Full Moon City

by Darrell Schweitzer

  The dog gave a soft yip followed by an energetic yawn.

  “I sure hope you’re all grown-up, fella, because you got really big feet. If you get much larger, you’ll need a barn for a doghouse.” He examined the large paw, and was rewarded as the dog lifted his foot into his hand. “Really big paw, fella.” He sat down next to the dog, trying not to think about all the things his mom would be upset about if she could see him now. “You gotta have a name of some kind. Fella sounds really dumb. Maybe I can’t keep you, but I can call you something better than fella.” He leaned against the dog’s shoulder and thought. “Why not Ben?” he said after a long pause. “Like for Franklin Boulevard. Sure beats calling you Diogenes I. Vlamos for the park. Ben’s better.”

  The dog lay down, head raised, paws stretched out in front of him, alert and content at once.

  Jake draped his arm over the dog and pretended, just for a little while, that Ben was his dog and that they were out for Ben’s night-time walk and just taking a break from their rambles. After about ten minutes, the dog noticed something approaching, and a low, rumbling growl grew in his chest. “What is it?” Jake asked, trying to figure out what Ben had smelled, because it had to be an odor, since Jake couldn’t discern any reason for this change.

  A guy in a county park ranger’s uniform came into the playground light, a flashlight in his hand. As the light flickered over the big black dog and the youngster beside him, the ranger said something under his breath. Aware that Jake and the dog were watching him, the ranger’s attempt to smile failed utterly because his face was lit from beneath by the flashlight, making him appear sinister. “Kind of late for you to be out, isn’t it, son?” He had a nice voice—deep but not booming; it kind of made up for the weird light on his face.

  “Ben’s gotta be walked,” said Jake, scrambling to his feet. Next to him Ben stood up.

  “Yes, he does, but it’s a little late for walking a dog.” He saw the set look in Jake’s face and tried to soften his remarks. “He’s a real handsome dog—that ruff makes him look wolfish.”

  “I think so, too,” said Jake, realizing it was true.

  “Still, it’s after ten. There’s a ten o’clock curfew for youngsters like you.”

  “My mom had to work late, and somebody’s gotta walk Ben,” said Jake, making a big show of shrugging.

  “Without a leash?” the ranger inquired.

  “He’s easier to handle if I just hold his collar. That’s why it’s cloth,” Jake improvised. “When I’m taller, I’ll get to use a leash.”

  “How old are you, son?” The ranger had taken a notebook out of his pocket.

  “Nine. I’ll be ten in two months.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  The black dog whined a little and looked as if he wanted to move on.

  “Fourth, at Burbank,” Jake said. “Look, I gotta get going. Ben’s hungry.”

  “Next time don’t wait so long to take him out. This isn’t a safe place for a kid after dark, and the curfew is real, you know.” The ranger bent down to make sure Jake could see his concern; Jake longed to hit him. “You should be home in bed.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Jake in the same tone he used with Mom when she lectured him about Uncle Bob’s problems.

  “Are you sure you can get home okay?” the ranger asked as Jake and Ben went to the paved walkway leading out of the park.

  “Yeah. We know the way, don’t we, Ben?”

  The big dog gave a merry little croon.

  The ranger looked displeased but he said nothing more; he scribbled something in his notebook and waved to Jake before continuing on his rounds.

  Jake and Ben walked together for about half a mile, as far as West Sycamore; Jake had spent most of the time trying to figure out how he could keep Ben without Mom or Uncle Bob finding out about him. At the intersection, Jake turned right and headed for the last quarter mile between him and home, but Ben halted, refusing to go farther. Jake pulled on the cloth around Ben’s neck, but to no avail. He let go of the collar and pointed down West Sycamore.

  “It’s not a long way, Ben. Three blocks down and turn into Barrington Court. It’s the rear unit of number twenty-two,” said Jake, trying not to plead. “Come on. It’s not hard to find.”

  Ben moved away from the boy; he was now out of reach and putting more distance between them by moving sideways. As Jake came toward him, he threw back his head and howled, a sound so eerie and forlorn that Jake stopped still. Ben wagged his tail, turned, and hastened off into the night, Jake trying to follow him.

  Two blocks later, Jake gave up and turned around, his head down and a feeling of tremendous loss weighing heavily upon him.

  The middle-aged woman in the boxy tweed suit at the door had to call out twice to be heard over the vacuum cleaner; when Esther turned the machine off, she gave Jake’s mother a tentative smile through the worn screen. “Missus Sparges?” she repeated. “Missus Esther Sparges?”

  Esther made a grimace that was supposed to be a friendly expression. “Yes?” She stayed away from the door.

  “I’m Isobel Matthews—from Luther Burbank Elementary—Jake’s school? We sent you a letter a month ago about your boy, but we haven’t heard anything from you, and we really do need to talk.” She pressed her lips together, then explained. “I’m a psychologist for the district, and Ms. Davidson—your son’s teacher?—has expressed some concerns about him.”

  “My boy’s fine,” said Esther, bristling. “If she says otherwise, she’s wrong.”

  “I don’t mean that he’s disruptive, or that his grades are falling. Nothing like that,” said Isobel hastily. “Quite the opposite; Jake is very quiet and self-contained. He has artistic talents. He’s good at science. He’s an excellent student.”

  “Then why are you here?” Esther demanded, setting her vacuum cleaner aside and coming up to the screen.

  “Because he’s showing signs of serious depression: that can be dangerous in children Jake’s age. There’s reason to be worried. He’s withdrawn, he keeps to himself, he spends his lunchtime alone, he writes stories about a hero with a secret identity, he wants nothing to do with school activities beyond his classroom work, he is—”

  “Oh, God, you psychologists have to find something wrong with everyone, don’t you?” Esther glowered at Isobel. “Look, you’ve got Jake all wrong. He’s kind of shy, and he’s real sensitive about being small. He’s had a rough time of it. Why can’t you leave the poor kid alone?”

  “Because he’s at risk, Missus Sparges.” She paused. “May I come in? This isn’t the sort of discussion one should have on the porch.”

  Esther hesitated. “I think our conversation is over,” she said, trying to be authoritative and ending up sounding petulant.

  “Oh, I hope not, Missus Sparges, for your son’s sake,” said Isobel. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain so he won’t end up in serious trouble.”

  “That won’t happen; not to Jake.”

  “It very well may, if we can’t find out what’s bothering him and try to do something about it.” Isobel wanted to encourage Esther, so she added, “You don’t want to see him hurt by this, do you?”

  “Look, lady, I think Jake still hasn’t got over his father’s death, and that makes him quiet and … thoughtful.”

  “When did his father die?”

  “Five years and seven months ago,” said Esther a bit wistfully, an emotion that faded and was replaced by truculence. “He was okay, and then he was real sick, and then he was dead. At thirty-one, he got sick and died. And I was left with bills that ate up all the insurance money and a four-year-old to raise.” She was afraid that sounded bad, so she added, “It hasn’t been easy for either of us.”

  Isobel had seen information about this in Jake’s file, but didn’t mention it to Esther. “Would you like me to refer you to a counselor, or to one of the community support groups? You might be eligible for food stamps and money to help cover the costs of raising a
child. I’d be glad to help you through the process, if you like. It might make it easier for both of you, and that would take some of the stress off you and Jake.” She tried to be reassuring but could tell by Esther’s frown that she wasn’t succeeding.

  “No, I wouldn’t.” She knew she had been too blunt, so she added, “Thanks. We’ve managed this far, we’ll get along the rest of the way.”

  “I hope you’re right, Missus Sparges,” said Isobel, doing her best to engage Esther’s attention in a more positive way. “But for the sake of your boy, I hope you’ll consider having him evaluated for depression. It won’t cost you anything. The district has to pay for it.”

  “You mean you’ll pay to find out we have to buy him drugs and things, and you aren’t going to buy those for him, are you?” There was a touch of panic in her eyes now, and she took hold of her elbows. “If you want to hook a kid on legal drugs, you go right ahead and do it, so long as it isn’t my boy.”

  “But Missus Sparges, I hope that he won’t need anything more than counseling, or perhaps some kind of therapy. We won’t know that until he’s been interviewed by the district psychiatrist. I need to have your permission to set up the appointment.”

  “Well, you don’t have it,” said Esther.

  “But it could be very important,” Isobel persisted. “This could head off trouble down the line. The teen-age years are very vulnerable ones, especially for a boy like Jake. Depressed children can act out in very damaging ways. Think about those terrible school shootings—”

  “Oh, God, not the Columbine thing again. Jake’s nothing like those two lunatics, nothing at all like them.”

  “I agree,” said Isobel promptly. “But if he goes untreated, he could end up in that kind of hidden anger that took hold of those boys. He might not go on a rampage, but he could do something desperate.” She pressed on the screen. “Let me explain it to you, so you can make up your mind what you want to do.”

  “I’ve already made up my mind what I want to do. It’s you who’s having trouble getting the message.” She really wanted a cigarette right now, and more than that she wanted this Isobel Matthews to go away. Then she had a sudden inspiration. “Besides, Jake will be spending six months back east with my sister Judith, and that would fu—screw up any therapy, wouldn’t it? Maybe, if he’s still having trouble when he gets back, we can talk about it again.” She reached for the front door, prepared to close it on Isobel.

  “Here,” said Isobel, holding out her card. “If you change your mind, call me. I want to help you, Missus Sparges, and your son.”

  “If you want to help, go away,” said Esther, ignoring the card and shutting the door with what she intended to be finality.

  “Esther, honey, that kid of yours is bad news—what have I been telling you all along?” Uncle Bob was stretched out on the sofa, a six-ounce glass of tequila in one hand and an open Negra Modelo on the coffee table beside him.

  “They’re just picking on him because he’s not like the other kids in his class,” said Esther, with a conciliatory smile. “You know what teachers are like these days: anyone a little bit different they want on Ritalin or some kind of drug. They all seem to want cookie-cutter kids in class.”

  “They’re right in Jake’s case; he needs something,” said Bob with an angry chuckle. “Think about it. The kid’s always skulking around. And the games he plays!”

  Esther knew better than to defend her boy too vigorously, so she looked down at her shoes. “I’m going to call Judith again; see if I can talk some sense into her, you know?”

  “Judith!” he scoffed. “She’s not gonna do you any favors, honey. You know how she is. She’s jealous that you got a man and she doesn’t.”

  “I gotta try, for Jake’s sake.”

  Bob grew sulky. “Well, if you’re gonna be stubborn about it—I just wanted to spare you some disappointment when your sister says no again.” He propped himself on his elbow and drank a mouthful of tequila and chased it with a generous swig of Negra Modelo. “When’s dinner?”

  “Half an hour. It’s in the Crock-Pot. Can’t you smell it?”

  “Hard to tell. They’re redecorating the fourth floor and all I can smell is paint.” He finished off his tequila and frowned at Esther. “So, are you going to get your begging out of the way?”

  “After dinner,” said Esther. “And keep your voice down. Jake’s in his room. I don’t want him to overhear us.”

  “Fat chance. That kid is lost in a book or playing his video games.” He gave her an accusatory stare. “You bought him that PlayStation gizmo. You know we can’t afford it.”

  “I paid for it out of my tip money,” she said sullenly.

  “Oh, crap!” He sat up, his face darkening. He stabbed an accusatory finger in her direction. “You think you’re doing him a favor? That he’s grateful to you for it? He should have had to work to earn the money himself.”

  “Bob, he’s nine.” Esther could hear herself whine and felt ashamed.

  “Nine, nineteen, no difference. He can run errands, cut lawns, do odd chores, all kinds of things. That way he’ll know the value of his things.” He sneered at her. “You make nine sound like he’s just learning to talk. Keep coddling him like this and you’ll turn him into a faggot. Wouldn’t Judith like that?”

  “He’s a kid, Bob. He needs to spend his time studying and learning. Jake’s bright and very imaginative, and he likes trying things out. That’s what kids do. That’s their job.” Esther reached to take away Bob’s beer, but she was a fraction of a second too late, for Bob anticipated her move and threw the beer at her, cursing her as he did. The bottle struck her shoulder; Esther screamed and shouted obscenities. She rushed toward the kitchen door and slammed it closed as Bob struggled up from the sofa, calling down maledictions on her and her boy as he hurried toward the closed door.

  “You bitch!” Bob roared.

  Esther shrieked as Bob kicked at the kitchen door. “Don’t you wreck my house, Bob!”

  “You gotta learn sense, woman! That kid is weird!” Bob bellowed, kicking harder and yelling when he hurt his ankle. “You gotta draw a line with him! He’s gotta know what’s real and what isn’t.”

  Down the hall Jake was listening and becoming more disheartened by the second. He guessed dinner would be late, if at all, and he was hungry, but not hungry enough to take on Mom and Uncle Bob when they got like this. He pulled a Kit Kat bar out of his school satchel and unwrapped it, biting into it slowly to get the most out of it. What he really wanted was some of the pot roast he could smell all the way from the kitchen, but that was out of the question. He glanced at the clock: 6:48. Mom and Uncle Bob would be at it for another hour or so—it was their usual pattern—and then another hour of resentful silence, and then, for some reason that made no sense to Jake, they would end up making energetic love. “Well,” he said quietly, “the pot roast probably won’t be ruined. The Crock-Pot cooks real slow, Mom says.”

  “Esther, you gotta listen to reason!” Uncle Bob shouted.

  “Leave me alone!” was her answer.

  Slowly Jake finished the Kit Kat bar and opened one of his windows. Then he picked up his school satchel and climbed out onto the lid of the garbage can, jumped down, and started walking in the direction of Diogenes I. Vlamos Park. It was almost sunset and he could find a place in the bushes where he wouldn’t be noticed. He reckoned that three hours should be about right.

  When it got dark Jake left the thicket of bamboo where he had been hiding, and he made his way over near the playground. Little as he wanted to admit it, he was hoping he might find Ben wandering about in the park; he wanted so much to see the big dog again and to make the most of the companionship the animal provided. He kept away from the well-lit swings and instead went over to the jungle gym, where there were more shadows and he would not be as readily seen. He climbed up into the bars and sat watching the traffic through the trees, trying to keep from feeling sorry for himself; he wished he’d brought his PlayStation
and a couple of games. He knew it was useless for his mom to call Aunt Judith. She wouldn’t want to take him. No one wanted to take him. Desolate and alone, he did his best not to think at all. After a while, he began to doze, and as he dozed, he thought he saw Ben coming, and he smiled. Only it wasn’t really Ben, it was a tall, angular man with a long head wearing a kind of parka with a fur collar. He held the cloth with the strange writing on it in one hand; he offered it to Jake.

  “Wouldn’t you like to be one of the pack, Jake? Have a place where you’d always be wanted?” the man-dog asked. “Have somewhere you’d always belong? Wouldn’t it be good to have friends and comrades?”

  Muzzily Jake answered, “Not … gonna happen.”

  “It will if you’ll let it,” said man-dog Ben. “Put on the … collar; tie it loosely around your neck and wait a little while.”

  “Why?” Jake asked, feeling a bit more awake, but certain he was still dreaming.

  Ben didn’t answer his question, but asked one of his own. “How much do you know about wolves, Jake? Not Hollywood wolves, the real animals?”

  “I seen some things on Discovery. I know they eat mice, mostly, and stay with the same mate.” In the way of dreams he felt he could hear himself speak.

  “You’re a good boy, Jake, a clever one. You know how to keep secrets and you could go far.” Ben came and leaned against the jungle gym. “It’s not a bad life with the pack. We could use a youngster like you.”

  “To be a wolf?” Jake almost giggled. This was better than any video game.

  “Well, yes, whenever you put on the collar.” He held it up again. “We don’t hunt very often—in the city, we don’t have to. But every now and then, we will settle on … You know how there are some wolves who give all wolves a bad name? We look for humans who are like that: they give humans a bad name. We don’t need to wait for a full moon, or to be cursed, or any of that nonsense. We keep our activities under control, at least we do after our first kill, which is kind of an initiation, to see if the life will suit you. After that first kill, we don’t do anything … impulsive. The pack agrees on the prey, and then we put on our collars, seek out the offender …” He stopped as if trying to find a way to explain.