The Turning Season (10 page)

I'm all for it. Better living through whatever method it takes.

*   *   *

M
onday and Tuesday pass without incident; it's Wednesday when life gets interesting again.

For starters, Alonzo is human in the morning, which doesn't seem to make him happy. Well, maybe he's just suffering from the disorientation of transformation, which is harder on some than others. But he's silent during breakfast and spends most of the morning skulking in his room. I wonder if he actually
prefers
being animal to being human, and I think maybe he does. Life is drastically simpler in that alternate shape, as long as you aren't afraid for your life. When I check up on him right before lunch, I can't resist giving him a hug, which he tolerates but does not reciprocate.

“I'm going to make us a couple of sandwiches, okay? So finish up whatever you're doing in here and then come out to the kitchen.”

We eat in silence—well, Alonzo's listening to his iPod, so I suppose he has music in his head—and we're just finishing up when I hear the sound of tires on the gravel. A second later, the puppies start barking. I tap Alonzo's arm to get his attention, because he doesn't like being surprised by the sudden arrival of outsiders.

“We've got company,” I say.

He strips out his earbuds and gets to his feet so he can look out the kitchen window. “It's Ryan,” he says without inflection.

I used to be surprised that Alonzo didn't seem to feel for Ryan the level of hero worship that he displays for, say, Celeste. Ryan saved his life, after all, rescued him from unimaginably awful circumstances—and Ryan's one of those people who seems to naturally gather friends and disciples. He's charismatic, vibrant, exciting to be around. I couldn't figure out why Alonzo wasn't crazy about him. It wasn't the racial divide, because Alonzo has white friends as well as black ones, and race doesn't seem to keep him from forming at least tenuous attachments to Bonnie, Aurelia, and me.

Then I realized: It's because Ryan never pays any attention to Alonzo. I mean, he usually offers a friendly
Hey, Zo, how are you?
But he doesn't really listen to the answer. It's not a surprise, of course; Ryan's never been particularly interested in children and he's not great at maintaining relationships even with emotionally healthy people who don't require special handling. But it's one of the many things I find infuriating about Ryan. With the tiniest bit of effort, he could have made Alonzo adore him; he could have been the male role model the kid so desperately needs. But Ryan did his good deed and then just shrugged it off. He didn't let Alonzo change his life, and so Alonzo won't let Ryan matter in his.

“That's right, he said he'd be coming out today,” I answer. “Maybe he can take you back to Quinville when he goes.”

“I already talked to Bonnie. She's planning to come get me,” he replies, and pushes out through the screen door. I hear Ryan greet him, hear Alonzo offer a monosyllabic reply. And then Ryan's in the kitchen, brightening it up with his blond hair, teasing smile, and electric presence.

“Your turn to babysit?” he asks lightly.

I strangle my urge to say,
You could be nicer to him, you know.
Ryan is who he is, and that's never going to change. “He comes out a lot to help me with the animals and I pay him a pittance for his time. It works for both of us.” I stand up and start gathering the dishes. “We just finished lunch, but there's plenty of food, if you're hungry.”

He shakes his head. “I ate on the way.”

I dump all the dishes in the sink with a clatter, then turn back to face him. “So I mixed up a couple of vials for you. Did you bring a cooler? Because they should be kept refrigerated.”

“I did. It's on the porch.”

“Great. I can give you the first injection, unless you'd rather do it yourself.”

“I'd be happy to have you play nurse, but can't we just sit and talk for a few minutes? You know, ‘Hey, how was your day?' and ‘Gee, I've missed you, it's been so long.'”

I'm forced to smile. “Well, I just saw you a few days ago, so I haven't had that much time to miss you, but I'd be happy to hear how your day has gone.”

He grins and heads to the fridge, pulling the door open. “Can I have something to drink?”

“Of course.”

There's a pause while he studies his choices, which include caffeinated and decaffeinated brands of cola, lemon-lime soda, juice, and flavored carbonated water. Ryan prefers to drink Coke out of a glass bottle, and I used to keep six-packs on hand just for him. Two months ago I pried the top off the last remaining bottle, poured the contents down the sink, and threw the bottle into the recycling bin so hard that it shattered.

He selects a can of Diet Coke and opens it without complaint. “So how was your day?” he asks.

“Very exciting. I released a couple of injured wild rabbits that had been with me for a week because they're fine now. I had someone drive in from town with her cat, whose paw was all swollen from a bee sting. I answered some e-mail. How was
your
day?”

“Wow, I don't think I can top that.” He sips from the can. “Today's been kind of lackluster, but over the weekend I was in St. Louis and I spent a few hours at Lumière Place.” I recognize the name as being that of a huge casino complex down on the St. Louis riverfront, though I've never been there. It totally fits Ryan's personality that he loves to gamble.

“Did you win?”

“I did. Five thousand dollars at blackjack.”

“Wow! Good for you. You going to be sensible and save it or spontaneous and spend it?”

He grins. “What do
you
think?”

“Um. Let me see.” I tap my chin. “Which option sounds more like Ryan? I gotta go with B.”

His grin widens. “Five thousand dollars isn't enough to change my life, but it could sure help me make a pretty big splash if I spend it all in one place.”

“That it could. So what are you going to do?”

He takes a few swallows of soda, watching me over the rim. “Thinking about driving down to New Orleans for a few days. Staying at a fancy hotel. Eating at the best restaurants. I bet I could go through five grand pretty fast.”

“Good thing I got your serum ready. Take a shot every day, and who knows how long you could stay down there, partying all night long.”

“Won't be any fun to go by myself, though,” he says. “You want to come along?”

He says it so casually that at first I hardly register the words. “Come along—come to
New Orleans
with you?”

“Sure. Probably take us a couple days to drive down. We can bring camping gear, in case we need to—” He makes an undefined gesture.
In case we need to wait out a couple of days while one of us is in animal shape.
“Then spend a glorious few days in the most decadent city in America.”

“I can't be gone that long,” I say.

A look of irritation crosses his face, but his voice is coaxing. “Sure you can! Hire someone to stay with the pets for a week. You cannot be the only person on the planet who knows how to turn on a water hose and open a few cans of dog food.”

I laugh but I'm far from sold. “Yeah but—some of my animals aren't really animals. They wouldn't be comfortable with a stranger around.”

“Then hire Alonzo! Or Bonnie! Even Celeste, though you'd have to offer her something other than money.”

“Really? She's always broke.”

He's grinning. “Guess how much money
she
won in the Illinois lottery this week.”

“Five thousand dollars,” I say. He nods. “You're kidding. Wow, even by your standards, that's kind of spooky.”

“So you'd have to bribe her with something else, but I'm sure you'd figure it out.”

“Maybe but—Ryan—I don't know if it's such a good idea. For you and me to go away on a romantic trip together.”

There. I've said it out loud, though my spare and awkward sentences don't come close to laying out the whole situation.
I'm still half in love with you, but I'm pretty sure you'll break my heart, and I just don't have the energy to try to believe in you again. It's almost more than I can manage to be your friend, but I care about you so much I can't bear to cut you from my life altogether. You are the problem I cannot solve, the knot I cannot untie. I don't think spending a week with you in New Orleans would make it any easier for me to find my way.

He doesn't look angry, but he doesn't look convinced, either. “I know we said some pretty bitter things to each other last time,” he says softly. “But can't we get past that? You matter to me, Kara. You're the one I keep coming back to. If I thought I was going to die tomorrow, you're the one I'd want to say good-bye to tonight. I just think—that kind of emotion is powerful enough that you shouldn't just walk away from it when it gets too hard.”

Almost, he persuades me. Almost, I believe him. With Ryan, I always feel like I'm in some low-budget thriller where the heroine is on the run, surrounded by perils, and the handsome, exotic stranger shows up and promises to keep her safe. I can practically re-create the theater experience in my head, the dim lights, the bright screen, the smell of stale popcorn and spilled soda. Sometimes the audience members are shouting,
Don't you trust him, girl! Run the other way!
and sometimes they're calling,
Believe in him! Follow your heart!
But I don't know which kind of movie I'm in.

I take a deep breath. “I'm as far past it as I'm able to be right now,” I say quietly. “I'm sorry. I'm doing the best I can. I want you in my life, I just don't know if I can ever be more than friends with you again. And I'm sure not ready to go away for the week.”

He stands a moment, stiff and unmoving, then he gives one sharp nod. “Fair enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” Now he offers me a clipped smile. “But maybe.”

“I'm sorry.”

He sets down the empty can of Coke and stretches his arms as if his shoulders are tight. “Hey, if you were easy to win over, you might be a lot of fun, but you wouldn't be Kara.”

I'm able to snort in amusement. “Who isn't fun at all.”

His smile is wider this time. “I didn't mean that. Exactly.”

“C'mon,” I say. “Let me get you your drugs.”

In a few minutes, I've administered a shot, slipped the rest of the vials into his cooler along with some baggies full of ice, and handed him another can of soda for the road.

“So you going to go to New Orleans anyway?” I ask as I walk him out the door and over to his car.

“I don't know. Maybe. I might think of some other spectacular way to blow my money.”

“Well, drive carefully. If you do go. Or if you don't. Just—you know. Be careful in general.”

He lays a hand on my shoulder and smiles down at me for a moment. “So should
my
parting exhortation to
you
be, ‘Don't be so careful. Go wild'?”

I smile reluctantly. “I guess I'm just as likely to follow your advice as you are to follow mine.”

He bends down and kisses me on the forehead, his lips lingering a moment longer than I expect. It is all I can do to keep from pulling my head back, rising on my toes, and pressing my mouth heavily against his.

Maybe all that stops me is the sound of another car pulling onto the gravel. A truck this time, and the sunlight hits the windshield in such a way that I can't tell who's behind the wheel.

Ryan and I fall apart. “Another client for Country Mouse Vet,” he says. “I'll see you in a few days, I guess.”

“Let me know if you have any problems with the serum. Or if you run out and need more. Or—you know. If you need anything.”

He smiles, waves, and hops into the black convertible. He's in motion and out of the compound before the other vehicle has even come to a complete standstill. But then the truck's emergency brake squeals, the engine cuts, and the door opens. To my complete surprise, the man who steps out is the guy from Arabesque. The bouncer, the bowhunter, my onetime dance partner. Joe.

J
oe stands for a moment with one foot on the running board, one hand on top of the door, looking like he's ready to turn around and go home if I so much as blink at him. “Hey,” he says. “Is this a bad time to drop by?”

I want to give my head a vigorous shake to clear it. There is too great a contrast between the complex emotions I experience as I watch Ryan leave and the simple pleasure I feel as I identify Joe. I'm not sure how quickly I can make the switch, how far I've retreated behind my guarded walls, if my voice will seem strained and unfriendly. I swallow hard to clear my throat and offer a smile.

“Not at all,” I say, sounding normal enough. “Did you bring Jezebel?”

His round face shows happy surprise. “You remembered her name.”

My smile broadens. “Sometimes I remember animals' names better than their owners'.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He steps away from the door and gives a soft whistle. “C'mon, girl.”

A thin but well-cared-for black Lab climbs gingerly out of the extended cab of the truck and looks around, scenting the air. Her eyes are bright and her coat is shiny, but I can tell just by the way she holds herself that she's in a little pain. I drop to my knees to coax her over. When she trots forward to investigate me, she's favoring her right hind leg a little. I run my hands over it, feeling for scar tissue, but there's nothing obvious. I'm guessing her main complaint is old age.

I offer my hands, then scratch the top of her head, murmuring little doggie endearments. She drops to her haunches and watches me with a quizzical expression so pointed that I can almost read her mind.
You're not fooling me, you know. I know I'm old and I don't have much longer to live, so don't give me any of this “good doggie” crap.
I'm smiling as I come to my feet again.

“She's smart—I can tell by the look in her eyes,” I say.

Joe laughs. “
So
smart. It's so easy to understand what she wants that I sometimes think she's got ESP or something. She just puts thoughts in my brain. ‘Let's go for a walk!' or ‘Feed me
now
' or ‘You see that kid? He's in trouble!'”

“Really? Like ‘The barn's on fire and Jimmy's inside'?”

He shuts the truck door, strolls forward, and leans down to rub the sleek black head. “Yeah, one summer I was spending the weekend with my brothers out at Carlyle Lake. All these kids going by on Jet Skis and a bunch of other people water skiing. Every time someone would wipe out and be splashing around in the water, Jez would jump in and swim over like she was gonna rescue them. We had to head her off and haul her back to shore. Except once she got away from us and she
did
make it out to some poor boy deep in the water. She saved the kid's life, because he'd lost his life jacket and he didn't swim very well and he was terrified. And Jez just towed him back in. It was pretty awesome.”

“I love stories like that,” I say. “Animals saving the day.”

He's taking a moment to gaze around the compound, at all the buildings and fenced enclosures. From where we're standing, we can see the aviary, the dog run, and a few cages where I keep the wildest animals separate from the rest.

“Wow, look at all this,” he says in an admiring voice. “You're like the witch in
Thomasina
or something.”

“What's
Thomasina
? Wait, did you just call me a witch?”

“She's a good witch. It's a movie about a cat. You've never seen it?”

“I guess not.”

“Old Disney movie. Really good. Do you have a bear?”

“Why would I have a bear?”

“There's one in the movie.”

“I thought it was about a cat?”

“Well, there's a bear in it, too.”

I can't help myself. I start laughing. “You're funny,” I say. Jezebel has angled her head and is looking up at him, one ear pulled back to express polite disbelief. “Your dog thinks so, too.”

He bends down and tugs on her ear as if to pull it back in place. “She just can't believe I sound like such a goofball when I'm talking to a pretty lady. She thinks maybe I should have practiced some better lines when I was driving out here.”

“Oh, that's what she's telling you with her ESP, is it?”

He straightens up and grins at me. “Something like that.”

“Well, you're doing just fine.” I nod toward the house. “Come on. Let's take her to my office so I can look her over.”

We circle around the porch toward the separate side entrance that leads directly to my office and exam room. Joe has to lift Jezebel to the metal table, but once there she submits with a dignified resignation to my poking and prodding.

“I don't think she's torn anything,” I say finally. “I think she's just suffering from old age and the beginnings of arthritis. I can give you some anti-inflammatories, some glucosamine and chondroitin. You also want to make sure she eats right and gets at least a little exercise every day. Nothing too vigorous, but the more she moves, the more she'll be able to keep moving.” I shrug. “Same thing is true for humans.”

He takes her face between his hands and leans down to touch his nose to hers. “You hear that? No complaining when I say it's time to go for a walk.” He laughs when she twitches her eyebrows at him. “Okay, maybe
I'm
the one who's too lazy to go for a walk. But that changes right now.”

I make a spur-of-the-moment offer. “Not sure this is a good idea, but I have a couple of puppies who are ready to go off to good homes. If you think she'd tolerate another dog in the house, that's one surefire way to keep her active. Because these puppies are nothing
but
active.”

He looks uncertain. “I don't know. I'm gone a lot. Not sure I have time to train another dog. Are they Labs? I've always been partial to big dogs.”

“Beagles. Well, part beagle. Part God knows what.”

He shrugs. “I can take a look, maybe. They're here?”

“Yeah, they're in the fenced area you saw as we came in.”

“Sure. I'll meet them, anyway.”

He lifts Jezebel from the table, then follows me to the tiny sitting room where I keep a desk, a filing cabinet, pharmaceutical samples, dog treats, and cleaning supplies for wiping down the exam room. He drops into the chair across from me while I rummage in the cabinet for some drug samples, and even though I'm not looking at him, I can tell the exact moment his eyes fall on the painting behind my desk.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “That's you.”

I glance up at him, over at the long horizontal painting, and back at him. I'd guess only about one percent of the people who come into my office realize that I'm the subject in the image. Even people who know me well sometimes don't recognize me in this pose. I'm on the floor, asleep, a colorful quilt covering my body, my dark hair fanning out behind me. There's one kitten curled up next to my stomach, another one balanced precariously on the mountain range of my hip and rib cage, and a third one batting at one of my loose curls. Sunlight is streaming in from an unseen window, turning the hardwood floor to amber, the colors of the quilt to jewels.

“Yeah,” I say. “Painted a long time ago. I think I was eighteen.”

“Why are you lying on the floor?”

“I was playing with the kittens and I fell asleep.”

True as far as it goes. I had, in fact,
been
one of the kittens earlier in the day, and we had been romping around with the boundless energy of youth until we all collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor. As happens to me so often, I transformed in my sleep. Janet had covered me with the blanket, because, of course, I was naked. Cooper had snapped a photo, and later recreated the scene in oils. I appear in about a dozen of his other paintings, but this one is my favorite.

“Who's the painter?”

“Cooper Blair. He lived here with Janet Kassebaum—you know, the vet who used to own this place. He was an artist.”

“That's right. You told me about him. That's a great picture.”

“Yeah, I love it. No matter how broke I am, I'm never going to sell that piece.”

Joe has come to his feet and leaned over the desk to get a better look, but now he pulls back and studies me. “Would it sell for a lot of money?
Are
you broke?”

I offer a lopsided grin. “Not really broke. But this place doesn't bring in a whole lot of cash, and things are always breaking down and needing repair, and there's taxes every year and a new car every so often and—” I shrug. “So I think about money a lot.”

He gestures at the painting. “I don't think you
should
sell it, but how much would it be worth?”

“Mmm, the last Cooper Blair original went for fifty thousand dollars, and that was smaller, so—maybe seventy-five thousand? Enough to buy me a few years, don't you think?”

“Man, I changed my mind! Sell it now!”

I laugh. “Well, I have almost fifty other paintings I could put on the market first, so I'm not destitute yet.”

He looks puzzled. “I don't understand. Is he dead? Are you the executor of his estate? Why wouldn't Janet be handling all this?”

Because Janet is dead, too.
I curse myself for being careless, but I think I sound unruffled as I respond. “Yeah, he died a few years ago. That's the real reason Janet retired—she just wanted to get away from this place and all the memories. I think I mentioned that my dad repped Cooper when they were both alive, and I know all his gallery contacts, so Janet just turned the artwork over to me. Anytime I sell something, I put the money into a fund she set up to support the property—but it's really all her money.” Or it would be, if she were alive.

“What'd he die of?” Joe wants to know. “How old was he?”

Again, two very complicated questions, if I were to answer with the truth.
He was in his late thirties, but he died of old age, because shape-shifters beat up and batter their bodies so much that none of them live past fifty.
“Cancer,” I say. “Right before he turned forty.”

“That's sad.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But he left his mark on the world. He left something behind. People will remember him. That's something most of us can't say, even if we live to be a hundred.”

“I'd like to see some of his other paintings.”

“Sure. We'll take the whole tour. You can meet the puppies and the bunnies and the turtle.” Joe laughs, and I go on. “And then we'll look at the paintings.”

“Any chance of getting something to drink first? I forgot to bring water with me on the drive.”

“Of course! Here, this door takes us into the house. There's soda and tea and everything else in the kitchen.”

I can tell he's doing a quick study of the house as we trek down the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen, Jezebel at our heels. Maybe he's more curious than thirsty and he just wanted a better look at the place I call home. But it doesn't bother me to show it to him. He's a comfortable sort of guy and I kind of like having him here.

The message light is blinking on the answering machine in the kitchen, so I wave at the fridge and say, “Help yourself,” then hit play. The message is characteristically brief.
It's Celeste. What are you doing this weekend? Call me.

I turn back to face Joe and find him sipping a Snapple, watching me. His face is alight with interest. “Celeste? Your friend from Arabesque the other night?”

“That's her,” I say.

“So everything turned out all right? You found her and she was okay?”

“Well, she was a little shook up. That guy—Bobby?”

He nods. “Bobby Foucault. Kind of a troublemaker.”

“She says he practically raped her. So she scratched him and then ran off.”

“Did you tell her what he said? About her turning into a mountain lion?”

I laugh. “Yeah. She said—and I quote—‘The guy's a fucking moron.'” I can't remember if she actually said that, but she certainly called him a lot of other names.

He takes another sip, his expression meditative. “That'd be something, though, wouldn't it? If people could turn into animals?”

I'm not sure how to answer that, so to buy time, I motion him away from the refrigerator and pull out my own drink at random. Turns out to be a Diet Dr Pepper, which I don't even like. I open it anyway and take a couple of swallows. “Well, it would be pretty cool, I guess. I mean, it's
impossible
, of course, but it would be an extraordinary thing to be able to do. See the world from a wholly different perspective.”

“I mean, say, if you could turn into a bird. What would
that
be like?”

It's amazing and exhilarating and terrifying all at once. The world is so enormous, the winds are so capricious, and you're so small. So small. And yet you know precisely how to settle onto a vagrant breeze, exactly how to position your wings to make an elegant landing. Nothing is out of reach; no place seems too far. “It would be great,” I say.