Jim Shepard - Kiss of the Wolf

Want to go to a movie tonight? she thought acidly, backing down the driveway.

She wandered around Hamden for twenty minutes looking for the garage, unwilling to ask directions, as if that were the clue that would give her away. When she finally found it, the guy came out to see her, rubbing his hands with an oily black rag. He flapped the rag toward one of the bays, and someone else guided her in over the lift. She sat in a paneled waiting room while they worked. No one talked to her. New radial tires on stands were angled around as decorations. She sat near a table covered with People magazines that looked like they’d been dumped out of a box.

While they were still working on her car the guy she’d talked to on the phone called her over to the cash register. The bill was four hundred and something. She took out her checkbook. It occurred to her that she should’ve paid cash, so that no one could trace the check. But maybe paying in cash would’ve been suspicious to this guy.

He took her check and thanked her and told her the car’d be out in a few minutes. He reminded her that it wouldn’t be completely dry and that she’d probably get grit in the finish.

She sat back down. It was almost four.

One of the guys who’d worked on the car looked into the waiting room. When he saw her, he came over and dropped a quarter in her hand.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Good-luck quarter,” the guy said. “We found it when we pulled off the bumper. Musta dropped down where the grill work got pushed against the chassis.”

She stared at it in her hand.

“Car’s all set,” he said. “If you’re sure you don’t wanna leave it overnight.”

“Thanks,” she said. When he left, she slipped the quarter inside one of the People magazines and burrowed the magazine deep inside the pile.

Todd wasn’t back when she got home. She called Brendan, and Brendan’s mother still hadn’t seen him. Was everything all right? Everything was fine.

She sat staring at the phone. He didn’t have a lot of friends.

She called another kid he’d gone to the movies with once. The kid was out, but his mother was sure he wasn’t with Todd.

She didn’t know what to do while she waited, where to look. The kitchen had a faint cinnamony smell. She called Bruno. She wanted to tell him she’d go out with him.

“Hey, there. Todd’s over here,” he said.

“Todd?” she said. She was standing, and she leaned back against the counter. “Over there? How’d he get over there?”

“I saw him wandering around, I picked him up. Why? Were you worried?”

“Of course I was worried,” she said. “I didn’t know where he was. Where’d you pick him up?”

“So anyway, what’s up?” Bruno said. “You callin’ to look for him?”

“No,” she said. “Put him on for a second.”

There was some muffled fumbling and talk. Todd gave a low laugh.

“Hello?” Todd said.

“Hey, you,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going over there? I was worried.”

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“Why didn’t you tell me, once you were over there?”

He didn’t answer.

“Did you eat anything?” she asked. It was all she could think to say.

“Bruno says we’re gonna go out,” Todd said. The receiver was muffled again and Bruno said something and they both laughed.

“What d’you mean, out? You mean for dinner? It’s four-thirty,” she said.

“Hold on a sec,” he said.

“Todd?” She clapped an open palm on her thigh in frustration.

“What’s up?” Bruno said.

“What’s up? You got my son all day, I don’t know where he is, and now you want to go out. I gotta feed him dinner,” she said.

“Yeah, we’re goin’ out, get something to eat,” he said. “We’d ask you along, but it’s a guys’ trip.” Todd said something she couldn’t hear. “The guys’re gonna do some talkin’,” Bruno said.

“Bruno, let me talk to him,” she said.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said. “Everyone remain calm here.” His voice got faint, and she imagined he was holding the phone out to Todd. “Your mother wants to say good-bye.”

“’Bye, Ma,” Todd said in the same faint voice.

“He says ’bye,” Bruno said.

“Bruno—” she said. She was holding the receiver with both hands.

“You said you weren’t calling about Todd,” Bruno said. “So what were you calling about?”

She raised her toes and insteps so that she stood only on her heels, and then flopped her feet back down again. “I wanted to let you know we could go somewhere sometime,” she said. “Lemme talk to him again.”

“Your mom and I are going on a date,” she heard him say. She winced. “That’s great,” he said. “How about this Saturday?”

She thought about it, distracted. She still wanted to head off the baseball game. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night? Tomorrow night I can’t. Tomorrow night I got the baseball game with my pal Todd here.” He coughed. “She wants me to go tomorrow night,” she heard him say to Todd.

She waited. Out the kitchen window, she could see a neighbor hefting a huge black trash bag into a can.

“For you, we’re flexible guys,” Bruno said. “Also, because we haven’t bought the tickets yet. But it’s gonna cost you. Todd says you gotta show me a good time.”

“I didn’t say that,” she heard Todd say.

“Put him on,” she said.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, six o’clock,” he said. “I don’t know what we’ll do yet, but I’ll think of something. I got connections.”

“Bruno, put Todd on,” she said.

“See you tomorrow,” Bruno said.

There was the woolly sound of another phone exchange. “I’ll be back around six,” Todd said.

“You gonna be all right?” Joanie said. “You got any money?”

“No,” Todd said.

“Well, you keep track of what Bruno spends so I can pay him back,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. He waited.

“You mad about giving up the baseball?” she said.

“We’re not givin’ it up. We’re goin’ on Tuesday,” he said.

“Tuesday?” she said. A headache she’d been aware of for a few minutes felt worse. “I thought it was tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow. And Tuesday. It’s a three-game series,” Todd said.

“Put Bruno on,” she said, gritting her teeth.

“He says he’s already out the door,” Todd said.

“Todd—” she said.

“We gotta go,” he said. “See you soon.” He hesitated and then hung up.

She held the receiver away from her and pitched it toward the kitchen table. The cord pulled it off the table and across the floor. It ended up near the dog’s dish, swinging back and forth on one end. The off-the-hook beep started.

Audrey furtively climbed the stairs, probably assuming she’d done something wrong. Joanie stood there with her arms folded until the beeping noise annoyed her enough. Then she replaced the receiver, poured herself a glass of orange juice, and ate the sandwich she had made for Todd.

Todd didn’t come home at six. He came home at eight. Joanie was watching videotaped footage of her wedding on the VCR when he came in. She’d been digging around looking for a tape they’d made of Todd as a baby — Gary holding him on his lap when he was eight months old and drumming his arms at high speed to Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing.” They called it “doing his Gene Krupa.” She loved the way he looked up at the camera and laughed his big, short, baby laugh.

But she hadn’t found it, digging around on the closet floor. The tape she’d found that she thought might be it turned out to be her wedding tape, made by a relative with shoes so squeaky it sounded like someone was playing with a child’s toy throughout the ceremony. Once it was on, she let it go, a little stunned by the unpleasantness of watching it again. It opened with a misspelled greeting from the filmmaker: BONA FORTUNA GARY AND JOANIE. Then there was snow and a glimpse of something involving a knife that had apparently been on the tape first. Then guests arriving. A champagne bottle. Her own back while she flounced comically for her friends. Gary’s father standing by a tree, looking glum. The guests inside the church, the video golden and grainy. Gary and his best man waiting in the priest’s chambers, holding up a hip flask and mugging. Jagged pans, a disorienting swoop past something, overexposed stained-glass windows, someone’s feet. A group of Gary’s relatives who’d come from Pennsylvania. Behind them, off by himself, Bruno, looking grim.