F-150 pickup truck. A light was on in the attic. Peter rang the doorbell and Roman’s mother answered. She was wearing a white robe and her hair was damp and she moved and also stood still like milk being poured under the full moon, and though she would have had neither time nor purpose to apply cosmetics after bathing, her lips were a shock red that in their present purse of distaste caused within Peter’s privatemost circuitry a sudden and confusing crossfiring at how arousing and simultaneously dick-shriveling this apparition was. He tried to envision Shelley Godfrey emerging from … that. Nicolae had told him the world of the
upir
was a strange and confusing one to a simple wolf man. Peter could think of a few other adjectives.

“Yes?” said Olivia in a tone suggesting he ought to be grateful she had not perforce closed the door on his nose. But it was not yet outside the realm of possibility.

“Is Roman here?” said Peter.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Peter. We’re in the same English class.”

“May I ask in regard to what?”

“Study group,” he said.

“Mm.” This syllable communicating her internal debate over whether to notify her son or the authorities.

“I’ll inform him,” she said. A moment’s consideration. “You can come in.”

Peter waited in the foyer as she withdrew down the hall. On one wall was an aged and chipping painting of a grotesquely fat cherub, layered rolls of dimpled fat, wings comically small, and smiling mouth smeared with chocolate. Maybe chocolate. On the other was a large framed photograph of an engorged and multi-hued hermaphrodite’s vulva. Peter’s eyebrows knotted. No—it was a flower, a close-up image of the stamen and stigma of a flame tulip. Peter was still entranced by this intricate arboreal obscenity when Roman appeared alone.

“Yeah?” he said, with the cold aloofness of a scorned woman.

“Powwow,” said Peter.

Roman led him to his room, which was nearly the footage of Peter’s trailer. On the door was a picture of a crucifix with a serpent wrapped around it. The serpent’s tail was in its mouth. Otherwise there was an almost total lack of decoration, except mounted to the wall a train car coupling link, an old oblong of warped and rusted steel. Which despite its meager appearance Peter immediately knew without being told was the most valuable thing Roman owned.

“Well?” said Roman, with the cold, aloof satisfaction of a scorned woman to whom you’ve come crawling back.

“Development,” said Peter. He described to Roman the afternoon’s encounter.

Roman evaluated the story with a noncommittal expression. “So? The Wendall girl totally flipped out. They can’t be taking it seriously.”

“It’s not that simple,” said Peter. “This woman is what she says she is like a Mexican hates fireworks.”

Roman nodded, what insult he may have felt about their earlier meeting losing traction to this new intrigue.

“What is she?” he said.

“She’s a digger,” said Peter.

Roman shrugged.
What of it?
“The only people who really know what you are are your mom and me.” He grew defensive. “And I know how to button up.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” said Peter, lying: half his reason in coming was to keep the
upir
from running off at the mouth.

“So what are you afraid she digs up?”

“Nicolae,” said Peter.

“He’s still alive?”

“No. But she goes deep enough, she’s gonna find out.”

Roman looked at him.

“That Nicolae was a killer,” said Peter.

The Taste of Fear

By nature Nicolae was a pussycat. In his later years he had individual names for every duck he fed, and musicals made him cry. More than anything he loved his Sundays with Peter. On this day he would allow Peter to help him as he went around with a hammer and a dolly looking for cars that had a dent that needed to be fixed. Peter would help by pretending to be retarded because people were happier to give business to the guy with the retarded kid, and this made him feel clever and useful. Then they would go and spend Peter’s share of the proceeds immediately on ice cream or at the arcade. Nicolae would never let him save; a rich man, he said, was one who spent a million. Later, when it started in Peter, the turn, Nicolae was the one who showed him the right way to be a wolf, not brain surgery but impossible to understate the importance: Don’t hunt when you’re not hungry; when you do hunt, go for the flank, thus avoiding antlers in front and hooves in the rear; and when you are filled with the song of the universe, the breathing spirit that passes through and unites all things, throw your head back and close your eyes and join in.

But though Nicolae may have had a heart of gold, the substance of his brain was perhaps not as valued a commodity, and when he was young he fucked things up very badly for himself. He was part of a
kumpania
in the old country, and because he was one of seven Rumancek boys, and the Rumancek boys being about as useful at holding in gossip as a woman with a map, the fact that once a month he discarded his man coat and roamed in the purview of arcane and unruly gods was not only fairly widespread knowledge but also made the young man a more celebrated figure than even the most accomplished dancers or dulcimer players. How the old women clucked and the young girls tittered as that Rumancek swaggered past. It was really living high on the hog. So it was to increase his standing that he permitted a tradition to emerge among his brothers and their cronies, a real gentlemen’s club, to get howling drunk before the turn, then steal a pig or a sheep and watch Nicolae have at it. Better than the movies! Of course the older and wiser wagged their fingers over the only possible moral of this story—children playing with fire yields one outcome just as drunks playing with werewolves yields one other—and so it came to pass: the night the comedian of the cronies decided it would be a gas to snatch a bone from the wolf’s mouth.