Casserole Diplomacy and Other Stories (28 page)

“Hmm . . . nice? What is a lacunae?”

“Sort of like an alcoholic blackout. Not the blackout itself, but the hole where your missing time went. A
lacuna
, singular—Latin, first declension, assigned gender feminine—appropriate as the girls cover up for us.”

Sid held the dangle in front of Jim’s nose. He gave it a gentle tap so it swung like a pendulum.
He’s trying to hypnotize me
, thought Jim.

“From the penis bone of a seal.” Sid dropped the amulet back inside his shirt. “David, Hillary’s first husband, made it in Alaska. David made a run for it, but he came back. Before he left, he bit me. But, like I said, he came back. Overland. He must have followed the railroad tracks. There were news reports. His trail pointed right here. Anyone with the brains God gave a tree could have figured things out.” Sid upended his can of beer and reached for a replacement. “Thank God for narrow-minded chauvinism. Nobody would have believed it even if they had caught on. Which they didn’t. Derek Lowe and Pedro Martinez. The Sox have a decent bullpen at last.”

“David left on a motorcycle; we don’t allow motorcycles here in Sur la Mer. One of the rules. Here, have another.” Hillary pushed the platter of cookies across the centre line back to Sally’s side. “We went the Lysistrata route—Aristophanes? Withholding sex, that got their attention. First we tried threats and confrontations about those
things
they will keep on dragging home to bury in the yard—the boys can’t recall anything of their midnight rambles or so they say. Dear, please don’t let your mouth hang open like that.”

“But . . . Jim?”

The woman is a born ingénue
, thought Hillary. “And the answer was right there all the time. We simply had to get some protection.”

Sally thought of condoms and Allstate, the good hands people. “You already have the gates. What’s left, guard dogs and sentries?”

“From the government. Our husbands were threatened, therefore Section 4—CFR 17.11 could be brought into play.”

“Seventeen-eleven. That’s not the convenience store . . .”

“No, that’s the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. The Endangered Species Act of 1973.”

“Oh. Yes . . .?”

“We are an aging population here in Sur la Mer. You have children,” said Hillary. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“In the play, Lysistrata—and it’s a comedy—the women go on a sex strike. They got fed up with their husbands always charging off to war. We supplement the husbands’ treatments with herbs.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Sally had seen a TV report on the perils of self-diagnosis. “There was that diet drug—
ephedrine
. . .?”

There was a squeak from the legs of a high-backed colonial reproduction chair as Hillary stood and collected the cookies and the cups. “For thirty years the doctors slapped hormone treatments to women and called it ‘enhancement.’ We pointed this out—their maleness would be ‘enhanced.’ It’s only fair,” said Hillary Braunstein. “And we got the cancer and the strokes. I figure if a woman loves her husband . . .” She absently dumped the plate of cookies into the garbage disposal. “We don’t compost,” she offered by way of an explanation. “Makes the ground too easy to dig in. I have an herb garden.”

Hillary walked out of the room. They would view the garden.

“Yes, I’d love to,” said Sally.

“Here, help yourself . . .” Sid Braunstein passed the bowl of clam dip. “Ambrosial. The girls, God bless ’em,” said Sid. “They have the top hand and they appreciate that. We acquiesce. Since the Lysistrata thing.”

“Lysistrata,” said Jim Schofield.

“Lysistrata. Don’t ask; Hillary will tell Sally and Sally will tell you—that’s how it works. Durance vile on the patio. Heh heh. Beer and chips beats bread and water.

“Lysistrata. Isn’t that a play by Aristo . . .”

“Yep. The girls needed a rest. And the hormone treatments did it. No more unchaperoned midnight impromptus; we all get hairy and horny at the same time. Impotence puts a strain on the best of marriages.” Sid gave Jim a nudge with his elbow. “Come home with a wet willie and the girls like to know where it’s been . . . Heh heh.”

At the back door, Hillary slipped into a pair of garden clogs. “Since you are the new girl, you get to patrol the wire. Fence maintenance. It’s only three nights a month and not too demanding. Here’s a set of rubber wellies. I think they’ll fit you, Sally. They were David’s; he had small feet.”

“How did you meet your second husband?”

“We even had a skateboard park built. For the kids?” Hillary had changed the subject. Again. “Turns out we can’t have kids. None of us. Something about the treatments. Oh, you mean Sid. Well, David and I were living in Jersey at the time; Sid was a veterinarian with a midtown clinic. On Madison Avenue. All very upscale and glitzy. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with David. One of them made a chance remark . . .”

“Is this what all the secrecy is about?”

“My, Sally, but you are fast on your feet. Excellent. See, David was a werewolf. We have made some, ahh, understandably tentative feelers to the government as to endangered species status for the husbands. But so far . . .”

“Then Sid is . . . ?”

“And so is Jim. And that is why you and I are here today going on a tour of my dumb, totally useless herb garden while our husbands swill beer and natter man-talk on the deck. Ow!” A blue spark arced from a wire fence to Hillary Braunstein’s finger. “It’s only 24 volts but it packs a wallop if you forget your rubber wellies.”

“You have an electrified fence?” Sally was aghast.

“The picket wire. That’s what we call it from the days when Marshall Dillon gave the trail bosses till sundown to get their unruly cowhands out of Dodge. We do the same, only in reverse. The husbands tend to roam.”

“Dodge?”

“Ah, the generational difference.
Gunsmoke
—an old TV show. Marshall Dillon strung barbed wire around the perimeter of the town. To keep the cows off the streets?” Hillary held a finger poised near the wire. It was strung tight between self-anchoring metal posts and twisted onto yellow plastic insulators. “It shouldn’t be much longer and we can turn the damned thing off.”

“Was. You said David
was
. And Jim . . .”

“No, dear, there’s no cure; don’t get your hopes up. Sid put him down. An overdose of morphine, quite painless. David couldn’t change back, but David was a rare case. Sid and I had discovered feelings for one another. And David bit him before running away to Alaska, so Sid was a goner. Even with belladonna poultices.”

“Hence the herb garden?”

“Sharp girl. Even with his medical knowledge, Sid was caught short. Belladonna is a specific for werewolf bite. Lacking belladonna, Sid improvised with the available members of the family. Deadly Nightshade: potatoes and tomatoes. French fries and ketchup. We were the talk of the Madison Avenue Burger King that night.”

“So just how did you come to Sur la Mer?” asked Jim Schofield.

“Well, as it happens, I’m a veterinarian and Hillary came to see me about David. See, he’d killed the newspaper delivery boy.”

Jim froze on the edge of his chair. The blue corn taco chip in his hand dripped clam and sour cream dip onto his slacks.

“Strike a nerve, did I? Hey . . . get a handle on that. Ruin your crease.” Sid pulled a paper serviette from a stack folded into a decorative wire holder, “Any trouble back in Manhattan? Beyond chasing cars and peeing on policemen’s legs?”

As Sid leaned to wipe the fallen splotch of dip from Jim’s pants he spoke urgently as if they might be overheard. “You know the kind—folks usually end up here on the run from some mess they have to get away from. Not the full of the moon, that’s all bullshit. Hundreds of thousands of years ago, the moon was closer, much closer to the Earth. And the months were shorter. There is a hormonal rhythm. Antibodies in the blood release a timed catalyst that triggers a hormonal shift. Really fast and nasty. But you would know all about that. That derelict I caught you with in the alley? There, that should do it.” Sid wadded up the napkin and dropped it on the floor. He leaned back and fondled his remote. “Once a month the girls fire up the electric fence and lock the gates.”

A weak arc of crackling blue curved from the fence wire to Hillary’s outstretched finger. “It all depends on where you stand.” She played the spark like a yo-yo, pulling her finger in and out. “There’s a formula—inductive capacitance, something like that. See, no shock.”

“You like touching the fence, don’t you?” said Sally. The electric blue followed Hillary’s finger but never seemed to make contact.

“Like I said, I just moved a little. It’s all in where you put your feet. And the rubber wellies too. Give it a try.”

“No thanks.”

“Whatever. Being a soccer mom . . . I almost envy you, Sally—the ballet lessons, soccer practice, fencing, Boy Scouts. When the men developed their—ahh,
problem
—and we applied hormone treatments, they became sterile and lost all interest in sex, and I mean
totally
. No more Mom’s Taxi; our kids aged and went off to school. You will have the only children in Sur la Mer. Of course if you get caught outside the wire after curfew, you’ll have to fend for yourself. But it’s only two days every month. And they’re horny as hell.” Hillary smiled a wide, suggestive smile.

Sid reached to scoop up a mighty dollop of clam dip with a taco chip. “Like I might have said, lycanthropism is, or has been for most of us here, transmitted through the bite of an affected individual. I’d say you are a natural.” Sid gave Jim a meaningful look.

“Meaning . . . ?” Jim remembered his aunt’s eyes when they caught up with him in the silo.

“Meaning some folks are born with the talent. We call it a talent. It is, you know, a talent. But there’s nobody to show off for. Neat party trick except you don’t get invited back.” He stuffed the dip-freighted chip into his mouth. A blob clung to his nose. “Yep. You’re a natural.”

Jim uncomfortably shifted his weight on the patio cushion.

“Childhood memories? Got the fidgets?”

“Yes.” Sid appeared happy with that and Jim decided not to belabour the point.

“I envy you. Hormonal,” said Sid Braunstein as he reached for another Coors. “You gotta hand it to them, the girls, they got it all doped out . . .” Sid was enjoying a mild beer buzz “. . . Vatican II, the rhythm system as applied to lycanthropy. Really cool stuff and Hillary figured it all out for herself. Got the idea from the hormone replacement therapies—you know, after the birth control pills scare? I just did the grunt work, contracted with the manufacturing laboratories and all.”

Hillary led Sally down a manicured path of white polished pebbles. “It’s not easy being different. Ever try to slip a werewolf past a condo board? They even hire private eyes; would you believe it? OK, so the men are normal most of the time. And no amount of electrolysis would explain away the—ahh . . .
artefacts
. Things they bring home to bury. They’re just like big kids, really. But who knew when they would get all hairy and feral?”

Sally slipped in the oversized rubber boots. “Oops. Sorry.” A wounded
mandragora officinarum
hung dejectedly where it had been snapped off. White milky sap oozed.

“Careful. This little patch represents two years of work. The occasional organ—a little something for later—that we could have put up with. But the yards were a mess. Who’s to know how a man’s mind works? Oh yes—the condo boards. After the twelfth try I was willing to chuck it all and buy outright. Always some old bat in a bouffant wig and her pet poodle humping Sid’s pants leg. We formed a non-profit corporation. Investment capital was lean after the dot-com bust and we picked the whole place up for chump change.”

“It must have cost millions.”

“A million-five, actually. Sid was a celebrity veterinarian. He performed surgery on Meg Ryan’s pussy. Twice. That’s one of Sid’s jokes. We had references. There’s nothing a condo board won’t ask—they leave you stripped and drained. One time I said I wanted to grow patio tomatoes on the roof, for emergencies. But I didn’t tell
them
that. Remember the French fries and ketchup? Well, it was like I peed in the communion chalice.”

“Oh, are you Catholics? With a name like Braunstein, I just naturally assumed . . .” Sally fell silent. The insides of the borrowed boots were sweaty and her face felt flushed.

“Tomato red.”

“Huh?”

“Tomato red is the colour I would have turned if I had made a gaffe like that one. You are forgiven; it is really quite attractive on you, Sally. Tomato red, I mean. Tomatoes are called the ‘wolf apple’ by the way. At least that’s their name in Latin:
lycopersicon esculentum
—the ‘wolf
peach
,’ rightly.”

Sally looked at the herb garden. “I don’t see any tomatoes.”

“No, no tomatoes. Ketchup is more concentrated. We buy it by the case at the Pick’n’ Pay.”