The Craving (4 page)

“He’s playing alone and I need a break.” She let out a deep breath. “What a day. I’m totally zonked and my feet are killing me. Want to give me a foot massage?”

Throughout their marriage Simon had been giving Alison foot massages when they watched TV. But since he’d become a werewolf Alison hadn’t asked him for massages, and he was glad because he knew that touching her feet, feeling the warmth of her skin on his fingertips, and breathing in that especially pungent aroma from such a close distance would be way too arousing.

Simon knew Alison could tell he was hesitant. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said.

He knew if he turned her down it would lead to a big discussion—
Why don’t you want to give me foot massages anymore? Don’t you want to touch me anymore?
—so he decided to give it a try.

“What do you mean?” he said. “Of course I want to.”

When she put her feet up on his lap and he caught the first whiff, he knew he’d made a big mistake. He was already getting turned on. Breathing through a corner of his mouth, he used his thumbs to knead her insteps.

It felt incredible enough; it didn’t exactly help the situation when Alison said, “Oh God, that feels so amazing,” practically moaning, like they were having sex and she was on the verge of a powerful orgasm.

Like a horny dog, Simon was suddenly aroused, but unlike when he was doing dishes, this time he couldn’t hide his excitement.

“Wow, looks like I’m not the only one enjoying this,” Alison said.

“Sorry,” Simon said, letting go of her feet.

“You don’t have to apologize. You’re allowed to get turned on by your wife.”

Actually he wasn’t allowed to get turned on by her. If he got too turned on, he might transform into a werewolf and rip her head open.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” he said, shifting away.

“Why?” she said. “Don’t you like it?”

Here we go.

“Of course I
like
it,” he said. “It has nothing to do with
liking
it.”

Alison got up. Simon was relieved that he immediately felt a little less aroused.

“Well, I’m not sure
what
it has to do with,” she said. “I mean, I know you have a disorder, and you’re going through a lot right now. But I don’t get why it has to do with me, why you’re afraid to have sex with your own—”

“Can you keep your voice down?” Simon said, gesturing with his jaw toward Jeremy’s bedroom. Though Jeremy’s room was down the hallway, when he focused he could hear Jeremy playing with his train set, saying, “Choo choo, choo choo…”

“He can’t hear me,” Alison said.

Simon realized this was probably true, as she hadn’t been talking particularly loud.

“Look,” he said. “The last thing I want is for you to feel offended. But, you know, I’m going through something very difficult right now, and it’s going to take time.”

“So what has Dr. Levinson been saying about all this?”

Dr. Levinson was a psychiatrist downtown whom Alison had
arranged for Simon to see, but Simon, unbeknownst to Alison, had stopped going after one appointment, knowing the whole thing was a farce and a complete waste of time.

“He says I have lyncanthropic disorder,” Simon said.

“I know that, but does he think it’s getting any better? Do you still think you’re a werewolf?”

Simon shifted uncomfortably, then said, “Yes.”

“Does he think you’re making any progress at all?”

“Some.” Simon was a horrible liar. His mouth was suddenly dry.

“He can’t give you any sort of timetable?” Alison asked. “He can’t give you a ballpark when—”

“No,” Simon said.

Looking frustrated and confused, Alison said, “And you still think if we have sex you’ll turn into a—”

“Yes,” Simon said.

“And what about the medication? Isn’t that supposed to be helping your symptoms?”

Levinson had prescribed Haldol, which is commonly prescribed for schizophrenia and other psychotic disorders. Simon had filled the prescription just in case Alison checked, but he hadn’t taken a single pill.

“It’s going to be a process,” Simon said. “I’m sorry, Al. Believe me, I know how messed up this has all been. I understand why you’re getting impatient.”

“I’m not impatient,” Alison said. “I just wish I wasn’t so in the dark.”

“I want to tell you more,” Simon said. “I want to tell you everything. Believe me, I do. But I can’t. That’s impossible right now while I’m a … I mean, while I’m recovering.”

“What does Levinson say about all your changes? How your voice got deeper, and how hairy you are?”

Simon had been shaving his face and trimming the hair on the rest of his body a few times a day—usually when Alison wasn’t home—to keep his hair at a seminormal length.

“We haven’t discussed it much,” he said.

“But it must’ve come up,” she said. “I mean, these are major changes. Does he really think it can all be psychological?”

“Yes,” Simon said. “I mean, that’s what he’s indicated. You know, a mind-over-matter-type thing.” Simon was eager to get onto another topic.

“Look, I’m trying not to get in the way of your therapy,” Alison said. “I’m trying to give you all the space you need to work on whatever you need to work on. And I don’t want to intrude. I mean, I get that there’re things you need to work on privately with Dr. Levinson. It’s just hard when you … I mean when I can’t…”

Alison’s voice trailed off. She was looking away.

Simon went over, put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “Come on, everything’s going to be okay.” He said this, he noticed, weakly, wishing himself it were true.

“Sorry, I told you I had a really hard day,” she said. “I had appointments back-to-back, and I think I lost a big contract. And I haven’t been getting enough sleep and I’m not spending enough time with Jeremy and then with everything that’s going on with you … it just gets a little overwhelming sometimes.” She collected herself; she was still upset but she wasn’t crying anymore. “I just want things to go back to how they were before you … I just want a normal life, with my normal husband. Is that too much to ask?”

Simon wanted that too; she had no idea how badly.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t.”

“I know it’s unfair to put so much pressure on you,” Alison said. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” Simon said. “It’s not your—”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “I know you’re trying as hard as you can to fix things, and I know these things take time. I mean, I can’t expect dramatic changes overnight.”

Thinking that dramatic changes overnight was exactly what he was so terrified of, Simon said, “I just feel bad that I can’t give you what you want.”

“You mean sex?” Alison said. “Well, I
have
been especially horny lately. Don’t worry about me, just worry about yourself, but I’m warning you…” Suddenly she looked very serious, but in a sarcastic way. “If we don’t start doing it again soon, I’m going to leave you for someone else.”

“Oh, really,” Simon played along. “And who’s that?”

Still pseudoserious, she said, “His name is Toy.”

“Oh, really?” Simon was deadpan. “Toy who?”

“Just Toy. He has one name, like Eminem.”

Simon smiled. “So does Mr. Toy—”

“Just Toy,” Alison said. “No
mister
.”

“Sorry; is Toy-no-
mister
a good-looking guy?”

“No, he looks sort of like … a hot dog.”

“A hot dog, huh? Sounds very attractive.”

“It’s not all about looks,” she said. “Toy has that extra something, that X factor. Toy’s a real stud, actually. He knows what a woman wants and he delivers it every time. And things are just so less complicated with Toy. He’s always there for me. He’s reliable, dependable—”

“Toy sounds like a very solid guy.”

“Oh, yes, Toy is a very, very solid guy.”

They continued to appear serious for a few seconds, then at the same moment started laughing. It was great to let loose; it felt as if they hadn’t
laughed together in months. Life just hadn’t been very funny lately.

Suddenly Simon had the urge to kiss his wife, make out with her. He put his arms around her waist, pulled her close, and then as he felt himself starting to get aroused, he pulled back and pushed her away. This killed the lighthearted mood instantly. All of a sudden Alison had the guarded, tense expression that Simon had become accustomed to lately.

“Sorry,” Simon said. “I don’t know why I—”

“I should get him ready for bed,” Alison said, and marched down the hallway to Jeremy’s room.

A
fter Alison read Jeremy part of
The Phantom Tollbooth
—Simon, from the living room, could hear her reading clearly—she passed through the living room, not making eye contact with Simon, who was on the rug doing more push-ups, and then she continued to the kitchen, where she opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of water from the Brita pitcher.

Simon finished the set of fifty, not at all winded, and asked, “Sleeping already?”

“Like a baby,” Alison said, still not looking at him.

“Wow, you’re amazing,” he said. “If I tried to put him to sleep he’d still be up.”

“That’s because you’re the fun parent.”

The comment was loaded with innuendos. Simon could tell she was angry, sad, bitter, jealous, and resentful because she had to work full-time and he was a stay-at-home dad. But he didn’t want to get into a whole discussion about it, knowing it would just lead to more tension and stress.

“I think I’m gonna go for a run now,” he said.

Alison gave him a look because he’d told her that the therapy was supposed to be helping him work on the excessive physical energy, another “symptom” of his believing he was a werewolf.

“Dr. Levinson said running’s good for me,” Simon said. “It relieves stress.”

For days he’d been using this lame excuse to explain his excessive need to run.

“If you want to run, run,” she said. “I’m so exhausted, I feel like I’m going to pass out.” Then in a tone that couldn’t have been more deadpan, she added, “Have fun.”

She smiled, in a fake, forced way, and went toward the bedroom.

Again, Simon had a foreboding feeling about his marriage, and his life, as he knew things couldn’t continue this way indefinitely. Eventually Alison would lose patience with him and his odd behavior and their marriage would be in trouble again, if it wasn’t in trouble again already.

Simon was putting on his running shoes—he’d just gotten this pair of hundred-and-fifty-dollar Nikes a week ago but had done so much running the treads were showing serious wear already—when he heard Alison in the bedroom, getting it on with her new lover, Toy. When he honed in some more, he could hear her panting breaths and soft moans. He couldn’t blame her for being sexually frustrated; he felt the same way, but it was worse for him because he couldn’t relieve himself. He hadn’t had an orgasm since he became a werewolf, fearing that even masturbating would lead to a full-blown transformation. One night, while sleeping on the couch, he’d had a dream about Alison—they were outside, maybe on a beach, or in the park, and they started making love—and he woke up, feeling the pains in his extremities and on his face, especially in and around his mouth, that he’d felt before he’d transformed—and
he realized that he had a full erection and had almost had a nocturnal emission, but he managed to subdue himself under a cold shower.

Simon could hear Alison’s panting getting more rapid; she was whispering to herself,
Oh, God, Oh my God…

One of the worst parts about all of this was that despite what Alison had said, on some level she had to believe that Simon was avoiding contact with her because he didn’t want to make love to her, because he wasn’t turned on or didn’t think she was attractive anymore, which couldn’t have been further from the truth. He was dying to attack her, ravish her for hours, for days—just the thought of kissing and touching her was so arousing, it was almost unbearable—but how could he explain to her that he didn’t want to touch her anymore because he loved her too much and didn’t want to tear her to shreds? She wouldn’t believe he was a werewolf until she saw him turn into a werewolf herself, which could cost her her life. Even more frustrating, because he was a werewolf and was exuding a werewolf scent and/or vibe, Alison was obviously more physically attracted to him than ever before, but, for the very reason why she was attracted to him, he couldn’t return the affection. It was the Catch-22 to end all Catch-22s.

Just as Alison was starting to come, Simon rushed out of the apartment and didn’t bother waiting for the elevator, taking the stairs down nine flights to the lobby.

It was dark at about seven o’clock on this early November evening. Most leaves were gone from the trees, but there were still a lot of dried-up ones whipping around the sidewalks. Simon jogged across Columbus Avenue, toward Central Park, forcing himself to go at a normal pace. He wanted to break into an all-out sprint, but there were people around and if he ran as fast as he could it would definitely
cause a scene. Though he hadn’t pushed himself fully—fearing that the exertion could cause a transformation—he knew he was capable of running extremely fast.