The Turning Season

  “How’s he doing?” I ask her as we sip tea at the big oak table in the big airy kitchen.

  “I’m not sure. He’s studying, so the home schooling is turning out to be okay from an academic standpoint, but I can’t tell if he misses his routine at school. Sometimes he plays pickup basketball games down at the high school, so we thought about putting him in a league somewhere, but we haven’t done it.”

  “Bonnie said he has friends who come over.”

  “He does. Not good friends. No one I think he’s really close to.”

  I make a derisive sound. “Do men ever allow themselves to get close to anybody?”

  Her smile is instant and wicked. “Well, I’m not an expert on men, but most of the ones I know are emotionally—What’s the politically correct term?—delayed.”

  “So maybe Alonzo’s just being a guy.”

  “Maybe. But I think we need to find something he really loves—something he can pour his energy into—and then he’ll start finding soul mates.”

  “When is he happiest?”

  Aurelia shakes her head. “Still figuring that out.” She glances around the kitchen. “He likes being here, although when I asked him if he’d want to live here full time—”

  “What? Oh, I don’t know that I’m ready for that.”

  “Don’t worry. He said no. He said it wouldn’t be special anymore.”

  “Well, he’s only, what, fourteen? How many of us knew what we were going to love when we were that age?”

  “I did,” Aurelia says. “I knew I wanted to be a lawyer. I watched lawyer TV shows and read lawyer books and had mock trials with the dolls and the stuffed animals.”

  “Dolls and stuffed animals,” I repeat. “Wow. So girlie.”

  She laughs. “Well, the dolls usually ended up going to jail while the stuffed animals were set free, so, I don’t know, maybe there was some racial or diversity bias there. You know. Always working on behalf of the ‘other,’ the one that doesn’t quite fit in.”

  “That’s my Aurelia,” I say admiringly.

  She looks at her watch, mutters, “Shit,” then shrugs and refills her teacup. “What about you? What did you want to be when you were fourteen?”

  Oh, that’s too easy. “Normal.”

  She tilts her head to survey me. “Not a shape-shifter?”

  “Hell, yeah, not a shape-shifter. I was turning into dogs and goats and deer and ostriches and an elephant once—an honest-to-God elephant. I hated my life and I hated myself. There’s nothing you could have asked me to do, nothing, that I would have refused if it had meant becoming an ordinary girl with an ordinary body.”

  Her gray eyes glitter. Aurelia loves exploring people’s personal limits. “Would you have killed someone?”

  “At the time I told myself I would,” I answer honestly. “I even went through the list of people I would and wouldn’t kill. There were a couple of neighbor kids I would have been totally fine with murdering in cold blood. But my dad? My aunt? The cute guy three houses down? No. I knew I couldn’t hurt them.” I sigh. “And I’m sure I couldn’t really have done it, even if the opportunity arose. At least, that’s what my adult self likes to believe.”

  “So when did you come to terms with it? When did you say, ‘This is who I am, I love myself, I will make the most of my life’?”

  It’s a long time before I reply. I swirl the dregs of tea in my cup, I look away, I look back. But Aurelia has infinite patience; she’ll wait through the apocalypse if that’s what it takes before you answer. “I haven’t,” I say at last.

  “Really? But you seem so—I guess the word is content. You have friends you care about, a job you love, a house that I personally would kill for, and I say that knowing all the drawbacks to homicide—”

  She makes me laugh, but in my head I’m replaying that old argument with Ryan. You hide here at this clinic and pretend it matters because you can’t face what waits out in the real world! “I’m here because I’m protected here,” I say softly. “It’s a bonus that I have the skills and knowledge to help other people who are like me. Even if I didn’t, I’d still be here. There’s no place else that’s safe.”

  “Do you fantasize about running away?”

  “All the time.” I would never admit that to Ryan, of course, but it’s a relief to speak the words aloud to Aurelia. She’s so familiar with the world’s evil that nothing shocks her. “And if I ever perfected the serum that would let me wholly control my shifting? I’d be gone. I’d lock up this place and go.”

  She nods. “It’s interesting that you think so.”

  I’m a little affronted. “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I think maybe your circumstances helped mold you into a certain kind of person, but I don’t believe that person could be pried out of you now if you took a chisel and split your body in half. Okay, maybe you could walk away from this clinic—but you’d set one up somewhere else. Or open a stray rescue foundation. Or start working with hunger charities. I don’t believe you know how to live a life without meaning.”

  “That’s not true. I can be shallow. I know I can.”

  She smiles. “Well, then. I hope you find the right medical formula so you get a chance.”

  * * *

  Once she’s gone, I work alongside Alonzo in the barn until the first client of the day shows up, leading a dachshund with a bad limp. Three more people from town arrive before the day is over, but their animals are simply animals and their problems are routine.

  Right around nightfall, when I’ve released Alonzo from work and let him start playing his video games, a couple of shape-shifters come to the porch. One’s a black wolf, and he looks so much like Cooper that for a moment my breath catches in my throat. He even has a little silver around his muzzle, like Cooper did in those last couple of years, but this one is still strong and healthy. He has a good five years left, I’m guessing, maybe more.

  His companion is a mixed-breed dog, maybe part shepherd, part chow, with rough curly dark hair and root-beer-colored eyes. She’s got a gash in her left foreleg that’s deep, ugly, and not very old, but it’s already starting to show signs of infection. Not fatal, though, not yet; she’s arrived in time.

  I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen either one of them before, and neither one chooses to or is able to take human form and talk to me, but I’m positive they’re shape-shifters who know about me through the informal grapevine of our strange community. For one thing, true wolves don’t generally show up at my door and look around with quite this degree of focused curiosity, showing no alarm when a woman steps outside and begins speaking to them. For another, feral dogs don’t usually extend their injured limbs in a silent request for attention, then wait patiently when I say, “Let me get some supplies—I’ll be right back.”

  I clean and bind the wound, giving my patient care instructions that include “Come back and see me in a few days and I’ll change the dressing for you.” I also give them a tour of the compound, showing them where they can sleep if they want to spend the night. When they settle into one of the unoccupied lean-tos, lovingly outfitted with blankets and other amenities, I say, “Give me a minute and I’ll bring food and water. You can stay as long as you want. And if you’re here in the morning, I’ll check your leg again.”

  Alonzo puts the video game on pause so he can help me bring out bowls of supplies. He seems fascinated by the wolf, but he doesn’t get too close. He pets the dog, though, and she licks his hand. Just another instance of women being more open and approachable than men, I think with a grin. But, honestly, even I find the black wolf a little intimidating. He’s a man at least some of the time, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s civilized. In this state, at any rate, he looks as wild as they come.

  * * *

  When I wake up Sunday morning, I’m instantly aware of the weight of another living creature on the end of
my bed. Too small to be Scottie, too big to be one of the cats. I sit up and peer through the half-light permitted by the curtains. A not-quite-full-grown raccoon stares back at me, his dark eyes unblinking. Between his front paws rests an apple that he probably stole from the bowl in the kitchen.

  “Alonzo,” I say. “I’m guessing this is a surprise.”

  I yawn and reach for the cell phone I keep on my bedside table. It’s barely 8 A.M., but Bonnie answers on the first ring. She’s probably been up before dawn, re-siding the house or serving breakfast at the homeless shelter.

  “Hey. Alonzo shifted overnight. He’s a raccoon. Isn’t this a little early for him?”

  Bonnie’s voice is concerned but not anxious. “It is. We thought he had another three or four days.”

  “Well, you know. Teen hormones. They can interfere with everything.”

  “I was going to pick him up this afternoon, but should I come get him right now?”

  “He’s probably better off out here, don’t you think? He can stay until he shifts back.”

  “If it’s not too much of an imposition.”

  “Not at all. Hell, I won’t even have to feed him, since it looks like he can forage pretty well on his own.”

  “It’s usually two or three days before he’s human again. Call us when he’s ready and one of us will come get him.”

  “All right. And don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  Alonzo, in fact, seems quite happy. He scurries out the front door when I open it for him and immediately heads over to the trash containers. I take a shower, eat a quick breakfast, and make my rounds among the animals, Scottie at my heels.

  The shape-shifters are gone, which I take as a good sign. If they were worried about the leg wound, surely they would have stuck around longer. Daniel, on the other hand, is back, again in Doberman shape and again not looking very congenial. I refill his water bowl and leave him in peace. The puppies bark hysterically after I let them out into the fenced run and Alonzo sidles up on the other side.

  “Oh, you’re just trying to rile them up,” I say in exasperation. “I should drop you over the fence and see how amusing you think it is then.” But of course I don’t. The turtle seems immune to all the commotion.

  Once all the animals are taken care of, I spend a couple of hours in the lab, mixing up more serum for Ryan. And another few doses for myself. I take another injection of the Baxter-and-Isabel mix, though I’m thinking I might want to try a different formula later in the month, maybe mix a little of Lanita’s blood into the formula and see if that helps me control the shapes I take. Or maybe I’ll design a number of different concoctions and start alternating doses—one week the serum that limits how often I change, one week the formula that turns me into a cat. Might be safer, and might be just as effective.

  Sounds like a brand of birth control, I think, and snort with amusement. Better living through chemistry.

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

  * * *

  Monday and Tuesday pass without incident; it’s Wednesday when life gets interesting again.

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

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

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

  “We’ve got company,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your turn to babysit?” he asks lightly.

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

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

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

  “I did. It’s on the porch.”

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

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

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

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

  “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

  “Did you win?”

  “I did. Five thousand dollars at blackjack.”

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

  He grins. “What do you think?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I can’t be gone that long,” I say.

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