To the Max

by Julie Lynn Hayes

  “Richard,” I began, “maybe we can do this in the car….” Hoping that he would take me up on my offer. Or anywhere, actually, but here. At that time I would have done anything to get me off that bridge and back onto blessed land once more. I tried to edge in that direction, but since that entailed me actually moving and since walking backward was definitely not an option, I quickly gave that up.

  “You’re so sexy, my little wolf,” he murmured against my neck, and damned if I didn’t obligingly move my head to give him even better access when what I really wanted to do was to stop the madness, right now. But when his fingers began tugging at the waistband of my shorts, I knew I had to speak up.

  “Richard, what are you doing?” I moaned softly.

  “Oh dear, has it been that long that you don’t recognize what I’m doing?” he said in mock-horror. “I shall have to remedy that.”

  “I didn’t mean ‘what are you doing’, what are you doing. I mean, what are you doing as in what are you doing here? In this spot? As in why don’t we go back to the house and do that?” I tried to maneuver him so that I could hopefully walk him off the bridge, just not backward.

  I think maybe my nervousness was finally beginning to get through to him. “What’s the matter, babe?” he asked, although his hands continued to attempt to read my nether regions like he was a blind man and I was the most fascinating Braille book in the world.

  “Nothing,” I bluffed heartily. Well, that was how I wanted to sound. I’m afraid that I came off as a whining little child instead.

  “Don’t you find this fascinating?” He finally stopped groping me for a moment, but to my horror, he was dragging me toward one of the bigger holes in the bridge. “Being able to look down at the waters, thinking about what is down there? I hear there are catfish that live at the bottom of the river that grow to be thirty foot long. Imagine!”

  That didn’t help one bit, as now I had to contend with the image of being eaten by a thirty-foot catfish on top of all my other fears. And please don’t bother to give me lectures on the feeding habits of the freshwater catfish, ’cause I don’t want to hear it. All I could think of was watching Jaws with Rachel and not wanting to swim in the ocean for a long time afterward. Not that it was a problem, not much ocean in St. Louis, but that’s beside the point. Completely beside the point.

  I dug in with my heels as he attempted to move me, determined not to get any closer to that gaping hole of death than I could help. Well, dug in as well as tennis shoes can dig in, which isn’t very damn well. And he is a little bigger than me and has a little more heft to him, although he isn’t actually stronger. The wolf inside is deceptively strong; people are misled by my slim physique into thinking me weak, which I am not. That’s because the wolf causes me to have a high metabolism too. Anyway, I felt myself being pulled, and I guess I became somewhat paralyzed with fright, otherwise I should have been able to counter his force with plenty of my own. Instead, I began to panic, seeing my life flash before my eyes, and thinking that there should be more of it to flash. I was only twenty at the time, a mere babe in the woods. Hardy har, very funny, I know, wolf reference. Get it?

  “Richard,” I heard myself whimper like a helpless little puppy, and I put an advanced stranglehold about his neck, damn near climbing up into his arms.

  That stopped him cold. “Max, whatever is wrong with you?” he asked, gazing in consternation into my eyes, which must have been wide in abject terror.

  If I were a braver man, or a more suave, debonair kind of guy, maybe I could have pulled it off, laughed my way out of the entire situation. And I wish I could tell you that I did. I could lie, but that wouldn’t change a thing, now would it? No, the closer he edged me toward that terrible chasm, the worse I got. I lost all my words and simply began to whine, until the light bulb went on in his blond head—that isn’t a dig by the way, ’cause he is an intelligent man—but he does have blond moments, I am afraid, and so do I.

  “Max?” he asked, looking at me in astonishment. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights?”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you then,” I replied, keeping my eyes riveted on his, not looking anywhere else but at him. This feeling of overwhelming fear was growing stronger by the second. I realized that it’s all in the mind, but my mind was set to explode any minute now.

  And then my beautiful lover did something I did not expect. Perhaps I should have; I’m not blind to his faults, I tend to overlook them, though. He is not a perfect person, and neither am I. But when he started laughing, I was taken aback. Seriously taken aback.

  He continued to hold me, or rather I was clinging to him like a tick on a mongrel’s belly. But at the same time, he had thrown back his head, and his laughter rang out rather loudly in the still summer night. And most insultingly. The only other sound was the chirruping of the katydids on the shore. And the beat of my thumping heart. Under other circumstances, I would have flounced indignantly off, but as it was, I couldn’t very well do that, now could I? So I sacrificed my dignity for the opportunity to not die in the waters of the mighty Mississippi. But I did the next thing that came to me and swatted him upside his head angrily.

  Which was a mistake, as without thinking, he pushed me away in retaliation, and to my horror, I felt myself falling backward.

  I didn’t even realize I knew that many prayers, but I started gabbling every single one I’d ever heard. Any faith, I didn’t care. Mentally, I said a quick good-bye as I fell: to Mom, to Rachel, Sebastian, Diana, Jackson—everyone but Richard, of course, as I was rather pissed off at him, as he was going to be the cause of my death, after all. I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to be swallowed up by those swelling waters, to disappear beneath the waves, never to reappear again, hopefully to be mourned by my survivors as I became fish food for pituitarily challenged icthywhatsises. Okay, that doesn’t make sense, but neither did I at that moment.

  And then he apparently made a grab for me and pulled me back and up into his arms once more as we fell back together onto the roadbed and onto our rumps. “Jesus, Max, I’m sorry!” I think he was almost as scared as I was; I could feel his heartbeat, a persistent rhythm which would have given Gene Krupa a run for his money in one of his best riffs. I didn’t want to look and see how close I had come to dying; I really didn’t want to know. I gave up any pretense at dignity and just clung to Richard for what I was worth, burying my face in his neck, my eyes closed tightly.

  How we got off that blasted bridge, I’ll never know, but I do know that I was never so grateful to feel the earth beneath my feet as when I was set down upon it once more, and I collapsed into a limp heap of mindless fear. I didn’t even mind that I was sitting in what was undoubtedly a patch of weeds, maybe even containing some poison ivy, to which I am allergic and would suffer the consequences from if that were indeed the case. I simply lay there, panting heavily, attempting to calm down, letting my blood pressure settle into double digits again.

  The next thing I knew I felt myself being scooped up into two strong arms—three guesses whose—and cradled against his chest in rather a tender fashion while he peppered my face with soft kisses and comforting sounds. I let my anger melt, admittedly overpowered by my need to be babied, as he whispered his sweet apologies and promised to never put me into that situation ever again….

  ALL those memories run quickly through my mind as I stand beside the river, lost in thought and reminiscences. Angry, hurt, and miffed all at the same time. Sometimes that man can be so damn callous, it’s just painful. And yet, at other times, he is the kindest, sweetest, dearest man I know. I just wish he would show that side more often; it would save me a great deal of heartache.

  A hand touches my arm. Automatically assuming it is one of the homeless people who populate the downtown area, trying to beg enough to live on, I reach for my pocket, but the same hand stops me. “Max, it’s me,” and I turn to see my Richard standing there, looking quite contrite.

  “I was just playing, darlin
g, I didn’t mean anything,” he assures me as he pulls me into his arms. It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him that his tactics won’t work, that I am incredibly hurt and pissed at him, but once again the lack of vertebrae stands me in poor stead as the spineless Max gives in. Again. Richard wraps himself around me and envelops me in the warmth of his love once more, and once more I melt like a bonbon over a bonfire, slithering bonelessly into his grasp and allowing him to take my lips in his, oblivious to the people who may or may not be around us in our general vicinity. I neither know nor care, all my attention centered on Richard once more. He is my sun, and I am his satellite; I am revolving around him like crazy.

  And then he begins singing softly in my ear, “Heaven, I’m in heaven….” and before I know it he is leading me in our Flying Down to Rio routine, right there along the banks of the Mississippi, as if only he and I exist in this world together. And after all these years, we are still light on our feet. I never mind playing Ginger to his Fred, after all, it is only a dance, though if I want to be completely honest with myself, it does mirror our relationship. He is invariably the one that leads, while I am content to follow in his footsteps.

  It isn’t until we finish and he dips me at the end that I become aware that we are not alone. The sound of applause brings me out of my trance to find that we now have an audience, smiling and cheering us on in our terpsichorean efforts, among whom I make out Rachel and Amy. I blush rather sweetly, while Richard simply soaks it all in as he brings me back up almost to a vertical position and kisses me, reminding me of that very famous photograph of the sailor kissing that woman at the announcement of VE day in the middle of Times Square, I think, if I haven’t confused it with another famous photograph. Anyway, he kisses me, and we are greeted with more applause, and whistles as well.

  To make a long story short—I know, too late—we kiss and make up, bid a fond farewell to Rachel and Amy, never discussing what happened between us, head for home… and have hot makeup sex. That is a given. I have no idea what Richard might have said to the girls once I left the limo, and I do not care, so I don’t ask. Besides, I know that Rachel will tell me later.

  Now here we are, warm and sweaty but very much content, our limbs entwined in a tangle of love.

  Hearts entwined—to the max—let tomorrow take care of itself.

  Chapter 6

  In Lupine Dreams

  THERE is no definitive volume regarding the creature known as the werewolf, that denizen of the dark, that overused and underappreciated subject of author’s fantasies and filmmakers’ cinematic enterprises. No handbook to the care and feeding of said werewolf, no guide to understanding the complexities inherent in their makeup due to the very nature of what they become under the auspices of the evil Luna, that vicious bitch that grabs ahold and pulls your very soul apart without a second thought or a backward glance. There are books to help you tend to every species of animal known to man, from stem to stern, from A to Zed, from how to choose one to proper grooming once you choose, the right kind of chew toys as well as dietary hints, even breeding suggestions and ideas on how to get your animal a little action in the sack, laid out in very loving and affectionate terms with well-wishing for a long and prosperous relationship.

  For the werewolf there is nothing.

  I don’t count the elaborate tales woven around the beast and his monthly transformations, some better than others, but most penned from an outsider’s viewpoint and therefore to be taken with a big grain of sodium. Most of them bunk, but then what can you expect from someone who hasn’t experienced it firsthand? Certainly not any reasonable expectation of veracity. There are certainly none that take a sympathetic view of the trials and tribulations of life as a lycanthrope, at least none that I have discovered, nor that make any attempt to understand the need to seek harmony in a discordant life.

  Being a werewolf is a thankless task.

  Rachel has suggested on more than one occasion that I fill this vacancy, stop up this unpardonable gap in mankind’s knowledge and understanding of life as we know it by penning the authoritative werewolf book. Stop the presses, hold your breath, the truth is about to slap you in the face, are you ready for it?

  There are two big reasons that I don’t do as she suggests. One is obvious: do I really want to out myself in such a fashion, tell the world what I have managed to keep secret for more than forty years, subject myself to its reactions, possible scorn and contumely, if not worse, stir up the villagers to bring out their pitchforks and start molding their silver bullets for my pursuit (by the way, I don’t know if that silver bullet theory is accurate or not—that only one of those particular pieces of ammo can kill a werewolf—but I don’t intend to become a test subject in someone’s demented experiments to find out, thank you kindly).

  The other reason you may find somewhat more surprising: because, honestly, I don’t know. Not that I don’t know what it is like to be a werewolf, because I am a werewolf and this is my life, this is what I know. But when it comes to the wolf side of the equation, there it becomes a little vague, a little more cloudy and unsure. Almost as if I am viewing my life through a snow globe, which during the full moon becomes upended by someone and all the little bits of snow blur what I see and distort my field of vision.

  Let me try to make better sense of this; I know that is rather vague. At least, I will try to explain as much of it as I understand myself.

  Like I mentioned before, I was born this way, my father having been a werewolf himself, although how he came to be that way, I cannot tell you, as he did not stick around for the aftermath. Hit-and-run paternity. Juliet always told me I came out ahead on Father’s Day, ’cause I never had to bother with ugly ties or cheap cologne. Which I suppose is a plus. I never felt the need for a father, to be honest. I was content with my little family group the way it was: Mom, Diana, Sebastian, and me. My grandfather while he was alive. Maybe that sounds cold, but it’s the truth. So being born like this, I didn’t know any other way to be. It was just part of who I was and who I am and who I will always be.

  Naturally I don’t remember being an infant. Who does? But I believe that my transformations began as early as the first full moon that occurred after my birth, although as a wolf puppy I probably didn’t present much of a danger to my family. How Juliet realized during her pregnancy that I was different, or in what way I was different, I do not know. I suppose I should ask her sometime, just to get a complete picture of my prenatal life. Someday I guess I shall. Just not today.

  Before I continue, I have a question for you: how many of you actually remember the Cold War? What it was, when it was, or even who it was? The Cold War was a paranoid period in American history, begun shortly after the conclusion of World War II, between us—us being the Americans—and them—them being the Russians, or Soviets.

  It is my belief that there are some people in this world who take their own impure thoughts and deeds and ascribe them to others, whether to appear less blameless themselves or merely to confuse the issue. The Cold War merely serves to reinforce my beliefs. There we were, waist-deep in nuclear bomb preparations of our own, as well as designing ways of killing more people more quickly, so when we thought we detected an increase in radiation in the vicinity of the Soviet Union, naturally we panicked and decided that they wanted to nuke us first. Said panic took the form of preparing for such an eventuality by encouraging the good citizens to build their own handy-dandy bomb shelters, in case of nuclear attack.

  Fallout shelters, bomb shelters, now even tornado shelters, a hole by any other name, just anything that was underground that would withstand the force of a nuclear blast and provide shelter until such time as it was safe to come aboveground again. Which hopefully there would be someone who would tell you when it was safe to come up again or else you’d end up sitting there twiddling your thumbs, wondering what was going on in the world above you, maybe for a very long time. Maybe for years even.

  Concrete, steel, varying sizes, shapes, and con
figurations, they all had in common that they were built strong and would include storage for provisions that would be needed both for sustenance during the crucial hiding period and for afterward for survival in the brave new world that would surely emerge from the aftermath of such a devastating unnatural occurrence. And now we come to the point of this mini-diatribe—yes, there is a point, o ye of little faith—in the backyard of my grandfather’s house in Webster Groves, Missouri, said house now being my mother’s, there was constructed in the early 1950s such a shelter for the benefit of my hysterical mother and her twin who swore that they were frightened of being ravished by the Russkies (honestly, people really talked like that!), and my grandfather gave in and had one built. Not that they ever used it, since it never came to that. Or even put provisions into it. That was something that always seemed able to wait. The point of what I am saying is that by the time I was born, the shelter was in place already and not being used.

  Can you maybe see where I am going with this?

  Baby… werewolf… every month a full moon, my God, what do we do with the boy/beast?

  Ah, the shades flutter up, and the light in the house can be seen. Very good.

  As I said, the baby wolf wasn’t a problem, although I am sure Juliet didn’t take me out in my pram and parade me in front of the neighbors, either, in my hairy little form. But she must have always realized that baby wolves, like human babies, do grow up, and need a safe place during their period of transition, both for themselves and for the general populace.

  That’s where the aforementioned bomb shelter comes in. Although constructed for an entirely different purpose, it just happened to be in place in my time of need. I guess you could call that serendipitous. I don’t. And I’m the one that had to put up with being in the bloody thing once a month from early childhood until I moved out on my own, when I bought my house at the age of about twenty-five, a period of roughly twenty years I’m guessing. Twelve times a year, more in case of damned blue moons, times twenty years, that’s two hundred and forty, give or take a few. That’s a lot of time spent in a small underground room, let me tell you. It seemed like more, believe me.