Chapter 2

Chapter 2 Joanie-9, Tommy-14, Maxie-62 In those first few tenuous years after Tommy came into his care Maxie hated to deny Tommy anything. He’d already taken so much from the boy. He held his ground on this though. The girl stayed. She would not go back to whoever put those burns on her too skinny arms. She wouldn’t tell them her name. So Maxie called her Joan. After Joan Vollmer, an old flame from a different time. When he called people like Gloria Schmitt and Neal Cassaday friends. Joan watched the man and boy carefully, but without much fear. Years later she told Max that her mother constantly had new people over. Boyfriends, dealers, bodyguards, free-loaders, and handymen. She’d been with Maxie and Tommy just under a month. She didn’t leave Maxie’s home in the woods. People were searching for her. Even her methhead mother was capable of calling the police once she noticed she was gone. Max was a bit appalled by how long it took for missing posters to go up. He finally learned her real name, Princess O’Callaghan, but when he tried to call her by it she refused to answer. He’d never met a girl with a less fitting name, so he stuck to Joan and she seemed to like it. For the first month he couldn’t go out and buy her clothes because he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. So she wore Tommy’s hand-me-downs. Baggy jeans rolled up, basketball shorts triple knotted so they would stay up, and t-shirts with band logos for Molly Hatchet, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Marshall Tucker Band. After a few weeks, when the missing posters were faded and splattered with rain Maxie began spreading word that his (fictional) daughter had adopted a little nine year old girl and he was going to be a grandfather! He talked at length about how he planned on spoiling her rotten, so no one thought it strange when he started purchasing books, toys, clothes, and candy. Joanie loved candy. For the first two weeks Tommy kept his distance from Joanie. He was a serious kind of kid, but not so serious that he couldn’t loosen up and enjoy the company of another kid. He took it upon himself to teach Joanie about “good” music before Max turned her into an unmitigated snob. Max would probably turn her into a snob anyway, but Tommy would make sure there was at least some mitigation courtesy of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Guy Clark, and the Allman Brothers Band. There was only one place where Tommy and Maxie’s tastes aligned. Johnny Cash. The man in black was playing basically anytime Tommy and Maxie were both in the house. Neither could function without music nor could either stand the other’s taste so Cash was the true soundtrack of Tommy and Joanie’s childhood. Maxie took it upon himself to teach Joanie about good books before Tommy got his hooks into her. Before Max had bitten Tommy he’d been well on his way to becoming another Lorraine redneck. At the age of fourteen he’d already flipped a four-wheeler and broken his leg while hunting, come up with several recipes for squirrel, and refused to wear any shoes besides cowboy boots. He listened almost exclusively to swamp rock and held a general disdain for reading, preferring instead to watch those nasty horror movies. Max would not let Joanie suffer the same fate. He read to her constantly and made her read to him as well. Hemingway’s ideas were grand but his words were simple. Thoreau instilled in her the same war that raged in himself, the love of company and the sharing of ideas constantly battling with a desire for isolation and peace. He read her Shakespeare and did voices for every character. She didn’t understand a single individual word but knew every story by its end. The beauty of Shakespeare lied in its performance. You didn’t need to understand the words, the story came through anyway if the teller was committed and the audience was awake. At the beginning of every play there would be a moment of disorientation but once a performer lands the first joke and the audience finds itself laughing, they have fallen into the story and won’t leave until it spits them back out with a wedding or a funeral in the final scene. Joanie may end up a redneck like her brother, but she’d be a well-read one. He didn’t read her the works of his friends. Not then. Not yet. Only when she was older would she stumble onto her burning desire for a life on the road through the works of Kerouac, Burroughs, and Delphinium. It would be cruel to show her this world when the hard and simple truth of it was this: she wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a long time. *** Joanie-Not yet born, Tommy-Not yet born, Maxie-19 Max and Happy Delphinium were fast friends. They were fast friends in the way only 19 year olds can be, when they make their first friend based not on physical proximity, but mental proximity. They met in Reno Nevada. Despite being from opposite sides of the country they had come to the seemingly simultaneous decision to ditch college and come to Nevada. Happy went straight to Reno. Maxie took a brief pit stop in Vegas. He realized he hated Las Vegas nearly as much as it hated him and left fairly quickly for the biggest little city on earth. They’d each spent almost all their money on the journey and didn’t have much left over for fun. So they found themselves at the Shy Clown, a very suspect bar with a low buy-in poker game running 24/7 in the back corner. Max thought he might try to get in on the game after he’d had a few drinks. Happy just liked suspect places. Happy had been in the Clown for several hours when Max walked in. The first thing he noticed was that Max was very tall. The second thing he noticed was that Max had the absolutely lethal combination of blonde hair and brown eyes. Happy knew from experience these boys were always big trouble, but dynamite in the sack. The third thing he noticed was that Max looked beaten all to shit, with double black eyes and splinted fingers. Max didn’t notice Happy. Not at first. Anytime Happy was in public he was surrounded by two or three girls, their faces were subtly different but their desperation for his attention was the same whether he was in New York, San Francisco, or Reno. Happy’s green eyes, black curls, and easy smile attracted brassy dames who patronized places like the Shy Clown unescorted. The ones who saw past his horn rimmed glasses and crooked incisors to see how handsome he was. Their lipstick was dark and their laughs were loud. Happy liked the girls, they were beautiful and fun but sometimes he longed to go somewhere for a drink and not catch battering eyelashes everywhere he turned, but he and the girls were the same breed. They’d feel out of place anywhere else. So they were stuck together. Happy was half-mexican half-irish. He waged a constant war with his hair. His parents had been migrant workers. When he was 5 his father had died when an improperly latched hay wagon exploded open sending tons of hay tumbling on top of him, crushing him. His Mhamo told him his mother died of a broken heart not long after. After that he went to live with his Mhamo in Brooklyn, spending a disastrous year with his abuela in California when he was 14. His Mhamo was big and irish and kind. She slapped him on the head whenever her love for him seemed too big to contain any longer. She taught him to sing and how to cook. He adored her. He was superstitious, poetic, and hardscrabble. Despite his tough beginning he had a deep abiding love for beauty and a sense of whimsy that clashed against his hustler existence. What he lacked in charm he made up for with sincerity. Max sat down at the opposite end of the bar from Happy. He ordered a well gin and tonic. Happy dug around for his last two dollars. He signalled the bartender and sent Max a bombay sapphire martini. Once Max finished his gin and tonic the bartender presented Max with the martini. Happy couldn’t hear Max ask who sent it, but he knew that’s what he’d said when the bartender pointed him out. Max raised his glass to Happy. Happy mirrored him. After twenty minutes Happy was able to convey to the girls that their energies would be better expended elsewhere and they dispersed. Maxie took the recently vacated stool beside Happy. “Thanks for the drink pal,” Max said. “Don’t mention it,” Happy said. “Looked like you could use it.” Max pressed the pads of his fingers onto one of his black eyes, exploring the edges, gently prodding. He winced. “Vegas didn’t agree with me.” “About what?” “Just about anything. Apparently card counting is frowned upon,” Max said. “Jesus,” Happy said. “I heard they’re all mobbed up down there. That where you got the shiner?” “No, that’s where this happened,” Max held up his hands. He had three broken fingers on each one. “I think I made ‘em mad. I was piss drunk and didn’t really feel the first couple. So they held onto me until I sobered up a bit.” “Shit oh dear,” Happy said. “Well, what’s the shiner from?” “I was walking to my motel from the hospital and some asshole rolled me. I couldn’t fight back too good with these.” He wiggled his splinted fingers and winced. “Let’s get you another drink.” “Nope, nope, my turn to buy.” Maxie said. “I thought you were broke,” Happy said. “I’m never broke for long,” Max said. He pulled several wallets from his jacket. “Me neither,” Happy said. He produced a pocket book and a coin purse he’d lifted from a member of his harem. They grinned at each other. “So what do you do?” Maxie asked. He stretched out on top of a pool table like it was a lounger by a pool. It was late. Casino’s never really close, but around two or three in the morning they seem to grow muted and personal. The lights seem lower, the cigarette smoke smells like home. Dealers feel like comrades instead of opponents. No one is going to win anything. It’s just enough to be part of that crowd. The hardcases, the three time losers, the cigarette mamas, and the trucker hat daddies. Conversation ebbs and flows easily depending on who’s conscious enough to make it. It’s still hours until the neon spits the losers onto the sidewalk squinting in the sunlight with a bloody mary in one hand and a fifty cent bacon and egg breakfast in the other. For now the lights hold them close. Happy rested his head on one arm. With the other he sent an eightball bouncing off a wall of the table, each time the ball came within millimeters of smacking Max in the head. He was either too drunk or too trusting to care. “I go to Columbia, went-went to Columbia. For poetry,” Happy said. “No shit?” You’re a writer?” Max said. “Hopefully.” “Man, I knew there was a reason I came over here.” “Yeah. I sent you a drink,” Happy said. “Asshole. I’m a writer too.” “Do you go to school?” Happy asked. “I was invited to discontinue my attendance of Boise State...recently,” Max said. “Like last year?” “Three days ago.” “Well, you’ve gotta come back to New York with me,” Happy said. “To Columbia?” “I’m taking a leave of absence, but the city’s great. You can stay with me and my Mhamo.” At that point Maxie was forced to vacate the pool table as someone actually wanted to play. Max and Happy exited the clown and walked down Freemont Street. They stopped and asked some cowboys in beautiful fringed paisley shirts and dirt-stained hats where they could find a good time. Happy envied Max’s easy casual manner with the cowboys, born of growing up in the west. They told him there was a “helluva good concert” at the Nugget. The guy was an animal, been playing for six hours. “Alright, don’t get too fucked up you goddamn brushpoppers.” Max said by way of farewell. His voice kicked into a twang Happy hadn’t noticed before. Maxie seemed to be able to pick it up and put it down at will. Happy thought if he tried to call any of those boys a brushpopper he’d get punched in the face. He had no idea what a brushpopper was, nor a jordan valley loop, nor what it meant to turn your toes out. This was a secret language he’d never be privy to. He hoped maybe someday he and Max might have their own secret language. Mac caught his eye and smirked at him. Once he was sure he was out of earshot he told Happy, “I got a few cousin’s who rodeo so I run into guys like that a lot. They love it when you start talking about people from different regions like you’re some sort of goddamn expert. I don’t know a fucking thing about Jordan Valley or how they throw their ropes, but all those cowboys seem to like it.” A knit between Happy’s eyebrows that he hadn’t realized was there melted away. Maxie clapped a hand on Happy’s shoulder. “Let’s go watch the shitkicker messiah.” They walked toward the Nugget. Maxie left Happy’s side for a moment. He darted into a tiny liquor store and exited minutes later with a bottle in a brown paper bag. He pressed it into Happy’s hands. Happy took a sip and gagged. Canadian whiskey. Max tipped the bottle to Happy’s lips again. “Drink. It’ll put hair on your chest,” Max said. “I don’t want hair on my chest.” Happy replied. “Drink anyway. It builds strong bones and stronger character.” “I want a base and low character.” “Even better. Drink, it’s what men of low character do.” Happy drank. They entered the Diamond Showroom at the Nugget. They’d been let in for free since technically the concert had ended three hours ago. Most of the audience members who remained were passed out on the carpeted floor, empty drink glasses filling again with watery ice scattered on every table. Those still awake swayed in a trancelike state to the rhythm of the performer’s guitar. Sweat poured off the performer. He sat on a folding chair with his guitar, he was alone. He was lost somewhere in a haze of whiskey and narcotics only country rock prophets can seem to find any beauty in. A place Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and Waylon Jennings all inhabited, making music as stunning as their decisions were terrible. One of the performer’s fingers was bleeding. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Crimson streaked the e-string on his guitar. Happy and Max leaned against one another. Nodding in time to the music. They could feel it in their chests. An hour passed. Then two. Happy wasn’t surprised to find he was crying. He turned and saw Max was as well. The last plaintive note issued from the speakers and the song was over. It hung in the air as the performer huffed and drew his thumb over his lip. He was awakening, disoriented. Maxie walked up to the stage and reverentially offered the performer his whiskey. The performer took a heavy pull off the bottle. It had a stabilizing effect on him. He gratefully wandered back into the haze and started another song. At around 6 AM they stumbled into Happy’s room at Fitzgeralds. Neither made it into the bed. Happy slept on the floor. He sat crosslegged, leaned against the wall. Passed out while he waited for Max. Max fell asleep in the bathtub. He’d had a notion to take a cold shower and sober himself up a bit, but he’d fallen asleep while taking off his shoes. He didn’t remember crawling into the tub. A few hours later Happy was awakened by a crisp knock on the door and a polite voice discreetly calling “housekeeping.” Happy hauled himself to his feet. He lost his balance several times but eventually was able to open the door. The maid was a beautiful plump mexican woman. “Hola,” Happy said. At the sight of her stricken face he hastened to add “Esta bien, entra. Lo siento.” The maid pushed her cart into the room. Happy yawned and said “Saldre de tu camino. Buenos dias.” He grabbed his rucksack and left the room. He was halfway to the elevator when he heard a feminine scream. Followed by a masculine yell. He ran back towards his room. The door was propped open by the brass loop of the swing lock. Happy entered the room and found the maid throwing complimentary bottles of shampoo at Max. He ducked and cowered in the tub. A bottle struck him in the ear. “Senora. El esta bien. Es mi amigo,” Happy said. “El es tu amigo?” She said, hand cocked behind her ear to huck another bottle. “Si, si, es mi amigo.” Happy said. She threw the bottle at Happy. “Bastardo. Me asusto hasta la muerte.” She said. “Lo siento, lo siento. Ay!” A bottle smacked him in the stomach. “Chingao! Para! Lo siento!” Max grabbed Happy’s hand and dragged him out of the room. One last bottle hurtled through the door before they closed it. It smacked Happy in the forehead. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Let’s get a drink,” Maxie said. *** Joanie-13, Tommy-18, Maxie-66 There came a time when Joanie stopped calling. Tommy left Max’s home in the woods when he was eighteen, which was to say he left Max’s home the very instant he could. Joanie badgered him while he packed and he finally disclosed he was going to New Orleans. He’d decided he would stay at the Babineaux Motor Lodge. His father stayed there during his rodeo days.It held a romantic place in his mind. For his gruff exterior Tommy was very susceptible to nostalgia. A week later he dropped his bags on the floor and flopped onto the bed. He wondered if this was the room his father had stayed in. He wondered if the oyster house down the street was any good. He wondered if Joanie was all right. He didn’t have to wonder long on that count. Joanie called him every day he stayed at the Babineaux. She never really seemed to grasp the concept of long distance charges. He never picked up. She didn’t care. She left lengthy messages on the answering machine in his room.. She would tell him about the book she was reading,the album she was listening to, how good she was getting at rolling cigarettes. At those points she would pause and wait for him to register his disapproval then plow onward. She talked more on those messages than she had in the previous four years combined. He wondered what that meant. There was a forced casualness to her voice that seemed ominous to him. After a couple weeks in New Orleans he left for Memphis Tennessee. After he left she bullied a clerk into admitting they were forwarding a package to him at the Seven Spoke Inn in Memphis. She called him every day. There was no message machine in his room and so she would leave messages with the desk clerk to pass along to him. She’d shot a squirrel the other day. She’d made eggs benedict and didn’t break the hollandaise. She’d done the dishes without anyone reminding her to. After a few months in Memphis he left for Dallas. He didn’t leave a forwarding address. He had no idea how she tracked him to the Bluebird Motel, but she did. He didn’t answer the phone. She left messages like she was picking up the thread of a conversation they’d had five minutes ago. After a few days at the Bluebird he knew to expect a call from her at 9 PM his time. When 9 hit he glanced at the phone, expecting to spend a few minutes agonizing over whether he should or could answer it. Then it was 9:01. No call. 9:02. No call. Joanie always called at the same time. Tommy called the front desk. “Have there been any calls for me?” “No, sir. Are you expecting a call?” “No. Thank you.” “If you need to place a call hit 4 to dial out.” “Thank you.” He hung up. The phone rang. Tommy snatched it out of the cradle. “Joanie?” “I’m sorry sir, it’s Michelle at the front desk. It’s actually 9 to dial out. Not 4.” “Thank you.” Disappointment gnawed at his stomach. That was the last time the phone rang for Tommy in Dallas. Tommy liked living in motels. He liked the neon. He liked how impersonal they were. He liked the smell of chlorine and cigarette smoke. He liked that there was maid service every day. After living with Max and Joanie, neither of whom would ever be renowned for their hygiene, he really liked the maid service. The Bluebird felt like a place he could stay, but it wasn’t exactly how his father had described it. His father had told him about a cooler of beer that held a place of prominence near the cracked concrete pool. Anybody could toss a few quarters into the red solo cup that sat next to the cooler and take a beer. His father had told him about the grubby algae encrusted fish tank that sat behind the clerk’s desk in the lobby. One albino goldfish swimming through the murk. About the owner, a cranky old bastard who told stories from Korea if you knew the right questions to ask. The cooler was a liability. The fish was dead. The owner was dead. He didn’t know why this should make him feel like he’d lost his parents all over again, but it did. Maybe the Bluebird didn’t feel like a place he could stay. He decided he’d try Colorado next, someplace small. He’d had enough of this big city stuff. When he left Dallas he figured his trail would go cold. After he’d been in Coyote Den Colorado for a few weeks the phone rang in the middle of the night. Three times. Then it was gone. When he got his room charges he saw it was the old 541 number. Oregon area code. He didn’t receive any calls from that number for four years.

Chapter 1

Epigraph My mind has changed my body’s frame, but God I like it. -TV On the Radio Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness. -Allen Ginsberg I’ve played the Red River Valley. Sat in the kitchen and cried… We was friends, me and this old man. -Guy Clark Chapter 1 Joanie-17, Tommy-22, Maxie-Dead On this day people excused Joanie’s rudeness, her father had just died. She was rude every day, but today there were extenuating circumstances. No one she was rude to on that day knew that Maxie Lore wasn’t really her father. Or her grandfather. Or any sort of blood relation. He was her guardian, though not a legal one. He was her sire, but that implied the events that led up to Joanie ending up in his care had been intentional. They hadn’t been. Well, not entirely. This complicated relationship was probably one of the causes of Joanie’s persistent rudeness. The other cause was the fact that Joanie had been raised by wolves both literal and figurative. Figurative because Joanie had been raised by Maxie Lore and his foster son Tommy Amaryllis. They lived in a cabin in the woods and saw no reason to change their bachelor ways once they found a girl in their midst. Literal wolves because Maxie and Tommy were both werewolves, as was Joanie. The funeral director didn’t know the gory details of Joanie’s home life, but he did know people tended to fall into set categories when grieving. One group became incredibly polite and reserved. They held a strong belief that as long as they spoke softly and didn’t dicker over the casket price then their dearly departed would look upon them with a smile. Another group wanted to get the departed in the ground as quickly as possible. Belligerence and frequent trips to the hallway to hide tears ruled the day. Because of this the funeral director did not take it personally when a 17 year old girl missing a finger on her right hand and wearing a large men’s tweed blazer lit a hand rolled cigarette in his casket showroom. “Sorry miss, no smoking in here,” the funeral director said, his voice kind but implacable, trick of the trade. The girl nodded, she lifted her foot and stubbed out the cigarette on the sole of her shoe, gently so as to save it for later. She tucked it behind her ear. The shoes also looked like they belonged to a man. Clunky, leather, brogue boots. The funeral director was glad that she hadn’t argued. It marked the first time she hadn’t argued all afternoon. Joanie eyed a simple pine box stained grey to resemble barnwood. “This one,” She said. “How much?” “That one is one thousand dollars,” the funeral director said. “Though I’d be willing to come down on that,” He added hastily when he saw her face darken. He had the feeling if he pushed her too hard she’d just plant the old man in the woods. “How about nine hundred fifty and I’ll include a dirt dispenser and the deluxe program and guest book package?” “How about eight hundred and you keep your dirt dispenser and deluxe package,” Joanie said. “Very well. Eight twenty-five and we’ll call it jake.” The funeral director said. Joanie stuck her hand out and they shook. She nearly crushed his hand, but the funeral director didn’t think it was on purpose. She just didn’t know her own strength. She smiled. The funeral director was pleased. Among the groups of grievers there were those who felt better the more they spent on a funeral. Others felt better if they’d won. He’d finally found the group Joanie belonged to. With the funeral all planned, Joanie climbed into the silver 1987 Dodge pickup that had been Maxie’s and was now hers. She had to slam the door three times before it finally stayed closed. Maxie had told her it had been that way ever since the original door got torn off and had to be replaced. It was still light out, but she’d cut it a bit close. Full moon tonight. She had to be ready. *** Joanie-9, Tommy-14, Maxie-62 It was four o’clock. He figured he’d have enough time to buy some rolling papers and go harass the kid at the record store before he had to head back to his house. He hadn’t eaten since 9am two days before. When he was working he only ate hungry man meals they sold at Martin’s food center. He didn’t know what the kid ate, but he never missed an opportunity to rank Maxie out so he must not be starving. His mouth tasted like cigarettes. The knuckles on his left hand screamed. Too much scribbling and not a single decent page to show for it. He was hungover. Max stopped at the store for provisions. He bought the kid a Dr. Pepper in a glass bottle, he knew it was the kid’s favorite. After the food center he walked across the street to the record store. It was the only source of entertainment in the tiny town of Lorraine. It was empty. Which is why it was the only source of entertainment in Lorraine. The town could barely support the one they had. Roller rinks, revival movie theaters, video game stores, and billiard halls had all fallen in the face of the town’s apathy, indifference, and hereditary alcoholism. There were three bars though and every weekend the hills were alive with the sound of gunfire as the denizens hunted coyotes, deer, and mountain lions, paying little attention to seasons or endangered species lists. “You can’t smoke in here, Max.” The kid behind the counter said as he stacked CD’s on a wire shelf. The kid’s name was Blake. Not the type of kid you took home to mother from the looks of him. Dressed all in black, tattoos, stupid ring in his lip, but perhaps he was the type you should take home. A big teddy bear once you got past all the spikes. “Music and smokes go hand in hand, Blake,” Max said. “I know Belkin makes the rules. And it’s really darling of you to try and enforce them, but the fact remains that-” He cut himself off when he saw the kid’s hangdog expression. That Blake was able to pull off hangdog while wearing eyeliner was quite an accomplishment and Max decided to reward him for it. He put the cigarette out on an anonymous boy band CD, blackening the face of the dead-eyed youngest one. “Come on man!” Blake said. “Just saving someone from a life of mediocrity, kid.” Max said. “Old man’s prerogative.” Max turned to a milk crate full of vinyl. He rifled through it. “You know,” he said. “Maybe you should spend a little less money on that garbage and use it to buy more than two jazz albums. Blake sighed. He’s heard this lecture more than a few times. Their exchange was a well worn groove in his mind, he knew where to chime in even when he wasn’t paying attention. “No one buys jazz, Max.” “I do.” “No, you just come in, look at the same records, complain, and leave,” Blake said. “I already have these.” Max said. “We can put in an order for you. I can grab the catalogue.” “Takes the joy out of the find.” Max slid an LP from its sleeve and examined it. “B-side is scratched.” “Three bucks.” Blake already had his hand out for what came next. “Play it for me?” Blake took the record and soon “All The Things You Are” filled the store. Max smiled and Blake. Blake smiled back. “Gonna buy it Max?” Blake said. “Not today, Max said. “Can’t spare the scratch. But that Charlie Parker is one gone guy don’t you think?” “The gonest,” Blake agreed. Max had shut his eyes to better hear the warbling sax. Now, they shot open. “Say, what time ya got?” Max said. “‘Bout 5:30,” Blake said. “Fuck,” Max muttered. He grabbed his shopping bag, containing the essentials of life i.e. smokes, gin, and hungry man meals, off the floor. He ran out of Belkin’s Records without another word, save for a few low “fucks” as darted to his ancient pickup. He slammed the door three times before he got it to catch. The replacement door just didn’t quite fit. Max’s rusted out silver dodge with one mismatched blue door on the driver’s side burned rubber as he turned onto the tree lined highway. Max eyed the setting sun through the bug studded windshield. Too close, he thought. Way, way too close. He could already feel the change clawing at his guts. He drove down the winding forest road that led out of the town of Lorraine and meandered into the thickly forested outskirts. One side of the road followed the path of the Chusi river, and the other was populated by evergreens. In this area vision was always obscured either by fog in the spring and winter or smoke from distant forest fires in the summer and fall. Max tried to squint through the former. The river roiled and bucked, sending up sprays of icy grey. A sharp cramp wracked his arm and he swerved, nearly clipping a tree. He righted the pickup and continued toward his home deep in the woods. The speedometer edged from a relatively reasonable 70 to upwards of 90. It still wasn’t going to be fast enough. The change was happening now. The change was going to happen at 95 miles per hour down a dirt road if he didn’t pull over quickly. Maxie saw a small path barely wide enough to drive his truck onto. Once he was satisfied his truck couldn’t be seen from the road he locked the doors, rolled up the windows, and killed the ignition along with the headlights. He hadn’t engaged the locks to keep anyone out, they were to keep himself in when the change was complete. Maxie gripped the steering wheel of the Silver Bullet as he called his rig. His grip was so strong that his fingernails managed to leave small crescent holes in the rubber of the steering wheel. A shudder ripped through his body and with something akin to relief he stopped resisting. After letting go the change began immediately. His bones slid out of joint and began to meld into different configurations. Small popping noises accompanied the change. The sounds of bare feet walking through broken glass, when the glass breaks but bloody feet muffle the sharp crack and you’re left with a low painful pop. Max wished he’d remembered to leave the radio on so he wouldn’t have to listen to that terrible sound. Though with his luck he’d end up listening to Freebird for the duration so perhaps it was just as well. In any case his hands were now too malformed to work the ignition or the dial. His fingers curled back on themselves and the skin between his knuckles melted and fused together so he appeared to have five stumps on either hand, like a fleshy paw. The skin on his palms coarsened and blackened until it was the pad of a paw. His nose fused to his upper lip and elongated. His teeth grew into fangs. Color’s grew less saturate as his eyes turned from brown to yellow. His ears drifted to the top of his head and grew pointy. Once his nose had turned into a snout he could pick up the smell of diesel and the subtler scents of butted out cigarettes in the ashtray and the frozen meat from one of the hungry man meals he had purchased not an hour previous. The joints of his knees and elbows dissolved and solidified inverted. His chest pushed forward as his neck receded. He could no longer sit properly in the driver’s seat. He slumped over on his side, his paws dangled off the edge of the bench seat. He felt goosebumps cropping up over his entire body as he grew black fur with a silvery tint. The transformation wasn’t exactly painful, only resisting the change truly hurt. It was more a feeling of quesiness paired with the feeling of cracking his neck too far. The momentary panic. The flash that this time he had broken his own neck. This feeling but all over. All scored by the sinuous popping and cracking. It was dark and the change was complete. Maxie Lore was no more. In his place was a large black and silver wolf trapped in a piece of shit pickup truck. He paced in the cab of the rig. Crawling from the back seat to the front and back again. After he grew bored of that he nosed through his shopping bags. He ripped open a hungry man meal. He tore the cardboard into tiny pieces. His fangs punctured the cellophane. He gingerly licked the frozen salisbury steak. Disgusting. He devoured it. He then worked his way through the beef tips, meat loaf, “fried” chicken, and the Mexican Style Fiesta! Maxie licked some thawed beef gravy off his paw and settled down for a quick snooze. Something rattled a branch outside on the driver’s side. Maxie barked. A racoon bombed out of the tree and skittered away. Maxie lunged at it and smacked into the glass. He snarled. He stood with his paws on the door to get a better look at the fleeing racoon. One of his paws slipped. When he repositioned it, he placed his paw directly on the lock/unlock button. All the locks disengaged. Maxie’s ear twitched at the unexpected sound. Then the driver’s side door creaked open and he jumped out of the truck. The smell of fresh blood overpowered the scent of the racoon. He ran in the direction of the dank coppery smell. *** She sometimes went into the woods when her mommy was being sleepy and weird. The house smelled like nasty smoke and she didn’t like her mommy’s friends. They talked fast and laughed too loud the later it got. She wanted to go to bed but their music thumped and kept her awake. So she would wander into the woods that butted up against their little house with the rusty cars and broken trailers in the yard. There was a creek she liked to sit next to. She’d throw rocks into it. She had a friend, a little boy as hungry and angry as she was. He sometimes came with her to the creek, but he wasn’t around that night. His father sometimes came and worked on cars in her yard and brought him, but not today. Not when it was so cold. She had a little atlas that she’d stolen from the local drugstore. It had an american flag on the cover and pretty pictures amongst the maps. There was a picture of a waterfall that was her favorite. She’d sit by the creek and imagine the water gushing over rocks into a dip below was a sixty foot waterfall instead of a six inch one. She’d look at the maps, not really understanding what they meant, but loving them just the same. It was too dark to look at the maps tonight and her flashlight had run out of batteries. A nice lady who said she was her caseworker had given it to her. Now it was dead. Her mother had said they were going to the movies tonight to make it up to her after what happened, but her mother often said things she didn’t mean. Just because this happened often didn’t make it hurt any less. The creek was close enough to her house that she could still see the fender of an old car that she knew rested up on blocks. Once her mother had found her crawling under it and had smacked her. More scared than angry. Her mother told her it could have fallen on her and squashed her like roadkill. She always kept her distance after that. She didn’t want to see that car today. Not when disappointment made her chest ache and tears hovered near the surface. Not when her mother had told her she’d make it up to her, she’d make it up to her, please don’t tell anyone she’d make it up to her. Not when the burn on the back of her hand was still stinging red. She wandered deeper into the woods. She heard heavy breathing, coming out in great snuffing snorts. She walked toward the sound, her head cocked to the side to listen but staring at her feet. She always stared at her feet when she walked. She’d stepped on still burning cigarettes that people had tossed out into the yard from the porch more times than she cared to remember, so she always watched her feet. She came close to the sound. She looked up. In a tiny clearing was a deer. It laid on its side. A hot trail of blood thawed the snow leading to the deer. There were claw marks on its hindquarters. There was a bite on its neck. She approached the deer. It tossed its antlers at her but didn’t move. She crouched down and kept moving toward it. Hand outstretched. The whites of the deer’s eyes rolled into view as it watched her. She got within touching distance. She stroked its fur with the very tips of her fingers. Its muscles seized. She froze, scared it would jump up and trample her, but not so scared that she ran away. She petted the deer again. This time using her whole hand. She sat like that for several minutes. Then she heard a low growl behind her. She turned and saw yellow eyes. Then she saw black fur tinged silver. Then she saw nothing at all. *** Animals aren’t know for their long memories. They make associations but don’t form actual memories. They only know if they like water or hate the vacuum cleaner and if a certain scent means friend or foe. Humans are better at forming episodic memories. The ones that allow someone to remember the last time they heard a Jerry-Jeff Walker song or road on a four-wheeler with their dad. Tommy was never sure if having a human memory was a good thing or a bad thing. He’d had it both ways, so it left him uniquely qualified to judge, but he never could make up his mind. Tommy’s first memory was from when he was four years old. He was crawling around on the cracked yellow linoleum of the kitchen at his old house. His mom was browning hamburger for chili. Their old cowdog Cap ate from a gigantic pitted aluminum bowl in the back corner of the kitchen. He cracked gigantic kernels of stale meat scented food between his teeth. Tommy stumbled over and sat next to Cap. He played with Cap’s ears. Cap had been there to raise Tommy’s older sister so he was used to this type of good-natured abuse and endured it with a long-suffering resignation. But then, Tommy blew in Cap’s face. He’d done it a thousand times before. Cap had always blinked in consternation then returned to his doggy business. However, Tommy had never done it while Cap was eating. Tommy had the terrible knowledge that when a dog bites your eye you can see down its throat for one moment. Tommy shrieked. His mother clocked Cap in the side of the head with the still sizzling frying pan. Cap yelped and huddled in the corner. He unconsciously licked blood off his chops. His mother turned back to Tommy and screamed. His eyeball laid on his cheek, dangling by the optic nerve. She stuffed Tommy into the front seat of her car, not bothering with the car seat. Tommy held his eye up near the socket with a paper towel. When they got to the emergency room the doctor popped his eye back in like it was nothing. He said they were lucky the dog hadn’t bitten down. He gave Tommy an eyepatch and told him he was a pirate for six weeks. The family gave Cap to a guy Tommy’s dad had used to ride saddle-broncs with. None of them blamed Cap for what happened, not even Tommy eventually, but Tommy was so scared of the dog after that he couldn’t sleep. He kept dreaming about Cap sneaking into his room and eating both his eyes. So they got rid of Cap. Tommy was always scared of dogs after that. He had no problem believing they were descended from wolves. This fear turned out to be a good instinct, but did nothing to save him. When Tommy was ten, four years before Max bit Joanie, he also met Maxie Lore in the woods. Joanie found the family she never would have had. Tommy lost his. The morning Max brought Joan home, Tommy woke up in his cage in Maxie’s shed behind his shake shingle house. The scratches on his face weren’t as bad as they had been in years past. Tommy took this as a small victory. All his victories were small in those dark days. He glanced over and saw Max’s cage was empty. The old man had never made it home. He’d been running free during the change. Tommy’s stomach curdled. Tommy stretched his arm through the bars of the cage and grabbed the key to the fat padlock that held the cage closed. He popped the lock open and stepped out of the cage. For a few minutes he paced the shed, waiting for Maxie to come back, praying nothing terrible had happened. When Max didn’t return Tommy pulled on jeans over his basketball shorts and put on his duck boots. He’d left his shirt in the house, but his carhartt jacket laid on the floor. He pulled it on and stepped out into winter morning air. He blew vapor into the air and eyed the sunlight filtering through the trees. He thought it was eight or nine in the morning. He entered the house and stepped into the mint green bathroom to see to his scratches. The scratches were numerous but they weren’t deep. He dabbed them with a twisted tube of neosporin. No stitches or butterflies needed. They would be healed up in a week. He examined where a new scratch crossed a scar from three years previous. Maxie told him he was lucky he didn’t lose the eye. Tommy told him he didn’t know shit about losing eyes. Maxie also told him he’d eventually stop hurting himself during the change. He’d gone through a similar period in the early 50’s, but it got better. Usually cooking relaxed Tommy, but Max still wasn’t back and the sound of crackling bacon wasn’t taking any of the tension out of his shoulders. He made a deal with himself, if Max wasn’t back by the time he finished eating, he’d track him down. This deal lasted about thirty seconds. Tommy’s capacity for self-delusion was incredibly low and he was certain Maxie had fucked something up and he couldn’t waste any more time. He turned off the burner and pulled on his coat. The doorknob turned just as he was about to grab it. Tommy stepped back. Max opened the door. He had a little girl in his arms. She was unconscious, her head lolled on Max’s shoulder. She was covered in blood, there was a bite mark on her shoulder. Expletives and accusations flew through Tommy’s mind. They all sounded like cliches. Maxie dismissed cliche. When Tommy spoke he didn’t want to be dismissed. Max carried the little girl past Tommy into the living room and laid her gently on the couch. He brushed a piece of hair out of her mouth. Tommy watched from the kitchen. Maxie turned and looked at him. Tommy’s face curled into a mask of hatred. Max suspected that this face was how Tommy felt at all times and his generally neutral demeanor was the true mask. Today he had not bothered to put on his mask. Tommy spoke low and slow, as to ensure his pubescent voice didn’t crack and betray the gravity of the situation. It quavered a bit anyway. “God. Damn. You.” Tommy walked to the bathroom and got his first-aid kit. He’d foolishly thought he wouldn’t need it today. He knelt beside the girl. Her coat wasn’t thick enough for the cold outside. Her purple snow boots had holes in the soles. He moved her shoulder to get a better look at the bite mark. Something creaked and cracked, bones ground together. “You broke her collarbone.” Tommy said. Max wetted a dishrag under the faucet and handed it to Tommy. Tommy wiped blood off her face and neck, revealing rended flesh underneath. “These claw marks will scar.” Tommy examined her little hands. “I think she’ll lose this finger and…” He trailed off. He’d wiped more blood from her arms and saw little circular scars. Cigarette burns. Some old, some waxy and new. Tommy swabbed the girl’s wounds with hydrogen peroxide. He sucked air through his teeth with sympathetic pain as it fizzed. He was thankful she was unconscious so she wouldn’t feel the sting. “Take her to the hospital,” Tommy said. “Then call DHS.” Maxie knelt beside Tommy. He touched one of the girl’s scars. “Tell them you found her in the woods. She’d been attacked by an animal.” “The Oregon system is terrible,” Maxie said. “They’ll send her back to them.” “Not right away,” Tommy said. “She needs a hospital.” “When she changes it will heal,” Maxie said. “But it won’t heal right,” Tommy said, his voice going fierce. Maxie ignored the scars on Tommy’s face and his own fingers, crooked from years of breaks, “It never heals right,” Tommy said.