"I'm done." Cormac began cleaning up the mess, packing everything away into a metal toolbox.
Ben watched for a minute, then said, "If you'd just shot me, you wouldn't have to deal with this crap now."
"You are never going to let me live that down, are you?"
"We had a deal—"
Cormac slammed the toolbox on the table, making a wrenching crash. "We were sixteen years old when we made that deal! We were just kids! We didn't have a clue!"
Ben dropped his gaze. I left the room.
Couldn't go far, of course. A whole five feet to the so-called living room. Still, the space made ignoring them marginally easier. The whole cabin became entrenched in a thick, obvious silence. A moment later, Cormac left out the front door, toolbox and rifles in hand. Then I heard him repacking his Jeep. I half expected the engine to start up, to hear him drive away forever, leaving me to deal with Ben all by myself. But he didn't. Maybe he planned on sleeping out there to avoid any more arguments, but he didn't drive away. Ben went to the bedroom. I sat at my desk, at my computer, pretending to write, and wanted to pull out my hair.
I'd spent a year on the radio telling people how to fix their supernaturally complicated relationship problems. And now I couldn't deal with the one right in front of me.
Ben emerged long enough for supper. More venison steaks. After, he pulled a chair into the living room and sat in front of the stove, just watching the embers burning through the grate, slipping into some kind of fugue state. I couldn't really argue. I'd done the same tiling when this had happened to me. As the body changed, perceptions changed, and the world seemed to slow down. You blinked and a whole afternoon went by. The sense of disconnection had lasted for weeks. I'd almost flunked out that semester. If I hadn't been just a year away from finishing, I might have given into that urge to drop out and walk away. Walk into the woods, never to return.
Cormac stayed in the kitchen. They still weren't speaking.
Later, at the appropriate hour, I turned on the radio. Yes, it was that time of the week again. I curled up on the sofa, cell phone in hand.
Ben looked at the radio, brow furrowed. Then, he narrowed his eyes—an expression of dawning comprehension. "What day is it?"
"Saturday," I said.
Immediately he stood, shaking his head. "No, uh-uh, there is no way I am listening to this. I'm not watching you listen to this. I'm out of here. Good night." He went to the bedroom and flopped on the bed.
Cormac came from the kitchen, glancing at the bedroom, and sat on the other end of the sofa. "What's this?"
"The competition," I said.
The sultry voice announced herself.
"Good evening. I am Ariel, Priestess of the Night. Welcome to my show." And again, "Bela Lugosi's Dead." Of all the pretentious…
I muttered at the radio in a manic snit. "Tell us, Ariel, what shall we talk about this week?"
Ariel, via the radio, answered. "We've all heard of werewolves," she intoned. "We've seen countless movies. My little brother even dressed up as the Wolf Man for Halloween one year. All this attention has given short shrift to the oth er species. Lions and tigers and bears. And a dozen other documented lycanthropic varieties. Oh, my."
Cormac crossed his arms and leaned back. "You have to wonder if she's got a body to go with that voice."
I so wasn't going to tell him about the Web site. I glared at him instead. Then, a niggling voice started scratching at the back of my mind. Scratching, gnawing, aggravating, until I had to ask, "What about my show? You know, before you saw me in person—did my voice ever, you know, make you wonder if I maybe had a body to go with it?"
He looked at me, stricken for a moment. "You're a little different," he said finally.
Oh, God, I'm a hack. An ugly, talentless hack and nobody ever liked me, not once, not ever. I hugged the pillow that was on the sofa and stewed. Cormac rolled his eyes.
Ariel was still talking. "Are you a lycanthrope who is something other than the standard lupine fare? Give me a call, let's chat."
I had the number on speed dial by this time. I punched the call button and waited.
Cormac watched thoughtfully. "What are you doing?"
I ignored him. I got a busy signal the first time, then tried again. And again, until finally, "Hello, you've reached Ariel, Priestess of the Night. What's your name and hometown?"
I had it all planned out this time. "I'm Irene from Tulsa," I said brightly.
"And what do you want to talk about?"
"I'm a were-jaguar. Very rare," I said. "I'm so glad that Ariel's talking about this. I've felt so alone, you know? I'd love a chance to talk."
"All right, Irene. Turn down your radio and hold, please."
I did so, pressing the phone to my ear and tapping my foot happily.
Cormac stared at me. "That's really pathetic."
"Shut up."
Then he had the nerve to take the radio to the next room, to the kitchen table. He hunched before it, listening with the volume turned down low. Couldn't he leave me alone?
I listened in on three calls: the callers claimed to be a were-leopard, a were-fox, and a werewolf who refused to believe that lycanthropes could be anything other than wolves, because, well, he'd never met any others personall y. If he'd called into my show I would have told him off with a rant that would have left him dumbstruck. Something along the lines of: Okay, you big jerk, let's try out anew word, shall we? Say it along with me: narcissistic…
By comparison, Ariel was shockingly polite. "Marty, do you consider yourself to be an open-minded person?"
"Well, yeah, I suppose," said Marty the caller.
"Good, that's really good," Ariel purred. "I'd expect a werewolf to be open-minded. You're involved so deeply in the world behind the veil, after all. I'm sure there are lots of things you haven't had personal experience with, yet you believe—like the Pope, or the Queen of England. So exactly why is it that you can't accept the existence of other species of lycanthropes, just because you've never met one?"
Marty hadn't thought this one through. You could always spot the ones who spouted rhetoric with no thought behind it. "Well, you know. All the stories are about werewol ves . And the movies—werewolves, all of ttiem. It's the Wolf Man, not the Leopard Man!"
"And what about Cat People?"
Hey, that was what I'd have said.
"That's different," Marty said petulantly. "That was, you know, made-up."
Ariel continued. "Stories about shape-shifters are found all over the world, and they're about all kinds of animals. Whatever's common locally. You really have to accept that there might be something to all these stories, yes?"
"I've never heard of these stories."
Wow, I loved how some people were so good at digging their own holes.
"Your culture isn't the only one in the world, Marty. Moving on to the next call, we have Irene from Tulsa, hello."
My turn? Me? I was ready for this. I tried to sound more chipper and ditzy than I had the last time I called. "Hi, Ariel!"
"So, you're a were-jaguar. Can you tell me how exactly that happened? Jaguars aren't exactly native to Tulsa."
"When I was in college I spent a summer volunteering in Brazil for an environmental group, working in the jungle. One time I started back to camp a little late, and, well…" I took a deep, significant breath. "I was attacked."
How could you not sympathize with that story? Oh, yeah, somebody nominate me for an Oscar. I wondered how long it would take her to spot the fake.