Rules for Werewolves (10 page)

“You don’t have to bring anything. The whole thing is on me. In my studio. And it’s not a date. It’s just how I make what I make. You’ll see.
If
you can make it. Can you make it? It’s at seven tomorrow night. Can you make it? It’s not a date.”

I told him he said that one too many times. Then we laughed and I said, “Sure,” and shut the door.

I spent all day working. That day and the next. I started just by tying things together, literally. I had a ball of string I had found and I just started tying things to the spokes of the bike. It got kinda pretty, the string fanning out in a circle from the spokes of the bike wheel, like a skirt. And it was just tied to everything. Around the neck of a stuffed dolphin. To a number two pencil. To the tab of a Diet Coke can. I had this image that I would ride that bike to dinner and I would drag everything in the world along behind me. When I ran out of string I started taping things together with brown packing tape. I liked that a lot. A spiral notebook taped to the back of a stuffed dolphin tied to a bike. I got really excited by that. But I bet it all looked like shit. I don’t know why I got all keyed up to start working. I wasn’t an artist. I left it all behind. I wonder what they thought when they went in my room finally. I’m sure they had to clean it all out. Reggie at least. I still feel bad about that.

But the reason I know that I’m not an artist is that I went to dinner the next night with Paulie. At around seven fifteen I got up and went to his studio. I sort of thought Paulie might come get me at seven, but he never did. When I got to Paulie’s studio there was a card table set up and four metal folding chairs around it. The studios weren’t very big and Paulie’s might have been smaller than mine. There was a bed in there, and a desk, and an easel in the center of the biggest wall, facing the door so you saw it when you walked in. On the easel was a painting of the archangel Gabriel. I don’t want to say anything about it. We were all jammed up under that painting at the little card table. There were four of us. It was three men, Paulie and two others I had never met before. I opened the door to Paulie’s studio and there beneath the archangel Gabriel were three men. Paulie was wearing a tie. Not super fancy, but a tie, still.

Paulie stood up and the other two guys stood up. They were gay. Paulie pulled out my chair and I sat down and everybody sat down. The other two guys were a couple so it did feel a little like a date. Paulie had made spaghetti and meatballs, but he had made it really good. And he had baked his own cornbread, which you might not think would have gone with the whole thing, but it was perfect. Maybe he didn’t know how to make French bread? Everybody introduced each other and Paulie introduced the archangel Gabriel. He had just finished painting it. Then we went around the table and everybody said what they did. I said I was a vagabond and everybody laughed. John said he was a mathematician and I said I didn’t know that was a job and everybody laughed. Ray-Ray said he was a dancer and everybody laughed. Paulie said he was an artist.

Gabriel was an archangel. One of seven in most traditions. In Judaism they are Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Sariel, Remiel, Jophiel, and Chamuel. I know that’s eight, but that’s part of the mystery that there is confusion about which one of those names mentioned in the Torah is not a true archangel. I could be getting this all wrong. Gabriel is special. He also goes by Jibril or Jibrail and he is the messenger of God. Some people even consider him the same as the Holy Spirit. To Catholics, Gabriel’s the patron saint of emergency dispatches. But in Judaism, Gabriel wasn’t always the best messenger. He was once punished for not obeying a command exactly as it was given and he was hidden from God outside the heavenly curtain. In Christianity, Gabriel is the angel that tells Mary
that the baby buried inside her is the son of God. In Latter-Day Saints, Gabriel is the same as Noah who built an ark and hid all the animals from the flood in that big giant floating wooden womb-boat. And then after the flood all the animals are born back into the world. Noah is his earthly name and Gabriel is his celestial name, sorta like when people from your hometown call you something different. Muslims believe that Gabriel revealed the Koran to the prophet Mohammed. Muslims believe that because Gabriel is the messenger of God and he has six hundred wings, you can never see his face behind them all. I’m just telling you what I remember, there was a lot a lot a lot more.

The spaghetti was really good and we drank a lot of wine, all of which Paulie paid for. And it wasn’t like a lecture. Paulie asked us all to talk about what religion means to us. Our experience with spirituality. If we believed in angels. If we believed in signs from God. John said Ray-Ray was his guardian angel and told a story about Ray-Ray coming out of nowhere to physically defend him against a physicist who was being an asshole. I told a story I don’t know if I ever told anybody about one time I was hiking in the woods, and I swear to this day I heard someone say my name, as clear as a bell, but there was no one else there for a thousand miles. I heard a voice say my real name, not Tanya but the name my mother gave me, the name maybe only a handful of people in my hometown would even remember. But there was no one else there for a hundred thousand miles. And I felt scared and special, like everything was going to be all right, and still scared—all at the same time.

Paulie said he was painting all the archangels. The way he did it was he painted them the best he could, and then he had some people over to “witness” the angel, and then he sealed the angel away in an ark, which was just a flat wooden box, and then on the ark’s lid Paulie had written with a black marker a little sentence that says “I have seen the archangel Gabriel—” and we were all supposed to sign on as witnesses.

I helped Ray-Ray clear food from the table so Paulie could use the table to box up the painting. In the kitchen, as we threw the dishes in the sink, Ray-Ray said to me, “He’s great. Isn’t he?” I had no idea if he was talking about his boyfriend, John, or Paulie, because it was sort of like a date, the way Ray-Ray and John were paired up, leaving me and Paulie. But he might also have been talking about the archangel Gabriel. I just
said, “Yeah, he’s fantastic.” And then Ray-Ray hugged me, like we had just had this big moment together, but I still had no idea what was happening. He could have been hugging me to express how happy he was to have found John and to be in love. Or he could have been hugging me one of those “you two are going to be so happy together” hugs about Paulie. Or he could have been hugging me because of the abiding presence of the divine in our shitty lives. Whatever he intended, he probably got more than he bargained for, because I hugged the ever-loving shit out of him. No one had touched me for a long time, and it felt good. I squeezed him like a maniac and started crying. And he said, “There, there, baby. There, there now.” And he didn’t rush me or get embarrassed, and I remember thinking, “Maybe Ray-Ray
is
a guardian angel. Wouldn’t that be weird?” And now I try to be like him and remember his mannerisms and his kindness to others.

When we got back to the room they already had the cover on the angel and Paulie had a tack hammer and some brass nails. I really wanted to see it one more time, but I was embarrassed to ask. Paulie smiled at me and then got to work. The card table we’d eaten on was not the best workbench in the world. It wobbled as Paulie nailed the ark shut, and we all stood around in silence as the archangel was put away.

I asked Paulie, “Does anyone ever get to see it again?”

He said, “They have to have faith that you did.”

“But it’s so beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

And then we all signed off that we had witnessed the archangel Gabriel. And as soon as I signed, I went back to my little studio and packed up all my stuff. I was gone the next morning before the second month’s rent was due. Paulie came by and knocked on my door again, in the middle of the night, after Ray-Ray and John left. But I didn’t answer. Sometimes I still find myself thinking about my “sculpture,” which is stupid, because it was just a bunch of stuff I found all tied together. And sometimes I find myself praying that I’ll hear my name again. That I’ll be found and that everything will be all right, as scary as that concept is for me. My real name. A name that almost no one knows.

—All right. Pay attention, Bobert.

—Don’t hit me.

—If you don’t want to get hit, pay attention.

—I am. I was.

—If you were then you would have ducked. Like this. Good. You’re quick.

—Stop it.

—Stop whining. You should be listening to every word I say and soaking it in. Like a sponge. Good. I didn’t even hit you that hard.

—I don’t think you get to decide how hard the hit is. I think it’s the one getting hit who gets to decide. Ow. Fuck. I knew you were going to do that.

—Then why did you say it?… Good. Now the most important thing to remember is to pay attention.

—I am. I was.

—Don’t pay attention to me. Already you should have one ear focused on the closet. Do you know how to focus your attention? If I say the closet, can you imagine it?

—It’s right there.

—That’s just the door. The closet is what’s behind that.

—All right.

—Don’t pay attention to me. And don’t just focus on the door. Susan
isn’t gonna open up the door and tell you how she feels. You have to train your focus to go imaginary. But you can’t just make up anything you want. You have to imagine Susan with some accuracy. That’s sympathy. It helps if you like her. Do you like Susan?

—I just. I don’t—

—I thought you might, Bobert. Now when Susan needs something—if something goes wrong—you’ve gotta get help from all of us. We all want to help Susan, but to do that we need you to focus your attention on her.

—I can do that with my focus.

—I’ll stop talking in a second so you can really get zoned in, but start sending half your attentive forces into the closet already. All right? Good. Now the second rule is to never leave Susan alone.

—What if I have to go to the bathroom?

—We’re gonna get you a can.

—I can’t shit in a can.

—You
can
. Haha.

—No way.

—Get it?

—I’m not gonna shit in a can.

—What do you think it’s gonna be like when
you
change?

—I won’t care if someone takes five minutes to take a shit.

—You might. You don’t know how you’re going to feel when it’s actually happening. That’s one of the reasons I want you out here.

—So I can learn this, so when I start to change—

—I don’t even know why I talk to you. You’re so fucking smart you don’t even need to hear words.

—What do I actually do? I just shit in a can and wait?

—You have to watch out that I don’t get frustrated with you.

—But what do I do?

—You pay attention.

—I am.

—And you never leave Susan alone.

—Can the dog stay with me?

—No. The dog’s too excited. This needs to be a calm thing for Susan. And you’re a little too into the dog.

—We have a connection.

—That’s great. You can have the dog again as soon as this is over. But right now you’re Susan’s connection. You’re the only connection to everything she knows. She’s going through some … I don’t know what. It’s really personal. You’ll see. I guarantee that.

—I won’t leave. No matter what. Just get me a can.

—And you have to keep talking, too. It’s not enough just to be here. She has to know you’re here. She has to
hear
you’re
here
. Haha. Get it? I’m being a dork, but seriously.

—What do I say to her?

—Mostly it’s reading. But if you run out of things to read and you don’t want to reread something you’ve already read, then you just talk. You just don’t stop talking.

—What do I read?

—We’re gonna give you everything we can. I have some pages left over from the last time someone changed and everything else we’re gonna write down,
right
now. Haha. We’re each gonna write down what happened to us. The way we experienced it. Our regrets. The rules. Bad habits. Conversations we can remember. And as Susan hears it, she can use it, to make her change.

—Why don’t I get to tell her anything? Why does it all have to be stuff you guys write?

—What did I just fucking say to you?

—Ow. Don’t hit me.

—Why not?

—Ow. Don’t fucking hit me!

—I just fucking said: You have to keep talking all the time. You can tell her anything you want. But take it seriously. Don’t tell her dumb shit or lie to her or change the words in our shit on purpose. It might be funny to you, but it could end up being mean to her. Take it seriously. Like her life depends on it.

—I do.

—Then why didn’t you fucking listen when I told you the first time you could talk to her.

—Ow. Stop it.

—All right. We’re fucking around way too long already. You should be talking already.

—All right.

—I’ll get everyone started writing stuff for you. You just start by telling Susan that’s what I’m doing. Describe us all writing. All of us sitting in different rooms in this awesome house with all its games and music and books and cable. And we’re all gonna be hunched over little pads of paper and scribbling away for her.

—Do I have to yell?

—Oh, no. Like the opposite. Her hearing is gonna get wild. She’ll be able to hear the slightest whisper.

—Susan?

—She can’t answer you. She can’t talk.

—Susan, I’m going to be your reader.

—Now just to be super clear. If I come back here and you’re not here, or you’re not talking, or you’re asleep, then I’m going to hit you once—as hard as I can, with my fucking baseball bat. Get it?

—Susan, Malcolm’s leaving now and it’s just you and me talking to each other. All right? Go on, Malcolm. I got this. He’s walking out the door right … now. Now it’s just you and me, Susan, and I’m just going to talk to you and tell you how I feel.