by Huskyteer
Finally, feeling suffocated by the tired little room, I went out for a walk. The tourist season had come and gone, and most of the quaint shops nearby were already closed, with signs in the windows saying things like “See you next Memorial Day!” The emptiness didn’t improve my mood, but at least I wasn’t forced to make small talk with anyone.
It wasn’t fair. That was the stupid, childish thought that kept playing over and over in my mind. It just wasn’t fair. At first, I thought I meant it wasn’t fair for Terrence, for his very existence to be linked to what other people thought or felt about him. I could be completely alone in the world, no family, no friends, no one to even know I existed, let alone care—and still I would exist.
The farther I walked, though, the more I realized the truth. It wasn’t just unfair to him. I was also feeling sorry for myself. After all the years of dating and breaking up, I’d finally met someone wonderful, someone I really cared about, and odds were he wouldn’t last out the month.
I checked my watch and headed back toward the motel. The sun was starting to set over the water, sinking slowly into a pool of orange and red. The sight stopped me, held me there. I stood for several minutes just watching it, taking it in.
Appreciating a sunset couldn’t keep it from fading. But I couldn’t turn away from something beautiful just because it wouldn’t last.
At the motel, I unpacked the one dress I’d brought—one of those “just in case, what the hell, it doesn’t take up that much room anyway” items. Thankfully, the fabric hadn’t wrinkled, so I didn’t have to risk the rust-edged iron that was pushed to the back of the closet shelf. The dress was sleeveless, sheer and summery, though the deep crimson color was pure autumn. I hoped the evening wouldn’t get too cold, since the only jacket I’d brought was too casual to match.
When he opened his door and saw me, there was a delightful heart-skipping instant as he took in the sight. Did I look that way when I saw him?
“I feel so…underdressed.” He thought a moment, then hooked an invisible zipper beneath his chin, unzipped his striped pelt, and stepped out of it wearing a tux.
“Oh, thanks. Now I’m underdressed.”
He took my hand. “No, you’re beautiful. Ready to go?”
I offered to drive, but he said it wasn’t far. We walked along the water, sometimes on boardwalks and along docks, sometimes on a winding trail through sandy grass. Finally we came to a structure that looked like it had once been another vacation cottage, but now it could only be called a shack. It leaned to one side, the lit windows looking more diamond-shaped than square.
Terrence chuckled when he saw my expression. “Don’t worry, it’s safe. And a lot nicer on the inside, trust me.”
He held the door open for me. Inside, it was still plain and a little run down, but at least the walls were straight.
A portly toon alligator in a white apron greeted us. “Evening, Terrence.”
“Hey, Al. That table ready?”
“Ready and waiting. Special’ll be out in a few.”
It wasn’t a big dining room, just a half-dozen round tables with plain white tablecloths. But in the back corner, one table was set with bone china and silver, and a bottle of chilled white wine stood beside crystal goblets. Candles shone in silver candlesticks, and a single red rose in a crystal bud vase completed the picture.
From somewhere unseen, Al dimmed the lights as we sat down. Everything caught the candlelight, reflecting it back in a thousand chasing glimmers.
Terrence smiled. “Al’s angling for a big tip tonight.”
“Is it always this…private?”
“You mean empty? We’re being honest, remember.” He glanced around the room. “In season, you can wait two hours for a table on a Friday night. This time of year, it’s pretty quiet.”
“The way you like it?”
He spread the linen napkin in his lap. “The way it suits me.”
Al brought out shrimp cocktail for us to share. “I hope seafood’s all right,” Terrence said.
“Fantastic.” I reached for the shrimp. “But what are you going to eat?”
The special turned out to be linguini and broiled scallops in a white wine sauce. “He’s outdone himself,” Terrence remarked, pouring another glass of wine. “For all I knew, we were going to wind up eating fish and chips off china plates.”
The silences were comfortable. I realized neither of us needed, anymore, to fill every space with chatter. I was warm from more than just the wine. Before this evening, all I’d have been able to think about was how I was out on a date that hordes of fangirls—and boys—would have killed for. But now, when I looked at him, he wasn’t the Terrence Tiger, star of Jungle Jam. He was just Terrence, himself. It was hard to separate out which one I was falling in love with—but the truth was, I loved them both.
Dessert was raspberry cheesecake drizzled with chocolate.
“Okay, no way Al made this,” Terrence said.
Al came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “You doubt my wide range of talents?”
“Many things about you are wide, Al. Talents, not so much.” Terrence took another bite of the cheesecake. “Besides, I know the Silver Strand’s hot fudge when I taste it.”
“Busted.” Al laughed. “Anything else for you?”
“Just the check.”
“Eh, it’s on the house.” Al winked at me.
Terrence smiled. “I owe you one.”
“I’ll add it to your tab.” He headed back to the kitchen. “Have a good night, kids.”
It was dark when we left, but Terrence whipped out a lantern to light our way back to his house. He also slipped off his jacket and put it around my shoulders. It was warm and smelled faintly of spice and musk.
I smiled at him. “We’re just a romantic cliché, aren’t we?”
“Maybe. But things only get to be clichés because they work.”
At the house, he made coffee. We sat on the couch, set our cups on the table, and ignored them.
On the show, Terrence had been suave and cool and had always found the right thing to say. Now he looked almost nervous, and I loved that. “Remember… We’re still being honest,” he said.
“Of course.”
“I know this is all—kind of sudden. It’s just that…” He paused. “I came here not knowing how much time I had left. And I realize now that ever since I’ve been here, I’ve just been…waiting for it to happen. That’s all. Not living, just waiting.”
“But you’re not gone yet.”
“No. And I’m glad of that now.”
“So am I.”
He leaned closer. The kiss seemed to happen on its own, inevitable and perfect, deepening slowly, pulling us against each other.
Several long moments later, we broke apart, and I glanced down, then back into his eyes. “So where were you hiding that all this time?”
He gave me a playful smile. “Trade secret.” And we kissed again.
* * * *
When I woke, sunlight was filtering through the gauzy bedroom curtains. The bed was empty beside me, and for an instant I feared the worst, until I heard him in the kitchen.
I called my boss and told her I had a family emergency and would have to be out for the rest of the week. I figured it was close enough to the truth, and she would never have believed the truth anyway. I hardly believed it myself.
Each day blended into the next. We played miniature golf at the boardwalk, with Terrence taking on a new celebrity persona at each hole. He’d sweet-talked the owner, a toon poodle whose pink fur was going gray, into opening up just for us.
I was surprised by how many toons lived and worked close by. Terrence just shrugged when I mentioned it. “I told you; we’re all drawn to water eventually.”
A purple hippo in a zoot suit ran the single-screen theater downtown. He basically gave Terrence the key to the place, and we sat in the cool darkness for hours, watching Jungle Jam, Tom and Jerry, Top Cat, Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duc
k. Most of the time we watched the screen. Sometimes we didn’t.
Dinner was always at Al’s. (I had learned that his middle initial was, as I’d suspected, “E.”) Once, when Al and I were briefly alone, the gator said suddenly, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you’re doing for him. He’s a good guy. Always has been. It’s good to see him happy again. He deserves that.” And he took my empty plate and waddled back to the kitchen.
After dinner one night, back at the house, Terrence presented me with a big red box tied with a white bow.
“What’s the occasion?”
He shrugged and smiled. “Just something I thought you’d like.”
“This… Doesn’t explode or anything, does it?”
“Hey, I already learned the hard way not to let Jokey Smurf do my gift-wrapping.”
I lifted the lid off gingerly, and there, on a bed of tissue paper, was a new plush Terrence, the tags still on it, the same kind I’d had when I was little.
“It’s perfect—where did you get this?”
“I’ve had some stuff in storage.” He smiled. “Talk about needing therapy. I’m the one giving out stuffed animals of myself.”
I hugged the toy. “He’s adorable.” Then I kissed Terrence, slipping my arms around him. “I like the real thing even better, though,” I whispered, and drew him down to me.
All these days, I had been trying not to see it. I had hoped that somehow one person’s love could take the place of a thousand fans’ admiration. But the next morning, as he stood by the window looking out, I saw the morning sunlight slant through him, and I saw how his orange fur had faded to peach.
No.
Terrence glanced at me, and I was afraid I’d spoken the word aloud. Then he smiled, and I managed to smile back. I tried to hold on to that smile for the rest of the day.
Later that evening, we sat on the small deck out back overlooking the water, watching the terns dive into the smooth, sunset-gold surface, watching the ripples wash all the way to the shore.
“It’s going to happen soon,” he said.
I swallowed. “How do you know?”
“I know.” His voice was strained. “Thank Al for me, will you? I never wanted to embarrass him, but he’s been a good friend, and I want him to know that. I want him to know I appreciated it.” He was silent for several moments, staring out at the water. “One more thing.”
“Anything,” I said, and meant it.
He turned back to me, his eyes shining. “Remember me.”
I held him as if I could keep him with me by sheer determination. I forced my voice past tears, my jaw clenched against the sob that wanted to rise from my chest. “Always.”
He lowered his face to mine, and I closed my eyes. In the kiss, I felt him dissolving, like sand slipping through my fingers. His warmth lingered on my lips, but when I opened my eyes, he was gone.
* * * *
I never did write that blog post. I couldn’t. Sometimes things are cliché because they work, and sometimes words are too small, too weak, to carry what needs to be said.
The plush version of Terrence sits on a shelf in my library, next to the DVDs of the show. Someday I’ll watch them again. I’ll smile at the jokes I know by heart, and hold the stuffed animal close, and feel as safe as I did when I was a child, as loved as I felt when he held me in that cottage by the sea. For now, the toy sits there, and I look at it, and I remember.
The child I was carried Terrence with her wherever she went. The woman I am now carries him with her still.
BEST INTERESTS, by Whyte Yoté
“Just so you know,” says the human behind the wheel, “once you’re in office all of this rinkydink undercover shit’s going to go away.”
“Why don’t you bitch some more, Emmett,” deadpans the lion from the passenger seat of the nondescript rental Ford. “You do realize you’re driving me to my acceptance speech, don’t you?”
Emmett sighs. “I’m just trying to keep your priorities at heart. What would America think if they saw you hauled around in a Hertz car?”
Chuckling, the lion counters, “I would hope they’d be thankful I wasn’t wasting their money on a jet. Certainly the Greens would love me. The GOP might not care, but that hardly matters now. The people have spoken. I’m sure they’ll castigate me for Air Force One eventually. Besides, you’re assuming someone will recognize us at all.”
Emmett bites his lip, choosing not to counter the President-Elect’s odd breed of logic by pointing out he is kind of hard to miss in a crowd. Then he thinks better of it. “That’s not the point,” he waffles. “It’s not as safe, is what I meant to say.”
“You liar. After tonight I won’t have a choice and it’s all up to the Secret Service. For tonight, let’s let them work for it.”
“Fine, David, you win. You are the president after all.” Emmett may look peeved, but the lion knows when his longtime friend and trusted campaign advisor is posturing for the sake of posturing. Emmett is smiling inside and laughing his ass off. Both men are elated, not because the long slog of stump speeches and fundraising is over but because the votes have been cast and America has chosen the long shot, the underdog—“undercat” in the media—and it has chosen wisely.
David grins, then yawns, the light from the dash glinting across his fangs. “Yes, I do win. I did win. And you’ll do well to remember that.” Emmett punches him in the arm before swinging the sedan off the George Washington Memorial Freeway and negotiating the cones placed at the entrance to Gravelly Point Park. Up ahead, three men in black suits with ear pieces surround the car, one in front and one on each side. The one nearest Emmett puts his hand to his ear, motioning at the same time for Emmett to roll down his window.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the man asks, leaning in to look across at the lion. David waves his fingers and smiles. Emmett bristles between them.
“You know what we’re here for. You can see he’s right there,” Emmett says, gesturing for emphasis.
“I don’t see anything, sir,” the man deadpans, his right hand kept close to what is certainly a holster hidden behind his jacket.
“Say it, Emmett,” David says. “It’s protocol.”
“God dammit, David…”
“Man up and play the game. Enjoy yourself. You have to for the next four years, anyway.”
Emmett affects a heavy sigh, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Simba has entered the Pridelands. Are you happy?”
“Yes,” says the lion.
“Very,” says the man in black, who waves them through before radioing ahead to let the rest of the Secret Service know that the country’s next leader has entered the area.
David’s civilian phone rings as Emmett weaves through clusters of media vans and ambulances. The lion takes is out and looks at the screen: ALEX BASHER.
“It can’t be,” Emmett guesses.
“Yeah,” David sighs, tapping a claw to decline the call. “Of course he would call tonight, of all nights. This is ridiculous, I haven’t heard from him in ten months.” He takes the opportunity to turn the phone off before replacing it in his pocket.
“You know you can get a new phone, right? Or ditch the personal number. You won’t need it anymore.”
“I know,” the lion replies, but his mind is elsewhere. After all this time, despite everything he’s told himself—and Alex—he still feels guilty. Even telling himself it’s for the greater good isn’t working anymore. But tonight is not the night to have second thoughts.
Emmett keeps his gaze forward, his lips a thin line on his up-lit face. “You never should have said hello.”
* * * *
The lion who wanted to become president sat on the platform that had been erected in front of the World Trade Center Memorial Site and looked over his list of fifty names. He was one of a host of people chosen to read a portion of the 2,606 victims of September 11, thirty-two of whom were morphs, two of them lions. David looked two-thirds o
f the way down the page in his paw to the name circled in red: Mwasi Ngobo, a window washer, originally from Kenya. He’d been on the roof when the first plane had struck on that clear Tuesday morning thirty-four years ago.
But Ngobo had factored in to David’s rhetoric more than once, in Senate-floor speeches about national pride and immigration opportunities afforded to people of all nations and species. He could pump up a crowd nearly anywhere he went. A Democrat from Virginia out of convenience, he was more centrist than anything, popular with the liberals for his stances on diversity and with the conservatives for being averse to oversight and regulation. Rather than seen as pandering, his reputation was that of a negotiator, and that was a refreshing break from the usual donkey-elephant fighting in Washington. Even polarized diehards like Oregon and Texas were softening to his evenhanded approach.
He stood and approached the podium, his mane blowing about his face in the warm Manhattan breeze. Tens of thousands of people looked to him, to the “Freedom Tower,” to the sky as the lion read from top to bottom. He spoke Ngobo’s name with slight emphasis, and somewhere in the crowd he heard a roar, and he knew he was doing more than well. He was doing good.
That evening, as David gladhanded contributors to the Morphic Education Fund (which he’d helped found), he spied a man drinking a cheap import beer and practically staring him down from across the room. He wasn’t what the lion would call immediately noticeable, especially compared to the only other morph in the room, an otter whose tail almost mesmerized him with its slow swaying. But when the other patrons left the man stayed, not approaching until nearly midnight when an offhand comment about American teens growing up furry caught his attention. After introducing himself, Alex proved to be a font of knowledge in matters of morphic interest and struggles. First, David was intrigued. Then he was wholly engaged.
Then he invited Alex back to his townhouse in Falls Church for some late-night decaf and a rare chance to show off his extensive library of research into morphic sociology and integration. At least, that’s what he told himself. At one point during the car ride across the Potomac he allowed himself to muse that he might be attracted to the man, but the thought was fleeting at best. Besides, he rationalized, if anything it was to Alex’s intellect, not his deep blue eyes. Not that that kind of attraction wasn’t as strong, but…
