Werewolf Sings the Blues (26 page)

“We're all childless, and both Deandra and I have experience firing at actual people.” I jut out my chin in defiance. “So? Did I pass?”

“I'm sorry?”

“This little test. Did I pass?” I ask, blood boiling so much I think
my hair grows even redder.

His blue eyes narrow in confusion. “This wasn't a test, Vivian. I'm responsible for this pack. I need to know things are under control. I wouldn't have put you in charge if—”

“You didn't put me in charge,
they
did. You didn't want a meddler like me to have anything to do with them, remember?”

“That was not what I meant, and you know it,” he fires back.

“No, I don't know that. How the hell could I? I don't know you. I do know when I'm being played, though. It's a skill I had to learn
very
early on,” I spit.

“I wasn't playing you, Vivi,” he says, matching my harsh tone. “
I
wasn't the one manipulating people. Despite your motives, you stepped out of line. I was merely alerting you to that fact.”

“I am not one of your wolves to boss around, who if you snap your fingers will stand at attention. Who think you hung the damn moon. You are just the asshole who abandoned me. You don't exactly have the moral high ground, at least not with me.”

“I did what I thought was best for you at the time.”

“Yeah, because growing up thinking your father didn't want
you is always for the best. Really boosts a girl's self-esteem. I'm sure
every woman working a stripper pole agrees with me.”

“I wanted you, Vivi. I—”

“No, you didn't. Not really. If you really,
truly
did, you would have come for me. It wouldn't have mattered what Mom said. You could have snuck around her, snuck around your werewolf pals. You would have found a way. You bend over backwards for every person in this house. Hell, you adopted a violent boy and treated him as your own. All I apparently got was a letter once a year I wasn't even allowed to know about. What? Were you afraid I'd come in and wreck your new, perfect family? Corrupt your precious little boys with my dysfunction?”

“Now you're just saying things to be cruel,” Frank says through gritted teeth.

“Am I? Then why did you forbid Jason from being in the same room as me? I know you did. He all but told me so. You don't want me around him, you don't want me around Adam, I'm shocked you haven't locked me in one of those damn cages to keep me from my niece and nephew.”

“Listen, I understand you're angry with me, and I do not blame you one iota, I don't. But despite what you may believe, what I did, what I still do, is for the good of the people I love. That includes you. It always has. You were never far from my thoughts.
Never.
Not for a single minute,” he says intensely. I almost believe him.

“Gee wiz, Dad, you
thought
about me. Want a medal?” I stalk toward him, every muscle close to locked with indignant fury. “I
needed
you. You have no idea how much I needed you. I was your little girl. I needed you to hold me after I had a nightmare. I needed you to pick me up after school and ask me about my day. Help with my homework. Go to my recitals. Make me feel safe. Secure. Loved. Worthwhile. You didn't save me from the wolves, you left me to them.”

“I am sorry, okay? I
am
sorry. If I could go back and change it, I would. I would give up my life to change it. But I can't. I was doing what I thought was best to protect you. I never wanted any of this for you. You were shot. Kidnapped. Had to kill someone because of me. Because you're my child. I'm sorry I made you feel as if I didn't care, that I didn't love you, but I am not sorry for trying to give you the best life possible. And I will continue to do that for you, for everyone I love, until I draw my last breath. So if you need to hate me, if that's what fuels you, then go right ahead. All I ask is that you try to extend the same courtesy to the people in this house who have all embraced you, that they're giving you: respect. Kindness.”

“Selflessness?” I ask with a sneer. “Yeah, your
son
already gave me this speech. Well, if I am a selfish bitch, you should be proud. I'm
carrying on the family tradition established by both my parents.” I shake my head. I'm about ten seconds from either punching him or bursting into tears. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of either. “You can play the big man all you like, but don't pretend you really give a shit about me. Don't pretend you're proud of me when you really wish I'd crawl back into the hole I came from. And really don't pretend you love me. You can't love a stranger. Have a nice night with your family.”

I throw open the sliding doors only to find the last person I want to see standing down the hall but close enough to hear every word said. The moment I lay eyes on him, fury vanishes and mortification rears its ugly head. Jason reveals nothing whereas I grimace and rush off in the opposite direction outside onto the front stoop, away from silent judgment.

I should feel relief. Closure. I've wanted to have it out with that
man for decades. Didn't go quite as planned but still I released the poison. Got it all out there. The demon should be exorcised. The weight lifted from my soul. Then why the hell do I feel like I've just added two tons?

sixteen

Howling. Must they continue
that incessant howling all fucking night long? It's messing with my already fragile nerves. I mean, what do they have to talk about? Don't mark the tree I just did? Stop sniffing my butt? Rabbit, ten o'clock? I'm not going to
get even an hour of sleep tonight. But hell, even without the chorus
outside I doubt I'd be able to drift off. This floor is not comfortable in the least. The snoring boy curled up against me doesn't help either. He snuck out of his mom's bed with pillow and blanket two hours ago when the howling began. Light sleeper, not like
his sister and mom. Dustin wrapped my arm around his tiny body
and fell right back to sleep. I was glad to be of comforting assistance for once.

This is my penance for earlier. I kept snapping at everyone, kids
included. Need, need, need everywhere I went. Pleading with their
words and eyes for me to make it all better. To save them from their imagined terrors. To protect them. Best I could do was stick to the script: remain in your rooms with the curtains drawn and run if the shit hits the fan. Some leader I am.

There was no escape from the need, even in my own room. Linda folded the same batch of clothes twice. Dusty kept bouncing on the bed even after a dozen chidings and warnings. And Nicki kept showing me what she was placing in her emergency
backpack for my approval. Then Dusty chimed in even louder than
his prattling sister, wanting to show me his flip on the bed, and I screamed at them to shut the hell up. Even I was shocked by this outburst. I apologized, played seven rounds of Go Fish, letting one or the other win every time, and even sang five songs to lull them to sleep. Still feel like shit about it. Guilty conscience, frayed nerves, wolves literally howling at the gate, no wonder I can't drift off. I'll bet most of the house is awake too. At least I have a task to perform.

I mastered the art of extraction without waking my compani
on for a quick getaway years ago, so Dusty doesn't stir as I peel him
off me. Deandra's getting off her shift early. I need something to
occupy my mind, might as well be guard duty. At least then
staring
into dark space has a purpose. And it comes with a fun accessory that fires bullets.

With all the lights off, the house is as creepy and still as a cemetery. Over the howls I hear snoring, crying, muffled talking on TV, and the creaking of an old house. I might as well be in an old Hammer Horror film. Peter Cushing's just around the corner, ready to stake me for being a bride of Satan. The flashlight helps keep the ghosts at bay, among other things.

I check on Donald in the parlor who watches a movie on his com
puter with the tranq and shotguns resting beside. The floodlights outside are motion sensor operated, our first and only warning system. One lights up, we grab a gun and pray. The twenty-three-year-old jerks when I step in the doorway. I smile, nod, and walk back down the hall. I find Deandra, Omar's mate and former Army medic, peeking out of the curtains in the office.

“Problem?” I whisper as I step in.

Deandra spins around. “Thought I saw something in the tree line. It was nothing.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. With the full moon we have good visibility out there,” she whispers.

“Good. I'm here to relieve you. Couldn't sleep.”

“Thank God. I've been literally jumping at shadows all night. I've patched up soldiers in Kabul with anti-aircraft fire all around and not been this on edge.”

“Over in a few hours.” Deandra hands me the tranq gun. “Thanks.”

“Someone left you a present on the desk,” Deandra whispers.

“Really? Okay, thank you. Sleep well.”

She nods, switches on her flashlight, and leaves me alone. At last. First stop is the curtain, which I pull back a little. Deandra was right, I can see the expanse of the field through to the tree line. The glow of the moon makes it all seem so peaceful, pretty. Haunting. I shut the curtain and rest the gun on a nearby chair. At this point I doubt the wolves are planning to attack the house. Probably would have done it already. I click on my flashlight and move over to the desk. Sure enough there's a stack of VHS tapes with “Home Movies” written on them along with a folded note on top.

You're wrong. It is possible to love a perfect stranger. Us being here proves it.

—J

Jason.

Without a moment's hesitation, I grab the tapes, tranq gun, and rush across the hall to the living room. After making sure all the curtains are tightly shut, I switch on the TV and turn the volume down low. “Home Movie 2” first. I pop in the tape and pull up a chair close to the TV. This should be interesting. After static, an image of Frank and a young Matt, I'd guess around age seven, on a street fills the screen. Frank holds the back of his son's bicycle.

“Okay, it's on,” a woman, I assume Jenny, says behind the camera.

“Let's show Mommy,” says Frank. “Ready? Go.”

Frank chases after my baby brother, holding the back of the bike steady, then let's go. Matt zooms down the street, wobbling a little at first as his parents applaud and hoot. Yeah, if this is supposed to make me feel better it ain't working. I didn't learn to ride until a camp counselor agreed to teach me when I was twelve. I begged Barry when he was teaching Jessica, but she learned before me, and then he got busy. I was too proud to let my baby sister take over the instruction. Oh, happy childhood memories.

I fast forward past Jenny cooking in the kitchen, a huge Christmas party in this house then another at Frank's with just the three Dahls, a family vacation at the lake. More fast forwarding of boys jumping off the dock, a backyard barbecue with Frank at the grill, Jenny sunbathing in a bikini, ugh. Don't know what exactly I'm supposed to be getting from this. Maybe Jason wants to torture me for attacking his precious Alpha. Frank playing poker with some familiar pack members, an excited and smiling Matt and a young Adam sitting on some stairs chatting. The camera swinging toward the front door. The cameraman and boys race outside as a frowning Jenny and grinning Frank climb out of their Buick. Matt stops by the cameraperson, but Adam rushes to the back of the car, as does Frank. I push play.

“… be afraid,” Frank says to the passenger in the backseat. “You've been here before.”

“He'll come out when he wants to,” Jenny says impatiently. “Don't rush him.”

“Don't you want to see your new room?” Frank asks. “It has a TV just for you.” He holds out his hand. “Come on, son. There's no reason to be afraid. I'm right here.”

After a few seconds, Jason climbs out. I'd know those cheekbones anywhere. His blonde hair reaches mid back and with a blanket of it covering half his face, but his scowl is still visible. That, coupled with his ramrod straight back and squared shoulders telegraphs the boy is ready for a fight. Even at eight, one false move or look and there would be blood.

“Welcome home, Jason,” the camera person, I think Maureen, says.

“Come on, your room is boss,” Adam says. “You got
Star Wars
sheets!”

Jenny picks Matt up as Frank and Adam flank the visibly tense Jason. Damn, he must have been terrified walking into that house. Going from abandoned, living in shit, to thrust into
Leave it to Beaver
in the space of a few months. I would have run screaming or have had to be carried through the door. He does neither, just calmly walks in, though the glower never wavers as they tour the house.

“And here's your very own bedroom,” Frank says as they move in. It's sparsely furnished with just the basics and a “Welcome Home Jason” banner on the wall. “Mattie made you that. It says, ‘Welcome Home.'”

“What do we say to Matt?” Maureen asks.

“Thank you,” Jason mutters.

Jenny clutches her son tighter as if afraid Jason will try to eat the boy. Bitch. “Do you like it?” she asks, toneless. Jason nods.

“We should leave him alone to get acclimated,” Maureen suggests.

“Okay,” Frank says, squeezing the boy's shoulder. “We'll be right
downstairs, son. There's cake when—” The scene cuts out when Maureen shuts off the camera. That poor boy. I'll bet he didn't leave that room for days.

For the next three hours between occasional perimeter checks, I watch as Jason slowly blooms. Going from huddling alone in a corner at parties, refusing to go trick or treating, not answering questions to in the space of a little over a year judging from the time/date stamps, learning to swim and ride a bike. Learning to read with Frank and Maureen. Wrestling with Tate and Adam. Letting Matt help with his homework. Doing the dishes for Jenny. Actually smiling when he opens his Christmas present, a football. A lesser person would have shut off. Kept the others away. After all he was put through, it wouldn't have been surprising. Not him. He stepped up to the unknown and leapt. Allowed himself to be vulnerable. Open. It paid off with interest. I think deep down, way deep, Jason Dahl is a cock-eyed optimist. Another thing I love about him, his ability to keep that spark of hope alive in spite of all the bullshit. He wouldn't have given me the tapes otherwise.

After a quick coffee break and perimeter check, I return to the tapes. More parties, vacations, holidays, Matt in school pageants, and walking around a hotel wearing a Mickey Mouse hat. Matt was such a sweet boy. Patient even as a child. Friendly. Giving. I see a lot of the twins in him. The same enthusiasm for life, same interest in making people feel good. I really wish I'd met him. I wonder what he would have thought about me. Would he have—

“… right after the intermission,” Frank says to Jenny, whose exasperated face fills the screen. This is the norm. She always seems pissed off around her husband. “We'll leave right after. I told you, you didn't have to come.”

“I wouldn't hear the end of it otherwise,” Jenny snaps.

“Dad, this is boring,” Matt, now about twelve, says. “Can't we go back to Disney World?”

“Right after your sister sings. I promise.”

Holy shit, I knew I recognized that auditorium. The high arched awnings, the medium-sized stage with thick red curtains. It's my boarding school. My first solo performance at age fourteen. I forgot Jason mentioned they were there. In the third row no less. The camera pans to an expressionless teenage Jason. “Jason's enjoying himself, aren't you Jace?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dad, how come we can't say hi to her after the show? I want to,” Matt whines.

“Maybe next time,” Jenny says. “We have a long drive back to
night.”

The lights dim before Miss Tyson, all 4'9" of her, toddles center stage to applause. I was clutching onto the curtain, unable to breathe, and praying I'd stay in tempo and remember the words. Part of me was glad I had no one in the audience except a few friends. If I fell flat or screwed up, who cared? Jesus, had I known my long-lost father and his new family were there I'd never have stepped onstage.

“… Vivian Dahl!” Miss Tyson says.

The audience claps as the spotlight follows my fourteen-year-old self to center stage. God, I never knew I was ever that young. Fresh faced, freckled, hair on fire in the light, virginal white dress giving me an angelic aura. Not a girl, not yet a woman. I'm visibly nervous, only capable of half a smile for my adoring audience. I was so grateful for that spotlight, that I couldn't see the audience. That way I could pretend I was back in the classroom. Just me and the music. The gallery ceases clapping, and the school orchestra begins the intro. Even now, fifteen years later, I tense when I hear that flute. On the TV, the nervous girl takes a deep breath, opens
her mouth and starts, “Someone to Watch Over Me” as if she'd sung
it all her life. That was written just for me. I
owned
that song. All downhill from this exact moment. My crowning achievement. And Frank captured it—

“Frank!” Jenny whispers.

At the end of the first verse, the camera pans to his concerned wife who points right. The camera moves in that direction, showing a mesmerized Jason taking a step toward the stage like a sleepwalker. His slack face is transfixed, as if God himself had just revealed His true form. The camera shakes as Frank rises, then lunges toward his son. Frank grabs Jason's shoulder and pulls Jason back down into his seat as I continue my song in the background. “Jason,” Frank whispers harshly. “What the hell are you doing? Stay seated.”

I fill the screen again, oblivious to everything but my song. I belt out the chorus and another verse before Jenny hisses, “Frank,” and Jason's up again. “Damn it.” The camera moves to the floor, jerking as Frank holds it by the handle while walking. It moves toward the stage, stops, spins, then jiggles up the aisle as I assume Frank drags Jason out through the door. On screen there's nothing but a dark parking lot with the campus in the background.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frank asks after I hear a door shut.

“I was going to her,” I hear Jason say. Damn it, why didn't he point the camera up?

“Going … what? Why?”

“She's my mate. I am to be with her,” he says in confusion. If he's unsettled for himself or from Frank's reaction, I don't know. My mind is whirling with confusion as well.

“What? No, she's your sister,” Frank says.

“No, she is my mate,” he states as fact. “I'm sure. I must go to her. Tell her. I—”

I hear the door open again. “What the hell is the matter with him now?” Jenny asks off screen.

“Nothing,” Frank says. “He's fine.”

“
That
was not fine,” Jenny snaps. “
That
was mortifying.”

“Dad, the camera's still on,” Matt says.