The Shape of Desire (36 page)

There isn’t much more to see except billboards advertising Meramec Caverns, factory-made wooden bowls, adult video stores, restaurants, hotels, fireworks, and lawyers. Now and then a sign will simply offer the word JESUS in giant letters. I wonder what I would put on an oversize outdoor ad if I were allowed a single word.
Love
, I think. Both a noun and a directive. Find it, offer it, and make it the guiding principle of life.

We are not far from Wentzville when I stir. “Will you tell Christina?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Not if I don’t have to. I want to talk to William first and see what I can find out.”

I’m not sure how to phrase my next question. “What if he—if he takes exception to what you say.”
To you asking him if he’s a murderer.
“Will he start a fight? Will you—who would win?”

He shakes his head again. “I don’t know. In human shape, I’m bigger than he is, and stronger. But—”

I try to still the acid surge of fear that rises to the back of my throat. “But he can turn to animal shape at will. And you can’t.”

He glances at me, then stares straight ahead again. “I know William,” he says quietly. “The
real
William, the one whose mind hasn’t been poisoned by madness. If he really is—If he really has killed people, it’s something that would horrify him. He would want to be stopped.”

I turn my eyes his way. “Would
you
?” I say. “Want to be stopped?”

He nods without taking his eyes from the road.

“Even if it meant your death?”

He risks another quick look at me. “Even then. And I expect it would.”

After that, we don’t say another word until we arrive at my house.

In the morning, Dante is gone.

I
thought
last
weekend was impossible to endure, but this one is even worse. I can’t even distract myself by going out with Beth or leaving for the movies, because I know Dante is still human, and I don’t want to miss any moment he might have to spare for me. He has taken his cell phone with him, and he calls me every few hours, just because he can, even though he has no progress to report. He is in Rolla, but he has not made contact with William. He has dropped in on Christina and questioned her casually, but she hasn’t seen their brother for several days.

“Keep your doors locked,” Dante cautions me. “And if he comes to the house, don’t let him in.”

“Oh, great. What do I say to him when I answer the door? ‘Uh, sorry, I’m suddenly afraid of you. Go away’?”

“I don’t know. Pretend you have the flu or something. And then call me the minute he leaves.”

“Come back to me,” I whisper. “Before you change out of human shape this time. Come back for one more night.”

Silence on the phone for a moment, then the promise. “I will.”

M
onday arrives like an immigrant, bedraggled and apprehensive. I haven’t been in my office more than three minutes before Ellen strides in. I’ve already turned on my computer, knowing my in-box will be stuffed with e-mails that require immediate attention, but I spin around to meet her keen, inquiring gaze.

“So did you tell him?” she asks.

It is the strangest thing in my life—of all the strange things—to think I can actually discuss Dante with someone else in cold, literal terms. “Yes,” I say. “Right after I got your text.”

“Was he furious? What did he say?”

“He said—Oh, God, this could only be worse if Dante really was the killer. He said maybe it was his brother.”

Ellen snaps her fingers. “That’s right! I forgot he had a brother. And a sister, too, right?”

“And a niece.”

“And they’re all—” She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway, though so far we appear to be the only two people on our floor. “You know.”

“Yes. Well, we don’t know yet about the baby.”

She leans against my bookcase. “Well, that must have been a bad morning,” she remarks. “First he finds out his girlfriend thinks he’s a killer, and then he starts thinking maybe his brother is.”

“Right. Pretty much set the tone.”

“When did you get back?”

“Friday night.”

She appraises me. “So you stayed a few days. Managed to make a little vacation out of it. Despite everything.” She nods. “Good for you.”

I smile weakly. “I didn’t know if we’d ever have another chance.”

“What happens next?”

“He’s looking for William. His brother. But I don’t have any idea how that—that conversation might go.”

She mulls that over for a minute and then sighs. “I can’t think of a single thing to say about any of this,” she offers before straightening up and heading for the door. But just as she steps into the hall, she turns back and says softly, “I’m glad it wasn’t him.” She leaves before I can reply.

D
ante is at my house when I get home Monday night. “William?” I ask breathlessly as I hurry through the door and hang up my coat.

He shakes his head. “I haven’t been able to track him down yet. I’ll keep looking.”

“How much time do you have?”
How much longer before you’re back in animal shape?

“Not long. But I can keep hunting for him after I’ve changed. Once I find him, I’ll just stick with him until we’re both human again.” He shrugs. “I told you, I’ve been practicing. Maybe I’ll be able to shift right away and have the conversation as soon as I find him.”

“Well, if you find yourself back in human shape, with no brother to beat up and time heavy on your hands, give me a call. Or hey, drop by.”

His smile is fleeting. “I’ll definitely call. Not sure I’ll have time to visit.”

I nod. I am trying to seem calm, not overly concerned, not listening to the wailing voices crying that I may never see him again, this man I love so much. “So you’ll be leaving again tonight?”

“In a couple of hours. I just came by to—” He pauses. He
doesn’t want to utter the words.
To say good-bye.
Now his mouth twists in a smile that is far more sad than mirthful. “To see you.”

I don’t even bother trying to stumble through a maze of words. I just plunge across the room and throw myself into his arms. They close around me and we kiss as if we are stealing breath from each other to stay alive. I think,
This must be how people feel when they’re in a submarine or a spaceship that’s running out of air. They can see the dial winding down; they can see that their time is almost up. They are alive now, they are perfectly fine, and yet they know that in a matter of hours they will be dead. And there is nothing they can do, no miracle they can perform, that will change the outcome by so much as a second.

I kiss him, I make love to him, and then I let him go.

I
mpossibly, the rest of the week is even worse. I bury myself in work—which, fortunately, there is plenty of—and distract myself with friends. Every day, Ellen organizes some kind of luncheon outing, gathering me and Kathleen and any other wounded soul she can round up. Well, neither Grant nor Marquez seems to be particularly injured at the moment, but I am not fooled. They have secrets; they have scars. It’s just that their infirmities are not visible at this moment.

On Thursday, Ellen announces that she’s having us all over on Sunday afternoon to watch the football game. “What football game?” Marquez asks.

“The one where the Cardinals play the Rams. The true team plays the usurpers.”

Grant laughs. Besides Ellen, I’d guess he’s the only one of the five of us who might be a sports fan. “Dude, the Big Red moved out of this city more than twenty years ago. Get over it.”

“I can’t get over it,” Ellen says. “My heart belongs to the Cardinals.”

“I think I’m busy Sunday,” Marquez says. “I have to do laundry. Or, wait. I have to iron my underwear.”

“Bring your ironing over to my place and do it while you watch the game,” Ellen invites him. “I’ve got a board you can borrow.”

“I think it sounds like fun,” I say. I’ve been dreading the weekend, actually. How will I fill up all those deserted and endless hours? Mindless television watching in the presence of people I like seems to be the perfect answer. I’ll have my cell phone with me, of course, in case Dante finds time to call.

“I do, too,” Kathleen says in her soft voice. “Kelly and Tim left yesterday and it’s been so quiet at the house.”

Ellen glances at Marquez with hooded triumph. Kathleen was her trump card, and that card just played itself. Marquez’s grin is a silent acknowledgment of the fact, but he goes down fighting. “Yes, but
football
,” he says to Kathleen in a pleading voice. “It’s so
boring
. And those
outfits
they wear. At least when it’s basketball you can appreciate their fine bodies.”

Grant makes a loud groaning sound and covers his ears. “I do not want to hear you saying that crap.” I think the straight-male response is just posturing; Grant seems perfectly comfortable with Marquez’s sexuality.

Ellen ignores Grant and addresses Marquez. “So bring a Scrabble board. I’ll tell you when to cheer and when to boo. You don’t even have to pay attention to the game.”

“I hate Scrabble,” Marquez says.

“We can play Monopoly,” Kathleen says, but all of us cry out in horror at that.

Marquez tells her, “I’d play Clue before I’d play Monopoly. I’d play
charades
.”

“Great, so I’ll expect everyone around eleven thirty. Game starts at noon,” Ellen says. “I’ll grill some burgers, you all can bring whatever
you like.” She glances around the table and adds casually, “I might invite some of my neighbors, too, or folks from church.”

No one else seems to notice this comment but I feel certain it’s significant somehow. Kathleen is already volunteering to make deviled eggs and Marquez says he’ll bring baked beans.

“Beer,” Grant says. When Marquez makes a rude noise, Grant says, “Hey, it’s a football game. You gotta have beer.”

“I’ll make a salad,” I say.

“Of course you will,” Marquez replies in a polite voice.

“It will be a really creative salad,” I promise him. “With cranberries and pears and gorgonzola cheese. Even you will like it.”

Ellen’s hand has frozen halfway to her mouth and I see her working her mind around a new thought.
Maria’s a vegetarian except for a few times a month. She’s in love with a guy who sometimes turns into an animal. Hey—could those two facts be related?
Then she gives me a brilliant smile. “Great,” she says again. “It’ll be fun.”

I
spend what seems like most of Saturday on the phone with various family members, trying to decide who is bringing what to Thanksgiving dinner at Aunt Andrea’s on Thursday. This process would be much simpler, Beth and I moan to each other, if either of our mothers would bother to get computers and learn how to send e-mails. But eventually we’ve all agreed not only on a menu but also on which food items we’re willing to bring. I am looking forward to spending the holiday with my family, though I know part of my attention will be straining back toward St. Louis, hoping for news from Dante.

He might even phone me while I’m in Springfield, because he has managed to turn human and call me at least briefly every day this week. He sounds tired and discouraged, and he still has not managed to find William, but he is alive and he misses me. Those are the two things I care about most.

“I’ll be over at Ellen’s till about four or five today,” I tell him Sunday morning when I hear from him. “I’ll have my cell phone if you need me.”

“All right. But listen. My own cell phone is almost out of juice, and I haven’t had a chance to recharge. So don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.”

Don’t worry if I don’t hear from you? Are you kidding?
But I don’t say it. “Where are you?” I respond instead.

“Back in Babler. I keep thinking that’s where he’ll go next.”

“Well—be careful.” I try not to say the words as often as I think them, or our conversation would consist of nothing else.

“I will. You, too. Love you.”

And he’s gone again. Before I cradle the phone, I take a deep breath over the receiver, as if some portion of his spirit has wafted through the wires and I can inhale it, internalize it, make it part of my own soul. Then I hang up and return to the job of chopping up lettuce and fruit.

There are about nine cars in front of Ellen’s house when I arrive a few minutes before noon. I recognize a few as belonging to my coworkers—Grant, Kathleen, Marquez, Frank, and the new girl in creative—but the rest belong to mystery guests. Well, I’m pretty sure the Jeep is owned by Ellen’s boyfriend, Henry, and the blue pickup might belong to one of her ex-husbands. I tuck my head down against an insulting wind and hurry inside.

Ellen lives in an old two-story farmhouse that she’s slowly rehabbed during the past ten years. Most of the ground level is now one open space—kitchen, dining room, family room all unfolding into each other, delineated by different floor coverings, some half-walls, and a few weight-bearing pillars. The back wall of the family room is primarily weathered gray stone, brightened by a roaring blaze in a huge fireplace and the big flat-screen TV above it. The adjoining sidewall, made entirely of sliding-glass doors and tall windows, overlooks an enormous redwood deck and a wild backyard that quickly gives way to tangled woodland. I see Henry hunched over the gas grill on the deck, cooking burgers outside in the cold. He’s all bundled up and his gloved hands are a little clumsy on
the tongs, but he doesn’t look at all unhappy. Ellen says he’ll barbecue in a blizzard, so he certainly won’t be slowed by a little chill.