Mongrels. Stephen Jones Graham

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      “A tick,” Grandpa cut in. “And I couldn’t reach it. That was the thing. I couldn’t even see it. And your grandma, she knew that the fat ones like that are full of babies. She said if she grabbed it with the needle-noses, popped it, the babies would all go in my blood, and then they’d be like watermelon seeds in my stomach.”

      “That’s not how it works,” Libby said to me.

      “So you went to the doctor,” Darren said over her. “In town.”

      “Doc, he heated up the end of a coat hanger with his lighter,” Grandpa said to me, trying to be the one to tell the story right, “and he—” He acted it out, stabbing the burning-hot bent-out coat hanger down and working it around like stirring a tiny cauldron. “Why there’s a scar there now, it’s that I wouldn’t let him dress it, or stitch it. You know why, don’t you?”

      I looked from Libby to Darren.

      They each directed me back to Grandpa. It was his story, after all.

      “Because you’ve got to be born to the blood to take it,” Grandpa said, his voice nearly at a whisper. “If that doctor had got even one drop into a cuticle, he’d have turned into a moondog, sure as shooting.”

      My heart was thumping. This was better than any bullet hole.

      Libby was making lifting motions with her hand for me to get up already, that she was going to be late, she was going to get fired again.

      I stood from this dream, still watching Grandpa.

      “Let him finish,” Darren said to Libby.

      “We don’t have—”

      “If you’re bit, or if you get the blood in you,” Grandpa said anyway, “then it burns you up fast, little pup, and it hurts. All you can do is feel sorry. Those ones, they just have these wolf heads, a man body. They never understand what’s happening to them, just run around slobbering and biting, trying to escape their own skin, sometimes even chewing their own hands and feet off to stop them hurting.”

      He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but out the window. The eye I could see on my side, it was his cloudy one.

      I think it was the one he was looking with.

      Neither Libby nor Darren said anything, but Libby did accidentally look out the window, like just for a peek. Just to be sure.

      Then she set her mouth into a grim line, pulled her face back to the living room.

      I was going to be late for school and it didn’t matter.

      “Come on,” she said, taking my hand, and on the way past Grandpa I brushed my hand on the sleeve of his shirt, like to tell him it was okay, I think. That it was a good story. That I’d liked it. That he could keep telling me these stories forever, if he wanted. I would always listen. I would always believe.

      He flinched away from my hand, looked around for where he was.

      “Here, old man,” Darren said, handing a strawberry wine cooler across to him, and I climbed into my side of Libby’s El Camino, the one she had from finally breaking up with Red, and halfway to school I started crying, and I couldn’t figure out why.

      Libby switched hands on the wheel, pulled me over to her.

      “Don’t think about it,” she said. “I don’t even know how he really got that scar. It was before we were all born.”

      “Because Grandma was there,” I said.

      Just like my mom, Grandma had died the day she gave birth. It was like a curse in our family.

      “Because Grandma was there,” Libby said. “Next time he tells that stupid story, the tick won’t even be on the back of his arm anymore. It’ll have been that old cut up on his eyebrow, and the doctor heated his pocketknife up, not a coat hanger. One time when he told it to us it was that one scar that pulls beside his mouth.”

      This is the way werewolf stories go.

      Never any proof. Just a story that keeps changing, like it’s twisting back on itself, biting its own stomach to chew the poison out.

      The next week we found Grandpa out in the pasture without any clothes. His knees were bloody, not scabbing over yet, and the heels of his hands were scraped raw, and his fingertips were chewed by the gravel and the thorns. He was staring at us but he wasn’t seeing us, even with his good eye.

      Darren and me got to him first. I was riding on Darren’s back. He was running everywhere at once, and there were tears coming back on the side of his face.

      He let me down slow when we saw Grandpa.

      “He’s not dead,” I said, to make it true.

      It worked.

      Grandpa’s back lifted and fell with his next wheezy breath.

      Darren took two steps away and slung his bottle out as hard as he could, the pale pink liquid tracing drippy circles for the first few feet, then nothing. Just a smell on the air like medicine.

      “How old you think he is?” Darren said to me.

      I looked up to him, down to Grandpa.

      “Fifty-five,” Darren said. “This is what happens.”

      Libby heard his bottle break into whatever it broke into, and traced it back to us. She ran over, her hands in a steeple over her mouth.

      “He thinks he’s shifted,” Darren told her, disgusted.

      “Help me!” Libby said, falling to her knees by her dad, trying to get his head into her lap, her long black hair shrouded over both of them.

      That was one day.

      I quit going to school for that week, and promised myself to keep Grandpa alive.

      The way I did it was with stories. By keeping him talking.

      “Tell me about Grandma,” I said one night after Darren had left, after Red had come and stood at the gate like a statue until Libby drifted out to him. She couldn’t help it.

      I was asking about Grandma because if he thought he was really shifting into a werewolf, then talking to him about it wasn’t going to make him any better.

      “‘Grandma,’” he said in his new halfway slur, then shook his head no, said, “she never ever got to be called ‘Momma,’ did she?”

      I wanted to take my question back. To start over.

      Grandpa breathed a deep important breath in, then out. He said, “You know werewolves, they mate for life, right? Like swans and gophers.”

      He pretty much only sat in his chair now. Used to when he smiled one side of his mouth, it meant something good was coming. Now it meant something bad had happened, Libby said.

      “Gophers?” I said.

      “You СКАЧАТЬ