The Shape of Desire (20 page)

“Yeah, or—oh, hey! Marquez could be a, what are those things? They’re big and kind of pear-shaped and they don’t move too fast. Tapir?”

“Who the hell knows what a tapir looks like?” I demand. He hadn’t even reacted to the Caroline comment.

He flashes that smile again. “Saw it on some nature program.”

“Well, I don’t want to dress up at all,” I say, my voice grumpy. “But I know Ellen will insist.”

“I think it will be fun.”

“You think everything’s fun.”

“Pretty much.” He shrugs. “Why be unhappy?”

Because the world is full of wordless suffering and broken hearts and absent or inconstant lovers.
“No reason,” I say. I rifle through my purse and pull out a twenty; Grant hands me a matching bill. “Let me go get change.”

Our waitress is temporarily working the cash register, so she loads me down with ones and fives. “What did my friend say to you in Italian?” I ask casually.

She looks blank for a second until she remembers. “‘I love Italian food. Can your grandfather recommend a restaurant?’” She drops four quarters in my hand. “He didn’t say grandfather right, but I didn’t bother to correct him.”

I am still laughing as I leave a tip on the table. Grant is already at the door, more than ready to go back to the office. Either Grant doesn’t have any secrets or he’s even better than I am at concealing them. No matter which, I like him even more.

T
he houses in my neighborhood are widely spaced, most of them sitting on an acre or more of land, some of them set so far back from the road that when trees and shrubs and flower beds are heavy with
their summer finery you can scarcely see them through the greenery. We don’t get many trick-or-treaters here, but even so, a few of the residents have dressed up their houses for Halloween. After work I stroll down the streets for a half hour, enjoying the displays. One house—with a huge front lawn surrounded by a pointy black wrought-iron fence—has turned its grassy yard into a zombie cemetery. Mummy-wrapped heads break the ground in front of a dozen tombstones; at other sites, hands and feet appear to be kicking and clawing their way to the surface. A few shambling creatures with glowing eyes and outstretched hands are posed on the front porch and under the bare branches of a massive oak. When I walk by, the motion of my body triggers an eerie, menacing laugh.

Not sure this is a house I would walk up to, demanding candy, if I was a small child.

Just as compelling as the artificial displays are the natural decorations of the season. About half the trees still have their leaves, some green, some brown, some flaming with shades of autumn. I am fascinated by the ones that have lost a good portion of their red or yellow leaves to a rainstorm earlier in the week; these lie around their trunks in great uneven circles, their edges fading and curling so that they present a rippled appearance. The leaves on the ground mirror back the colors still on the branches, so that each tree looks as if it is standing in its own individual reflecting pool.

I keep walking and admiring the sights until it’s almost fully dark. As I return to my house, there’s just a touch of red delineating the horizon line, and the sky overhead is an intense blue that is slowly corrupting into black. The moon is full, yellow, and low in the sky. It looks too heavy to rise—more likely to sink as if drowning under greedy waters. The first evening star glitters, cold and haughty, against the gathering darkness. A faint wind stirs a sound like ghostly footsteps into the fallen leaves. I can’t help shivering a little and hurrying the last few yards back home.

There is a shape sitting on the sidewalk leading to my house.

Surprise and uneasiness bring me to a full stop. A moment’s study tells me it’s a dog, and a rather large one. In the insufficient combination of moonlight, porch light, and streetlight, it looks all white except for its nose; even its eyes are pale, possibly a sky blue. It’s watching me with a fixed stare that seems oddly intent. My breath catches; I go a step closer, though I am a little afraid.

“Dante?” I ask in a low voice.

The creature doesn’t respond, just continues to watch me. Moving slowly, I drop to my knees on the hard sidewalk and extend my right hand. The dog comes to its feet and cautiously approaches, sniffing at my fingers. In the uncertain light, I can see that it’s too thin and it has a few partially healed wounds along its ribs. They don’t correspond to anything I’ve seen on Dante’s body, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have been acquired sometime in the past week.

I don’t see a key around the dog’s neck, no small pack of supplies. Both could have been lost in a skirmish, in a mishap.

Neither do I see a collar or anything to mark this dog as domesticated. If it’s not Dante, I need to be careful. There’s no telling what its temperament is, what diseases it might be carrying.

“Who are you, huh?” I say as the dog’s tongue finally darts out to lap across my knuckles. I carefully reach up with my other hand to scratch the top of the white head. The fur is matted and dirty; it’s been weeks since this animal has been bathed or groomed. Less likely to be Dante, then. “Are you hungry? Are you thirsty?”

The dog closes its mouth and watches me again, settling back on its haunches. Its eyes are so bright, so focused, so expressive. I almost believe it has the ability to talk, or at least communicate clearly.

Could this be some other shape-shifter? Maybe it’s not Dante, but a wild friend of his—with a common secret? Might Dante have told this person, over some shared campfire late at night, that my house would
be a place of safety and haven should the need ever arise? My skin prickles with another thought. Is this the shape William takes when he’s out roving? Could it even be Christina?

“I’m going to get some food,” I say in a quiet voice. “You stay right here.”

I step calmly until I’m inside the door, then I practically run to the kitchen. I don’t have dog food, of course, and I don’t know how my visitor would feel about leftover salad and pizza. But I keep thinking about those thin legs, those bony haunches, those sad eyes. This is a creature in desperate need of nourishment.

I throw some frozen hamburger in the microwave, fill a big mixing bowl with water, and dig through my closet to find a stained old comforter that still has plenty of puff to it. I flip the meat over, set the timer again, and carry the other items out the front door.

The dog is still waiting for me, its mouth open in a slight pant. I’ve brought a flashlight, too, so as soon as it comes to its feet, I shine a beam down between its legs so I can determine gender. Female. I feel disappointment knock through me, but I’m not really surprised. It didn’t
feel
like Dante.

But she still feels human.

“Come on over here under the carport,” I say, as if the dog can understand me, which maybe she can. “I’ll make a little bed for you out of the wind. I don’t think it’s going to get too cold tonight—no worse than forty. You look like you’re dressed for zero.” I’m not an expert on dog breeds, but I think she looks like a Siberian husky. Her fur is definitely warm enough to see her through a St. Louis October night.

She follows me to the side of the house, where light from the kitchen window provides a certain amount of golden illumination. As soon as I set down the water bowl, she pads over and laps up most of its contents. Then she watches with interest as I shake out the comforter and bunch it up to make a structure that’s half cave, half mattress. “There.
That ought to be nice and soft,” I say. I pick up the water bowl. “I’ll be right back.”

Five minutes later I’ve returned with more water and another bowl holding the half-cooked hamburger. She’s already trampled a space for herself on the rumpled comforter, and her tail beats a light rhythm against the side of the house when she smells the meat. I set both bowls in front of her, and she buries her nose in the mounded ground beef, gulping it down.

I get the sense that she doesn’t want me too close, so I take a few steps back and watch her. If it had been colder out, I would have had to consider bringing her into the house, but I’m reluctant to do that, and she doesn’t appear interested in coming inside, anyway. A blanket and some scraps seem to be exactly what she wants.

She licks the bowl clean and takes in a little more water before turning to give me one long, deliberate stare. She offers a single bark—I cannot help but consider it an expression of thanks—then paws at the comforter again, shaping it how she wants. With a sigh, she drops to her belly and curls around so her head lies on her paws. I think she falls asleep while I am still watching her.

I
n the morning, the husky is gone, but I have the notion that she might return again at nightfall. I skip Ellen’s outing at lunch to go to a nearby PetSmart and pick up a hefty bag of dry dog food that claims to come enhanced with all the nutrients your pet could ever need. I’m not sure what else to buy—toys, collar, leash, rawhide bone all seem inappropriate. Anyway, there’s no guarantee she’ll be there when I get back. I’ll probably have to donate the food to the local shelter.

But she is waiting for me when I return, sitting up on the folded blanket, her big eyes on my face the minute I step out of the car. I don’t even go into the house first, just rip open the bag of food and pour it
into the bowl with a clinking sound. She’s on her feet and nosing my hand aside as soon as the first bits drop. The water bowl is dry again.

I refill everything a couple of times and then sit and wait as she settles back onto the comforter. She turns to her side, exposing that injured flank, and I creep close enough to take a look at the wounds. They were deep and ugly not too long ago, but, from what I can tell, they appear to be healing cleanly.

I wonder if I should call a vet anyway. I wonder if I could find one who would come to the house. I wonder if the dog would get in the car with me if I tried to explain where I wanted to take her.

I decide I will wrestle with those questions if she stays a few more days and appears to be in some kind of pain.

“Well, let me know if there’s something else I can do for you,” I say, rising to my feet. She lifts her head and meets my eyes, her mouth slightly open. I swear she’s grinning. “Right,” I say. “I’ll just leave the bag of food here against the house and you can help yourself if you get hungry in the night.”

I gather my purse and a few other items from the car and head inside. From time to time, over the next few hours, I peer out at her from the kitchen window, but she seems perfectly comfortable. I wonder if she really is human. I wonder if there is someone much like me, in some small house on the edge of civilization, worrying about her, hoping she’s safe, hoping she’s still
alive
. If she had tags, I could find a number and call.
Hello, this is Maria Devane, you don’t know me but I’ve found your dog. Oh, it’s your daughter? Well, she’s been at my house for a couple of days and I wanted to let you know she was fine. A little thin, a little beat up, but healthy enough. You can go to bed tonight—this one night of the year—and not be worried about her.

It occurs to me that I might finally have gone completely insane.

H
alloween is a cold, wet, nasty Friday that shows every sign of turning into a cold, wet, nasty night. I can just imagine all the children across Missouri pleading with their mothers not to make them wear coats over their carefully assembled outfits.

It is, of course, the day of our costume party at work. I am going as a cow. I’m dressed in a brown turtleneck and brown cords, and I’ve sewn irregularly shaped white patches all over my clothing. I’m wearing a headband adorned with paper ears that don’t look much like a cow’s, and over my neck I’ve slipped a leather cord holding a bell. My udder will be represented by a surgical glove filled with water and attached to my belt, but since I can’t figure out any way such an accoutrement will survive contact with the seat belt, I save that final piece to add once I’m in the office. A quick duck into the women’s bathroom and my ensemble is complete. I glance at myself in the mirror and say out loud, “You look ridiculous.”

So does everyone else, which is something of a comfort. Many of
us roam the halls for the first hour of the day, considering coworkers for a few moments before asking, “What are
you
supposed to be?” Marquez is the most puzzling. He’s dressed in a washed-out two-piece shapeless gray velour tracksuit that is not particularly flattering on his paunchy frame. When I ask the inevitable question, he snatches up a clear plastic umbrella and snaps it open to reveal long dangling strips of gray ribbon attached all around the outer perimeter.

“I still don’t get it,” I say.

“I’m a jellyfish.” He tosses a handful of brightly colored candies at me. “And I’m giving out jellybeans.”

I throw back a couple squares of milk chocolate. “I have a joke,” I offer.

“Is it funny?”

“Sure. Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting cow,” I answer.

“Interrupting—”

“Moo!”
I shout before he can finish.