Music of the Night Read online

  I followed Billy home and waited on his porch until his mom came home and she made him come down and talk to me. He stood in the doorway and talked through the screen door, eating a banana and lounging around like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  So he goes, “Whatcha want, Boobs?”

  I stammered a lot, being I was so nervous about telling such big lies, but that probably made me sound more believable.

  I told him that I would make a deal with him: I would meet him that night in Baker’s Park, late, and take off my shirt and bra and let him do whatever he wanted with my boobs if that would satisfy his curiosity and he would find somebody else to pick on and leave me alone.

  “What?” he said, staring at my chest with his mouth open. His voice squeaked and he was practically drooling on the floor. He couldn’t believe his good luck.

  I said the same thing over again.

  He almost came out onto the porch to try it right then and there. “Well, shit,” he goes, lowering his voice a lot, “why didn’t you say something before? You really mean it?”

  I go, “Sure,” though I couldn’t look at him.

  After a minute he goes, “Okay, it’s a deal. Listen, Kelsey, if you like it, can we, uh, do it again, you know?”

  I go, “Sure. But Billy, one thing: this is a secret, between just you and me. If you tell anybody, if there’s one other person hanging around out there tonight—”

  “Oh no,” he goes, real fast, “I won’t say a thing to anybody, honest. Not a word, I promise!”

  Not until afterward, of course, was what he meant, which if there was one thing Billy Linden couldn’t do, it was to keep quiet if he knew something bad about another person.

  “You’re gonna like it, I know you are,” he goes, speaking strictly for himself, as usual. “Jeez. I can’t believe this!”

  But he did, the dork.

  I couldn’t eat much for dinner that night, I was too excited, and I went upstairs early to do homework, I told Dad and Hilda.

  Then I waited for the moon, and when it came, I changed.

  Billy was in the park. I caught a whiff of him, very sweaty and excited, but I stayed cool. I snuck around for a while, as quiet as I could—which was real quiet—making sure none of his stupid friends were lurking around. I mean, I wouldn’t have trusted just his promise for a million dollars.

  I passed up half a hamburger lying in the gutter where somebody had parked for lunch and ate in their car next to Baker’s Park. My mouth watered, but I didn’t want to spoil my appetite. I was hungry and happy, sort of singing inside my own head, “Shoo, fly, pie, and an apple-pan-dowdie . . .”

  Without any sound, of course.

  Billy had been sitting on a bench, his hands in his pockets, twisting around to look this way and that way, watching for me—for my human self—to come join him. He had a jacket on, being it was very chilly out.

  Which he didn’t stop to think that maybe a sane person wouldn’t be crazy enough to sit out there and take off her top leaving her naked skin bare to the breeze. But that was Billy all right, totally fixed on his own greedy self and without a single thought for somebody else. I bet all he could think about was what a great scam this was, to feel up old Boobs in the park and then crow about it all over school.

  Now he was walking around the park, kicking at the sprinkler-heads and glancing up every once in a while, frowning and looking sulky.

  I could see he was starting to think that I might stand him up. Maybe he even suspected that old Boobs was lurking around watching him and laughing to herself because he had fallen for a trick. Maybe old Boobs had even brought some kids from school with her to see what a jerk he was.

  Actually, that would have been pretty good, except Billy probably would have broken my nose for me again, or worse, if I’d tried it.

  “Kelsey?” he goes, sounding mad.

  I didn’t want him stomping off home in a huff. I moved up closer, and I let the bushes swish a little around my shoulders.

  He goes, “Hey, Kelse, it’s late, where’ve you been?”

  I listened to the words, but mostly I listened to the little thread of worry flickering in his voice, low and high, high and low, as he tried to figure out what was going on.

  I let out the whisper of a growl.

  He stood real still, staring at the bushes, and he goes, “That you, Kelse? Answer me.”

  I was wild inside, I couldn’t wait another second. I tore through the bushes and leaped for him, flying.

  He stumbled backward with a squawk—“What!”—jerking his hands up in front of his face, and he was just sucking in a big breath to yell with when I hit him like a demo-derby truck.

  I jammed my nose past his feeble claws and chomped down hard on his face.

  No sound came out of him except this wet, thick gurgle, which I could more taste than hear because the sound came right into my mouth with the gush of his blood and the hot mess of meat and skin that I tore away and swallowed.

  He thrashed around, hitting at me, but I hardly felt anything through my fur. I mean, he wasn’t so big and strong laying there on the ground with me straddling him all lean and wiry with wolf-muscle. And plus, he was in shock. I got a strong whiff from below as he let go of everything right into his pants.

  Dogs were barking, but so many people around Baker’s Park have dogs to keep out burglars, and the dogs make such a racket all the time that nobody pays any attention. I wasn’t worried. Anyway, I was too busy to care.

  I nosed in under what was left of Billy’s jaw and I bit his throat out.

  Now let him go around telling lies about people.

  His clothes were a lot of trouble and I really missed having hands. I managed to drag his shirt out of his belt with my teeth, though, and it was easy to tear his belly open. Pretty messy, but once I got in there, it was better than Thanksgiving dinner. Who would think that somebody as horrible as Billy Linden could taste so good?

  He was barely moving by then, and I quit thinking about him as Billy Linden anymore. I quit thinking at all, I just pushed my head in and pulled out delicious steaming chunks and ate until I was picking at tidbits, and everything was getting cold.

  On the way home I saw a police car cruising the neighborhood the way they do sometimes. I hid in the shadows and, of course, they never saw me.

  There was a lot of washing up to do in the morning, and when Hilda saw my sheets she shook her head and she goes, “You should be more careful about keeping track of your period so as not to get caught by surprise.”

  Everybody in school knew something had happened to Billy Linden, but it wasn’t until the day after that that they got the word. Kids stood around in little huddles trading rumors about how some wild animal had chewed Billy up. I would walk up and listen in and add a really gross remark or two, like part of the game of thrilling each other green and nauseous with made-up details to see who would upchuck first.

  Not me, that’s for sure. I mean, when somebody went on about how Billy’s whole head was gnawed down to the skull and they didn’t even know who he was except from the bus pass in his wallet, I got a little urpy. It’s amazing the things people will dream up. But when I thought about what I had actually done to Billy, I had to smile.

  It felt totally wonderful to walk through the halls without having anybody yelling, “Hey, Boobs!”

  There are people who just plain do not deserve to live. And the same goes for Fat Joey, if he doesn’t quit crowding me in science lab, trying to get a feel.

  One funny thing, though, I don’t get periods at all anymore. I get a little crampy, and my breasts get sore, and I break out more than usual—and then instead of bleeding, I change.

  Which is fine with me, though I take a lot more care now about how I hunt on my wolf nights. I stay away from Baker’s Park. The suburbs go on for miles and miles, and there are lots of places I can hunt and still get home by morning. A running wolf can cover a lot of ground.

  And I make sure I make my kill
s where I can eat in private, so no cop car can catch me unawares, which could easily have happened that night when I killed Billy, I was so deep into the eating thing that first time. I look around a lot more now when I’m eating a kill; I keep watch.

  Good thing it’s only once a month that this happens, and only a couple of nights. “The Full Moon Killer” has the whole state up in arms and terrified as it is.

  Eventually, I guess I’ll have to go somewhere else, which I’m not looking forward to at all. If I can just last until I can have a car of my own, life will get a lot easier.

  Meantime, some wolf nights I don’t even feel like hunting. Mostly I’m not as hungry as I was those first times. I think I must have been storing up my appetite for a long time. Sometimes I just prowl around and I run, boy do I run.

  If I am hungry, sometimes I eat garbage instead of killing somebody. It’s no fun, but you do get a taste for it. I don’t mind garbage as long as once in a while I can have the real thing fresh-killed, nice and wet. People can be awfully nasty, but they sure taste sweet.

  I do pick and choose, though. I look for people sneaking around in the middle of the night, like Billy, waiting in the park that time. I figure they’ve got to be out looking for trouble at that hour, so whose fault is it if they find it? I have done a lot more for the burglary problem around Baker’s Park than a hundred dumb “watchdogs,” believe me.

  Gerry-Anne is not only talking to me again, she has invited me to go on a double-date with her. Some guy she met at a party invited her, and he has a friend. They’re both from Fawcett Junior High across town, which will be a change. I was nervous, but finally I said yes. We’re going to the movies next weekend. My first real date! I am still pretty nervous, to tell the truth.

  For New Years, I have made two solemn vows.

  One is that on this date I will not worry about my chest, I will not be self-conscious, even if the guy stares.

  The other is, I’ll never eat another dog.

  Evil Thoughts

  The crazy lady’s goddamn dogs were barking again. Fran shunted the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher (what had won her to the new house was that dishwasher) and swore under her breath.

  “What’s the matter?” said Jeffrey, as he went on carefully layering books and notepads into his backpack.

  Dear Jeffrey. He so charmingly lived in his youthful mind and was so tolerant even when you pointed out to him the things that should be driving him nuts the way they drove you nuts, even though you weren’t an old married couple, only live-togethers, slightly mismatched. By age, anyway.

  “I said I wish somebody would run over those damn dogs of hers,” Fran growled. “Save me, Lord, from little dogs! Everybody knows little dogs are crazy, from being so much smaller than everybody else that they’re scared all the time. And in this case their owner is crazy too.”

  “Who, Whatsername next door?” Jeffrey said. “I thought she was a nurse. Do they let crazy people be nurses?”

  “No, dummy, not that one. I mean Whatsername up the street two or three houses, toward the park,” Fran said, glaring at the window over the sink; it was stuck again, and would have to be worked on by somebody (not Jeffrey, who was not handy). “That’s where the dogs are. God, Jeff, don’t you hear them?”

  “Sure,” he said equably, “but heck, they’re probably the only company she’s got if she’s as nutty as you think. I can’t find my torts text.”

  “Nuttier.” Fran rooted under the sink for the dishwashing fluid. “She really is nuts, no kidding. Did I tell you? She yelled at me for walking past her place, in the back. Around twilight yesterday, while the oven was heating up to make dinner, I took a stroll up to the park. As I passed her place, all of a sudden these dogs started yapping and a floodlight came on, if you can believe that, at the corner of the house; and she started screaming from inside. Waving her arms at me through the front window. It was the damnedest thing.”

  Jeffrey patiently lifted up the piles of old newspapers, mail, bills, catalogs, and so on, looking for his book. He would be late for class again, but did he get nervous or rushed? Not him. It was one of the things she loved about him, one of the things that had made the move bearable. When she wasn’t feeling completely jangled herself, and resenting his calm.

  “Screaming what?” he said. “What did she say?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I could only catch a few words. It was all so violent and wild—something about burglars. Do I look like a burglar to you? I was just an ordinary, undangerous woman walking along a public thoroughfare in broad daylight, and you’d have thought it was the hordes of Genghis Khan, come to rape and pillage or something.”

  “Thought you said ‘twilight,’ ” he observed mildly, pausing to read something from the heap of junk mail.

  “All right, twilight, but good grief, Jeff, it was ridiculous! What did she think I was going to do? I could hear her shrieking, and those damn little dogs of hers yipping, all the way to the end of the street.”

  “Maybe she’s been burgled a lot,” Jeffrey said, putting the paper down, “or pestered to death by commercial solicitations. What was I looking for?”

  “Torts.”

  He was probably right. Their own house had been equipped at some recent point with a fancy burglar alarm (much too complex, a nuisance to use), which indicated something about the neighborhood, she supposed. Hell, give the crazy lady in 408 the benefit of the doubt. At least the damned dogs had quit yelping at last.

  Jeffrey rolled his bike outside, carrying his book-stuffed pack slung on his back. “Hey, Fran?” he called.

  “Um?” she said, reading the directions on the inside of the dishwasher cover again.

  “How often are you watering the grass? Look: there’s a bunch of mushrooms sprouting on the lawn.”

  Fran tied her bathrobe belt more tightly around her waist and padded outside to stand barefoot on the cement front step and look where he was pointing. She saw a clutch of pale, striated bubbles clustered on a little rise in the grass. The raised place was a writhe of half-buried root that had reached far from the thick-trunked mountain cottonwood that leaned toward the house. Roots showed like gnarled dolphins surfacing all over the lawn.

  “I’ve been watering three times a week, just as you said to,” she said, “because it’s been so hot, for September.”

  “But sometimes it drizzles at night,” Jeffrey replied. “Too much moisture could be bad for the grass. Let’s try cutting down a little.”

  “Sure,” she said. She went to the curb on the concrete path and hugged him, and he almost fell over, bike and all. They giggled and made a minor spectacle of themselves, and then he pedaled away up the quiet suburban street toward the university.

  Take that, neighbors, Fran thought, palming her hair back from her face. She almost regretted her youthful looks, which kept it from being obvious (at any distance, anyway) that she was older than Jeffrey. “Older Woman Kisses Law School Lover Goodbye.” Yum.

  Never mind, she would show any watching neighbors that she was a worthy householder no matter what. She would tend to her front lawn.

  The smooth slope of grass from the front wall of the house down to the sidewalk really was a source of pleasure, roots and all. The sprinkler system was a thrill—all that control, at the mere turn of a handle! All that grass, under the high, dappled canopy of the one large tree. It was a far cry from the little apartment with the tiny brick patio where they had started living together.

  She picked her way across the wet grass (alert for deposits left by wandering neighborhood dogs) and inspected the little stand of mushrooms.

  They must have popped up overnight; they certainly hadn’t been there yesterday. How nice if they should prove to be edible: sautéed mushrooms, fresh picked, some rare type stuffed with healthful and exotic vitamins, no doubt.

  But they didn’t look edible. Seen up close, each mushroom was about as big as a knuckle of her hand, round, and of a particularly unattractive greasy pallor th
at made her wrinkle her nose. They looked—well, fungoid, anything but fresh and wholesome; alien, actually. Alien to the dinner table, anyway, unless it was some French dinner table regularly graced with sauced animal glands and such.

  Well, sunlight would no doubt kill the pallid little knobs. People grew mushrooms in cellars, didn’t they? Her newly acquired southwestern lawn was hardly a dark cellar. She was no gardener, but this much she could figure out.

  She typed medical transcripts from her tape machine until the dishwasher made a weird sound and vomited dirty water onto the floor. A session with an outrageously expensive plumber, plus his doltish (also expensive) apprentice, followed, and there went the rest of the morning.

  At least her ancient and rusted Volks started without fuss. But when Fran delivered the transcript pages she had finished, Carmella, her supplier, informed her that two of the doctors were going on vacation (at the same time, of course). There would be less work for a while.

  Fran cursed all the way home. If only Carmella had told her sooner that this was coming! If only Fran herself had remembered this seasonal problem from last year (it was exactly the same in Ohio). What could she have done about it, though? Not bought that little rug for the front hallway at the flea market, that’s what.

  A package had been left for her with her neighbor on the north, a plump girl who brought it over and introduced herself as Betsy. As Jeff had mentioned, she was a nurse with a late shift at a nearby hospital. To Fran she seemed awfully young and feather-headed to be taking care of sick people.

  Betsy wandered around admiring the rather scanty furniture and the posters Fran had hung on the walls while she answered Fran’s delicate soundings about the neighborhood around Baker’s Park.

  Yeah, the “convenience” store down on Rhoades Avenue was a rip-off joint, but the shoemaker next door to it was okay if the work wasn’t anything complicated. And it was a good idea to keep your car doors locked even when it was parked in your driveway. They did have burglaries sometimes, which was why so many people had dogs. Not that the dogs did much good. No, Betsy didn’t have dogs herself and neither did her housemates, one an elementary school teacher, one in social work, all three renting from the older couple (retired now to Florida) who owned the house.