Still Life with Shape-shifter (19 page)

“They thought I was making it up when I had live footage of an actual transformation, so, yeah, I realize that.”

“Then why bother? Why even try to tell the story?”

He cants his head and considers for a moment, as if struggling to articulate the reason. “When I started doing the research,” he says at last, “it was just because I was curious. I was fascinated. I wanted to find out as much as I could. But once I met a few shape-shifters, when I saw how difficult their lives could be—most of them just existing on the edge of civilization, without access to medical care or social services—I thought maybe the book could do some good. Raise awareness, raise empathy, maybe even raise money.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

“I don’t think
empathy
is what you’ll get if you write about shape-shifters,” I say, my voice a little dry. “I think you’ll get hysteria. Lynch mobs. Talk of werewolves and full moons and crazy folks wailing, ‘Oh, my God, what if one
bites
me?’ And cops and public health officials showing up at people’s doors to crate up the abominations and haul them off for testing.
That’s
what you’ll get.”

“You might,” Ann says ruefully. “Especially if you draw maps to the houses of all the shape-shifters you’ve interviewed, and say, ‘Here’s where you can find this little girl who can change into a crow.’”

He glances at me briefly, but answers her. “I was never planning to do that. I’m not a complete idiot. I do realize there are risks that come with this kind of exposure, and I was never going to put my sources in danger. But I did think the whole lot of them could benefit if we started the public dialogue. ‘Did you know that these beautiful, amazing creatures live among us—and some of them could use your help?’ That’s all.”

There’s silence for a moment as everyone waits for someone else to speak. As the two of them wait for me to speak. Ann, who’s sitting next to me in our booth, pokes me in the ribs. “So?” she says. “Do you have anything to tell Brody?”

I fold my hands before me on the table and take on my most solemn expression. “I do,” I say in a low voice. “I’m a shape-shifter. I’m a Doberman pinscher in my other form.”

Ann bursts out laughing, and Brody shows me a crooked smile. The waitress brings Brody’s fresh piece of pie and smiles, but you can tell she’s wondering what’s so funny.

*   *   *

W
illiam is waiting for us when we get home from Slices, and Brody doesn’t linger long enough to do more than nod in his direction. “I’ll call you,” he says to me, and takes off.

Ann grabs my hands and starts a ring-around-the-rosie-style dance in my front yard. “Mel and Brody sitting in a tree,” she chants. “K-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love—”

I yank free and stride for the door. “You’re so childish.”

She hurries after me, and William falls in step behind us. “I like him. I think you should go out with him.”

He already thinks we’re dating.
Or he did. “We’ll see. William, how long have you been waiting out here? I thought Ann showed you where I hide the key.”

“I was fine,” he says.

We all go inside, but neither of them can settle; it’s clear they’re eager to go off someplace together. I make them eat one last meal before they leave even though Ann says she’s too full of pie to cram down another bite. But I can’t bear to think of her foraging in the wilderness for the next week—or two—devouring whatever raw meat or abandoned leftovers she can find. I have to feed her now while I can.

“We’ll be back in a few days,” she says vaguely, as they head toward the door. It’s closing in on four o’clock, so they’ll have a few hours of daylight to travel wherever it is they’re going. “Don’t worry.”

“I always worry,” I say, and kiss her on the cheek. William endures a kiss from me, too, then they’re gone.

I stand in the middle of the empty house and wish it were already time for them to come home.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

B
rody calls Monday night as I’m curled up on the couch, eating the last of the chocolate gelato and watching TV shows I don’t care about for whatever distraction value they can provide.

“Just checking in,” he says. “Seeing how you’re doing.”

“I’m okay.”

“You sound a little down.”

“Yeah. Ann and William left yesterday, and I don’t know when they’ll be back, so—” I assume he can imagine my shrug.

“So you’re lonely.”

“A little, I guess.”

“Well, if you’re up for a drive into the big city,
Wicked
is playing at the Fox Theater. I could get us tickets.”

I don’t go into St. Louis that often. It’s not a particularly big downtown area, so it’s not like I’m a rural girl afraid of urban menace, and the drive usually takes less than an hour, so it’s not like the effort is too immense. It’s just that I don’t seem to feel the need for much more than I have right at my fingertips.

“Debbie saw it a couple of years ago when she was in New York, and she loved it. Sounds like fun.”

There’s a beat. “Is that a yes?”

I find myself giggling. “Yeah. It’s a yes.”

“Cool! I’ll buy tickets. What night? Wait, I’m looking at an ad in the paper right now . . . Looks like it’s sold out Friday and Saturday, but there are seats still available for Thursday night or Sunday afternoon.”

“I’d prefer Thursday night, I think.”

“Me, too. Want to come to my place or meet at the theater?”

“Your place? The scummy little apartment that you pay someone to clean?”

“Wow. Is that how I described it to you at some point?”

“First day we met. Inspired me with raging curiosity to see it.”

“Yeah, that’s sarcasm, isn’t it?”

“Kind of. Tell you what. I know how to find the Fox, so let’s just meet there. What time?”

“Do you want dinner first? There are a couple places around Grand Avenue we could try.”

“Sure.”

“Then meet me at six. Oh, and Melanie?”

“Yes?”

“This is actually a date. In case you were wondering.”

I bite my lip, but the laugh comes anyway. “Glad you cleared that up for me.”

“I always like to be on the same page. Saves trouble.”

“Oh,” I say, “I think you kind of like trouble. See you in a couple of days.”

*   *   *

B
ut he finds reasons to call Tuesday and Wednesday. Once to let me know he has the tickets in hand. Once to see if I’d prefer to eat Italian cuisine or American bar food. I mean, those are the excuses he gives. I know he’s just calling because he wants to hear my voice.

I know because that’s why I’m glad when I answer the phone to find him on the other end.

Our Thursday night outing is a complete success. Even the things that go wrong seem so hilarious that they contribute to the rightness of the evening. The strap on one of my black-leather heels breaks as I’m getting out of the Cherokee, so I’m forced to put on the beat-up old white walking shoes I always leave in the back. They clash horribly with the semislinky red dress I thought would be appropriate for the gaudy opulence that’s the Fox, but Brody says he admires a girl who makes bold sartorial choices. At the restaurant, he casually slips his credit card into the leather portfolio to pay our bill, but the waitress brings it back almost immediately. I can tell he’s mortified as she starts to say,
I’m sorry, sir
, and he appears to be mentally reviewing his banking balance to figure out which checks might have bounced.

What she actually says is, “I’m sorry, sir, you gave me your driver’s license instead of your credit card. Unless you wanted me to bill the DMV?”

We’re still laughing when we arrive at the theater and find our places behind the world’s tallest couple, but at intermission we slip to some unoccupied seats farther back in our section and we can finally see the whole stage. The musical is magical, or maybe it’s the mood. At any rate, I’m humming as we exit with the crowd, and I didn’t know a note from the play before I went in.

“Time for a drink before you drive back?” Brody asks.

I glance at my watch. Already past eleven, and it’ll be midnight or better before I’m in bed. “Better not. Workday tomorrow.”

“Best part of being a freelancer,” he says. “I can set my own schedule.”

“Sure. Harp on that. Make me resent you even more.”

I’m parked in a small lot a couple of blocks from the theater, and we walk slowly so we don’t get to my car too soon.

“So what are you doing this weekend? Can we make plans?”

I spread my hands. “I think all I need to do is pay a few bills and scrub the bathroom.”

“So how about dinner tomorrow night?” He smiles down at me. “And maybe dinner Saturday night, too?”

“You might find I don’t wear that well when you’re around me so often.”

“Yeah, maybe. You might find the same thing about me.”

“So? You want to risk it?”

“Better to find it out now. Before we’ve wasted any more time on each other.”

I’m choking back more laughter. By now we’ve courted death crossing the parking lot as all the other theatergoers are backing out of spaces and edging past us toward the exit. We pause at my car, and I slip my hand in my purse, hunting for my keys.

“Well, that’s a romantic way to put it,” I say.

“Doberman pinschers aren’t known for their love of romance.”

“Yeah, but you’re not the Doberman type. You’re more of—” I pull the keys out and pause, studying his face for a moment by the incomplete illumination of the streetlights. “I don’t know my dog breeds that well. Something playful and energetic. Particularly exhausting as a puppy.”

“Border collie, maybe,” he says with a grin. “Always busy. Always getting into trouble. But friendly and reliable.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So? Friday and Saturday night?”

“Yes to Friday. We’ll see about Saturday.”

“Sounds fair,” he says. Without any fanfare, he leans over and presses his lips to mine. I bend into the kiss just enough to let him know I like it, but I don’t linger too long. It’s not the right setting for melting embraces. “What time?”

“Anytime after six. I’ll be home.”

“I’ll be there.”

*   *   *

B
rody hasn’t specified that he wants to go
out
for dinner, and I figure it’s time I showed a little generosity of my own to repay his kindness and patience. So I take off work early and stop to buy ingredients for a meal, complete with wine. I’m not a particularly inventive cook, but I have a few specialties that always turn out well enough to serve, and Brody doesn’t seem especially picky, anyway. I’m halfway through meal prep before I realize I’m humming again—either a melody from
Wicked
or some tune that I’ve made up on the spot. It surprises me to further realize that I’m actually happy.

When’s the last time
that
happened when Ann was out of sight?

When Brody steps through the front door, he’s delighted. “Two great minds!” he exclaims. “I was going to suggest we stay in and cook! I almost stopped at the store as I was coming through town, but I thought, ‘No, what if Melanie’s already all dressed up? Wouldn’t want to disappoint her.’ This is
great
.”

“It’s pretty simple,” I warn him. “Shepherd’s pie and a salad. And store-bought cake because I didn’t feel like baking, too.”

“Perfect. I’ll love it all.”

He does, too, taking third helpings of everything, even the mediocre cake. “I think you have a tapeworm,” I tell him. “Otherwise, you couldn’t possibly eat this much all the time and stay so slender.”

“That’s it. You’ve discovered my secret. I hope you’re not repulsed.”

“Ew. Is it contagious?
Transferrable?
”

“Studies are inconclusive,” he says. “In fact, I’m part of a research group trying to determine if tapeworms can be passed on through activities like kissing. I was hoping you’d be willing to be my research partner.”

“Now that’s original,” I say in an approving voice. “That’s not a line any guy has ever used on me before.”

“And that is my goal,” he says, standing up and starting to clear the table. “Introducing you to joys you have never yet experienced.”

After the meal, we settle in to watch television. I have about five DVDs and no cable service, so our options are limited, but he claims he’s always wanted to see the new version of
Sense and Sensibility
, and we pop the disk in the player. Truth is, the movie is just an excuse to get comfortable on the couch, both of us slouching down, shoulders touching, then hands entwined, the occasional kiss exchanged.

Truth is, soon enough the movie becomes nothing but background noise. Like high schoolers at a drive-in, we start making out, kissing madly, slipping our hands inside each other’s clothing. But unlike those hormone-crazed teens experimenting with sex for the first time, we’re not driven and desperate. We’re leisurely, amused, relaxed, and tender. And talkative.

“Very pretty,” Brody says when he peels back my shirt to find a daisy-patterned bra beneath it. “Do the panties match?”

“No, I needed black underwear with my black skirt. But my blouse was white, so no black bra.”

“But please tell me you
have
a black bra.”

“Oh, is that your particular fetish?”

“I would say it’s a universally flattering look for women.”

“You’re easy.”

“You have no idea.”

Pretty soon we’re down to three items of clothing between us, though my bra is hanging from my shoulders so loosely you could hardly say I’m wearing it. We’re stretched out side by side on the couch, wrapped together so tightly I’m not at all worried about slipping over the edge, and I’m starting to get a little high on the pure unadulterated opium of physical touch.

“This is where we have to start making decisions about boundaries and intent,” Brody says.

“We do?” My voice is breathless.

“Yeah, ’cause if we aren’t careful, there are gonna be some messy fluids pretty soon, and while that doesn’t bother
me
any, it’s your couch, and—”

I’m laughing so hard that my body is shaking his where it presses against mine. “Messy fluids! You’re killing me with romance!”

He kisses my cheek and nibbles his way to my earlobe. “It was a magician’s trick,” he whispers. “Deflecting you from the real issue at hand.”

His breath tickles, and I pull my head back. I’m trying to get a good look at his face, hard to do when it’s so close to mine. “Are we gonna have sex?”

“That’s the real question.”

“Well, yeah. Aren’t we?”

He kisses my mouth. “Well, yeah. Here or somewhere else?”

“Well, I wasn’t feeling too particular, but since you brought up the fluid thing—”

Without another word, he sits up, leaving me briefly chilled. Then he scoops me into his arms and jogs into the bedroom with me bouncing against his chest, laughing again. It seems pointless to keep any underwear on at this juncture, so we’re both naked as we slide under the deliciously cool sheets and instantly seek each other’s heat again.

“And then the next question—” he begins.

“Oh, my
God
!” I exclaim. “Do you always talk this much?”

“You’ve known me for six weeks now. You know the answer to that.”

“I mean, during sex?”

“But this is an important question.”

“Yes, I’m on the pill. No, I don’t have any diseases.”

“Same here. I mean, I’m not on the pill, of course, though I understand they’re working on birth control for men—”

I make a sound of exasperation deep in my throat and pounce on him, covering his body with mine, kissing his mouth as hard as I can. His arms wrap around my back, suddenly drawing me in so tightly that my skin burns and my bones ache. And it feels so good, so good. I cannot remember the last time I have rested on someone else, relied on someone else, given myself completely to someone else, holding nothing back. For a brief time we are as frenzied and focused as those teenagers in the backseat of a car, as seduced by sensation, as bent on a single exquisite goal, and even Brody, for those pleasurably laboring minutes, abandons conversation. And yet we communicate all the same.

*   *   *

I
t’s not more than five minutes that we have been lying there, languorous and entwined, before Brody begins talking again. We’re spooning in the bed, his right arm resting on my waist, our hands clasped and snugged up against my heart. I feel spent but triumphant, utterly at ease, as if I have come to rest in a palatial resort after months of arduous travel.

“When I was eight years old,” he says without preamble, “I fell into a frozen pond and almost drowned.”

“Oh, no,” I say through a yawn. It’s hard to get too worked up by a story that clearly has a happy ending.

“My whole family had gone to visit some friends of my dad’s. They lived way out in the country somewhere, and they had a pond in the backyard and a collection of ice skates they’d amassed over the years. There were two kids who lived there, boys about my age, and they took my sisters and me out to go skating. It was, like, ten degrees out, and I remember being really cold before the whole adventure even started.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Plus I wasn’t a very good skater—and neither were those boys—and people kept falling down and it wasn’t as much fun as I’d thought it would be. And then someone tripped and someone else crashed into me, and two things happened at once. Someone’s skate ripped across my leg and cut my thigh right open. And too many of us hit the ice at once, and it cracked, and I fell in.”

The story is starting to get more exciting. “Wow, you must have been scared.”

“So scared and so cold that I think I went into shock. These days it’s hard for me to sort out what I
remember
and what I
think
I remember because I’ve heard the story so often. But somehow they dragged me out of the water and back to shore, where I was bleeding profusely and shaking so hard I couldn’t talk.

“And Bailey. God love her. She was so calm. She just took charge. She told the boys to run back to the house to get help. She told Brandy and Bethany to start pulling off all my wet clothes, starting with my trousers. The blood was gushing out of my femoral artery and Bailey, cool as you please, takes off her belt and makes a tourniquet on my leg.”