THE WOLF IN THE WORDS: A NOVEL
A Written Creative Work submitted to the faculty of
San Francisco State University
In partial fulfillment of
As
the requirements for
the Degree
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Master of Fine Arts
In
Creative Writing
by
Kendra Elizabeth Schynert
San Francisco, California
May 2015
Copyright by
Kendra Elizabeth Schynert
2015
CERTIFICATION OF APPROVAL
I certify that I have read The Wolf in the Words: A Novel by Kendra Elizabeth Schynert,
and that in my opinion this work meets the criteria for approving a thesis submitted in
partial fulfillment of the requirement for the degree Master of Fine Arts in Creative
Writing: Fiction at San Francisco State University.
Michelle Carter,
Professor of Creative Writing
Dodie Bellamy
Lecturer of Creative Writing
THE WOLF IN THE WORDS: A NOVEL
Kendra Elizabeth Schynert
San Francisco, California
2015
A novel that explores the collapse of narrative through the viewpoints of two main
characters. One of the protagonists is semi-aware of the collapse and is in the process of
using his extensive literary knowledge to understand and fix the narrative. The other
protagonist, though sensitive and empathetic, doesn't immediately understand that the
world is breaking around him.
I certify that the abstract is a correct representation of the content of this written creative
work
''Chair, Thesis Committee
Date
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel is the product of many midnights, countless cups of tea, a restless imagination
and the dedicated support of my teachers and loved ones. My thanks to Junse Kim, Bob
Gluck, ZZ Packer, Maxine Chernoff, Chanan Tigay, Michelle Carter, Ryan Beck, Allison
Solano, Mark Schynert, Susan Schynert and Dodie Bellamy for their presence and
feedback.
v
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue......................................................................................................................................1
Chapter 1.................................................................................................................................... 2
Chapter 2 ...................................................................................................................................11
Chapter 3 .................................................................................................................................. 24
Chapter 4 .................................................................................................................................. 38
Chapter 5 .................................................................................................................................. 46
Chapter 6 .................................................................................................................................. 61
Chapter 7 .................................................................................................................................. 65
Chapter 8 .................................................................................................................................. 75
Chapter 9 .................................................................................................................................. 85
Chapter 10................................................................................................................................ 96
Chapter 11...............................................................................................................................102
Chapter 12...............................................................................................................................117
1
Prologue
The wolf did not remember being born. Couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t
bound across the sky devouring stars. The stars screamed and pulsed when he crushed
them in his jaws and swallowed them down. Hot in his belly. Screams muted and
jumbled to a constant hum of agony. It was so good. He did that for a very long time.
Until one day he heard something new, like a star scream but with more control and a
greater range of tone. The wolf walked down until, for the first time, his paws hit ground.
The sound was louder. The wolf did not know of music or singing or even storytelling, he
only knew he must get closer to the thrum.
The wolf walked through the night until he spotted a group of people sitting
around a fire. The people listened to a singer. She sang about a hero who traveled on a
swarm of trained bees and fought a monster made of the dishonorable dead. The story
pulsed, but up close it was nothing like a star. Light. Color. Brightness that eclipsed the
fire. The rich fury of it rippled through everything: the people, the ground, the wolf,
beyond the wolf.
The wolf tried to bound towards it the way he would a star, but he found himself
whisked up in the rhythm of it. He took a step. And another. And another until he was
folded up into the heart of the story itself. The teller and the listeners noticed nothing.
2
Chapter 1
Point Aria, California
The boy is unhurt. He is covered in dirt and forest debris, but he has sustained nothing
worse than a few bruises. The tree, however, is ravaged. It fell hard, taking the branches
of lesser trees with it.
The police have arrived and begin to make a perimeter around the scene. Two of
them examine the trunk; it looks tom and jagged as if it had been churned through a huge
maw.
The boy, Andy Caldecott, has been pulled close by his older brother, Laurence.
They share the same sharp jaw line, same gold-brown skin and identical pairs of navy
socks, though the elder wears his folded down three centimeters. Andy is clinging to his
brother. Both faces are free of tears. Laurence retreats enough to kneel down at eyelevel; he’s asking the boy what happened.
Andy says something and looks at the small but growing crowd of people that
have gathered around the accident site. The wail of a siren announces the arrival of the
ambulance. Something hides just out of sight. Something big. It slips away before the
authorities start collecting witness accounts.
Three Years Later— Los Angeles, California.
3
The smoke detector shrieked. Lana fanned the smoke away with an old copy of
Good Housekeeping. The Christmas issue — Joe can tell from the picture of Rachel Ray
offering a fruitcake up to the heavens. He ran to the living room, shoved aside the dingy
vertical blinds they both hate, fiddled with the locks and opened the patio door. A couple
minutes pass spent in the agonizing eeeeee of the smoke detector. He hopes the elderly
Puerto Rican couple downstairs don’t bang on the ceiling in another misguided attempt to
enforce quiet after the late and wanton hour of six p.m. They attend the same church as
Lana and he and the stoic glaring across the aisle every Sunday was bad enough without
exacerbation. Finally, silence above and below. Joe slid the door shut, making sure to
secure the door and latch the locks.
The apartment, warm with the smell of burned sage and garlic, was once again tranquil.
Lana always turned the heat too high and left the meat in the oven too long. Joe thinks
it’s something she picked up from her mother, who also worked as a dental assistant.
Lana ran a hand through her butter-blonde hair and touched the gold crucifix around her
neck.
“Well at least the mashed potatoes aren’t burnt,” she said. Was he supposed to
laugh? When Lana said she didn’t want their theoretical kids, Booker and Daisy, to get
immunization shots because she was afraid they would get autism he laughed. She hadn’t
been joking.
4
“I do love your mashed potatoes,” he said. She smiled, which brought out the
roses in her cheeks.
“Well then I better give you a double portion.”
He salted his meat. Heavily. He once read in a business magazine that some
bosses tested job applicants by taking them out to lunch, if the candidate salted their food
without tasting it first they were out. It struck him as a cruel tactic, but not without merit.
He stared at his plate. At the meat’s center there was a raw pink glisten, though the
outside was blackened beyond edibility. She must have left work early, which meant she
bargained with one of the other dental assistants to switch times with her. He took a bite
of the roast and made a loud mmm noise. Lana smiled.
“Do you feel ready for tomorrow?” asked his wife. She looked nice tonight. Her
hair was free from the usual ponytail, and it fell to her shoulders in asymmetrical waves.
He recognized the dress from their honeymoon, a beaded coral number that provided
percussion whenever she moved.
“Yes, I surely do,” he answered. A lie. He read four books on job interview
stratagems. He scoured the Internet for trick questions employers ask and prepared
appropriate answers. If tomorrow’s interview asks why manholes are round he will say,
“So the manhole covers won’t accidently fall though the manholes themselves.” If he’s
asked how many pennies it would take to fill the office he knows to pretend to estimate
5
and do equations. This didn’t change the compulsive curling of his toes or the knots in his
stomach.
“I have a good feeling about tomorrow. I think you’re going to get it!” She
clapped her hands together and the beads sounded like a far-off waterfall. ”1 had a good
talk with Pastor Kevin last week,” she said.
He had never warmed to Pastor Kevin. Pastor Kevin played guitar. Pastor Kevin
believed in the sacredness of home and hearth. Pastor Kevin once lectured the women in
the congregation for wearing slacks on the Lord’s day. Pastor Kevin once told the
children’s choir that dogs and cats didn’t have souls and therefore could not be allowed in
heaven. Pastor Kevin was a tool.
“Pastor Kevin says one of the beautiful things in this world is a man trying to
support his family. I know you’re trying really hard for us, Joe.” She smiled again, but
this time her blue eyes sparkled. Pastor Kevin seemed very far away.
He used to love church services. His brothers had always fidgeted in the pew
when they were little. He stared at the stained glass windows, which were familiar friends
by the time he was eight. Noah and his pairs of horses, cats, pigs, ducks and chickens,
with the dove at the top of the window, surrounded by mottled yellow glass meant to
symbolize a starburst. Saint Francis surrounded by birds— this was his favorite because
the bluebirds perched on Saint Francis’ fingers shone like sapphires when it hit the
middle point of service on days with sunshine.
6
He liked the hymns, would often find himself humming snatches of song days later. By
sixteen it was a dance he didn’t have to think about. He knew when to sit, when to stand,
when to sing. He loved church services. He did not love church events. Someone always
seemed to pinch his cheek or foist something covered in mayonnaise on him. He
generally took salvation in whatever sport the other boys were playing. Regardless of the
locale the boys always found something to play. Basketball, baseball, flag football,
soccer, once hopscotch as a last resort. By nineteen the games had long ago dissipated in
favor of girls.
He met Lana when he was in his junior year of college and neck deep in required
courses. He was home for the weekend and got roped into going an interdenominational
ice-cream social by all his female relatives and his Uncle Walter. If he had known he was
going to metaphorical meat market he would have made up something about massive
piles of homework.
It wasn’t that Joe was afraid of girls. He liked the girls in his dorm hall— they
cooked fragrant scrambled eggs in the student lounge, giggled like music to silly movies
on the television and invited everyone to karaoke at least once a month. He liked the girls
in his classes, especially Karen Miller who asked questions that tended to be on tests. He
wasn’t afraid of the girls, but he was afraid of the dating. The dress code was baffling.
Jeans and a button-up were apparently not good enough, but a suit was too formal. Then
there was is unease with the rhythm of restaurants. Unlike church the set steps for
restaurants with a date were unfamiliar and stilted. Easy actions were suddenly loaded
7
with double meaning; a girl once walked out on him in the middle of a date because he
ordered a pasta with crushed garlic in the sauce. It had been, if not the worst night of
Joe’s life, definitely in the top six.
So there he was, waiting in line in the drafty church hall, clutching a flimsy
Styrofoam bowl. The line was moving slowly because someone hadn’t let the ice cream
soften enough, so people were reduced to chipping out vanilla and chocolate ice cream
like sculptors. He headed to the topping table. A few people had shared his notion; a
small crowd waited for their turn with the chocolate syrup. Joe had always despised the
tacky too-sweet slide of budget chocolate syrup, so he slid past a trio of girls and reached
for the jar of pineapple topping. His hand brushed against soft fingers instead of
unyielding glass. He looked up. A girl with blonde, pony-tailed hair and a button nose
looked up at him. She also had trouble gauging appropriate attire for date-affiliated
events. Most of the women at the social wore sleeveless floral dresses or jeans paired
with smart, ruffled tops. She was wearing a cobalt wrap dress that was two ticks too
fancy for the event.
“Please, go ahead,” he said as he let go off the jar. She smiled and he noted that
the edge of one incisor was edged in bright white; the opposite of a dead tooth.
“I’m used having the pineapple to myself,” she laughed, “everyone seems to go
for the chocolate, a few outliers get butterscotch.” Joe winced. The industrial version of
butterscotch sauce was almost as bad as chocolate syrup.
8
“ It just means we both have superior taste,” he said. She laughed. She played
with her necklace, a small gold cross that rested at her clavicle when she let go. She wore
the same cross now.
“I don’t thank you enough for being patient with me,” said Joe. Lana’s eyebrows
quirk up in confusion. “A child deserves stability and you deserve not to be on your feet
all day.” Lana’s fingers slide from her crucifix into his outstretched hand.
Three miles and six blocks away Laurence Neil Caldecott arrived home for the
night. The hallway smelled like the beef stew from three doors down, boiled cabbage
from the end of the hall and wet dog from the corner apartment across from him. It
smelled like how most Dickens novels felt, except A Christmas Carol, which was all
spice and good brandy. The key stuck in the lock like it always did when he carried
something heavy. He shifted the load of books to the crook of his left arm, and tried to
torque the key at the right angle while pushing on the door. The door yielded and he
avoided dropping the books by a thread of grace. He placed the books in the threadbare
chintz armchair by the door, taking care to arrange them so they wouldn’t fall. He turned
on the light, shut the door, placed the door chain for the night, turned around and
groaned. In the center of his book-strewn kitchen table sat a large grey-blue cat licking its
paws.
9
“Hello,” said Laurence. The cat fixed him with a yellow-eyed stare; Laurence
resisted the urge to squirm. “How did you get in here?” The cat yawned wide, revealing
immaculate, sharp fangs. Laurence went to the kitchen to open a bottle of cabernet
because interrogating a cat while tipsy was slightly more acceptable than interrogating a
cat while sober. He uncorked the bottle and poured it into his last clean wine glass. When
he returned to the living room the cat was still there.
He sat in the dining room chair with only a few slats missing, took a sip of wine, and
stared at the cat. The cat stretched, knocked a few books to the floor in the process, and
sauntered over to Laurence. It blinked at him for moment before it shoved one of the
books towards him. The book was old, red, dented at the comers and missing a dust
jacket. He may have picked it up at the Sebastopol library sale, but he went to so many
library sales and used bookstores these days; it could be from Salinas, Monterey,
Burbank or Antelope Valley. He picked up the book and turned to the title page: Obscure
Detective Stories o f the Victorian Era By Elaine Quinn. He thumbed through the volume;
despite an undergrad course in Willkie Collins and a mother who loved Masterpiece
Mystery Theater he didn’t recognize most of the authors. The cat meowled when he
reached a story near the back: A Study in Scarlet by Arthur Conan Doyle. He has never
heard of the story or the author. He flipped to the back to see if there was an author bio or
any scholarly analysis. He’s rewarded with a brief paragraph marred by ochre stains:
Though never popular in his lifetime and lost to obscurity in the modern era, Arthur
Conan Doyle exemplifies a keen understanding o f the potentials o f the medium. Given
10
other circumstances Doyle could have been one o f the chief creators o f the detective
genre. Scholars have long suspected a greater breadth o f his work exists, but as it stands
the only known examples o f his Sherlock Holmes stories are A Study in Scarlet, The
Hound o f the Baskervilles and the first half ofA Scandal in Bohemia. The most intriguing
o f these is, o f course, the unfinished Bohemia, not just due to its incomplete status, but
also the introduction o f a woman named Irene Adler who may have caught Holmes ’
interest. Sadly, i f more Sherlock Holmes stories exist they have been lost to time.
Interesting. Laurence reached into the pocket of his blazer and rummaged around
until he found an old gasoline receipt. He tore it in two and marked both the Holmes
stories featured. He’ll have to hunt down the unfinished story, hopefully the internet will
be accommodating on that score.
“Thank you,” he said to the cat, “even if your hints are rudimentary and oblique at
best.”
The cat swiped a paw at the wine glass, rivulets of cabernet cascaded over the books
and onto the floor. Laurence cursed and ran to the kitchen for towels. While he tried to
mop up the mess he glared at the cat. The cat stared back, and then groomed its fastidious
grey-blue fur.
“Asshole,” muttered Laurence. The cat began to purr. “Tell your mistress I get the
message. You can also tell her not to bother me for the next week. Job interviews are
already stressful enough.”
11
Chapter 2
Joe checked his watch, still an hour early. He pulled his overcoat shut, more out
of a sense that it was the right gesture for November than any actual chill. Los Angeles
wasn’t the temperate paradise people described, but it didn’t merit the Midwest clothing
he was used to. His wife sometimes joked that she would never get a chance to wear the
flared red princess coat he’d gotten her as congratulations for getting hired as a dental
assistant. He hoped the Los Angeles temperatures plunged. He hoped they saw snow for
the first time in fifty-something years. People would clutch their couture around them;
they would wear knit gloves and thick scarves. They would discover an appreciation for
hotdish and disco fries. Lana would wear her beautiful coat along with the gloves and hat
he’d gotten her for Christmas. A one-eyed man in Bermuda shorts and a reindeer sweater
leaned towards Joe.
“Hey, you lost, blondie? Also can you spare a dollar?” His breath reeked of
cinnamon and cheap beer. Joe rummaged around in his pocket for loose bills. He didn’t
like to show were he kept his wallet when he gave money to vagrants. He came up with
eight quarters, two dimes, seventeen pennies and a wrapped lemon drop. He gave the lot
to the man.
“No, I’m not lost. I’m here for an interview. I’m feeling a little displaced,” said
Joe. The man nodded and eyed the modern glass and metal building of Wolbin
Enterprises, the building was at odds with the Beaux Arts facades of the rest of Spring
12
Street. Every job interview so far had taken place in similar modern monstrosities. Inside
it would be bright, temperature controlled and staffed by receptionists in designer
clothing who would offer tea-juice-coffee-mineral water as if their bosses weren’t going
to yank Joe around for forty minutes before telling him they were looking for someone
with more experience. The only difference was Wolbin Enterprises had contacted him,
which gave him a sliver of hope for a respectable salary, health insurance and a 40 IK.
Joe didn’t think of e-mail as a format capable of elegance, but the Wolbin Enterprise email had been a wonder of formatting and wording. His resume had been out on the
internet for over four weeks, so this wasn’t the first time a company had e-mailed him
with an inquiry, but it was the first time the company seemed worth a darn. The e-mail
said they were hiring for a high level managerial position that would spearhead major
projects and organize winning teams. They were looking for a detail-oriented, selfstarting team player with a MBA. Investigation turned up nothing worthy of alarm on the
company: they hired lawyers and businessmen alike, they appeared to do both legal and
financial work, according to their website they were committed to “corporate
excellence,” according to their ads they “wolfed down the competition.”
“Diaspora, buddy, you got the diaspora it’s been going around. Thanks for the
change,” said the homeless man, yanking Joe back to reality. The man walked a few feet,
hawked a loogie into the gutter and turned the corner. Joe pulled his coat around him and
walked through the pristine automatic doors.
13
Joe was one of seventeen men in the waiting room. He was also the only one still
wearing his overcoat. Nobody else seemed to mind the air conditioner going full blast in
the middle of December. The secretaries fluttered from desk to desk in short sleeves and
brief skirts. The man next to him had taken off his suit jacket and folded it across his
knee. It was a good quality jacket -wool, pinstripe, double-breasted, single vent- perfect
for the Southern California winter. Six candidates had been called so far. None returned.
White chose to assume it meant Mr. Wolbin had a private elevator, as the alternatives
were both dire and ridiculous.
“Joseph White?” said the only secretary wearing slacks instead of a skirt. She was
also older than the rest of the secretaries, champagne-blonde, minimal makeup, late
thirties compared to the mid-twenties flitting about. An ornate cursive, gold L was pinned
to her navy suit jacket. “It stands for Lucy,” she said. Joe blushed and she laughed, which
was half sonorous purr and half titter. Joe got up and followed her past the wooden
double doors candidates had disappeared through all morning. A heavy, musky smell hit
first, but he couldn’t identify the components. The second was the change in lighting. The
waiting area had been bright with florescence and shiny, white surfaces. This office was
much darker. A desk lamp cast a limited orange glow. Beyond the lamp sat a squarish
figure.
“Mr. White to see you, Sir. Don’t you gobble him all up at once because I’m
ordering you a beet and apple salad later,” said Lucy.
14
“Rabbit food,” growled the squarish figure. White felt rather than saw Lucy wink
in his direction before she left “Please seet down,” said the figure. The figure spoke with
an accent Joe couldn’t place. He stumbled his way to the guest seat nearest the lamp. He
only rammed his thighs into unyielding objects twice.
“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mr. White.” He held out his hand across
the desk. Nothing happened. He put his hand in his lap.
“So, Meester White, it says here you are good with people that you have inter­
personal skills. Tell me about these skills,” said the figure. Joe’s eyes were adjusting; he
could now make out a beard and some sort of tweedy jacket. Joe outlined his internship
with Home’s Luxury Hotels, his charity work at soup kitchens, his one-year stint
assisting the London liaison for Horne’s. The figure, who must be Wolbin sat up straight
at the last part.
“London. I like London, eet is a fascinating city. Very easy to get lost in, lots of
history that won’t stay dead, they are good at curating in London. Eet is too bad their beer
is only o-kay and that they do not understand how to prepare fish.”
Joe was pretty sure the average Londoner knew exactly what do with fish, but he
kept his mouth shut and nodded. He wasn’t going to tank a job interview because he
liked fish and chips. Lana would never forgive him.
“Tell me what you remember of London.” Joe tried to start with his duties
assisting the liaison, but there was only so much to say about a job that consisted of
15
collating copies and making sure clients didn’t realize the liaison was drunk on snakebite
and black at ten a.m. on a workday. Instead he talked about the vast greenness of Hyde
Park and how he’d gotten into the routine of visiting the Peter Pan statue in Kensington
Gardens every weekend. When he was little his mother had read Peter Pan aloud to
White and his brothers. At seven he broke his arm jumping off the tool shed in an attempt
to fly like Peter, Wendy, John and Michael. He talked about the genius of the
underground and the time he got lost in the Marylebone district.
“Ah yes, ees very nice part of London. I have fond mem-ries visiting Regent’s
Park with an old friend. I theenk we are losing bone of interview, though. Please tell me
why you would work well on a team.”
“Baseball,” said Joe. Shoot, he probably should have started with the food drives
he organized for the Campus Christian Charity club. “Baseball because it had me
working in a team before I understood how valuable that was. Individual talent matters
—you need a powerful pitcher, a clever catcher, an agile shortstop— but if you can’t get
that all to synchronize then you’re lost in the woods. I played little league starting at age
seven and played through freshman year of high school. I follow minor league baseball as
well as the majors. I know that moment when a team clicks. I want to make that moment
happen for your team.”
Wolbin nodded and ticked something off on his desk blotter. Joe’s vision was
almost normal now. Wolbin was a sharp-cornered, stout lump of a man. His hair was
16
short, bristly, grey and nearly indistinguishable from the stubble that coated his cheeks,
jaw and neck — it looked more like fur than hair.
“What strat-ah-gee would you use to market a line of environments friendlies
hiking gear?” asked Wolbin. Joe wondered what accent Wolbin was supposed to be
aping, it sounded vaguely Scandinavian, but it wasn’t consistent. Wolbin tapped his
thumb and forefinger on the desk; he had unusually long nails for a man. White started to
answer the question.
“We will bee in touch, Meester White,” said Mr. Wolbin twenty minutes later.
Relief banished the nausea Joe had been suppressing. There was a chance he would get
the job and the fantastic perks that it entailed.
“Thank you, Sir.” Joe fought to keep his tone even and professional. He could
whoop and jump when he got home. His wife was going to be so happy. It wasn’t a yes,
but also wasn’t a no, which was a nice change.
“Before you leave, Meester White, talk to Lucy Aurvandil in reception. “Thank
you, Sir. I look hope to see you again.”
The Next Day
Laurence was unfamiliar with most of Los Angeles beyond the stretch of shops
and restaurants within walking distance of his apartment. Spring Street was better than he
17
expected, there was actual architectural variance as opposed to the mishmash that
seemed to be L.A.’s specialty. Wolbin Enterprises had made few concessions to the stone
and columned buildings around it. While the steel glass swoop of it wasn’t grotesque, it
did seem out of place with the general aesthetic, although it was not the only building
breaking up the style. His heart would always belong to wood cabins, ocean bluff and tall
trees, but there was something pleasing about urban areas like this.
He checked his watch, a gift from his younger brother, he was early to the point of
irritation. He would give it thirty minutes after which he would only be early in a way
that recommended him as punctual and dedicated. He found a used bookstore tucked
between a cafe and a law firm. It was his kind of place — shelves to the ceiling, the
ambrosial smell of loved but not decrepit books, low light, no concessions to
comfortable seating, no magazines, sections denoted in small, neat placards on the end of
each aisle. He slipped into the English Literature section to see if they carried any of
Arthur Conan Doyle’s works. Pay dirt. The store had a battered, red copy of the
collected short stories. The pages were stained with pale brown splotches that smelled
faintly of oranges and something spicy. He ran through the index, and smirked in triumph
when he saw that “The Hound of the Baskervilles “ was indeed listed, though alas there
was no “A Scandal in Bohemia.”
He also picked up a slim volume on Norse Goddesses and a yellowed field guide
to California coastal flora. There was handsome edition leather bound edition of Perrault
fairy tales that was tempting, but it was neither in his budget or his list of needed books.
18
He paid for his selections, stowed them in his brief case and set out for Wolbin
Enterprises.
It was a cold office. Laurence suspected by design rather than happenstance. He
glanced at the other interview candidates. They all looked like the prototypical candidate
with bachelors and masters in business. The women were in smart but boring suits with
either sensible short haircuts or buns pulled back so hard that they constituted budget
facelifts. The men were equally uniform, though the redhead on the end was sort of
attractive, which was probably only because he had facial features similar to Ike. Damn.
He didn’t want to think about Ike here. Ike belonged at home in Point Aria or on the
green of the baseball diamond.
To distract himself he focused on the on the smattering of paintings hung up in
the waiting and reception area. Most of them were the standard abstract dreck, however
the framed black and white piece behind what appeared to be the lead receptionist’s desk
looked familiar. He got closer under the pretense of getting water from the cooler next to
the coffee service. No wonder the artwork was familiar, it was a blown up reproduction
of “Depiction of Satan” by Gustave Dore from Paradise Lost. When he was earning his
undergraduate degree in literature Laurence had once taken an entire course on Milton
and his influences, during which he had gotten in an argument with Marguerite Comeaux
(who turned out to be his girlfriend throughout college and almost beyond that) about
whether or not William Blake’s illustrations of Paradise Lost were superior to Gustave
Dore’s engravings. Laurence had been firm on Dore’s superiority. Dore had a real
19
concept of darkness both in a technical sense and a figurative sense. While he found the
fluid lines of Blake appealing, he never got the feeling it was more than an artistic
dalliance.
“Do we have an art critic in our midst?” Laurence looked away from the picture
and focused on the a pretty thirty-something women who had spoken. She was smiling
like she knew the secrets to the universe, or at least the secrets of Wolbin Enterprises.
“Not a critic. An admirer. Is that Dore print yours?” asked Laurence. Her smile
softened into mild delight.
“Yes. You know, most people don’t recognize Milton let alone Dore. Are you a
fan?”
“I’m a fan of anyone who writes complex character, especially if that character is
typically only shown as pure evil or pure good,” said Laurence. She was older than the
other assistants, and her straight posture and easy smile gave the air of authority. “Do you
collect illustrations, Ma’am?” It never hurt to get in good with the leader’s deputy.
“Psh. Call me Lucy! And no, not illustrations. That’s just a marker of my former
life. One should remember where they came from,” she said as she moved behind the
desk and sank into a chair with feline grace.
“Ah, do I detect a fellow literature scholar?”
“Half a scholar perhaps. Junior college classes do not a degree make.”
20
“If you actually read the text you’re way ahead of a lot of lit students,” he said.
“Spoken like a grumpus!”
“I prefer the term advanced curmudgeon.” She laughed at this, it was a good
laugh, full and throaty with a bell-like upturn at the end.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Laurence Caldecott.” She turned several pages in a large schedule bound in a
pink leatherette cover adorned with a gold cursive L.
“Ah, yes the lone lit degree today. Y’know...” she trailed off and looked up. He
raised one eyebrow, which got a giggle.
“Yes definitely,” she said to herself, “ I’m moving your appointment to just
before Mr. Wolbin’s lunch break.” Before Laurence could ask why she cut him off,
“Because he’ll want to get through the interview quickly because he wants his
lunch, so he’ll throw you fewer curveballs. You’re welcome.” It never hurt to get in good
with the leader’s deputy.
“Thank you. I hope we can talk more about books if I get hired.”
“That would be nice. Now shoo, I have lambs to lead to the slaughter,” she said as
she gathered up a pile of folders. He turned to go back to the waiting area. There was a
blue-grey cat sitting in his chair. It was a different cat than the one who knocked over the
21
wine, the fur was fuller and the head less wedge shaped. He sat down as far away from
the cat as possible. The cat stared at him. None of the other job candidates seemed to
notice. He retrieved a the Conan Doyle book from his briefcase and read until his name
was called.
Unlike the main office Wolbin’s office was warm and dim. More mind games.
Laurence made sure to follow where Lucy had stepped at a normal pace to give the
illusion that he was in control of the space around him. The air was heavy with something
spicy, almost like the incense sometimes uses during Catholic mass. The chair meant for
visitors was another trap, squat and overstuffed, anyone who attempted to sit in it would
be swallowed and forced to crane their neck up to look at Mr. Wolbin. That would not do.
“Hello, Sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Laurence as he held his hand out
over the desk. He stared into approximately where Mr. Wolbin’s eyes should be and
smiled. Nothing happened. He kept his hand where it was and smiled harder. C ’mon you
son o f a bitch, shake my hand like the equals we are. Another moment passed and then a
rough and hairy hand clasped his outstretched hand and shook vigorously. Bullshit male
testing ritual done, Laurence perched on the armrest of the chair. He crossed his ankles
because it amused him to do so. If Mr.Wolbin was bothered by the informality he didn’t
say so.
“Meester Caldecott,” said Mr. Wolbin. The voice was deep and more growl than
anything, “nice to haff you here. It’s not everyday we get someone skilled in the ways uf
22
reading books.” Laurence couldn’t place the accent, though to his ear it sounded similar
to a German accent.
“Well, Sir, I’m delighted to be here, though I think I won’t be reading books for
you, or at least not only books. My degree may have involved a prodigious amount of
often difficult reading, but it also hinged on the ability to analyze and argue in a cogent,
concise manner.”
“Which you are saying makes you super-ior to the those with the bizziniz
degree,” said Mr. Wolbin. He smiled widely at Laurence. His teeth were very white. Oh
no you don’t, but that’s a nice try thought Laurence.
“O f course I’m not superior. I would just cover another angle. Bring a different
perspective, just as my colleagues with business degrees would have insight that
wouldn’t occur to me. You don’t build a house with just a hammer.”
Wolbin chuckled. The room seemed to vibrate.
“Hokay. Tell me, Meester Caldecott, what is your favorite writer?”
“There is always going to be more than one. The short list is Vonnegut, Tolkien
and Austen.”
“Jane Austen?”
“Yessir.”
23
“ I thought Jane Austen wrote lady books. You know keesing, marriages, dress
patterns. Happy ever after. Very hard to see point of stories like dat.”
“Those are the surface components. If you look deeper it’s about a fight for
survival. These books are told through the eyes of the marginalized and the mostly
powerless. I say mostly because the one power they have is to refuse or accept a proposal.
That’s it. The best of them— Elizabeth Bennet, Anne Elliot, Elinor Dashwood— they try
to transcend it and that’s why the text rewards them. The flipside of this is Edith
Wharton. In The House o f Mirth, it’s still a war but it’s a war with literal casualties,”
Laurence paused and smiled. “My point is, that much like Austen’s heroines she herself
is marginalized, usually by white male adolescents too entranced by Hemingway and
Nietzsche to notice anything else worthwhile.”
Wolbin leaned back into his large, leather office chair and made a noise that
sounded like percolating coffee. He was shorter than Laurence expected, though his
shoulders were as broad as he’d predicted.
“Hmm you bring up interesting point. Never liked Hemingway, has very odd
ideas about how life of fighting should go,” said Wolbin as he scratched his chin.
Laurence refrained from making a comment he would regret later.
“Hokay, kid. You are interesting. Maybee not right man for job, but also not yes
man. You make me theenk at least little bit. Mebee I call you back for more interview,
24
mebee I don’t. We will see. Now I want my lunch. Today Lucy let’s me have meat,
turkey burger, but still meat. So you go vamoose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wolbin. I hope to hear from you soon.”
On Wobin’s instruction he took his private elevator down. He wasn’t surprise to
find the cat waiting for him in the lobby.
“Hello.” The cat miowed and rubbed up against his legs. He headed for the exit.
The cat followed.
Chapter 3
Babs woke to the sounds of Richard hauling down his second largest cast-iron
skillet from the topmost kitchen cabinet.
“I’m going to make shakshuka for breakfast,” he announced once she had wiped
the sleep from her eyes and tottered over from the aging tweed couch to the kitchen.
“Ok,” she said, “you want me to get the onions started?” He nodded, too busy
wrestling the skillet on to the range for words. She grabbed her bundle of kitchen knives
from her duffle bag a.k.a. 2/3 of her earthly possession not counting her elderly Nissan
Stanza.
25
“They’re in the pantry next to the green lentils,” he said before she could ask
where he kept the onions. As they worked in the kitchen they fell back into their old
rhythm. A well-run kitchen was precise and she’d never worked in a better kitchen than
Richard’s.
“You make this for your fancy celebrity customers at Choux Fleur?” she asked as
she started to supreme oranges for the inevitable fruit salad Richard would have asked for
in five minutes.
“Nah, half of them don’t eat eggs and the other half would want to know if it
came with edible gold flakes.”
“You miss Portland?” she asked as she started to dice apples.
“Only its walkability. And the Fruit Loop doughnuts, you just can’t get them
here,” he said. Babs giggled and began rifling through the fridge for grapes. “What about
you?” asked Richard while he poured an egg onto the simmering sauce in the skillet.
“Oh, I have no idea where to get Fruit Loop doughnuts,” replied Babs, though she
knew that wasn’t what Richard was asking. Richard rolled his eyes and gave her a
pointed look. Babs busted out her third best shit-eating grin.
“Do you need a ride to your interview? I have to drop off Merry at work first,
but then I can take you there in style,” said Richard. He didn’t smile back, but one bushy
black eyebrow was raised and his lips twitched, which meant he was holding back a
26
smirk. Smirking Richard always meant he knew your game, but would let you get away
with it.
“Oh be still my heart, Ah’ve always wanted to be dropped off to a den of future
employment in a station wagon with an ‘Imagine Whirled Peas’ bumper sticker,” said
Babs in an affected southern belle accent. Richard laughed, a short, sharp bark of a
sound. Anyone who stayed in his company for more than half an hour heard it with
frequency. “Thanks for the offer, Rich, but I’ll feel better if I take my car. Who knows
how long I’ll have to wait.”
“Just you remember, chickie, you say the word and you can work at Choux
Fleur.” Babs smiled and curtsied because the alternative was telling Richard she was
tired of kitchenwork. And waitressing. And cashiering. And ticket taking. And every job
she’s had since she quit Berkley.
Babs parked her car three blocks away from the office in what she hoped was a
legal space. She switched her cell phone to silent, swapped out her tennies for a pair of
black faux crocodile pumps, and squeezed her keychain of Monet’s Water Lilies for good
luck.
The building was everything she expected: big, glass, crowded with suits. It
reminded her of a long ago art history class where they discussed the advent of arcades in
nineteenth century Paris. They too were confections of glass and steel, but ornate,
prettier, meant to house stores and facilitate leisurely shopping. She took a deep breath
27
and walked into the building. Corporate for a day, and it would be just for the day
because once they interviewed her they would realizes she had a half finished art degree,
six years of minimum wage positions, a sass mouth, and apparently an excellent online
resume, since they had bothered to solicit her. Babs pitied the recruiter who was going to
get an earful later.
Reception directed her to the ninth floor. She took the elevator because like hell
was she taking the stairs in these heels, especially not stairs without risers, it took a
special kind of sadist to choose backless stairs when they could afford better.
The ninth floor was just as saturated with glass and steel as the ground floor, but it was
rendered peculiar by attempts at comfort; the waiting room chairs were padded with a
soft, textured burgundy fabric and reproductions of famous abstracts decorated the walls.
Babs counted one Mondrian, three Pollocks, two Klees and a whopping seven Miros
while a fluffy blonde retrieved her information. Fluffy Blonde directed her to the chairs
and told her Mr. Wolbin would see her soon. Huh. Babs didn’t know much about
corporate structure, but she didn’t think CEO’s conducted job interviews once they
graduated to the empire building part of their plan for world domination.
The other people in the waiting room were dressed better than Babs. Department
store suits as far as the eye could see, some of them obviously tailored. She threw her
interview outfit together from multiple thrift store spelunkings. At six foot two most
women’s suits in her price range didn’t fit her, so everything was a carefully scrounged
28
separate: a size fourteen black pinstripe skirt that was supposed to hit mid calf but instead
barely covered her knees, a sleeveless lavender blouse, a soft, drapy silver wrap cardigan
because most blazers made her look like a linebacker, grey lace tights. None of the other
women sported pixie cuts either; chic bobs and elegant buns were the order of the day.
The man she sat down next to pretended to read a fishing magazine; he stared off
into the distance and failed to notice the magazine was open to a doublespread ad for
erectile dysfunction medication. The smattering of grey in his dark hair marked him as at
least in his thirties, so this probably wasn’t his first rodeo.
“Gosh, I hate the waiting,” said Babs, taking care to keep her voice low, “doesn’t
matter if it’s five minutes or fifteen. Agonized anticipation takes up a proportional
amount of headspace.” The man‘s eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“You get better at it with time,” he said.
“Really?”
“No, but you tell yourself it does enough and the anxiety settles to manageable
background noise,” he said. Babs chuckled, though the quip deserved a full laugh. In her
experience men incorrectly interpreted her laugh as a form of flirtation. She made sure to
angle her legs away from him because her friend, Darling Alice, once told her a woman’s
feet always pointed to the object of her affection. It was probably faux psychology
falderal, but a lot of people bought into faux psychology falderal, especially at a
corporate level.
29
“What position are you applying for?” the man asked.
“I’m not,” said Babs as she shrugged her shoulders, “they e-mailed me because
they liked my resume. They phrased it as an ‘exciting team oriented vocation’ which I’m
interpreting as ‘never-ending meetings.’”
“Wow,” said the man. He blinked rapidly and became very interested in his
wristwatch.
“I just said something wrong, didn’t I?” asked Babs. Both Darling Alice and
Richard could attest to Babs' long history of foot in mouth syndrome.
“Not wrong. Insensitive perhaps,” said the man, “no company has approached me
in the entire seven months I’ve been looking for a position.” Babs could feel herself
going scarlet; she had inherited her mother’s fair Irish skin and her father’s tendency to
blush when ashamed or guilty.
“Sorry,” she muttered, “if it makes you feel better I haven’t made more than
minimum wage in two years and I’m probably not going to get hired. This is somebody’s
poor attempt at diversifying candidates.”
The man snorted. “I always tell my daughter, who is twelve, that you can’t
actually achieve anything if you’ve already decided to fail,” he said.
Babs sighed and pushed a hand through her hair in exasperation before
remembering she had niceified it for the interview.
30
“This isn’t a self esteem thing. This is a somebody-done-screwed-up-but-damn-ifI-won’t-show-up thing. I am trying. After all, I’m here.
“I don’t think I need to tell you there’s a difference between being physically
present and actually being present,” he said. Babs opened her mouth to respond, but just
as she was about to retort that there was also a difference between baseless negativity and
being able to perceive basic reality she was interrupted by tall woman in a blue dress. She
carried a clipboard, which meant she was important. Blue dress was older than Fluffy
Blonde and she wore the dress with an ease that translated to authority.
“Barbara Cass?” asked Blue Dress .
“Yes that’s me. Please call me Babs.”
“What an old-fashioned nickname,” said Blue Dress as she began to lead Babs
through what looked like personal assistant central. “I’m Lucy.”
“That’s such an evergreen name, like it’s not always in style but it’s never
uncommon,” said Babs. As they walked through the office she noted that the ratio of
male to female employees was surprisingly equal.
“So you’re saying I’m timeless?” said Lucy with a smile.
“By all means please choose the interpretation that makes you happiest with me.
Clearly you run the place,” said Babs.
31
“I let Wolbin help sometimes.” Lucy winked. “Here we are,” she said as they
stopped in front a of a large door made of dark wood. She opened the door, dark spilled
out. “Miss Cass to see you, Mr. Wolbin.”
“Excellent. Let her in,” barked a voice. Male. Deep. Heavily accented. Sort of
Russian but not quite. Babs stepped through the door Lucy held open. The room was very
dim, so dim in fact she could only make out a desk with a figure sitting at it. She had no
idea if this was corporate gaslighting or Wolbin’s genuine preference, either way it was
unacceptable. She groped around wall next to door until she found a light switch. She
flipped the switch and the room flooded with light. A short, scruffy nonplussed man in a
tweed suit sat at a large old-fashioned desk.
“Hi!” said Babs as she strode across the room. It was a beautiful office, though it
defied the aesthetic of the rest of the building. The rug underneath the desk looked like a
Georgian reproduction, and the oak wall paneling smacked of Victorian sensibilities. She
held out her hand across the desk.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you! Please call me Babs.” Wolbin didn’t respond. Dam.
Less than a minute in and she’d broken her prospective employer. Wolbin shook himself
out of it and clasped her hand and shook it with vigor. It was less a handshake, more a
wrist throttling.
“Please, Mees Cass, sit down,” said Wolbin, recovered from whatever crisis of
self Babs had inspired. With pleasure she noted the chair actually looked comfortable —
32
a rarity in office decor. She sank into the thing, making sure to keep her center of gravity
vertical and her knees pressed together. She folded her hands in her lap, hopefully
Wolbin wouldn’t notice her chipped nail polish. After she settled she made eye contact
with him. His eyes were the most unusual thing about him. While the rest of him looked
like bread dough shoved into a series of square molds his eyes were large, sharp and a
startling pale amber, almost yellow. They were the eyes of a predator.
“So it says here on your resume you have been cook, a receptionist, cashier, a gas
station attendant, barista, waitress and ticket taker,” said Wolbin.
“Yeah, that’s the highlights,” said Babs. He’d left out the prodigious amount of
babysitting she’d done over the years. Which was a shame because that was the job Babs
considered most relevant to a corporate setting.
“Also so many places,” continued Wolbin, “San Francisco, Berkeley, Fresno,
Mendocino, Point Aria, Eugene, Portland, Astoria, Seattle, and Spokane. I must ask
which was favorite?”
Babs couldn’t answer honestly, so she went with the most truthful non-answer.
“Well, I was born just outside Portland. I have a lot of fond memories of that
city.” She knew Portland the way fiction said some people knew New York. By street, by
changes in air density, by the flow of people on the sidewalks, by the smell of frying
doughnuts, by the trash at the end of the day. It became a touchstone when her parents
33
kept moving them to different communes all over Oregon. It would never be home, but
she’d always come back.
“So while you were in Portland you were barista and cook. Tell me about those
jobs, those responsibilities,” said Wolbin as he steepled his fingers together in a sortakinda menacing gesture.
“I started making coffee for Virginia’s Daring Cafe a couple of weeks after I got
to Portland. My friend Tandy worked there part time and one of the baristas bailed with
zero notice when he got the lead in an all male production of Little Women. Once you’ve
learned the hard part, y ’know learning how to make all the drinks it just became about
the people and figuring out how to give them what they wanted. I like that. Our
customers were a pretty chill bunch.”
“Sooo, If it was so ‘chill’ as you phrase it then why did you leave it for a
restaurant? I am reliably informed that professional kitchen is hardly ‘chill’,” said
Wolbin. Defending her life choices came naturally to Babs after a lifetime of explaining
to her mother why dropping out of college had been a good move, so she was able to
slide right into her rebuttal without even realizing.
“I would question your source. Just because a professional kitchen is busy doesn’t
mean it’s frenetic. Everyone should always know what their task is, if they don’t it’s a
badly run kitchen. The back of the house has a hierarchy, if it’s chaos it’s not
34
professional,” she said. That was probably it for this interview. Contradicting the CEO
tended to tank one’s chances.
“Would you say that same certainty is instrumental to any kind of team?” asked
Wolbin, as he leaned forward in apparent interest.
“I really don’t know. I haven’t been on a lot of teams outside the kitchen. I think
it’s dangerous to assume one blanket philosophy will pre-solve every potential conflict in
life.” Her parents threw themselves at obscure religions, bogus academic tracts and new
age think scams on the regular, so she’d watched them run ashore of that hard truth at
least twice a year since she was eight. Despite all odds they never quite managed to
embroil themselves in a cult.
Instead of responding Wolbin just nodded while stroking his beard in a manner
that was probably supposed to look thoughtful. While he did this she tried to figure out
his height. The leather wingback chair emphasized his broad shoulders and sharp comers.
She would bet her kitchen knives on being taller than him.
“Is that why you left UC Berkley in your junior year? A lack of applicable
philosophy?” he said in a way clearly meant to be cutting and slick; it might have been
both of those things in a world where Babs’ mother wasn’t vocally and sometimes
publically disappointed that she gave up a prestigious degree for anonymity and
minimum wage.
35
“More like an influx of philosophy. I didn’t really know what I was getting into
and I’m not one for faking understanding when I don’t get something. It wasn’t the right
place for me at that time in my life,” she said. That was as neutral as she could manage.
Wolbin didn’t need to know about the interminable all nighters of her staring at art
textbooks and blank text documents willing herself to pretend she understood how to
dissect any of it and mostly failing. She curled her toes to distract herself from the
phantom nausea remembering those days inspired.
“So you say you don’t fake understanding. Say more,” said Wolbin. He peered
over re-steepled fingers like he was looking for a kernel of something he’d only just
glimpsed.
“I try to be honest about my abilities. Anything less than that is a waste of time.
Fake it until you make it is for the fundamentally selfish.”
Wolbin made a deep rumbling at the back of his throat in displeasure.
“So you go through life at the same base skill level. I theenk that’s a waste of
another striping,” he growled.
“That’s not quite what I meant. Of course I learn, I wouldn’t have so many
glowing references if I didn’t. I just tell the truth when I don’t know something and then I
try and learn.” Babs looked Wolbin in the eyes while she said her piece, obviously he
wouldn’t be hiring her, but maybe she could pave the way for somebody who cared more
about doing the job right than giving the right answer.
36
“You are a singular woman, Mees Cass, and very tall. I would like to ask you to
do one more thing for me.”
Babs raised an eyebrow. He continued, “ I wonder if you could read this poem
aloud right now.” He pulled a piece of paper out of a desk drawer and slid it over to Babs.
It was a famous poem, no author listed but she remembered bits of it from an
interminable high school English course. She cleared her throat and began to read:
“Whose woods these are I think I know./ His house is in the village though; / He
will not see me stopping here.” She kept her eyes on the paper and spoke with a slow,
even pace. It wasn’t really her kind of poem, a little too much contemplation and too few
goblins and angry witches. “The woods are lovely, dark and deep,/ But I have promises to
keep,/ And miles to go before I sleep, / And miles to go before I sleep,” she finished.
She placed the paper on the desk and waited for Wolbin to tell her to get out of
his office. A minute passed. Another minute passed and another. He stared off into the
distance.
“Mr. Wolbin?” she finally ventured. He snapped back to himself and nodded,
though to whom she did not know.
“That was a very good reading of Frost. Very good. Make sure to leave contact
info with Lucy in case we want to give you job. We might.” Wolbin said the last part to
himself. “Goodbye Mees Cass it has been...enlightening.”
37
Babs got up, smoothed out her skirt and left more bewildered than when she
entered the office. She dutifully double checked with Lucy on her contact information
and left, so distracted she took the stairs instead of the elevator. After she had gotten
back in her car and changed back shoes she leaned back, clutched the armrest and took a
few deep breaths. It wasn’t the weirdest job interview she’d ever had— that honor went
to a freegan cafe owner who as a matter of course wanted all employees to go on a
seventy-two hour lemon-cayenne-pepper-maple syrup-water cleanse before starting
work— but it was the most unsettling. The cleanse dude had just been an overzealous
health nut who believed in magic bullets, Wolbin’s motives weren’t so discernable. His
Wikipedia article had been less than enlightening; he was the kind of self-made man that
didn’t exist in America for anyone under the age of forty. No college, started his own
small consulting firm in Virginia, expanded the business to twelve states including
offices in Los Angeles and New York. No listed family. No listed country of origin.
She started the car and drove to a grocery store she remembered passing on her
way to the interview. Cooking always made her feel better. A savory tart, she decided,
mushroom assuming they looked good at the store. Richard and Merry loved her tarts and
they deserved a treat for putting her up on their couch. If Wolbin Enterprises didn’t call
her back, which was pretty damn likely given how accommodating she’d been in the
interview, she might take Richard up on his offer to work at Choux Fleur. The thought of
it felt like going backwards, even though it was a different restaurant in a new place. To
distract herself she tried to recall all of Gleize’s main points in The Dada Case.
38
The w olf did not know what to do at first. He couldfeel the story all around him.
It sang and breathed like a living thing, but the w olf couldn’t pinpoint where to bite or
even how to bite. He knew there was great and delicious power all around, but
unreachable. He would have left if he knew the way out. Instead he walked through the
story. He expected to fin d a border but the landscape was ever-expanding. He walked for
a very long time.
Chapter 4
A week after the interview Joe awoke to an empty day. He had things to do. He
always had things he could do, but a day without a job interview made him anxious. He
tried not to think about it because when he did he saw everything in his and Lana’s lives
delayed one day later— a house, cars that needed repair less often, children. One day on
its own wasn’t so bad, but he had accrued a stack of days. Five month’s worth. Five
months late on everything. He tried to pray a little because sometimes that made him feel
better. Pastor Kevin regularly assured the congregation that God had a plan for everyone,
but that was hard to accept in the face of the facts that Pastor Kevin was a self-serving
snivelbag of a tool and that sometimes God’s plan resulted in the kind of thing that
ended up on the six o clock news. Sometimes Pastor Dave took over services for Pastor
Kevin and that was always so much better. Pastor Dave focused on God’s fundamental
goodness and mercy and less on what God did and didn’t like.
39
He made a bowl of cereal for breakfast and read the sports section. The slim
classifieds section offered little in the way of viable job opportunities, but he circled a
few offers just to feel productive. He rinsed the dishes, put them in the dishwasher, wiped
the counters and looked around for something else concrete to do, something Lana would
appreciate. The hamper wasn’t full enough for a load of laundry and he had dusted
yesterday. He ended up vacuuming because the track marks in the cheap carpet would
make it obvious he’d done something.
The usual websites yielded the same kind of lackluster job opportunities they had
the past five months. He picked a dozen, some of which he wasn’t totally qualified for,
and sent his resume. He was about to start researching local companies that he could send
his resume to unsolicited when his phone rang.
“Hello, you have reached Joseph White,” he chirped, his default greeting for the
duration of the job hunt.
“Hi, it’s Lucy from Wolbin Enterprises. Would you be available to come in for a
follow-up interview this afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Joe, “I can come in any time after one.” He hoped this sounded like
he had other prospects that would keep him busy until one. One of the smarmy job
hunting books suggested this tactic stimulated a company’s interest because it implied
competition.
40
“Dandy! Let’s make it one forty-five,” she said. Before he could respond she
hung up. He briefly thanked God. He had never gotten a call back from a potential
employer so quickly.
He arrived at Wolbin Enterprises fifteen minutes early and freshly showered. The
waiting room was less full today, though still populated. Even if they didn’t outright give
him the job today, just being asked to come in for a follow-up made the day a success.
Lana would be so pleased. A different assistant— tall, young, Hispanic, very short skirt
and skyscraper heels— led him to Wolbin’s office. To his relief the office was lit
normally, the dimness from the last session apparently a first interview-only state.
“Ah, Meester White. Come in! Come in! Thanks to you for coming so promptly. I
worried you might be too busy today, but wonderful, it all works out. Please sit down.
This will not take too long.” Joe sat down and waited for Wolbin to get to the point.
“I have been seriously thinking about previous interview and I think, and Lucy
agrees, that if someone is dat memorable they consider extra attention,” said Wolbin. Joe
quashed down the urge to do a fist pump of victory. “To that end I have little bit of
homework for you,” said Wolbin as he placed a red leather bound book on the desk.
Light in the Forest by Albert Cooper. Probably some sort of business oriented self-help
book. “I vant you to read this and tell me if I ask you later what you think is the weakness
of each main character.” Joe nodded in understanding. This was incredible. Did Wolbin
hand out this book to everyone he saw potential in? He wasn’t much of a recreational
41
reader, preferring action movies and playing guitar for his free time, but the book wasn’t
thick and it looked less tedious than most of his business and economic textbooks.
“Thank you, Sir. I look forward to seeing you again,” said Joe. Wolbin made a
dismissive swiping gesture with his hand, which Joe interpreted as a dismissal.
Laurence finished his lackluster chicken stew, drained the last of the Riesling in
his glass, grimaced at the sweetness and checked the time. Eight twenty-three. He might
as well call his little brother. His hands were tied until he found out yea or nay from
Wolbin Enterprises and the entire point of this exercise was rendered moot if he didn’t
actually make sure Andy was doing okay. He moved to his bedroom, unlike the living
room he kept his bedroom neat, albeit spare. The bed was one of the few pieces of
furniture he’d spent real money on, out of the logic that a halfway decent mattress would
save him thousands in chiropractor visits. He didn’t get much sleep to start with, maybe
five or six hours a night, so he might as well ensure it was quality rest.
He tapped the home number contact in his phone. It rang a few times before his
little brother answered.
“Hi Laurie,” said Andy, “ before you ask, yes I finished my math homework. No,
I haven’t finished my book report.”
I
42
“Did you eat real food for dinner? By real food I don’t mean eating chicken
nuggets while glancing at an unopened bag of green beans,” said Laurence. He would ask
about social studies and science next since Andy made a point of omitting them.
“I ate some broccoli slaw Mom left for me in the fridge.”
“Define ‘some’.” Some in the Andy measure of vegetables rarely surpassed
Laurence’s definition of the bare minimum.
“You know the green container with the daisies on it Mom got from Mrs. Garcia
for de-batting her cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Like half of that and it was full. It wasn’t totally awful there were nuts and bacon
bits and stuff in it,” said Andy. And probably a cup o f mayonnaise thought Laurence, but
he’d been known to drown asparagus and lima beans in cheese sauce just to get Andy to
eat them, so he couldn’t complain.
“That sounds good. Did Mom bring that home from Saint Just’s?” Saint Just
Catering! ranked as the second ritziest caterer in Point Aria out of a total of two caterers.
Mom started occasionally working there when Laurence was thirteen and Andy was two
and she could usually finagle leftovers.
“Yeah and some weird sweet bread things that didn’t taste like bread at all. Super
gross,” said Andy. Laurence decided not to enlighten Andy on the origin of sweet
43
breads. After all, part of being an older brother involved protecting siblings from the
harsh realities of the world for as long as feasible, especially if said realities involved
organ meat.
“Yeah, those sound best avoided. Speaking of stuff you’re avoiding, are you still
covering the scientific revolution in social studies?”
“Uhhhh yeah,” said Andy. Laurence could almost see the squirming that went
with the drawn out syllables. A good sign because it meant Andy didn’t understand
something but was too embarrassed to articulate the problem. Laurence would take that
over Andy being too lazy to try something because it looked hard any day. Long division
had been traumatic for both of them.
“It’s just super boring. I am trying to pay attention.” Andy said the last part
loudly, as if to pre-empt an objection Laurence was about to make. “But like it’s hard to
see how any of it matters. They’re all dead and I’m glad we have microscopes and
penicillin and the scientific method and all, but how of it —why is that even useful?”
Laurence suppressed a sigh and reminded himself that when Andy didn’t
immediately understand things in an academic setting he dismissed them as pointless.
Such were the perils of being labeled a gifted child young. Andy hated not understanding
things almost as much as Laurence did. Almost.
“Ok, while I don’t doubt the textbook is doing a piss-poor job of explaining this,
you are also being dismissive of one of the most exciting movements in Western history.
44
You remember the French Revolution?” asked Laurence. The question was rhetorical. Of
course Andy remembered. He loved the French Revolution, it combined three of his
favorite things: revolt, Tarantino-esque levels of violence and ample opportunity for
egregious puns. Every phone call during the French Revolution unit had included at least
three getting a-head jokes, a flurry of cake or death segues and a few tasteless soaprelated jabs involving Marat. Andy voiced that yes, he did remember the French
Revolution. “OK good. The reign of terror actually intersects with some of the major
players in the scientific revolution in a fundamental way.” He started with Lavoisier an
expanded from their, making sure to highlight the most lurid and violent parts along with
how everything interconnected. By the time he finished talking Andy wanted to know
more about the Newton’s pursuit of the philosopher stone and Galileo’s coded notes.
“I’ll e-mail you some good sources to read on your own,” said
Laurence. “Comment va francais? Est-il amusant?” French wasn’t usually a problem for
Andy, but Laurence enjoyed hauling out his own rusty French.
“Ca va. L’enseignant est equitable. Je deteste la jeune fille qui est assis a cote de
moi. Son nom est Keiko.” That was a little too much too fast for Laurence.
“You hate the girl who sits behind you? Why?” Andy liked everybody excepting
dentists and Laurence’s last girlfriend.
“Keiko sits next to me not behind me,” corrected Andy, “and she’s always
talking to me. Last week she grabbed a picture I was drawing for Lucien.”
45
“Why were you drawing instead of taking notes?” asked Laurence.
“I think better when I draw. Madame knows, she doesn’t care! Anyway, the
point is she snatched it and wouldn’t give it back.”
“Maybe she has a crush on you,” said Laurence. Andy made a disgusted
gurgling noise. “When I liked Kimberly Tao I kept telling her cool facts about the
Victorians-”
“Which is an oxymoron,” interrupted Andy.
“Shush, you wish you knew as much about the city mysteries genre as me.”
“It’s really surprising anybody chose to kiss you ever, especially someone as cool
as Ike,” said Andy. Laurence ignored the bait.
“So tell me how the geology unit is going?” Andy told him all about the
collaborative diorama due next week. Laurence glanced at the clock, almost nine. He
should wrap it up. Andy still needed to finish his homework.
“Great. Give me a call or e-mail if you need help with anything,” said Laurence.
“You always say that, Laurie.”
“And I always mean it. When’s Mom getting home?”
“Late. Twelvish. Mr. Felipe’s got her as the only one manning the counter again.”
46
“Send her my love and go to bed at a reasonable time,” said Laurence. He added
the last part out of a sense of responsibility rather than any belief Andy would take it
seriously.
“I will. Are you still waiting to hear back on that job?”
“Yes.” Laurence didn’t add more. Mom and Andy knew he interviewed for a
white collar position in Los Angeles. He avoided giving details; piling worry onto school
and work would only hurt them.
“I hope you get it, Laur,” said Andy. Laurence smiled to himself. You have no
idea how essential it is that I do, kid.
Chapter 5
Wolbin’s book wasn’t self-help or even business advice. It looked like a
children’s story. Joe opened it and turned to an illustration: three kids —two girls and a
boy— in silhouette standing in front of a massive tree. He thumbed through the volume
and caught words like adventure, magic, orphan and quest. There were more illustrations,
he opened the book to a double page in the middle. The same three silhouette children as
before, plus a fourth that could be a boy or a girl—the hair was shoulder length and the
clothes baggy. They held hands while looking out over the ocean from a bluff. This was
47
test. Wolbin said as much. Instead of asking White why manholes were round or how
many pennies it took to fill a room Wolbin wanted his thorough examination of a book
meant for children. White turned to the first page of full text, the spine gave a satisfying
crack.
Once upon a time— as you know many o f the best stories start this way and while
I w on’t be so bold as to say this is one them, but the fact remains a certain kind o f story,
the hind that outlasts kings and governments often starts this way—once upon a time
there was a magic forest. The magic forest in and o f itself w asn’t remarkable by the
standard o f magic forests; it had i t ’s share o f dryads and centaurs and fae folk in great
variety as well as your standard mix offlora and fauna but usually nothing more exciting
than your run-of-the mill dragon hatchling fight occurred. There were only two unique
things about this forest: the first was that it wasn’t precisely a fixed point one could
enter it via Germany or Washington State or even London via Hyde Park i f one was
really determined, the second thing was that it was the home o f Lucien DiSiento.
Lucien came to live in the forest through his mother. On a night darker than blue
velvet and so stormy that everything gleamed with water she ran through the forest. She
ran so hard and fast that she didn’t stop when a branch scratched her cheek. She ran
deep into the forest until she collapsed at the base o f the oldest tree, a oak tremendous in
girth and branch span. The creatures o f the forest, stirred from their shelters, gathered
around the tree to watch the strange woman struggle out o f her heavy cloak. She was
pregnant. Due very soon. The old oak wrapped around her until the creatures o f the
48
forest could not hear or see her. The rain persisted fo r hours. Finally, as the first rays o f
the dawn began to poke through the sodden canopy o f leaves the oak unfurled to reveal
a small but perfect baby boy. He was wrapped in the cloak the woman had been wearing.
He gurgled in joy, apparently indifferent to the unusual circumstances in which he had
entered the world. There was no sign o f the woman, though some o f the more observant
dryads noted that the aura o f the oak did not feel the same.
Huh. Joe’s literature of choice, when he did choose to read, skated more along the
lines of Zane Grey Westerns. Other than a traumatic childhood encounter with the Narnia
series and a passing fondness for The Wind in the Willows Joe couldn’t remember any
fiction from childhood sticking with him. These days it all seemed to be boy wizards and
teen demigods. This wasn’t bad, though it was all terribly silly. He supposed most sixth
graders likes this kind of fairy tale mash. He skimmed the rest of the chapter. The forests
creatures conferred with one another about what to do with the baby, finally deciding
over delivering it to a human settlement and instead raising the kid among themselves.
Naturally, there was a convenient locket around the infant’s neck giving the baby’s name
of course. He flipped to the end of the book to read the last sentence.
Andy shared a cabin with his mother and oft-absent older brother, Laurence. The
cabin was strewn with books, clothes and dirty dishes- Lucien thought it was perfect.
49
Well, that completely failed to illuminate anything. He would go to the library
tomorrow. If he sat down with pencil and paper and charted each character’s progress and
stated goals versus unstated goals he could crack this thing.
“Joe! I’m home! Could you help me with the groceries?” He got up to assist his
wife and forgot the book for the moment.
Babs sketched the curve of Cary Grant’s shoulder as he caught Jeanne Crain’s
hand. Merry nudged the bowl of popcorn towards her.
“That’s really good,” said Merry as she nodded her head towards the sketchbook.
The open pages boasted doodles from the rest stops and diners Babs stopped at on her
way to Los Angeles. Her favorite was a faithful reproduction of a lighthouse mailbox in
landlocked Bakersfield, CA.
“Thanks,” said Babs. She braced herself for the inevitable inquiry on whether she
did more with her talent because no one ever seemed to think drawing for herself counted
as enough.
“Oooh. I love this bit,” said Merry, gesturing to the screen. “One of the few out of
wedlock pregnancies that doesn’t result in tragedy from this era of cinema. Keep in mind
half this dialogue is meant to stick it to McCarthy.” Babs resumed sketching. Maybe
later she would quiz Richard on Merry’s favorite silver screen stars. It might be nice to
50
make a work for someone instead of for a portfolio, not that she’d added anything to her
portfolio in years.
After the movie Babs helped Merry clean the dinner dishes.
“That was nice. When I lived up North I worked at this tiny theater—one screen,
built next to a defunct opera house, old fashioned edifice, seven dollar homemade fudge
in the concession stand— and we used to show old movies like that every Tuesday.
Reminds me of that.”
“That sounds wonderful. Did you have a favorite film?” Merry handed a salad
fork to Babs for drying.
“Not really. Most of them were good. Once everyone settled my coworker and I
would sit in back and watch the movie. Hardly ever had any trouble with the patrons
those nights.”
“Hardly?”
“I once broke up a fistfight between two septuagenarians over what the proper
ending of The Wizard o f Oz was. Fifteen minutes of ‘it was a dream, it’s a poignant
rewrite,’ ‘no, she’s dead because the book said so and also pathos.’“
Merry giggled.
51
“In fairness a number of cinephiles have done the same thing in essay form. The
Baum estate wasn’t happy about making the ending lighter and fluffier,” said Merry.
“Faith to the text seems like a stupid reason to yell at someone. Like, way to fail
at enjoying stuff,” said Babs. Merry shrugged.
“People will talk.” They both laughed. The kitchen door swung open and Richard
trundled in, laden with a large powder-blue box stamped with Choux Fleur’s green
cauliflower logo.
“Hello lovelies,” he said as he set down the box on the counter and smooched
Merry.
‘Hi. What’s in the box?” asked Babs.
“Speaking of cinephile references,” muttered Merry.
“Dessert. Belinda made magnificent Dobos torte from scratch, caramel and
everything, but the majority of my esteemed customers ignored it in favor of my
deconstructed brandy pudding. I only put that on there as a joke! And to see if anyone
would be dumb enough to pay money for it. We sold out,” said Richard, complete with
handwaving.
“Deconstructed brandy pudding?” asked Babs. She’d gotten out of food service
before deconstructed food took the culinary brass by storm.
52
“A pile of stewed raisins, a shot of Hennessey V.S.O.P., ginger snap crumbs and half an
orange. Peel on.”
“Well that’s what you get for courting madness, dear,” said Merry.
“The important thing I’m getting from this conversation is there is cake that needs
eating. I am excellent at eating dessert, it was my minor at University.” Shit. She
shouldn’t have brought up university, even if it was a joke. Well, mostly a joke. Most of
her last month there had been fueled by instant espresso and cake-in-a-mug via the
studio’s communal microwave. Babs’ unintentional reverie dissipated when Merry
handed her a plate with a full quarter of the torte.
“Here. We can’t have this languishing in the fridge,” said Merry. Babs took the
plate.
“Hey babe, your book group reads young adult fiction sometimes, right?” asked
Joe to Lana after dinner.
“Sometimes. Those are usually Darnetta’s picks. Most everyone else chooses
realistic fiction and non-fiction. Our next book is a look at the Reagan administration’s
legacy. Why do you ask, babe?” White leaned back, an unwise action while sitting in the
third-hand director’s chair, and grabbed Light in the Forest.
53
“The boss at that job I interviewed for gave me this. I have to read it and tell him
the weakness of each of the main characters. I’ve only read the first chapter so far. Can’t
say I understand the method to his madness,” he said. She took the volume and opened it
with care so that the spine didn’t crack.
“It looks like the children’s books I used to get as gifts from my grandparents.
Nice editions of classics—Peter Pan, Little Women, Wizard o f Oz. — gosh I cried so
much during that one, Grimm’s Fairy Tales — that kind of thing. They always had the
best illustrations. I once begged my parents for a dress just like Dorothy’s because she
was so dainty in the Munchkin land illustration.” She tugged at the top of the book and
pulled out a long green ribbon attached to the binding. “Oh I remember these, the best
books always had them. This is really trying to be old-fashioned.” She flipped to the front
and ran her fingers down the front page. “2007. Not that old.” She handed the book back
to him.
He turned to the back to see if the author’s bio held any clues. Maybe Albert
Cooper was Wolbin’s penname and this was the result of a foray into vanity publishing.
There was no photograph only a single paragraph:
Albert Cooper is the author of Light in the Forest, Mendocino Mays and the
forthcoming Carolina and the Sea. He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife, Pia,
their son, Landry, and an ill-tempered cat named Audrey Two. Visit him online at
albertcooperbooks.net.
54
White made a mental note to check the author website later and stashed the book
on one of the innumerable cheap side tables donated by Lana’s equally innumerable
relatives.
“How is the book group going?” he asked. Lana snorted.
“I'll be grateful when we’re done with Bradbury. He paints rebellion in a solely
positive light. It’s irresponsible.”
“Is this the..
Joe wracked his brain for the title. It was something famous, so
famous that forgetting the title was embarrassing. “The one about the guy who bums
books?”
“Yes. That’s the one. It’s unrealistic. I can’t imagine what the rest of the group
was thinking picking it over the William Faulkner novel Angela suggested, ” she said.
Joe tried to remember whether Faulkner was the guy who wore white suits and
participated in east coast high society or the guy whose editor was actually responsible
for his recognizable prose style. Lana had been rhapsodizing about both recently.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
“Oh, I was just thinking you’re more well-read. Better well-read?”
“Well, the last time tried to use a gun I nearly dislocated my shoulder. I may
read a lot, but I ain’t winning any shooting contests any time soon. We all have our
talents, Joe.”
55
Lana wasn’t wrong, but the only reason he’d bothered learning to shoot was
because his brothers liked to hunt.
“We should put them up,” said Lana.
“What?” Somewhere Joe had a missed a turn in the conversation.
“Your blue ribbons. I don’t think we can get away with displaying the guns or the
antlers, Angelinos are more skittish than a wild turkey in November. But we should put
up the blue ribbons. Make it feel more like home.”
Joe shrugged in response, which meant the ribbons would be on display in the
living room by the end of the week.
Laurence Caldecott dreamt of the sea. He stood on one of the grass bluffs
overlooking the ocean from back home. In real life he would never get so close to the
edge; it wasn’t unheard of for chunks of the cliff face to break off with no warning. The
sky was his favorite kind of overcast, swirls of grey in endless variation as if the world
had been painted with thousands of different kinds of smoke. The ocean, a deep and
brilliant blue, save for the splotches of purple-green that signifed clumps of kelp. Harbor
seals bark in the distance. He felt the sea wind on his bare arms. He wrapped his arms
around himself and felt soft cotton, he knew without looking that it’s one of Ike’s old tshirts and when he inhaled he smelled traces of motor oil, sweat and fresh linen scent
56
laundry detergent along with rotting seaweed and the salt-tang smell of the sea. Probably
the olive shirt with the Mac’s Garage logo which brought out the flecks of gold in Ike’s
eyes.
Somewhere behind him he heard the shouts of children playing with a seesaw,
which meant he must be close to The Bonnie Pirate Lass playground, which meant near
Las Babosas. The children’s shrieks of joy changed in tone and pitch into cries of terror.
Something large and lupine growled. He whirled around and— and woke up.
The apartment phone rang. And rang. And rang. He groped through the contents of
his nightstand— alarm clock, the Doyle book, notebook, a pen— until he grasped the
phone.
“Hello, it’s six in the morning. What’s on fire?” asked Laurence.
“It’s me,’ said a woman’s voice. For a panicked moment he thought it might be
Mom, but the voice was higher pitched and breathy. Laurence’s mother disdained
breathy phone voices.
‘Excuse me? Who?”
“Me. I am me,” said the voice. Two cats yowled in the background. Oh,
godammit. Fray. I need to deal with her the way I need a good trepanning.
“What can I do for you?” asked Laurence. He made his voice smooth and polite.
With any luck she would say her piece and then he could go back to sleep.
57
“Well, you can buzz me up for one. Your neighborhood is creepy,” she said.
Double goddammit. “Do you have to think so loud? I have delicate sensibilities. You are
wounding my fragile psyche.” He flung his covers back and reached for yesterday’s
discarded pants. If she wanted him dressed nicely she should have visited at a reasonable
time. He hit the code on the phone to let her through the gate. She knocked on the door,
sharp like a band kid on the snare drum for the first time. Laurence let her in. Both the
blue gray cats from before followed her inside.
“ Hi Fray. Are you still going by Fray?” he asked.
“Yes, so far it’s proving a versatile name. Everyone on the maternity ward thinks
it’s darling,” she said. She wore cloud motif scrubs. Little rainbows decorated some of
the clouds. Her waist length red-gold curls had been pulled back into a messy bun.
“Ah. And how’s working for a living going?” he asked as he began to fill the
coffeemaker with water. He preferred tea, but he knew from experience Fray liked coffee,
preferably with enough sugar to down a unicorn.
“Oh it’s fine. The babies are adorable and everyone thinks I’m adorable, which is
sooo sweet of them and also not wrong.” She pushed books out of the way and draped
herself over the chintz armchair. One of the cats jumped into her lap while the other
curled around her feet. “Besides. It’s not my work you should be worrying about. How is
your own assignment going?”
58
“It’s not an assignment,” snapped Laurence. She raised an eyebrow at him.
Laurence suppressed a shudder. “It’s not. I would be doing this with or without your
support. You are not my boss. You are an...” Laurence chose his next words carefully, “
asset. A valued asset, but I don’t take orders from you. In the future I would appreciate it
if you waited until normal waking hours before trying to throw around your authority.”
Fray threw back her head and laughed. The cats purred louder than the percolating
coffeemaker.
“For someone who owns so many mythology books,” she gestured to a
bookshelf at her right, “you sure haven’t learned much. So how’s your not-assignment
going little mortal?”
“Slowly. I had a job interview. I think it went well, but even if I’m in I won’t
know until they’ve gone through more candidates.” Laurence poured coffee into his best
mug— an oversized bell shaped cup festooned with wisteria and a spindly filigreed
handle— and added an inch of milk and five sugar cubes. He stirred the contents for
thirty seconds and handed the mug to Fray, who made grabby hands for it as soon as he
got within two feet of her.
“Do you have a plan if you don’t get the job?” she asked once she came for air.
“Yes, though nothing as elegant and effective as the job plan. He’s seen my face
now. That cuts off some options. Have you been able to figure out how the wolf is doing
59
this? If I thought killing the wolf would help Andy I’d do it, but that might prolong the
effect assuming it can even be killed,” he said. He took a sip of coffee to calm his nerves.
Fray frowned and set her cup down on the floor. Laurence straightened up to his
full height. Serious Fray made him exponentially more nervous than maternity ward
nurse Fray.
“We don’t know how he’s doing it exactly. Odin says it’s definitely old magic
that’s he’s felt before, but it also feels out of place with this world. Loki went on about
broken weaving, but I am in favor of listening to Loki never,” she said while wrinkling
her nose.
Laurence, who did keep detailed notes on the Norse pantheon despite what Freya
thought, would rather go live with his conservative Catholic grandparents in Tracy than
tangle with Loki, god of fire and mischief.
“One more thing,” she said, “I think someone else is watching him. Maybe two
someones.”
‘Someone magical?” asked Laurence.
“Someone otherworldly magical. They feel kind of like us, not you, I mean me
and Thor and Odin.”
“How did you find this someone?”
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Fray scratched her lap cat between the ears and looked around as if to ascertain they were
really alone.
“Odin scoped out the building earlier in the week. He didn’t go in, he just dressed
like a homeless man, which y’know not actually that far from the truth, and walked
around the building. He said he felt something powerful and annoyed, but it wasn’t the
wolf. He was afraid to get too close in case it noticed him,” she said.
Laurence tapped the rim of his cup. It wasn’t much to go on.
“What makes you think someones instead of someone?”
“One of Tyr’s Greek mythology buddies is really good with computers,
particularly web searches. She said it looked like someone had already been through
some of the files she accessed. Speaking of which, “ she said as she pulled out a
chartreuse file folder decorated with glow-in-the-dark star stickers from her bag. The file
folder was bigger than her purse. “Here. It’s all the information she could safely get to.
We all looked at it and most of it individually is innocuous, but added up there’s weird
shit going on, just not weird shit with a clear purpose. Tyr’s friend, passed it on to the
rest of the Greek pantheon, but they were more affected than us, probably more presence
in the media. Aphrodite has gotten downright weird, softer, fluffier, super into surfing
and don’t even get me started on Zeus.”
Laurence ignored the last sentence because he valued both his sanity and his time.
He open the file and looked at the labels. The front tag said ‘fishing data’, the next said
61
‘atypical wildlife behavior,’ the one after that said ‘concerning online dating profiles.’
Laurence sighed, he would spend today putting the labels in alphabetical order. He could
only stand so many indignities in a week.
‘Thanks,” he said, “I’ll take a look at this. See if there are any new angles. More
coffee?”
“Nah, I just wanted to give you the file and put the fear of gods in ya.” She rose to
her feet. Both cats flanked her, they looked bigger in her presence, almost unnaturally
large for housecats. “We’ll be touch,” she said with a wink. They left in a flurry of
lemon-scented hospital grade disinfectant and swishing tails.
Chapter 6
The w olf walked fo r a very long time. He never tired, though he ate nothing and
did not rest. The w olf was very hungry, but hungry the way scholars long fo r new
sources, not the way a baby longs fo r milk. There were many humans and animals, yet
none o f them appeared to notice the w olf He could make himself blacker than under coal
or lighter than the thickest cloud. He could be smaller than the eye o f a sewing needle or
as large as a great hall. The w olf traveled, larger than a house, gray-black fur. One
day he tried to eat a woman carrying a baby and a speckled chicken. Just as all three o f
them were about to slide down his gullet he found himself swallowing at air. She
continued about her business, unaware the w olf had tried to devour her. He opened his
62
jaws wide and tried again. The same thing happened again. He tried eating a man on his
way to the river instead. The man disappearedfrom his mouth like the woman, the baby
and the chicken. The w olf tried to eat everyone one in the next town he came to, but all
eluded his hunger. He tried to knock down buildings with his enlarged paws, but they
passed through the structures like wind. The w olf howled in despair and frustration. Life
continued around him. The wolf, tired o f walking aimlessly hoping to find a border to this
world that was not his own, flopped down in the middle o f a road. He cradled his head in
his paws and thought about how much fun it would be to rip something into bloody
shreds. After staying this way fo r daysweeksmonthsyears the w olf decided he would try
and listen fo r the voice o f the human storyteller. I f he tried very hard he could hear the
thread o f something that felt important.
Joe received the news he would be working for Wolbin Enterprises on a trial basis on
Wednesday morning.
“Wait, why? And explain the how again,” he said into the phone, while picking at his
plate of buttered toast.
“We’re simply spoiled for candidates,” said Lucy Aurvandil, Wolbin’s personal
assistant, “so we thought we would let some of you free in the field. See who swims and
who drowns. We’ll be paying you of course, but officially it’s a contract position.
63
Limited shelf life. If you pass you get the shiny official position. We just want to hire
people who can do good work, and there is the potential for multiple positions.”
“Oh,” said White as he took that all in.
“And we’re still conducting rolling interviews, so we may have people from the
trial group into help us interview the new candidates. Potentially you could end up
helping to select the people you’ll work with on future projects. It’s very exciting!” she
said with a trill. White tried to mask his own lack of enthusiasm for the entire concept.
“I accept,” he said. Even with the weird trial basis program it was still a good job
and if nothing else he could get experience, references and a some money in savings.
Babs’ phone started ringing while she was elbow deep in assembling butternut
squash ravioli.
“Could you get that?” she shouted to Merry, who was reading on the couch.
Merry answered and then came into the kitchen.
“You may want to wash you hands, sounds like it’s that job you interviewed for.”
Laurence inspected the edition of The Wizard o f Oz. Sturdy binding, but the dust
jacket bore several significant tears, making it perhaps not worth the fifty dollars the used
64
bookstore was asking for. The table of contents boasted a comprehensive index including
an essay on Dorothy’s death he had never read before. His phone rang. He checked the
caller ID. Wolbin Enterprises. Moment of truth. He tapped the accept call button.
“Hello, Laurence Caldecott speaking.”
The wolffollowed the thread. He still tried to eat people, though he never
succeeded. One day he sat down next to a man who was staring at the clouds intently.
Without thinking the w olf said: "What are you doing? He realized as the words left his
jaws that this wouldn’t work, just like eating people.
“ I am trying to see how many different types o f cloud I can spot, ” said the man.
The w olf reared back in surprise.
“How is it you can hear me speak? ’ asked the wolf. The man looked at the w olf in
confusion. “Are you not scared? ” said the wolf. The man shook his head.
“Why would I be afraid ofyou, my fine fellow? ” The w olf looked the man up and
down. He seemed in earnest.
“What do I look like to you? ” asked the wolf.
“You are a short man, if you don’t mind me saying so, though I think your beard
is most magnificent. Where are you headed this good day? Do you need directions? ” said
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the man. The w olf turned around and walked on. When reached a town he talked to the
first person he met. They answered him. He found he could talk to everyone in the town
and they all seemed to think he was a man. He tried to eat a goose girl on her way to the
pond and nothing happened as always. He asked a priest fo r food and was given a bowl
o f porridge with rosemary. He found he could eat the porridge.
Chapter 7
Babs surprised herself by accepting the job. “Technically it’s a contract position,”
she told Richard and Merry later, “so they may not even decide to take me on full time.”
She didn’t talk about how that went both ways; she could walk away at the end of the
contract, but she could see the acknowledgment in Richard’s raised eyebrows and the
way Merry didn’t say anything beyond a congratulations and an offer to loan her some
work sweaters. She worried the sleeve of one of those sweaters now while she waited for
the fluffy blonde receptionist from before to give her a tour of the office and a rundown
of expected duties. Instead of Fluffy Blonde a pretty Latina woman with shiny waistlength hair and Bettie-Page-red lipstick marched toward Babs with the kind of authority
that came from mastering walking in five-inch stilettos.
“Hi, I’m Jeannie. You must be Babs. Wow, Yvonne said you were tall, but I
underestimated. Anyway follow me, I’ll take you to the meeting room. Lucy wanted all
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the potentials briefed together,” she said. Babs got up and slung her bag onto her
shoulder.
“Six feet, two inches,” said Babs, heading off the inescapable question.
“Really? You’re taller than both my brothers and my dad. That’s hilarious,” said
Jeannie, “all the women in family are, like, five six at max. “
Babs shrugged. She had long past the point in her life where anyone would say
anything interesting about her height. She just tried to wait out people’s amazement until
they moved on to something relevant.
“Here we are,” said Jeannie as she gestured at a small windowless room fitted
with a long table, a whiteboard and a pull down projector screen. A blond man in a navy
suit sat at the far end of the room. He looked up from fiddling with his tie when she
walked in.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m Babs Cass. Nice to meet you” He shook her outstretched
hand.
“ Joseph White. Please call me Joe.” He made the minimum amount of
acceptable eye contact, but his smile seemed genuine. Babs sank into the seat next to him.
“So do you think, are they putting us all in one room in the name of company
camaraderie or is this a sneaky way get us to start taking each other out? Y’know
gladiatorial arena meets cheesy corporate cutthroat philosophies.” She resisted joking
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about it being a real battle royal avec du fromage, because based on Joe’s wide-eyed
stare he probably wouldn’t appreciate the reference to cinematic genius.
“Urn.. .1 think maybe they’re just trying to be responsible about time
management?” said Joe. Babs gave him a look that she hoped communicated “oh you
fantastic, wayward duckling of naivete and optimism.” Joe shifted in his seat. “That
sweater is nice. I like the, uh, ruffles.”
“Thanks,” said Babs, “my best friend’s wife lent it to me. I’m crashing with them
until I find my own place.” The sweater was a little frou frou for Babs’ taste, Merry had
the slim figure ideal for delicate embellishments whereas things like lace and ruffles
tended to make Babs look ungainly.
“That’s so nice of them!” said Joe with a hundred kilowatt smile. “Did you go to
university together.” Ouch. Not his fault; it was a common enough question, but still,
ouch.
“Nah,” said Babs in her most casual tone. “Richard and I used to work at the same
place in Portland. He’s the head chef at a restaurant in West Hollywood.”
“Were you the manager for the Portland restaurant?” asked Joe
Babs was saved from saying she’d rather lick a tarantula than manage a fullscale
restaurant by Jeannie showing another corporate gladiator into the room. He probably
wasn’t much older than Joe or Babs but he walked in with the kind of confidence found
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in people who knew they were in the right place at the exact right time. He was possibly
Latino or maybe half Asian, she couldn’t quite peg his ethnicity. He wore a his suit well.
It probably wasn’t designer or even of high quality but it fit him like second skin. The
suit combined with his glasses and his neat side-parted black hair gave him all the
menace of a McCarthy era government official. Babs stood up and held out her hand.
“Hi. I’m Babs.” His eyes flicked up and down. They might have pretty eyes in
different circumstances, large, brown and thickly lashed behind the horn rims, but his
gaze invited no small talk. After a moment he shook her hand. His fingers were long and
tapered, what her Grandmam referred to as piano hands.
“Hello,” he said. She waited for a name but he only stared back at her.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. He raised one eyebrow as if to express that the
feeling was not mutual and turned to shake Joe’s hand.
“Hi. I’m Joe. Y’know I didn’t catch your name. ”
“Hmm. I believe that’s because I didn’t introduce myself,” said Tall Dark and
Snooty. He walked to the far end of the room and sat down with all the grace and poise
of a ballet dancer. What an asshole.
Laurence sat down and pretended to be consumed with taking out his notebook
and an assortment of pens. He had anticipated needing to put on a front for his coworkers
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out of necessity for their safety and Andy’s protection, but he hadn’t expected to get
plunged side by side with other newbies on day one. The name thing was probably a
stupid place to start. He’d needed something to set himself apart fast. Laurence hadn’t
even realized the omission until Joe pointed it out; all of Laurence’s energy had either
been diverted to projecting an intimidating aura or pretending Babs wasn’t a stone cold
fox of Amazonian proportions. He could usually handle himself with suavity around
attractive people, but he never expected the kind of woman he was usually attracted to be
in a corporate setting. Rugby practices? Yes. Social Distortion concerts? Sure. Midnight
showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Showl Undoubtedly. Now that he knew about
Babs he could acclimate and treat her like any coworker i.e. with civil disdain.
He almost felt bad for Joe; the poor schmuck practically radiated puppy-dog
sincerity. Maybe Laurence would get lucky and scare them both off from Wolbin
Enterprises. Laurence did not have an abundance of faith in his luck. He suspected he
used the last of it when his ninth and tenth grade catechism teacher agreed to let him read
silently at the back of the class as long as the book included Christianity in some way. In
two years he read the entirety of Les Miserables, The D ’Artagnan Romances and failed to
get through Germinal. Lucy entered the room while he tried to remember if he had read
any Victor Hugo aloud to Ike; it was their thing; Laurence reading out the best bits of
novels Ike would never read on his own.
In Lucy’s wake followed two more candidates; a man and a woman. The
gentleman managed a miasma of corpulence despite being of average dimensions. His
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shoes were filthy with something gray and crusty. He would call the woman Rubenesque
if it weren’t for the fact that in his experience women detested being referred to as
Rubenesque, regardless of how one tried to explain the Baroque context. They both sat
down, though not together.
“Wonderful,” said Lucy as she walked to the front of the room, “I think this is
everyone. Before we get started with the p’s and q’s of Wolbin Enterprises I think it
would be lovely if we got to know each other a little first. So let’s go around and say our
name, what we would like to accomplish at Wolbin Enterprises and which animal you
think best represents you. I’ll start.” Lucy smiled like she knew a delicious secret the rest
of them could only dream to fathom. Laurence was unused to that look being directed at
him. “My name is Lucy and I want to thoroughly understand what everybody at Wolbin
Enterprises needs.” She looked everyone in the eye, one by one. Laurence made a point
of holding her gaze and smiling. “Oh and I almost forgot,” she said, clapping her hands
together, “if I were an animal I would be a an iridescent shieldtail.” Laurence made a
mental note to look up what that was later. “Now you,” she said while pointing the
woman who had walked in with her.
The woman stood. She was probably African American, though Polynesian
wasn’t out of the question. Mid thirties to early forties. Nice clothes. Sensible shoes.
“Hello. My name is Rebecca Shears and I hope to facilitate communication
between Wolbin Enterprises and any potential clients to the point of perfect
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understanding.” Laurence held back an eye roll. Perfect understanding could be found
with Atlantis and Love Labour’s Won. “If I could be any animal I suppose I would be a
St. Bernard because I’m friendly and work oriented.” She sat back down and Joe got up.
“My name is Joseph White, but you can call me Joe. I hope to be a cheerful and
conscientious worker who can proactively provide assistance.” Oh brother, thought
Laurence, no, actually, my own brother would never put his personality through a
corporate mold. “If I were an animal,” continued Joe, “I would be an American kestrel.”
He didn’t offer any reasoning for why he though he would be a falcon, but Laurence
supposed he should be thankful Joe had avoided another dog comparison. A dog was a
great choice for a kiss-up, a bird of prey was a potential warning sign to an employer and
Laurence could find uses for people not totally in sympathy with the hierarchy.
“My given name is Barbara, but please in the name of all that is good in the
multiverse call me Babs. I hope to do as good a job as possible while still upholding a do
no harm philosophy.” Laurence stared hard at Babs, who had started her spiel while he’d
been preoccupied on Joe’s response. She seemed in earnest, which was puzzling
considering she was straight up-up telling the CEO’s right hand woman she had
boundaries Wolbin Enterprises wasn’t allowed to infringe on. “If I were an animal I
would be a mermaid.”
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“That’s made-up. That’s not an animal,” shouted the corpulent gentleman
Laurence had noted earlier. His fists were curled at his sides as though the slightest denial
of reality made him want to punch things.
“No one said the animal couldn’t be fictional,” said Babs. She smiled and kept
her body language relaxed, though her eyes narrowed the slightest degree.
“If we could move on, I believe we were on you,” said Lucy as she pointed at the
corpulent gentleman.
“Lars Aaronson,” he grunted. What an ugly slurry of consonants. “I will be an
elite leader within the company, ensuring the continued success of Wolbin enterprises
through synergy and the leveraging of resources.” What no mention o f the glories o f
groupthink? thought Laurence. “My animal would be the mighty wolverine,” said Lars. /
wonder i f he knows another name fo r wolverine is glutton? All eyes turned to Laurence.
Ah, wonderful, his turn then.
“My name is Laurence Caldecott and I do mean Laurence, not Larry or Laurie or
any other diminutive,” he said. His family called him Laurie, like hell anyone at this
company would have the privilege. “My goal is to accomplish my tasks with excellence
and efficiency.” Bullshit, but it wasn’t like the truth would get him anywhere. “If I were
an animal other than human I would be a jack rabbit.”
The animal was a compromise. The literature scholar in him wanted something
symbolic, something that maybe pulled at the stings of dramatic irony, like an albatross,
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but as satisfying as that would have been Laurence would not risk Andy’s safety for the
sake of a clever jab. Something was here, possibly multiple somethings. The Norse and
Greek pantheons had confirmed it, so he needed to suck up his literati pride and play the
dupe. He picked the jack rabbit because he didn’t want to send up any red flags by
picking a predator, nor did he want something domestic. Wolbin didn’t respect docile and
Laurence needed his respect so someday Wolbin would let down his guard just enough to
expose his fatal flaw. Jack rabbits could outrun most predators. Jack rabbits kicked hard
enough to bruise ribs.
He surveyed the room. Lars registered as the most obvious threat, he would have
to keep tabs on the repugnant wolverine lover, luckily subtlety didn’t seem to be Lars’
forte. Laurence was far more concerned about Rebecca and Joe; they came across as nice,
normal people. Nice, normal people would do a lot of shit without question because it
had been sold to them as what nice and normal people did. Babs had a brain, so she was
either a great potential ally or a potential thorn in his side. Too early to tell. Lucy started
to over Wolbin Enterprises’ mission statement. Laurence took long, detailed notes. The
information I need to do my job is already here. The is just a matter o f locating,
dissecting and understanding.
Joe took notes even though he doubted knowing the company policy on maternity
leave would ever come in handy. Rebecca and Laurence took notes too. Rebecca seemed
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nice. She smiled to herself often and he couldn’t write off a dog lover as anything other
than a fundamentally kind person. He hoped if they were expected to work with the other
candidates at all he would be paired with either her or Babs. Both Laurence and Lars
were what Joe’s mother termed “strong cheese,” which clocked in as a harsher
designation than her preferred “not my cup of tea.” Lars, at least, lived in the moment.
Joe had no doubt he said what was on his mind as he felt it. There was something
calculating and reserved about Laurence that set Joe’s teeth on edge. Babs struck him as
the most genuine of the bunch, open and friendly. If working together went well he might
introduce her to his wife. All of Lana’s sisters lived out of state and Lana frequently
complained about how she hadn’t made any gal friends in the area yet. Most of the
women at church were either decades older or consumed with taking care of children
while the other women she worked with went out to bars or clubs for fun. Babs didn’t
really seem like a good time girl and she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so she probably
didn’t have children.
As Joe copied down the procedure for activating their web accounts he wondered
if they were ever going to get clarification on what kind of work Wolbin enterprises
actually did. There were no shortage of details —how to fill out this specific form, how to
log in with what protocol, how to share spreadsheets amongst a group— but the gap
between the broad mission statements of the company and nitty gritty of very day
operations was still wide. For an established business it felt surprisingly vague. Wolbin
Enterprises specialized in business operations and security interests but Lucy never
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defined exactly what that meant and Joe didn’t dare ask. Was he missing something?
Something obvious that was already understood by everyone else in the room? He snuck
a glance at his fellow worker bees. Lars’ notes were so plentiful as to be useless.
Rebecca had taken orderly notes in two different colors. Babs was clearly drawing
something instead of writing. He couldn’t see what Laurence was writing, but he was
writing a lot of it.
Laurence reminded Joe of Lana’s youngest sister, Mae, who currently embodied
the definition of teenage rebellion by arguing the smallest point and refusing to do the
basics like going to church or babysitting for Lana’s oldest sister. Joe once walked in on
Mae and Lana screaming at each other over her refusal to put on a skirt instead of pants
for a visit to their grandmother’s. Laurence’s refusal to give his name struck Joe as the
same kind of immaturity restyled as control. Lucy moved on to standard procedure for
expense reports. Joe resumed taking notes.
Chapter 8
This was what the w olf learned: he could talk to people, he could eat their food,
he even found, in time, he could earn money from them if he performed a job. He ate the
porridge and the bread and the tea and the stew o f this world, but it did little to satiate
his hunger. Sometimes he tried to destroy or devour something just to see i f he could, but
none o f these efforts ever resulted in the destruction. He continued to follow the thread
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that was not a thread, it was part sound part something else. The sound itself wouldn't
resolve into one thing; when he thought it was a song it would shift into something like
yelling and when he thought it was that it would slip into something rhythmic and soft. It
reminded him o f the woman at the campfire from so many moons before, the one whose
words had tempted him down from his hunting ground o f stars. He followed the thread in
the hope it would end this interminable starvation, a starvation o f the soul i f not the body.
Laurence opened a bottle of six-dollar rose and told himself he would drink the
whole thing tonight, even though he knew he wouldn’t. Instead he would drink one and
half glasses and pretend that was enough to make him forget today. He knew the easy
part was over, had planned for the easy part being over. The time for researching the
threat from afar needed to segue into personal observation. No book would tell him what
his own eyes and ears could detect. He should have read more about the psychology of
undercover agents. It was only day one and he already wanted to curl up under up the
covers or go home. Going home sounded pretty good.
This time of year Main Street would be outfitted in white twinkle lights, Point
Aria’s compromise for the time between Thanksgiving and the Christmas season. Wade’s
Coffee Shop, where his mother worked Tuesday and Thursday mornings, would have
made their annual mulled cider by now. His mother always got a couple of gallons for
free from Wade himself, who had always had a soft spot for the Acosta-Caldecott family.
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He threw Laurence’s mother extra shifts when he could and he always gave them a loaf
of his famous pulla every Christmas.
At least the job’s salary ensured he could actually afford to go home for
Christmas this year and it would look strange if he didn’t go home, so he wouldn’t have
to worry about betraying his goals. He took a sip of the rose and settled in the dilapidated
loveseat he’d rescued from an estate sale in Silver Lake. He should consider eating
something substantial soon, but for now he needed comfort. He took another couple sips
of wine and blindly reached for one of the books on the coffee table improvised from old
phone books and cardboard boxes. He came up with an edition of Robert Frost’s poetry
from the sixties. He chose it at a library sale in Santa Rosa because it displayed earlier
drafts of poems next to their published antecedents including the famous version of
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening where a large wolf blocked the rider’s path
before moving into the woods. There were a lot of little moments like this in literature, if
you know where to look. A wolf also stumbled through Tennyson’s Lady o f Shallott. A
stranger of “lupine and rapacious appetites” halted most of the rising action of Les
Miserables, forcing the student rebellion to temporarily abandon their plans of resistance
and causing the young lovers to separate when Cosette sails away from Paris with her
adoptive father. A disreputable and wolfish newcomer showed up the ball at Netherfield
in Pride and Prejudice, but caused no more harm than an offended Lydia whom he
brushes too closely past when exiting the room. Some of the appearances hinges the story
together, other appearances seemed incidental. Laurence had started keeping a notebook
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listing every probable appearance and their effect, if any. He drank his wine and
thumbed through the book. He had just finished his third read through of Fire and Ice
when his cell phone rang. He checked the ID. Ike, who should have been in bed by now
considering that Texas was two hours ahead of California and Ike was an early riser.
Laurence answered.
“Couldn’t sleep?” asked Laurence. Ike sighed, long and breathy until it melted
into a groan.
“Laur, these macho jerks are killing my last nerve.”
“I take it the conference has hit its apex maturity level?”
“Most of it has been fine. This is the last time Juarez and I do a blind roomshare
at one of these things, though. When they’re not being sexist they’re being homophobic
and I think they would be racist too if Juarez wasn’t bigger than them,” said Ike.
Laurence smiled at the thought of Gabriel Juarez, who possessed all the temper of a
somnolent kitten, actually threatening someone.
“And hear I was under the impression baseball players were less rowdy than their
football brethren,” said Laurence, mostly to get a rise out of Ike.
“Dude. Brethren? I love you like pie but who the hell says brethren? And you
know better than to classify football players at anything other than a CHUD level
consciousness.” In the face of Ike’s indignation Laurence could only laugh, so he did.
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After a moment Ike joined in with his low, golden laughter. The warmest laugh Laurence
has ever heard from someone. Laurence last heard that laugh in person two years ago. He
and Marguerite were still dating and Ike stopped by the campus to visit. Ike and
Marguerite got on famously, just Like Laurence knew they would, because Marguerite’s
de facto mode of introduction involved dominance displays and Ike collected prickly,
difficult people the way some kids collected video game cartridges. As one of those
prickly, difficult people, Laurence could hardly object.
“You still there, babe?” asked Ike.
“Don’t call me babe,” snapped Laurence, “I am neither a talking pig nor an
infant.” It was an old not-argument.
“But you may in fact be a legendary, dead baseball player?” said Ike. Laurence
could hear the smirk three states away.
“I prefer to leave the baseball player part to you, though both I and your hoard of
sisters request you refrain from the dead part.”
“Hoard is so generic I think they deserve something personalized like the
sororalacc or the Greenberg Seven,” said Ike.
“The Dreaded Coterie of Sisterly Concern?”
“Go ahead fit in another five dollar word, that’s not enough of a mouthful.”
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“Coterie is at best only a three dollar word. How are they, by the way?” asked
Laurence.
“Kat’s visiting in a week she’s looking at a university in Austin, but between me
you and the redwoods I think she’s going to move out and catch as catch can instead of
university.”
“Your mother will be thrilled,” said Laurence. Adele Malka-Greenberg
approached pursuit of education with the same ferocity and fervor as a terrier, regardless
if the education was for herself, her children or one of her students.
“Pity I’m all the way in Texas, I guess as the closest children Tziporah and
Hannah can field that crisis. She’s oh for three on getting that academic she’s always
wanted. Watch out, if Delia and Nattie don’t go higher education she’s going to recruit
Andy.”
Laurence snorted. “She’s welcome to try. His primary interests are pirates, the
violent bits of various historical revolutions, poking dead things with sticks and putting
far too much stock in what Lucien says.” He noticed Ike didn’t say anything about Mrs.
Greenberg recruiting Laurence. It could be self defense on Ike’s part. They haven’t been
a them since Laurence left for college and Ike left for the minor league.
“Lucien’s a nice kid. I mean, he’s super weird and half the shit he says only
makes sense in the context his group of friends, but he’s got a good heart.”
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“And a nose for dangerous, cockamamie—“
“Cockamamie?” Ike interrupted. “What did I say about the possibly five dollar
words?”
“If you keep it up I’m going to actually give you the genuine article.”
“Tease.”
“Truculent. Soporific. Sybarite. Foudroyant”
“Nerd.”
“Jejune. Prurient. Turgid”
“Ok, now I know you’re just talkin’ dirty,” said Ike. That shouldn’t sting.
Laurence insisted on nixing any possibility of a long term relationship and it wasn’t like
they didn’t occasionally spend the night together when in the same place and not dating
anyone. “Aw shit, Laur I didn’t mean to —I’m sorry,” said Ike.
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but Ike deserved somebody honest and present and Laurence
couldn’t be either of those things at the moment, maybe never again. “How’s Juarez?”
asked Laurence out of a desperate need for another subject, any subject.
“He’s in the lobby talking to his girlfriend. His cell reception sucks up here. She
made the dean’s list for the eighth time in a row.”
“That’s wonderful. He must be very proud.”
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“You’d think he’s the one who got straight A’s the way he talks. It’s baby goat
snuggling a bunny adorable,” said Ike. Laurence laughed. “What? Are you denying the
power of interspecies friendships.”
“No. You just remind me of this woman I work with. It sounds like something
she’d say,” said Laurence. Ooops. He hadn’t intended to tell Ike about Wolbin
Enterprises.
“You got a job? Congratulations! Where?”
“Uh. White collar place in Los Angeles. Quite frankly the work is doublespeak
nonsense, but it’s not overtly amoral and they have a really great matching program for
college funds.” In truth Laurence didn’t think he or Wolbin Enterprises would be around
long enough to much of a dent in Andy’s future tuition, but Laurence would squirrel
away what he could. Call it a form of compensation from the universe.
Ike laughed. Laurence knew the exact dimensions of the smirk that went with it.
“That’s so exciting. Score one for English majors seeking employment. I wish I
could see the faces of your mom’s bridge group when she tells them,” said Ike. “ Do you
wear ties? And suits? Do you draft interoffice memos?”
Laurence wanted to rib Ike back, something along the lines of “I can’t believe I
get naked with you by choice,” but that skated close to the thing they weren’t talking
about.
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“This was my first day,” said Laurence. “Mostly I listened to an interminable
number of tutorials, ate a passable boxed salad and got a tour of the inner mysteries of the
copier.” Laurence finished off the first glass of wine and reached for the bottle to pour
more.
“Sounds thrilling. You said I reminded you of a woman you work with?” asked
Ike in his I’m-dying-to-get-more-details-but-my-mama-didn’t-raise-me-to-be-polite-andnow-I-overcompensate voice.
“Oh yeah. She was at the orientation. No idea what she’s there for, she doesn’t
look the part.”
“How so?”
“There’s a vibrancy. A gaiety I don’t think would flourish with arbitrary deadlines
and manufactured buzzwords. Also she has a big mouth and she sucks at dishonesty.”
Laurence smiled at the memory of her repeatedly questioning Lucy on the necessity of
disclosing what social media accounts they had under what name.
“Uh oh,” said Ike.
“What?” Laurence didn’t think he’d disclosed anything Ike would find
concerning. Ike needed to focus on climbing out of the minor leagues. He was triple A
now, one more season and he might finally get picked by a major league team.
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“Nothing,” said Ike, “I just realized something. How’s Andy?” It was classic
garden-variety deflection, not even Ike-grade deflection which usually involved
impressively obscure baseball facts or descriptions of the innards of cars Laurence had
never seen. Laurence answered anyway.
“He’s fine. I think a girl in his French class has a crush on him. He’s not taking it
well.”
“Awww, young love,” said Ike.
“School is agreeable. He had the misfortune of getting Jacques for homeroom.”
Ike sucked in a breath in sympathy. There were clueless teachers. There were
sadistic teachers. Jacques somehow managed to combine the worst aspects of both into
one scarring classroom experience. Laurence’s one and only detention in his otherwise
flawless K-12 record had been because he shouted down Jacques when he required
Marco Ruiz, who stuttered and cried in public if embarrassed, to read one of Hamlet’s
monologues aloud in class. After the third time Jacques bellowed at Marco to “just read it
correctly” Laurence couldn’t take it anymore. He called him a petulant bully among other
things. Caldecott is a distinctive enough surname that Andy is probably not having an
easy go of it, but at least it’s only homeroom. Laurence heard the sound of a door
opening and closing in the background on Ike’s end.
“Great. They’re back,” said Ike in a low tone that dripped with derision. The two
roomshare knuckleheads then, not Juarez.
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“I should let you go then. Enjoy the rest of the conference. When are you back in
the glorious golden state?”
“Next week. Doing the winter special again,” said Ike, which meant he would go
work in his Uncle’s garage in Las Babosas.
“Talk to you then.”
“Talk to you later. Keep me updated on the job,” said Ike. Laurence beeped the
phone off and took a long pull of wine. Three states away Ike Greenberg revised his
plans. After all, Los Angeles needed mechanics too.
Chapter 9
Joe stared at Pastor Kevin, who chewed a mouthful of Brussels’ sprouts. Little
green bits clung to his moustache. Lana offered Pastor Kevin’s wife potatoes, Sherrie
something, Sherrie Jane? Sherrie Jo? Sherrie Joy? The specifics had been as forgettable
as she was. She wore floral dresses like camouflage and Joe could never quite remember
if her hair was brown or blonde.
“Wonderful vegetables,” said Pastor Kevin, “how do you get them so delicious?”
Joe refrained from saying, “about a pound of bacon is how.” Pastor Kevin possessed
good points; the man did play a pretty good Amazing Grace on acoustic guitar.
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“Joe made the veggies, it’s his secret to tell,” said Lana as she proffered shake and
bake chicken in Sherrie Whatsit’s direction. That probably constituted a good turn as the
woman never asked for anything, just waited for people to offer.
“Oh you know, bacon and a little red vinegar to counteract the metallic taste. It’s
my mom’s recipe. I can give you a copy if you want,” said Joe. Pastor Kevin’s boxy
eyebrows shot up towards his just beginning to recede hairline.
“You made them?” he asked. Joe traded looks with Lana to see if this counted as
a good or bad development. She looked as puzzled as he felt, so he pretended he was a
frontiersman and forged bravely onward.
“Uh yeah. Lana was doing the chicken and potatoes, thought I’d lighten the load a
bit.”
“Interesting,” said Pastor Kevin. Joe served himself more juice. He would have
preferred a beer, but Pastor Kevin and Sherrie Whatever practiced tee totaling, which
apparently meant everyone around them must too. “So, I hear from Lana you’ve got a
new job. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” replied Joe. After a beat of silence he said, “It’s a really great
opportunity.”
“It is if you’ll be doing good honest work. Will you?” What the heck was this
guy’s problem. He sat at Joe and Lana’s table, ate the food they prepared for him and his
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non-sequiter of a wife and he butted his soon-to-be balding head into a matter that by any
polite standard qualified as none of his gosh darned business.
“Yes,” said Joe because it seemed the fastest way to cut the conversation short.
“That’s wonderful, brother,” said Pastor Kevin. Joe stiffened. Pastor Kevin
frequently called members of the congregation sister or brother, but this was the first time
Joe had been afforded the honor. Joe fought the urge to immediately take a shower. He
didn’t even call his actual brothers by title, just dumbbutt and occasionally by given name
in case it was unclear which dumbbutt was being addressed. “It’s a beautiful thing,”
Pastor Kevin continued, “a man providing for his family.”
“Sure,” said Joe. “Honey, didn’t you say dessert needed some time to soften? I’ll
go set it on the counter.” Their apartment lacked a separate kitchen, but at least there
would be distance and a counter between Joe and this weird as pickled eggs conversation.
He pulled out the pints of Neapolitan and cookie dough ice cream from the freezer. He
wondered if he could get away with not coming back until the ice cream needed serving.
He gave himself eight ten counts and sat back down.
“Lana,” said Pastor Kevin, she sat up straighter and gave him a hopeful smile,
“you have laid out such a wonderful meal. It’s so refreshing to see a young woman of
your caliber. I’m a practical man, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, but I think it’s
important to remember what’s valuable in this culture of decadence.”
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Joe couldn’t tell if that was a dig at their modest circumstances or just
windbaggery on the part of Pastor Kevin.
“When I come home after a long day in the service of the Lord I know I’m always
thankful for the meal Sherrie June prepares. It’s no less a holy act than the miracles I
perform,” said Pastor Kevin. Joe resisted the urge to roll his eye. Pastor Kevin probably
did a lot of good works daily, but that didn’t mean he was exempt from the little
banalities of paperwork and funding. He checked to see how Lana was reacting to this
display of faux piety. She nodded along, as if Pastor Kevin imparted great wisdom rather
than baloney with a side of ham.
“I can see where you would be appreciate that,” said Joe. “Any favorite recipes?”
he directed this at Sherrie Apparently June. She opened her mouth to answer, but Pastor
Kevin cut her off.
“And given that I experience such divinity regularly I can only hope and pray for
my flock to be blessed with the same virtuous repast.” Joe wasn’t so much lost as he was
the sensible person who’d refused to go on the treacherous journey in the first place.
“Speaking of virtuous repast, that ice cream ought to be soft enough to scoop by
now. We have cookie dough and Neapolitan. What can I get everybody?” asked Joe.
“Oh sweetie, I can do that. You relax,” chirped Lana.
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“I’ll take a scoop of each, my dear, and Sherrie June will have just the vanilla and
strawberry parts of the Neapolitan. Thank you, there’s a good little lamb,” said Pastor
Kevin as she flounced away to the kitchen.
“I find that Lana generally prefers to be called by her name,” said Joe in the most
pleasant voice he could muster. Pastor Kevin continued speaking as if never interrupted.
“I think in this terrifying modern world it’s important to enable virtue, grace and
holiness. So, I am so grateful that you’ve taken the first step to freeing Lana for her
heavenly purpose.”
Joe felt like someone had dumped a slushy over him— shocked, cold in ways he
hadn’t thought possible, slimy. The whole point of Pastor Kevin’s monologue was to let
Joe know he didn’t like the way he and Lana ran their household. If he kicked Pastor
Kevin and his mute wife out now then Lana would be embarrassed later. Joe sipped his
juice.
“Did Lana ever mention my mother works at the post office back home? Since I
was a little boy,” said Joe. “She really likes it. I say work, she actually runs the office.
When my dad was laid off, he’s a bookkeeper, she really kept the family afloat. In her
spare time she conducts a bible study group for people recently released from prison.”
Joe knew that little speech wasn’t going to score any points with Pastor Kevin, so instead
he watched Sherrie June for signs of life. She glanced at her husband, clearly needing a
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cue before committing to an expression. Pastor Kevin spluttered, but otherwise held his
tongue.
After the tensest dessert in Joe’s memory Pastor Kevin and Sherrie June departed
with only perfunctory goodbyes for him. He should have been pleased to see the back of
them, but he just felt tired. He put the rest of the dishes in the washer and took a hot
shower. When he climbed into bed next to Lana she was turned away from him.
“I laid out you suit for tomorrow,” she said into the darkness of their room.
Babs’ morning was boring as shit, a paradox since she was also breakneck busy.
She reported in to Lucy and got handed off to Jeannie whom subsequently handed her a
fat pile of data on logging in the Black Forest that needed to be organized. After
breaking down the data into manageable categories and creating an accompanying
spreadsheet it was time for lunch.
The cafeteria, like most of Wolbin Enterprises, reveled in steel and light. She
scoped the different stations and followed her nose towards a counter with vegetarian dim
sum. After she grabbed an iced tea, and a chocolate-chocolate chip cookie to go with her
meal and paid the cashier she scanned the seating area. She spotted Tall, Dark and
Snooty from the orientation. She should probably sit elsewhere. It would totally be asking
for trouble if she sat down next him. He had a book out, so clearly he didn’t want
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company and if he got off on being misanthrope then more power to him, she definitely
should respect that. She sat down next to him.
He glanced up from his book, something old with thick pages, but didn’t
acknowledge her presence. She nodded in greeting, but didn’t speak. She was going to
outwait Laurence the Grouch and then they would have a pleasant interaction,
goddammit. She bit into a taro croquette and pulled a zine from Darling Alice out of her
bag. After she’d read several pages and started in on a scallion dumpling she risked a
glance in Laurence’s direction. His lunch consisted of an underfilled turkey sandwich,
some limp carrot sticks and a thermos of something that smelled like orange blossoms,
probably tea. He turned a page of his book, she couldn’t see a title but she did catch a
sentence about a princess. She focused back onto her zine.
She was on her last dumpling and halfway through a gory comic about why
tampons and pads should be free called “The Red Sea Breaks” when Laurence said in a
tone usually limited to prim church ladies over the age of seventy, “That is
very.. .sanguine.” She looked at the panel he pointed at; it depicted a gang of women in
homed Viking helmets riding a longboat on a wave of blood that threatened to overtake a
city street.
“Do you mean bloody or hopeful?” she asked. He cocked his head to the side,
scrunched up his rather prominent beak nose and thought for a moment.
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“Both. I sympathize with the sentiment but question the effectiveness of the
strategy.” Babs was about to ask him to expand on that when Joe sat across from them.
“Hello!” he said. He didn’t quite make eye contact, but his grin was wide and
crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I’m Joe from the orientation.”
“Hi, I remember you too, Babs, in case the gods of nomenclature have turned
their backs on you.” She glanced at his plate: coffee, two large pieces of pepperoni pizza
and a spinach salad.
“Yeah, I know. I normally don’t eat this heavy, but I don’t usually get pepperoni.
Lana, my wife, hates meat on her pizza,” he said.
“Oh I don’t judge. If you get a chance you should try the dim sum, the mushroom
bao are divine,” she said. Laurence looked Joe up and down with an intensity that would
not have been out of place in Doctor Frankenstein. She caught his eye and raised her
eyebrows in the universal what-the-hell-is-your-deal-weirdo? expression. Laurence
countered with yet another single raised eyebrow and a twitch in his upper lip that may
have been a suppressed smile or possibly a fledgling sneer. Joe looked back and forth
between them, opened his mouth to say something, paused and then said, “How has your
day been so far?”
“Pleasant but unexceptional,” said Laurence, in a far more neutral tone than Babs
expected from him. “Yourselves?”
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“Alright. Up to my elbows in reports on bird population in the Pacific
Northwest,” said Joe.
“Similar,” said Babs. While Lucy had emphasized the importance of not
discussing work data with non-employees she hadn’t stated any guidelines for coworkers
not on the same project with you, so Babs kept it vague. “ Where are you all from?”
asked Babs. With luck they were from somewhere exciting and new.
“We moved to California from Normal, Illinois when I was eleven,” said Joe.
“You’re kidding! That’s so poetic,” said Babs. She expected Joe to ask why but
instead he chuckled.
“Yeah, that’s my mom’s favorite joke too. She’s from upstate New York, never
liked Normal much.” Even Laurence laughed at that one. “And you?” asked Joe with a
tip of the head towards Laurence.
“Small town on the Californian north coast, you won’t have heard of it.” Babs
perked up, the cinema had been in that region.
“Mendocino County?” she asked. Laurence adjusted his glasses in surprise.
“Yes,” he said slowly.
“I was all over that area a couple years ago. Mostly in Point Aria because of my
job, but I lived in Las Babosas for a bit and got around to Siren’s Hollow and Valle
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Ovejas some,” she said. His eyes widened and underneath the table he clutched his knee,
she could only see because she was sitting right next to him.
“I was born in Point Aria,” he said soft enough that Babs had to lean in to hear
properly.
“What was that?” said Joe.
“I’m from Point Aria,” said Laurence in a steadier voice, “didn’t leave until
university. Still have family up there.” His face was back to neutral, but Babs thought
she glimpsed a sliver of something in eyes. Panic? Fear? Rage? She couldn’t pinpoint the
exact emotion. “ Where did you work?” he asked Babs.
“Point Aria theater and sometimes I subbed at the diner across the street because
they’re both owned by —•“
“the same guy.” said Laurence.
“You have family up there? I didn’t run into any Caldecotts that I can remember,”
said Babs. Laurence smiled. The joy of it transformed him into something concrete,
before Babs had only seen traces of the real person underneath the cool demeanor.
“My mother is Maggie Acosta.” Holy shit. Everyone knew Maggie, she was the
queen waitress at The Happy Banana Slug Diner and she worked two other jobs. She’d
seen baby picture of Maggie’s two sons and if she squinted she could see the
resemblance. Laurence had definitely inherited Maggie’s stellar Bowie-esque
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cheekbones, though his skin was darker and his frame bonier. He must be the oldest son,
the younger had still been in elementary school when she knew Maggie. It hit Babs like a
ton of proverbial bricks. She had so much shit on this guy.
She knew his favorite books. She knew what university he attended. She knew
about the time he and his brother accidently let a raccoon loose in their cabin. She knew
what position he played in peewee baseball league. She knew the one time he got
detention in school had been in defense of another. She knew he cried during any
production of Romeo and Juliet regardless of the show quality. She knew he helped his
little bother with homework unprompted. She knew he dated his male best friend in high
school and he thought Maggie didn’t know. She knew he refused to talk to his father
when he called the boys twice a year from Maine. She knew that he sent anonymous care
packages to Maggie and he thought Maggie didn’t know. Maggie knew.
“You’re kidding! I know Maggie. I mean everyone up there knows Maggie,” she
said.
“That’s the general consensus,” said Laurence, though he said it with a grin.
“What a coincidence!” said Joe. Half his lunch was already gone. The kid could
really pack it in quick.
“You’ve never heard of Point Aria, right?” said Laurence to Joe.
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“Can’t say I have, we didn’t stay up north very often. Generally if we went
somewhere it was either Illinois or Virginia to visit family unless it was a destination
vacation, y'know the Grand Canyon, Olympic National Park, that kind of thing.”
The rest of lunch went well, or as well as awkward introductory lunches with near
strangers went for Babs. After lunch she polished off an impressive chunk of the data and
overstayed by half an hour by accident. She sang along to the radio on her drive home.
Merry greeted her with a hug and then went back to compiling her notes for a tricky case
that went to trial in two days. Babs checked her e-mail. There were three from her
mother and two from her father. They all had cheerful subject lines like, “This artist
really speaks to me,” or, “Strong Woman of Color artist interview, so inspirational!!!” or
“some helpful tricks to cut sugar out of your diet.” She already knew everything inside.
There would be a selection of artists her parents wanted her to emulate, a few side
mentions of academics Babs never read and at least one crappy fad diet dressed up as
spiritualism. It didn’t matter if it was macrobiotic carrot schmear or a series of paper
mached Folgers coffee cans by a Kenyan expat in Brooklyn, in the fundamentals her
parents never changed. Probably why they moved so much and went by an ever-changing
list of nicknames and aliases. She fixed herself a cup of peppermint tea and drew
rainbows in her sketchpad until she felt less like garbage.
Chapter 10
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The first time the w olf killed it was an accident. H e’d followed the thrumming
thread o f something to a large town next to a lake and had been unable to travel any
further. Out o f sheer boredom the w olf started to work odd jobs around town. Eventually
the w olf earned enough to buy a store. He sold animal feed and dry goods. Everyone
came to his store and he knew all the townspeople by name and face. He sometimes got
snatches o f the thread and he would follow it down a street, but if he got too close itjust
seemed like it encompassed everything. One day a youth o f sixteen summer came in. He
had never been in the store, though the w olf vaguely recognized his features and style o f
dress as reminiscent o f one o f the local farmers who had mentioned having a son. The
boy approached the counter with a list. As the w olf help gather the items he noticed the
thread o f not-quite-song thrumming to an almost unbearable degree. Out o f habit more
than actual intent he tried to eat the boy just like he had tried to eat countless animals
and people. This time it worked. The w olf absently registered screaming and hubbub in
the background, but what was anything compared to delicious melodious potential that
now slid down his gullet like molten joy. This boy would have slain giants and toppled
kingdoms. This boy would have established peace and a new era ofprosperity. The boy’s
tale would have been an epic but the w olf ate that story until all that remained was the
boy’s cooling body. The screaming started anew. One o f his shopgirls screamed about a
giant wolf. Someone shouted fo r the town watch.
With the boy’s story consumed the thread had vanished, but new threads
shimmered in its place the w olf bolted fo r the closest one. He found himself on the edge
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o f an unfamiliar woods by a lake. It was snowing. It was evening. He turned around. A
figure, neither man or woman stood in his way. The w olf tried to eat them. Nothing
happened, though the figure otherwise seemed to see him. Unlike before the w olf couldn’t
sense anything to follow other than the thread that sounded different than this one. After
a moment the figure proceeded. The w olf debated what to do and while he did that the
same figure reappeared where it had been before. The figure paused and then went
forward as before. The w olf watched this happen hundreds o f time. The night never
lightened to day and it never stopped snowing. Eventually the w olf tried to move and
found that he would always fin d himself back at the same spot with the same figure.
Eventually the w olf grew tired o f the interminable cold. His stomach growled fo r a new
story, so he followed one o f the other threads hoping it would lead him to something
tasty.
He found himself a world like the first h e ’dfallen into. He understood the rules
better this time so he followed the thread o f story immediately. It led him to a palace. He
again found he couldn 7ju st devour people on whim. He got a job as a stable boy and
through hard work and some subterfuge managed to become a palace footman. He tested
his ability to eat people regularly. One day the kitchen got a new servant girl and he
immediately knew like he had known with the sixteen year old youth that she was the
nexus o f the story. He ate her right there in front o f the head cook, the three undercooks
and the head o f staff. The servant girl would have saved the king from poisoning,
causing him to fall instantly in love with her. They would have married and she would
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have become a ju st and influential Queen who brought education reform and patronage
to the arts. The w olf slurped up her narrative and he saw more threads than he ’d ever
seen before.
In the first week of December Lana brought up throwing a Christmas party.
“Here?’ asked Joe and he looked around their tiny apartment. It technically qualified as
a studio, though the clever use a half wall and columns made it seem like they had a
separate bedroom. Between them they owned a grand total of five chairs.
“Of course here, silly,” said Lana as she sorted the mail into important, unimportant
and junk piles.
“How big were you thinking, Hon? Because I’m not sure how many people we can
comfortably fit in here.”
“Well obviously Sherrie June and Pastor Kevin,” she said. Joe didn’t think there was
anything obvious about it, but he let her continue. “And of course we should invite the
Wilson’s. They just had a new baby, isn’t that darling?” She dumped the junk pile into
the recycle. “I think you should invite your coworkers and your boss, y ’know to display
the Christmas spirit,” she said.
Display seemed an apt choice of words because if they did invite Wolbin it would
become about symbols and performance. Joe had been working at Wolbin Enterprises for
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about a month and he rarely saw the man himself. When Wolbin did grace the worker
bees with his presence he had the air of a general inspecting his troops. Joe still had the
book Wolbin had given him, so far the other man had not made good on his promise to
quiz Joe on the motivations of the main characters. Joe kept a notecard with the main
points in his wallet at all times just in case Wolbin’s plan was to shanghai him.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to invite my boss. I think he’s used to a level of
opulence we just aren’t going to match. He’s a CEO, not a middle manager,” said Joe.
hopefully this would dissuade Lana. She looked around at the apartment as if assessing it
through new eyes.
“Hmm that‘s a fair point. We’ll save that for when we buy a house,” she said.
They hadn’t discussed buying a house. Joe was still on limited contract, so it seemed
presumptuous to make plans before anything solidified. He let it slide.
“I’ll invite Laurence and Babs, though I don’t know if either of them are leaving
to visit family,” said Joe as he dusted the bookshelf.
“I was thinking of throwing it earlier in the season anyway since so many people
are flying to celebrate with their families. Speaking of which, Pastor Kevin has invited us
to their Christmas dinner,” she said. Joe tossed the dust rag into the hamper and pulled
out the window cleaner and paper towels from the closet.
“I’d really rather not,” he said, “Todd and Katya have already volunteered their
place in Pasadena and we haven’t visited since before Lindsay was born. “
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“Are your parents going to be there?” asked Lana.
“Probably? It’s Lindsay’s first Christmas so I expect they want to go into full
grandparent mode and spoil her. I’ll ask when I call them on Saturday,” he said. Lana
wrinkled her nose in distaste.
“Your mother doesn’t like me.” This wasn’t technically true. Joe’s mother, a
lifelong Episcopalian, didn’t take kindly to Lana insisting Joe switch congregations. For
his part Joe though the important parts remained the same church to church after all Jesus
Christ was Jesus Christ regardless if you sat in an Episcopalian or an Evangelical pew.
“Naw, she just thinks we should have dated longer. She and my father went
together for five whole years before they talked about getting married.”
“Two years is a perfectly respectable courtship length,” sniffed Lana. She pulled
out a frozen pizza from the fridge and set the oven to preheat. Joe nodded as he pulled
the blinds away from the patio door and squirted the glass with cleaning fluid. Joe hadn’t
planned to get married quite so soon out of college, but Lana had swept him off his feet.
It had been the easiest thing to start with a few dates and then progress to going steady.
By the time she started doing more than hinting at marriage it just felt like the natural
next step.
“Anyway, I’ll ask Laurence and Babs about their schedules before the end of the
week,” said Laurence. It occurred to him he didn’t actually know if either of them
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celebrated Christmas. Babs never mentioned mass or other church activities and Laurence
occasionally used words Joe thought might be Yiddish.
“What about your other coworkers,” said Lana, “Rebecca, Lear and the other one,
Janie.”
“Jeannie,” said Joe. He didn’t correct her on Lars’ name because he couldn’t
summon an ounce of concern. “I don’t know them as well. Maybe we can invite them
over for something else in spring if we’ve all made it through company evaluations.” He
doubted Wolbin intended to hire all of them when the position had originally been
singular. Joe couldn’t actually define exactly what the position entailed, though it
seemed to involve going though a staggering amount of data related to forestry.
Chapter 11
Lunch had become a regular thing. Joe liked Babs more than he liked Laurence,
but every now and then the man would say something that didn’t sound like it could be
dialogue for Lex Luthor. Superman was on his mind; Babs outlined the differences
between the golden and silver age iterations.
“When people talk about Superman being a self-righteous, mercurial, petty
jerkass they’re usually talking about silver age. A lot of storylines revolve around him
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teaching his friends lessons by messing with them and in the case of Lois Lane, putting
her in her place,” said Babs as she cut some sort of roasted squash thing into bite size
pieces.
“But isn’t this the ‘60’s?” said Laurence, “of course it’s sexist. That’s pretty par
for the course for popular media pre second wave feminism.” Joe had no idea there were
waves of feminism. He wondered what the counted as the first wave. Suffragettes? Rosie
the Riveter? Gidget?
“Au contraire mon chair,” replied Babs. “Yes, comics were and are not always
bastions of progressive gender roles, but in the specific case of your hero and mine, the
indomitable Miss Lois Lane the silver age was a regression. Her original 30’s incarnation
was based on the pulp heroine Torchy Blane, whose competence and general
hardboiledness were portrayed as virtues. “
“Did you just call me a piece of furniture?” said Laurence with his signature
single eyebrow raise. Joe thought of it as his version of a friendly smile.
“Better than calling you a goopier endearment, honey,” said Babs. Her eyes
widened in a display of innocence and her demure smile threatened to burst into
laughter. Laurence rolled his eyes and took a delicate sip of whatever it was he brought in
his thermos everyday.
“So silver age Superman could be saved if he wasn’t sexist?” asked Joe. He was
eighty percent sure that wasn’t Babs’ point, but you sometimes had to give her a nudge
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with a leading question to get her back on topic once she and Laurence started sniping.
Joe couldn’t actually tell if it was flirting. He did know Laurence used a sharper tongue
with both Rebecca and Lars, but Babs tended to tease everyone a little bit as a matter of
course.
“Naw, I think Superman needs a rival. Not, like, in the villain sense, but someone
who does what he does in different ways. Maybe someone a little less shiny?” said Babs
as she peeled a tangerine.
“A dark counterpart?” said Laurence.
“Yeah exactly, something to shake up the whole white knight routine. Return the
guy to his heroic roots by acting as a contrast. Night to his day etc... I guess the trick is
that they have to be equally iconic and no other hero in that universe comes close to
being equally famous.”
“While this conversation about narrative first aid is fascinating,” said Laurence as
he checked his watch, “I need to meet Jeannie for a data transfer in ten minutes.” Joe and
Babs’ waved him off and started gathering up the debris from their own lunches.
“Oh, before I forget,” said Joe, “Lana and I might be throwing a Christmas party
in a couple weeks. Are you going to be around?” Babs nodded.
“My folks are going on a technology free fringe-friendly pilgrimage purge in Puget
Sound and I would personally rather fling myself into a swarm of angry bees than join
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them. So, yes, I will be around.” Joe nodded, wished her a good afternoon and went back
to his desk. Well at least one party guest would be happy to see him.
Laurence treated himself to Thai food on the way home. He preferred to be frugal
and save for a rainy day —or a maelstrom, signs pointed to maelstrom— most of the
time, but sometimes he needed an extra something to get through the day. Wolbin
Enterprises, at least on the surface, exhibited nothing horrific. It could even be argued
they were more progressive compared to similar companies. The key words mattered
though: exhibited, surface. Whatever was there had become very good at subterfuge. As
far as he could tell the employees were content. Joe, Rebecca, Jeannie and Babs showed
no signs of insidious intent and Lars was just a garden variety jackass. He couldn’t tell if
Lucy was actually up to something or if she was what she seemed: a bright woman who
enjoyed managing people. He’d looked up the animal she had identified as on the first
day. The iridescent shieldtail was a vivid and beautiful snake.
While he waited in the restaurant for his food to be ready his phone dinged.
Message from Ike. Give me your address. I ’m in ur area. Laurence gritted his teeth as he
texted Ike his address, the access code for the gate and his ETA. Ike tended to pull
impromptu visits if he was worried or anxious. Sometimes just because it had been
months since they’d seen each other.
“We’re best friends first and whatever else second,” Ike had said before Laurence
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left for college and he’d certainly held up his end of the bargain. Laurence couldn’t say
he had reciprocated Ike’s generosity. As he pulled into his parking spot he noticed Ike’s
beat up mustard yellow 1976 Dodge Dart parked down the street. Good, he’d found the
building ok. Ike sat by Laurence’s door playing some sort of chirpy game on his phone.
Upon noticing Laurence he took the bag of Thai food without being asked. Laurence
unlocked the door and gestured for Ike to come inside. Ike looked around the apartment,
took in the battered furniture and the piles of books that dominated every flat surface and
gave Laurence a look that mixed disbelief and exasperation into a perfect expression of
censure. Laurence fanned his arms over the mess while rolling his eyes. I f it bothers you
so much do something about it. Ike rolled his eyes in return, but started clearing the table
after he deposited the food on the counter. Laurence unpacked the food and opened a
bottle of Gewtirztraminer. By the time he’d dished the food onto plates, poured the wine,
and grabbed what passed for silverware the table was clear and outfitted in a tablecloth
Laurence didn’t remember buying.
Ike immediately homed in on the plate that didn’t have any roasted duck, but did
have extra pad Thai. Laurence settled at the far end of the table with his own plate and
they ate in silence. Laurence had been debating getting seconds versus the glories of
leftovers for breakfast when Ike spooned the last of the duck onto Laurence’s plate. He
waggled his eyebrows at Laurence and grinned. Laurence sighed, but savored the rest of
his dinner.
They did the washing up together. By unspoken agreement Ike scrubbed and
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Laurence dried. Afterwards Laurence picked up the book he was currently reading, a
critical analysis of antagonists in fairy tales, and went to the bedroom. He fluffed up one
of the pillows and got comfortable. Five minutes later Ike came in with his laptop and
settled next to Laurence. He nudged the spare pillow towards Ike while taking away the
laptop so he could type in his wifi password. Ike squashed down into the pillow.
Laurence gave Ike a pointed look. Ike let out a theatrical sigh, but he kicked off his filthy,
filthy sneakers, freeing Laurence’s comforter from a fate worse than mud. Ike resettled
and started watching an action film starring that one guy from that thing and that other
guy from that sitcom Laurence never watched. The movie involved a prodigious amount
of parkour. Laurence continued reading. Midway through the film Ike pulled a pack of
peanut butter cups from his jean’s pocket. He waved a peanut butter cup in front of
Laurence’s nose until he snorted and snatched it from Ike’s fingers. The candy was half
squashed, a little melted and delicious.
Once the movie credits started rolling Laurence hauled himself up and went to the
bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face. After he finished he handed his toothbrush
to Ike, who took the hint and headed towards the bathroom. Laurence closed the laptop
and stowed it on top of his dresser. He stripped down to his underwear, threw his dirty
clothes in the hamper and got under the covers. Ike came into the room already in
undershirt and boxers, his clothes bundled underneath one arm. Ike looked around the
room; Laurence canted his head towards the hamper obscured by the angle of the door.
Ike threw in his clothes and got in bed. Laurence turned off his bedside light, Ike did the
108
same. Light from the street filtered in at odd angles through the blinds, casting Ike in
stripes of illumination.
Ike raised a hand and with deliberate slowness and rested it on Laurence’s
shoulder. Laurence scooted closer and tangled his ankles with Ike’s feet. Ike’s hand
ghosted down from shoulder to hip while his other hand came up to sweep Laurence’s
cheek with a thumb. Their foreheads touched. Their breath intermingled. They kissed. It
was both familiar and invigorating. With a start Laurence realized this constituted more
physical contact than the past three months combined. His chest heaved; he needed air.
Ike pulled back in surprise.
“Laur! What is it?” said Ike, alarm etched in his handsome face. He had very kind
eyes Laurence thought absently. Laurence tried to reply, but found himself still caught
up in the pounding of his own heart. He took a couple of deep breaths.
“Do you remember when Andy was almost hit by the tree?” asked Laurence, who
hadn’t realized he was going to tell Ike at least some of the truth until that sentence had
popped out of his mouth.
“Yeah,” said Ike in his I’m-confused-but-I-trust you-voice. God, Laurence loved
him. “Nattie and Kat told me about it when it happened.”
“Do you remember a couple of months later when Lucien was hiking and he thought an
animal was about to jump him and he thought he saw something lunge but when he
opened his eyes it was nothing? And he called damn near every ranger in the area
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anyway?” asked Laurence.
“Yeah. Hannah was super pissed Daryl had to stop their date night to go deal with
it.”
“Do you remember when Mom said a stranger with a badge came to the cabin and
started asking all kinds of questions about Andy and me? And she told him to buzz off
unless he had a warrant? And the police had no idea who it was when she brought it up to
them?”
“Again, yes,” said Ike.
“And do you remember the growling?” asked Laurence. Ike shivered.
“Yes,’ he said in his quietest voice. The growling had happened a year ago. Ike
and Laurence had both been home for the summer during the worst storm on record in
Point Aria in a decade. They’d been stuck in the Caldecott cabin with Andy while the
weather raged around them. It had sounded like a huge animal trying to tear down the
walls.
“Do you remember what I told you about my stranger theory- that in the western
canon there looms a male figure, often described as wolf-like, never named, frequently a
stymies the plot, and I theorized that it was caused by a persistent, unconscious cultural
fear and that the man was functionally the same from text to text?” asked Laurence. He
pillowed his head on Ike’s shoulder. He smelled like peanuts and fresh sweat. Ike
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wrapped both arms around Laurence.
“Go on, Laur,” he said.
“You won’t believe the next part.”
“Try me,” said Ike. Laurence sighed and leaned back into Ike’s embrace.
“I started an essay project on the wolf stranger figure in fiction and poetry. I
thought it might be the foundation for a thesis later. Nobody’s catalogued them all. I also
started collecting anything with wolves or wolf imagery on the chance there might be a
connection.” Laurence swallowed. “There are a lot of references. More than I thought
there would be.” Ike hmmed in acknowledgement. “And I started seeing similarities. The
man asking questions. Lucien’s invisible animal. The marks on the tree. The growling,”
said Laurence. There was more, but this information was damning enough.
Ike let go of him, sat up and leaned down to look him in the eye. This would be
where Ike gently suggested Laurence was under a lot of stress and needed a break or
professional help.
“I once saw Lucien and Carolina go into a tree,” said Ike.
“What?” said Laurence. Point Aria and Las Babosas were littered with hollowed
trees and Andy’s cohorts got into everything related to the forest.
“Not in a dead tree. Like a living tree. A medium sized one. I walked around the
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entire thing to be sure.” Ike nodded to himself. “And after that I noticed Lucien and his
friends will sometimes just disappear in the forest, even when they were in line of sight a
moment ago. Remember when Lucien and Andy came back with those fruit still on
branches? The purple ones?”
‘Yes,” said Laurence. The interior flesh had been a rich orange and they’d tasted
like tang and sunshine.
“They were passion fruit, I looked it up. That does not grow around Point Aria
and neither of the supermarkets stock it in any form other than canned. I called both of
them just to be sure,” said Ike.
“I was approached by a woman claiming to be the goddess Freya,” said Laurence
as he considered Ike’s information.
“Was she?” asked Ike.
“She produced an amphora of honey wine out of thin air and made my bookcase
float. If she isn’t Freya she is definitely something scary and powerful, though I think she
is who she says who she is based on the whole fertility/baby thing and the cats. Oh god,
the cats.” Laurence shuddered at the thought. These days the cats were much more
circumspect; they had been over six feet long and three feet high when he met them the
first time.
“I am ninety-eight percent sure Lucien’s friend Siobhan is a selkie. I saw her seal
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pelt and I’m pretty sure I saw her transform when she got into the water once. It was
dusk, so hard to see,” said Ike
“Freya brought Zeus over once. He hit on my neighbor, who is married, and he
wore a floral trucker hat with a v-neck Lou Reed shirt,” said Laurence. Ike made a
gagging noise at the back of his throat.
“I saw a fairy. It tried to convince myself I was just tipsy, but I’d only drunk half
a beer. Half a beer does not do that. Not even if it’s a tripel ale,” said Ike
“Did the fairy have glitzy butterfly wings?” asked Laurence, who thus far felt Ike
had gotten the better deal in regards to fictional things being aggressively nonfictional.
“Naw, bat wings and a purple mohawk. In retrospect that’s actually awesome.
What did the goddess want?”
“Oh, well it wasn’t just what she wanted. She was chosen to represent all the
pantheons because she has better track record of interactions with mortals than the rest of
them. She hardly ever accidently smites or impregnates someone.”
“The point, babe,” Ike prompted.
“She confirmed what I thought. There is a wolf figure stalking through stories,
tearing through narratives.”
“That’s a little unbelievable,” said Ike.
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“Weren’t you just telling me you saw a selkie?”
“That’s not what I meant,” sputtered Ike, “if this wolf is destroying their stories
why are they here?” Laurence smiled at Ike. In the important things their logic tended to
align.
“That’s what I asked. They didn’t know, but most of them say they feel different.
Some of their powers work, but not all of them. Mostly they are diminished. I do have a
theory though,” said Laurence.
“Out with it, man,” said Ike as he nudged Laurence with his shoulder.
“So out of all the stories I think have been interfered with — The Wizard o f Oz,
Les Miserables, to a minor extent Pride and Prejudice— the only ones with characters
who ‘survived’ meaning ‘here now’ aren’t authored by a single person.”
“So?”
“So, you can break a version of their story, maybe a major version, but the other
iterations remain. Displaced, possibly altered, but they remain,” said Laurence. Ike
grimaced.
“So anything with enough multiples is here? That can’t possibly be without
consequences. Pass me my pants; I think I need to have pants on for the rest of this
conversation. You should put pants on too,” said Ike. Laurence rolled his eyes but
retrieved their respective trousers from the hamper.
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“Not necessarily on the multiples,” corrected Laurence. “So far I’ve only seen
entities that started with magic. According to Freya they are still missing people from
both pantheons.” Ike pulled on his jeans.
“What’s the objective, though?” asked Ike.
“Pardon?”
“Ok, so I’m a big bad story destroying wolf. Why do I do it? I mean obviously
also how do I do it, but let’s focus on the why since the how is probably illogical magical
bullshit,” said Ike.
“As far as we can tell, hunger. A lot of our information is piecemeal, but Athena
actually witnessed the thing devour someone named Perseus.”
“You familiar with Perseus?” asked Ike.
“No.”
“So why are there broken texts instead of just texts that have disappeared without
us realizing they should have existed in the first place?”
“I don’t know. My guess is he is better at navigating myths and fairy tales because
the structure is predictable. I think novels throw him,” said Laurence. He’d spent many
nights examining the passage in Pride and Prejudice where the wolf bumbled through,
paired with Wolbin’s confusion of Austen it seemed a likely explanation.
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“Ok so what does he go after? Is there a specific target?” asked Ike, who ran a
hand through his short auburn hair in agitation.
“He does have a modus operandi if that’s what you’re getting at,” said Laurence.
“That’s actually why Pm in Los Angeles. The wolf —as far as we can tell— establishes
himself in the world as a business owner. We have reason to believe that this time he’s
the CEO of Wolbin Enterprises.”
“Never heard of ‘em,” said Ike.
“Well they don’t manufacture baseballs or pie, so I’m not surprised.” Ike dove for
Laurence, who cackled gleefully at getting a rise out of him.
“Such a jerk,” he muttered in Laurence’s ear. Laurence cupped the back of Ike’s
neck and laughed into the juncture where neck met shoulder. He lay back and looked up
at Ike.
“Why are you here?” asked Laurence He traced the line of Ike’s jaw partially to
soften the question, partially because he missed the feel of Ike’s stubble underneath his
fingers.
“Last phone call. You were upset. It was really obvious. You’re a shitty liar,
babe.” Laurence considered himself a superb liar, consummate even, but he had very
little practice keeping anything substantial from Ike.
“You drove all the way to L.A. because you thought I was upset?”
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“I visited an exciting new city because my best friend needed help,” retorted Ike.
“How long are you staying?”
“That depends,” said Ike.
“On what? You can relax a little, I’m not glass and it can’t be comfortable putting
all your weight on your elbows,” said Laurence. Ike rolled to the side, pulling Laurence
along with him.
“It depends on what kind of help you need.” Ike toyed with the loose strands at
the nape of Laurence’s neck, in other circumstances he might have been annoyed, but he
could only work up token displeasure. The silence stretched between them. Laurence
thought of everything that could wrong.
“Go back to Point Aria,” said Laurence. Ike started to jerk to a sitting position,
but Laurence gently pushed him down. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just if it goes wrong on
my end I want Andy to be safe. I can’t be there in person for him right now. Keep him
safe.” Ike pulled him into a tight hug.
“Look at you, delegating and everything. My darling is all grown up” he said.
“Yeah,” murmured Laurence.
“Yeah,” repeated Ike in a voice devoid of his previous joviality. “Ok, I’ll do it” he
said after a moment. “Once this is over we are having a Talk with a capital T. Spoilers:
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it’s gonna be about all reasons why I think we should get married.” If it hadn’t already
been a very long day Laurence would have wrenched up surprise, shock etc... as it was he
could only manage a huff of amusement.
“At least you managed to propose while we’re both still wearing pants.”
“This isn’t a proposal, this is a pre-pre proposal. It is proposing having a
conversation about potentially proposing. There is still plenty of time for me not to wear
pants.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I accept your pre-pre proposal and in turn I propose we go to
bed. I have to get up at six-thirty. We can talk in the morning,” said Laurence. Ike nodded
and opened his arms so Laurence could change into his sleeping clothes.
Chapter 12
“I found an apartment!” shouted Babs as she let herself into Merry and Richard’s
place. “Well, technically a sublet, but it will get me out of your hair until I can find a real
place.” Richard looked up from the cutting board he was rinsing in the sink.
“That’s fantastic, chickie, but Merr and me don’t mind having you stay longer.
We have an air mattress in storage somewhere if the couch is killing your back,” said
Richard.
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“No, it’s not that. It’s just time I got out of your way, y’know? You’ve sacrificed
enough of your privacy.”
“Sublets are so temporary. I would be more comfortable if you were moving to
something stable,” said Richard. He’d stopped washing and had started to fuss with the
Star of David necklace that he usually kept under his shirt. Babs’ eyes narrowed.
“Ok, what’s the problem?”
“Far be it for me what to tell you what do,” said Richard.
“But?” prompted Babs.
“A sublet seems like a step up in permanence but really it’s got a handy little time
limit built in. Whether you realize it or not you’re building yourself an exit strategy.”
Richard looked at the floor and sighed. “Listen how you wanna do you is your own
business, but you actually seem happy at this corparado shtick and I’d hate to see you bail
on something because of a fleeting wanderlust.”
Babs walked over to Richard and patted him on the shoulder. After a moment he
made eye contact. She smiled and after a moment he gave a tentative smile back.
“You done?’ she asked. He sighed.
“Yeah. Please just consider taking a few days before making any decisions, if the
sublet can wait that long,” he said. Babs inclined her head in acknowledgement. She
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pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge and put nine of them in a ceramic bowl. She also
put sticks of butter on the counter. When they reached room temperature she would
make Richard an orange hazelnut cake.
“I don’t mean to run away, y ’know,” she said.
“I know.”
“Sometimes I can’t stay anymore. It’s like..
she paused and tried to sort how to
put it into words. “It’s like I know I’m supposed to be doing something specific, but I
don’t know what it is. I only know what it’s not and once I know what it’s not then why
stay?” She went to the liquor cabinet and got the bottle of contrieu and set it on the
counter, which Richard took as a prompt to start zesting blood oranges.
“That’s not entirely foreign to me. Bolted after a semester of law school for a
reason, but hey at least I met Merry before I dropped out, since that turned out to be the
important bit,” he said. Babs went to the pantry to grab the hazelnuts when she heard the
telltale key jingle that meant Merry was about to walk through the door. ‘Speak of the
devil,” said Richard.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say about the love of your life,” said Babs.
“Whatever he said I’m used to it,” said Merry as she entered the kitchen and
kissed Richard hello. “Court was a circus today. Martillo went off on lis pendens of all
things,” said Merry. Babs tuned out the rest of the legal talk as she ground the nuts with a
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mortar and pestle.
“And how was your day, Babs?” said Merry after about twenty minutes. Babs
shrugged.
“It was fine, the usual data sorting stuff,” said Babs. “Rebecca brought in boughs
of fresh holly for anyone who wanted ‘em, which was sweet of her. Apparently her
brother owns a Christmas tree farm up North. Lars was awful, but that’s Lars. I can’t
actually imagine what a non-awful version of him would be like. Maybe a totally silent
void that occasionally consumes blueberry bagels?”
“That is not a real flavor of bagel,” said Richard, “that is a doughnut in witness
protection.” Merry giggled and put on the kettle for tea.
“Jeannie liked that movie you suggested,” said Babs to Merry, “She and her
girlfriend wanted to know if you would recommend any other movies by that director?”
“All of Preminger’s movies are great, but I think they’ll particularly like The Man
with the Golden Arm,” said Merry.
“I’ll pass that on. Joe was in a good mood,” said Babs as she dug through her bag
until she found the yellow construction paper invitation he’d pressed into her hands. It
was in the shape of a star. “He and his wife are throwing a Christmas party next Friday. I
think I’ll go if Laurence goes.”
“Let us know if you need us to play designated driver,” said Richard.
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“Oh I doubt it’ll be much of a boozefest. I think there’ll be more Velveeta than
alcohol,” said Babs. Richard gave a delicate shudder.
Later after they had baked and eaten the cake Babs put sheets on the couch. She
tried to imagine buying a bed for herself. For the first time in her life she could actually
afford something comfortable, attractive and new. The sublet was furnished, but after that
the new phantom apartment would be a blank canvas. She’d need other stuff too, a table,
at least two chairs. More dishes than the plate/bowl/mug combo she had going. She tried
to imagine living alone. For as long as she could remember there had been group living:
communes, camps, dorms, shared apartments, places she’d couch surfed. She wondered if
living alone was like taking a long drive alone -lonely at first and then gratifying and
sometimes intermittently lonely again.
Joe flipped through the book Wolbin had given him. The Light in the Forest was
growing on him. He’d read it three times already in anticipation of Wolbin springing a
test on him. Though the premise and plot were very silly, especially the magical creatures
functioning in a modern setting — selkies running a dry cleaners, a coven of witches
owning and operating a sustainable organic bakery, a diner with a pooka as a proprietor
and a revenant from the French Revolution who ran a subpar catering company— the
more he read the better developed the main characters seemed. He half considered
handimg it over to Lana so they could discuss it, but he didn’t because he didn’t know if
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Wolbin wished him to be discreet with the book. As far as he could tell Babs, Laurence,
Rebecca and Lars hadn’t received copies.
Lana didn’t much care for fantasy anyway. Last week Pastor Kevin gave an
impassioned speech on the evils of giving the devil power through supposedly harmless
media. Media the righteous should deeply fear included anything that depicted demons or
even the mythological. Joe’s feeling on the matter were Pastor Kevin would make him
stop watching his favorite supernatural detective show over his dead body even if Lana
now made a disapproving clicking noise at the back of her throat very time he rewatched
the DVDs. Joe had purposely looked up religious fantasy authors on the web just so he
could have a battery of examples at hand should Pastor Kevin try to pull something the
Christmas party. At minimum he could use it as a distraction if Pastor Kevin and
Laurence got too close to interacting; Joe didn’t know if Laurence would start a fight
over literary debate but he would certainly finish it, possibly with the verbal equivalent of
a .44 magnum. Joe wondered if he should ask Babs to covertly keep Laurence away from
Pastor Kevin then he realized he didn’t have anyone to keep Babs away from Pastor
Kevin. Maybe he would invite Lucy after all, she regularly kept anyone from murdering
Lars, she could handle a small Christmas party.
Joe ran his fingers over the raised text on the cover of the book. Something about
the book bothered him, but he couldn’t precisely isolate what. Something about one of
the characters, a small detail he’d missed the significance of, something important. He
almost had it — a specific about the setting, perhaps— when Lana came home laden with
party supplies. He leapt up to help her.
Up in his office the w olf sniffed the air. It wouldn ’t be long now. He ’d been eating
stories long enough that he could sense when the moment had almost ripened. He'd sunk
his influence deep in this world, so deep even a complex thread like this would submit to
his jaws. He would miss his office; he ’d acquired some very pretty things. He would not
miss how slowly it took to get anything done when one ran a reputable business Before he
left he would get the little ones to write tips on how to understand big stories under the
guise o f a work exercise. He wouldn’t miss the little ones, though they amused him.
Laurence was his favorite, mostly because he understood stories, but there was a cruelty
and sharpness in him that the w olf savored. A shame he probably wouldn’t survive the
fallout. It had been such a pity he couldn ’t give the book to Laurence instead o f Joe, but
Laurence would have recognized names and places whereas Joe hadn ’t even recognized
his own cameo in chapter seven. The w olf sniffed the air again. Soon. So soon.
End of Book 1