Still Life with Shape-shifter (30 page)

She makes a helpless motion with her hands. “I can’t promise that. When I see you—when I see the
house
, the minute I lay eyes on it—I want to change back. I want to be me again. I’d have to stay away from this place forever.”

“Then do it.”

“I
can’t
!”

I fall back in my chair and throw my hands in the air. “Then die.”

“Well, that’s a terrible thing to say.”

“I guess the truth is terrible.”

“You have two choices,” Brody says, his voice reasonable. “You live for another few years in your canine shape, and you visit Melanie from time to time, and that makes both of you happy. Or you take your human shape again a month from now, and you’re dead before the week is out. And, frankly, I think that’s a shitty thing to do to your sister.”

She glares at him. “This isn’t even your argument.”

He laughs at her. “Since I’m the one who’s going to be here when you’re gone, I think it is.”

William speaks up again. “Is it
my
argument?” he asks, and I’m pretty sure that the repressed passion I hear in his voice is anger and pain and love and anguish. “Do you care what
I
think? Because
I
don’t want you to die. Is it that easy for you to just leave
me
? If I could spend five years with you in one shape or three days with you in another shape, which one do you think I’d choose? Which one are
you
going to choose?”

For the first time tonight, I think someone’s gotten through to Ann. Her eyes grow shadowed; she places a thin hand on William’s arm. “I love you,” she says, her voice serious and quiet.

“Then stay with me,” he says, “and live.”

She glances back at me. “But—”

“Stay with him,” I tell her, “and live.”

Now she’s starting to cry. “But I’ll miss you.”

I shake my head. “You won’t. I’ll be right here.”

“It won’t be the same.”

I attempt a smile. “We’ve had this argument before, haven’t we?”

“I don’t think I can do it.”

“Yes, you can,” I say. “Do it for William. Do it for me. We love you, and this is what we both want.”

Now she looks at Brody. “Will you take care of Melanie?”

He puts his arm around my shoulders. “You bet I will.”

“You
promise
? You won’t break up with her?”

I feel him shrug. “Hey, I’ll marry her this week. As soon as we can get a license. You can come to the ceremony, then head off with a clear conscience.”

That chases away Ann’s tears and makes her face light up. “Yes! Let’s do it! A wedding before I go.”

I’ve slewed around in my chair, and I’m staring at Brody. “What the—is that a
proposal
? You think I’m going to marry you just to make my sister happy?”

He leans in to kiss me. “Well, it would make
me
happy, too.”

“I’ll do it,” Ann says. She’s practically bouncing in her chair. “I’ll change shapes, and I’ll stay that way if you guys get married before I go.”

Brody is grinning broadly. “The blackmailed bride,” he says. “Sounds like a good romance title, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t plan a wedding in—what—a week,” I say, practically stammering. “And what if I don’t want to get married?”

“Oh, of course you do,” Ann says. “You told me you loved him.”

“You told
me
you loved me, too,” Brody says. He assumes a look of dejection. “Didn’t you mean it? I thought—”

“Oh, hush.” I take a deep breath. “Ann. If that’s what it will take to convince you to go off with William and stay in your husky shape—”

“Yes,” she says. “I insist. Anything less, and I swear I’ll be back on your doorstep in a month.”

“And Brody. If this is truly what you want—”

He kisses me again. “Oh, I want it. Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll prove how much.”

“Then—I say yes. And let’s plan a wedding.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I
t is, as you might imagine, the most scrambling, helter-skelter sort of wedding anyone could hope to put together. Debbie screams when I tell her the news, then hugs me as hard as she can with her big belly getting in the way. All three of Brody’s sisters threaten him with death if he doesn’t schedule the wedding for a day they can suspend the constant activity of their own lives to travel into St. Louis for the event. His parents, from what I can tell, begin packing the instant he hangs up from the phone call because they arrive in Dagmar within twenty-four hours and instantly begin helping Brody take care of the chores that have fallen to him. He gets the license, buys plain gold rings, schedules the ceremony at the local courthouse, makes luncheon reservations for the reception, and plans for what he calls the “kiss-and-a-promise” honeymoon, which we figure will be a weekend now and a real trip sometime in the future.

I buy a dress, arrange for flowers, ask Charles to take pictures, and wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

Ann alternates between offering her opinion on our food, clothing, and venue choices, and sleeping. I begin to understand what Dr. Kassebaum meant by saying Ann’s body is struggling in this shape; it makes sense to me that she’s so tired because her organs and tissues can’t keep up with the demands of this imperfect body. But I know there is no way I will be able to persuade her to take her husky form before the actual wedding. And I want my human sister there beside me, wearing a blue-velvet dress, carrying white roses, and laughing. I want her in my wedding photos, dammit. I want proof to lay next to the memories I expect to accumulate, hard evidence that she is with me on this rare and special day.

And she is.

We have a noon ceremony in the historic courthouse and a rollicking luncheon at Corinna’s, which closes for the afternoon to cater our private party. After the meal, Bailey’s kids and Debbie’s boys take off their shoes and skate up and down the wooden dance floor in their socks. Charles plays romantic musical selections on a boom box and some of the adults dance. Brody’s dad makes the only toast—“Promise me you won’t let this be the happiest day of your lives”—and everyone has champagne, even Stevie and Simon. Even Debbie, though she only drinks a sip. Bailey and Brandy and Bethany grab me by the arms and hustle me into the women’s bathroom to tell me stories about Brody when he was growing up, giggling and interrupting each other and sometimes tearing up. The only single people at the wedding are William and Ann, so I hand her my bouquet instead of tossing it, and William wears my garter around his wrist like the frilliest sort of watchband.

At four o’clock, as it comes time for us to gather up our belongings and let Corinna prepare to open for the evening rush, we all start making our good-byes. Everyone hugs me, hugs Brody, hugs each other, hugs me again.

“Love you bunches and bunches and
bunches
,” Ann says into my neck as she holds me so tightly I doubt either one of us can breathe. “I’ll never forget this day.”

I can’t say good-bye. I can’t do it. “Me either,” is all I manage by way of reply.

“You’ll be happy, right? Forever?”

“Right,” I say. “And you? Happy?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We both got pretty cool guys, I think.”

“Let him take care of you,” I tell her. It’s the closest I can come to saying what neither of us wants to put into words. “From now on.”

“Okay,” she says. When she finally lets go, she’s smiling. “See you around.”

Bethany catches my arm and gives me a final embrace. “We’re getting ready to drive on home,” she says. “
Please
come down to Cape Girardeau soon and spend some time! I can’t wait to get to know you better.”

I have similar conversations with Brody’s parents and his other sisters, Bailey lingering a moment to look around. “Where’s your sister? I wanted to say good-bye. I sat with her at lunch, and she was just delightful.”

I don’t suppose anyone would wonder at it if my voice catches; it’s been an emotional day. “She had to leave,” I say. “Maybe some other time.”

But part of me can’t help hoping that she hasn’t left yet, that she’s lingering at the edge of the parking lot, having remembered one more thing she wanted to say. I step outside with the last of the stragglers, wave at people packing up their cars and backing out of their spaces, but all the time, I’m glancing around, praying for that final glimpse.

“Come on,” Brody says, taking my arm and urging me over to where the Cherokee is parked in the very last spot before asphalt gives way to gravel, then dirt, then highway. He’s got my keys, so I head around to the passenger side, and there, on the pavement, I spot her final farewell.

The blue-velvet dress lying on the ground, a bouquet of white roses nesting carefully in the folds.

*   *   *

B
rody has booked a weekend at the Chase Park Plaza, a beautifully restored old hotel in the heart of the Central West End, the only certifiably funky district of St. Louis. Bars, bistros, bookstores, and boutiques cluster along the crowded two-lane Euclid Avenue, while gorgeous and shockingly expensive houses ray off along cross streets. The clientele is a lively mix of students, out-of-towners, the urban elite, medical personnel from the nearby hospitals, and a good portion of the city’s gay population. I’ve never been here for the annual Halloween party or Gay Pride parade, but both events sound like fabulous extravaganzas.

The hotel itself has every imaginable luxury, including a two-screen movie theatre just off the lobby. Our room is more truly a one-bedroom apartment, with a spectacular view of the broad expanse of Forest Park.

“Freelance writing must pay a lot better than I ever thought it did,” I remark as I stroll around admiring the room.

“Nah, I gave them your credit card when I made the reservations.”

On a side table is a huge spray of roses, two dozen white ones with a single red one in the center. I bend over to inhale their subtle, foggy scent.

“Did you tell them we were on our honeymoon?” I ask. “Are they from the hotel?”

He’s come up behind me and as soon as I straighten up, he pulls me into his arms. “They’re from me, silly. Just a reminder that I love you.”

I kiss him. “Did you put these on my credit card, too?”

He laughs. “Damn. I forgot. Maybe it’s not too late to get the charges transferred.”

“And to think I never realized someone might marry me for my money.”

“Oh,” he says, kissing me, “the money was only part of it.”

*   *   *

W
e spend the next two days inside the hotel room at least as much as we’re outside it, though we both enjoy walking along Euclid, people-watching, and pausing for meals, coffee, ice cream, or shopping. I’m simultaneously happy, at a level so deep that I can only describe it as my soul, and profoundly, quietly sad. For so many reasons, I do not want the brief honeymoon to end.

I am loving the chance to spend every minute with Brody. He has what I can only think must be a journalist’s interest in every possible topic, from the timing of traffic lights to the pricing structure at an antique store, and he frequently offers up odd bits of knowledge he’s acquired in his eclectic career. These things make him an endlessly fascinating conversationalist, but it’s his affection and his lightheartedness that make him so easy to be around, so necessary to my well-being. He buoys me and lights me up. During those two days, I find myself clinging to him, always finding some excuse to pat his arm or take his hand. Well, we’re newlyweds, and we’re in love; of course we’re always touching. But it’s more than that. He anchors me to an existence of normalcy and hope, where the days unfold as they ought to, and life’s small disasters are easy to take in stride.

That’s one reason I don’t want the weekend to come to a close. The other one is that I can hardly face what I must do on Monday.

Sunday evening, we stand at our window and watch the sun go down over Forest Park. We can see the Planetarium, and of course the great maze of the zoo, and we think we can spot the art museum and the history museum and the Muny Opera, but maybe those are just breaks in the tree line. It’s November now, and the landscape is a dense brown marked with spots of intransigent green and gold. All up and down the major artery of Kingshighway Boulevard, buildings and cars are turning on lamps and headlights in defiance of the oncoming night. Brody is standing behind me, his arms around my waist and his chin against my hair. I have crossed my arms over his, and I am standing as close to him as I possibly can, just to feel his heat and weight against my body.

I feel as safe and protected as I ever will, and so I say at last, in a low voice, “I lied to my sister.”

His voice is low and lazy, free of shock or accusation. “Really? You don’t love me?”

“Not about that.”

“Then what?”

“I told her that I’d always be around. Or words to that effect.”

I feel him lift his head. “And you won’t? Where are you going?”

I turn to face him, still staying within his embrace. We haven’t turned on any lights in the room, and the daylight outside is fading fast. We’re half in shadow, but we can still see each other’s faces with utter clarity. His expression is confused but open; I wonder what he can read in mine.

“I don’t trust her,” I say. “I don’t believe she can come back to the house, and see me, and keep her animal shape. I think she’ll shift, and I think she’ll die.”

Brody keeps one arm around my waist but lifts a hand to brush hair from my face. “I think so, too,” he says, “but I wasn’t going to say so.”

“I have to stop her.”

“Do you really think you can? How?”

It’s surprisingly difficult to say the words out loud. But ever since Dr. Kassebaum pronounced her dreadful sentence, I’ve known what I have to do. I lean my cheek against his chest, so when I speak, my voice is muffled. “I have to invoke my superpower.”

*   *   *

K
urt Markham’s office is pretty much exactly what I would have expected. The wood paneling, enormous black desk, and trophy case full of athletic awards and framed certificates all scream
successful ex-jock with lots of money and no class
. Or maybe I would have interpreted any of his décor schemes the same way.

“Well, darlin’, this is a pleasant surprise,” he says when his secretary ushers me inside. At a nod from him, she shuts the door behind her. A huge picture window behind his desk admits the gray light of a stormy November afternoon and shows me his face mostly in silhouette. I prefer that, actually, to seeing his smug smile. It doesn’t bother me that the harsh light falls squarely on my face and exposes every line and fleeting expression. I am beyond caring what Kurt Markham thinks.

“I’m glad to hear it,” I reply.

“I understand I should congratulate you. You got married to that reporter fellow. Kind of sudden, wasn’t it?”

“Sudden but wonderful,” I say.

He laughs. “Well, good for you. You and your husband planning to live in that little bitty house you got out here, or is he a city man? You thinking about selling the property and moving? ’Cause I’m sure willing to make you another offer if that’s why you’re here.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” I say coolly. I can get through this without crying. I know I can. “I want half a million dollars. I want it today. And I want the house torn down before the end of the week.”

Kurt had been leaning back in his big leather seat, but at that he sits up so fast that he slams his knee into the top of his desk. “Half a million—and
what
? Slow down, darlin’, business doesn’t happen quite that fast.”

“Well, it does, or we’re not doing business. Those are my terms. Yes or no?”

“Even if the property was worth five hundred thousand—which, honestly, Mel, it isn’t—it’s not like I have that kind of money just lying around—”

I come to my feet. “Fine. I’ll look for another buyer.”

He leaps up, too, and the chair makes a faint crashing sound as it hits the wall. “Wait, wait, wait. I’m just trying to get a handle on your terms.”

I’ve made it as far as the door, but I turn back to face him. Now I’m actually glad for the weak sunlight on my face; I hope it shows him that I’m dead serious. “Those are my terms. Five hundred thousand. Today. And I want it written into the contract that if the house is
not
razed to the ground by the end of the week, you owe me another half million.”

He studies me for a long moment, letting the easy smile fade from his face while he makes cold calculations in his head. Oh, he’s not doing the math on the price of the property versus the profit he can make; he’s long ago performed a cost/benefit analysis and knows exactly what he can afford to pay. He’s sizing me up as an opponent, trying to guess where I might be vulnerable, how he might outmaneuver me. Most successful quarterback Dagmar High School had ever fielded, and a college standout at Mizzou. Would have gone pro if he hadn’t blown out his knee. Still a poker player who wins local tournaments and has made it to Vegas once or twice on the national circuit. Charles once called him a smiling shark, but he’s not smiling now.

“I think we’ve got a little room for negotiating here,” he says softly.

I lay my hand on the doorknob. “No we don’t.”

“Well, can I have an hour to think about it? I need to call a few folks, see how much money I can rustle up on such short notice.”

“No you don’t.”

“Now, Melanie. Be reasonable.”

“That’s the offer, Kurt. Take it or leave it. When I walk out, it’s off the table.”

“And you have someone else you’re gonna make the same offer to? Some other developer who happens to want the same land?”

I just smile. Kurt’s the local boy with all the connections and the biggest land-development operation in this part of the county, but there are a couple of other housing contractors who’ve started building in our area, and they’re eager to do business. Sure, the economy has been bad for a couple of years, but everyone expects the housing market to rebound—and here in the St. Louis area, most of the activity is in the small towns in the semirural areas, where there’s lots of room for growth.