Temper

Over the next few weeks, my language recognition skills went into overdrive. I learned best the way most children learn: eavesdropping. Antonio left the day after we’d arrived, but he returned the next weekend, and the weekend after that.

Days of listening to Jeremy and Antonio helped me far more than Jeremy’s lessons could. That’s not to say that my verbal skills kept pace. I talked when I had to, but I didn’t really see the point. My needs were simple, so there wasn’t much I had to communicate. Gesturing and grunting seemed far more efficient than speech. Jeremy disagreed.

By the end of the second week at Stonehaven, he wasn’t even content with mere words anymore. He wanted sentences. Whole sentences. And, in forcing me to speak when I didn’t want to, we both learned one more thing about me. I had a bit of a temper.

“Out.”

Jeremy glanced over his newspaper and lifted one eyebrow. I was learning to hate that particular facial gesture.

“Out.”

Antonio lay on the floor, surrounded by papers, writing in a ledger book. He looked up. “I think he wants to go outside. Why don’t we—?”

“I know perfectly well what he wants. And he knows how to ask for it.”

“Want out.” I planted myself in front of Jeremy and pushed down his newspaper.

Jeremy shook the newspaper from my hand. “Ask for it properly, Clayton. A full sentence. I want to go out. ‘Please’ would be nice.”

I growled and stamped my foot. Jeremy turned the page.

“Want—”

“No, Clayton.”

I grabbed the newspaper and ripped it from his hands.

“I want to go out! Now!”

Jeremy plucked the torn paper from my hands, folded it and laid it aside. “You don’t speak to me that way, Clayton. Go upstairs, please. You can come down for dinner.”

My request had seemed simple enough. All Jeremy had to do was give me permission. I could open the door and let myself out. I knew the boundaries: the broken statue, the bronze urn, the kitchen window and the back door.

For weeks, he’d given me what I wanted when I wanted it. Now, all of a sudden, these simple wishes were granted only when I complied to outrageous demands like having to speak in full sentences. The unfairness of it raged through me.

I grabbed the newspaper and ripped it in half. Jeremy ignored me and reached for his coffee mug. I knocked it from his hand as it touched his lips. It smashed into the wall, shards flying in all directions.

“Clayton!” Antonio leapt to his feet.

Jeremy put out a hand to stop him. His face stayed impassive, which infuriated me more. I flung myself in his face.

“Out!” I screamed, spraying spittle flying. “Want out nowwwww!”

I snatched up the nearest thing to me, which happened to be an end table, and flung it against the brick fireplace. It smashed into sticks and splinters. I swung back to face Jeremy. He arched one eyebrow.

“Done?”

I stormed to the back door, grabbed the handle, then stopped.

I couldn’t do it. My fingers refused to turn the door handle. I could not disobey Jeremy. It was like a subconscious override that shut down my synapses.

With a snarl, I spun from the door and stomped up the stairs, making as much noise as a forty-pound body can make.

I ran into the first room on the right, an empty guest room, and threw myself onto the bed. Burying my head under the pillow, I gulped stale air. The rage dissipated. On its heels came horror.

Somewhere deep in the recesses of my damaged memory, I knew that you never lashed out at an adult. You did not argue. You did not shout. And you absolutely did not break things. To do so was dangerous…painful. It was an old lesson, etched in my brain, yet one I’d never been able to follow. Now, I had a reason to follow it. I had a home. Shelter and food. Someone to protect me. Yet I seemed hell-bent on screwing it up.

I pulled the pillow around my ears and sobbed, dry heaving sobs that racked my body until I was too exhausted to move. Then I lay there, feeling sorry for myself.

After a while, I heard footsteps on the stairs. I lifted the pillow a bit and listened. The footfalls sounded too heavy for Jeremy, but I still peered out hopefully. When Antonio rounded the doorway, I yanked the pillow down over my head and flipped over, turning my back to him.

“Good, you picked the old room,” he said. “Nothing valuable to break.”

“Go away.”

“What’s that? A complete sentence? Short, but grammatically complete. Very good.” He thudded onto the foot of the bed. “That’s a wicked temper you’ve got there. Great pitching arm, though. When you grow up, Jeremy can send you down to try out for the Yankees.”

I lifted the corner of the pillow. “Send me away?”

“No, no.” Antonio shook his head and pulled the pillow away. “I was joking. Teasing.” He studied my face for some sign that I understood him. “Jeremy’s not sending you anywhere.”

I relaxed. “He come? Up?”

“’Fraid not, scrap. That’s why I’m here. I figured you might need some help.”

“Not come up?”

“No. He’ll call you for dinner, like he said, but he won’t come up after you. Here’s what I’d suggest. You go downstairs and apologize. Understand?”

I shook my head.

“Go downstairs. To Jeremy. Tell him you’re sorry. Say ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy.’ A complete sentence. Understand?”

I nodded. It sounded too easy. I should have known there was a catch.

I followed Antonio downstairs, found Jeremy in the study, walked up to him and said, “I’m sorry, Jeremy.” He nodded and let me help him wash the coffee off the wall. And so I was forgiven. As easy as that. No lecture. No icy silence. No grudges held. Yet there was something in his eyes that stung worse than all the beatings in the world. Disappointment. No apologies, however heartfelt, could erase that.

The next day, I was in the kitchen with Antonio. He’d shanghaied me on a “special mission.” He was baking a cake and swore he needed me. I suspected Jeremy needed a break more than Antonio needed the help.

“Now, you can’t tell Jeremy about the cake,” Antonio said, bending down and pulling a bowl from the cupboard.

“Why?”

“Because it’s a surprise. It’s for his birthday.”

My blank look made him gasp in mock horror.

“You don’t know what a birthday is? It means our Jeremy’s getting older. Tomorrow he will be a very ancient twenty-two. Do you know how old you are?”

I shook my head.

“Seven.” He lifted seven fingers.

I pointed at him.

“Me? I’m twenty-four. One foot in the grave. Not enough fingers for that.” He grinned and poured white powder into the bowl. “Next year, when you turn eight, we’ll throw you a party. My boy just turned eight a few months ago. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? I’ve got a son just about your age.”

I frowned and looked around. “Where?”

He laughed. “At home, scrap. With his grandfather, where he belongs. I’m a bad influence. Someday soon you’ll meet him. He’d like that. I’m sure you will, too.”

Personally I doubted it, but I didn’t say anything. He handed me an egg and showed me how to crack it into the bowl. I got more shell than egg in the bowl, but Antonio only laughed and handed me another one. This time, I got most of the egg in the bowl and only one sliver of shell.

“Well done, scrap. At least someone in this house will be able to cook.”

Antonio continued to chatter. I didn’t understand most of what he said. I didn’t care. Nothing seemed to faze him. When I knocked over the milk bottle, he laughed and threw down some dish towels. When I snuck a fingerful of batter, he laughed and gave me a spoonful. There was no mistake that couldn’t be wiped away with a laugh and a wink. And best of all, he didn’t make me speak in full sentences.

When the cake was done, Antonio pronounced it perfect. It looked a little lopsided, but I didn’t argue. We hid the cake in the toaster oven. Antonio swore it’d be safe there. He doubted Jeremy knew what a toaster oven was for, much less how to operate it. Most of our meals came straight from the cupboards and refrigerator, cold cuts and fruit, breads and cheese, steaks and vegetables, whatever could be served with a minimum of preparation. Dinners appeared miraculously on our doorstep every day, in a cooler, with instructions for reheating.

After dinner that night, Jeremy said he was going out back to “practice.” I was welcome to come out, but forbidden to sneak up on him. Intrigued, I started to follow. Antonio caught me and pulled me aside.

“I’m going out, scrap. Jeremy’s birthday present is ready. Want to come?”

“Where?”

“Town. Go. In car. You and me. Yes?”

I shook my head. “Go Jeremy.”

“Are you sure? He won’t be much fun. He’s busy.”

“Stay Jeremy.”

“All right then. I’ll see you when I get back. He’s outside. Go through the patio doors. Make sure he hears you coming. Our Jeremy gets pretty wrapped up in his practicing and he might not notice you. Be careful. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Can I get you something from town? Bring something home for you?”

“Food.”

Antonio laughed and rumpled my hair. “You’re easy to please, scrap. Go see Jeremy then.”

I found Jeremy outside shooting pointed sticks. This I accepted as a perfectly fine hobby, much the same as I had the plastic-talking. Jeremy was my god. Whatever he did was good and right.

I’d later learn that this hobby had a name. Archery. Not the sort of thing I saw people doing every day back in Baton Rouge. Not the sort of thing you’d expect a werewolf to do either. Why learn to use a hunting weapon when you came with your own built-in set?

For Jeremy, though, archery had nothing to do with hunting. It was all about control, developing and improving the mental and physical control needed to put an arrow through a target. Of course, I wouldn’t know that for years. Right then, it looked like he was shooting sticks at a tiny dot out in the field. Strange, but if it made him happy, then I was happy.

When he saw me watching, he offered to show me how to use the bow. Didn’t look like much fun, really, but if it meant spending time with him then, sure, I was game.

Jeremy was repositioning my hands on the bow for the umpteenth time when a sound came from the house. We both stopped and listened. Somewhere inside, a door closed. Jeremy straightened.

“Antonio’s ba—”

He stopped in midword. He turned toward the house. His eyes took on that strangely intense blank look I’d come to recognize, searching but not really looking—or not looking at anything the rest of us could see. Jeremy sensed things and saw things no one else could. At the time, I didn’t understand and knew only that he seemed to be all-seeing, coming running whenever I was in danger, which was, after all, only proper behavior for a god.

Whatever he sensed, it made him go rigid, his shoulders squaring, anxiety coming off him in sharp spurts. He took a step backward toward me, as if to shield me. The patio door squawked as it swung open.

“I thought you weren’t coming home until next month,” Jeremy said.

“That’s a fine welcome.”

Jeremy’s back blocked my view. All I saw of the newcomer was a pair of loafers below tan slacks. The voice definitely wasn’t Antonio’s, though. A stranger? Coming into our house? Invading our territory? Outrage shot through me and my hackles went up. I sniffed the air, but the newcomer was downwind.

“Welcome back,” Jeremy said. His voice was stiff. He stepped back again, keeping me shielded behind him.

“My, my, now I do feel welcome,” the man said cheerfully. “Of course, an even better welcome would be to return to find you’ve moved out. Or perhaps had an unfortunate run-in with a local hunter. But that would be too much to hope for, wouldn’t it?”

Jeremy said nothing.

“Did I see Tonio’s suitcase upstairs?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“He’s here? My timing isn’t so bad, then. Where is he?”

“Out.”

Keeping his back to me, Jeremy picked up the bow and adjusted the string. It was a subtle dismissal, but the man seemed in no hurry to leave.

“Still playing with your toys, I see,” the man said.

Jeremy said nothing.

“What exactly is the point?” the man continued. “You don’t hunt. You’re afraid of everything that moves. But I suppose that bull’s-eye is a safe target. You don’t have to worry about it attacking you, not like one of those vicious little bunny rabbits. Of course, it could give you a nasty sliver.”

Jeremy plucked at the bow string.

“Well, come on then. Let’s see you take a shot,” the man said.

Jeremy didn’t move. The man snorted. I saw his legs move as he turned to leave. Jeremy’s back relaxed ever so slightly. Then, in midturn, the man stopped.

“What is that?” he asked.

“What’s what?” Jeremy said.

“Behind you.”

“Oh. That.” Jeremy reached back for my shoulder and pulled me out a few inches, still shielding me. “This is Clayton.”

He propelled me out a bit farther, keeping his hand on my shoulder. I looked up, my gaze moving from the man’s trousers, to his shirt and finally to his face.

“Clayton, this is Malcolm. My father.”

It was the werewolf who’d beaten me in Baton Rouge.