“I’d like to see what happens.”
In truth, Uncle Al doesn’t know what to think. He hadn’t seen Marty or
been to
Tarker’s Mills since July 3rd; as he could have predicted, his sister, Marty’s
mother, is furious with him about the fireworks. He could have been killed, you
stupid asshole! What in the name of God did you think you were doing? she shouts
down the telephone wire at him.
Sounds like it was the fireworks that saved his – Al begins, but there is the sharp
click of a broken connection in his ear. His sister is stubborn; when she doesn’t
want to hear something, she won’t.
Then, early this month, a call
came from Marty. “I have to see you, Uncle Al,”
Marty said. “You’re the only one I can talk to.”
“I’m in the doghouse with our mom, kid,” Al answered.
“It’s important,” Marty said. “Please. Please.”
So he came, and he braved his sister’s icy, disapproving silence, and on a cold,
clear early December day, Al took Marty for a ride in his sports car, loading him
carefully into the passenger bucket. Only this day there was no speeding and no
wild laughter; only Uncle Al listening as Marty talked. Uncle Al listened with
growing disquiet as the tale is told.
Marty began by telling Al again about the night of the wonderful bag of fireworks,
and how he had blown out the creature’s left eye with the Black Cat firecrackers.
Then he told him about Halloween, and the Rev. Lowe. Then he told Uncle Al that he
had begun sending the Rev. Lowe anonymous notes . . . anonymous, that is, until the
last two, following the murder of Milt Sturmfuller in Portland. Those he signed
just as he had been taught in English class: Yours truly, Martin Coslaw.
“You shouldn’t have sent the man notes, anonymous or otherwise!” Uncle Al said
sharply. “Christ, Marty! Did it ever occur to you that you could be wrong?”
“Sure it did,” Marty said. “That’s why I signed my name to the last two. Aren’t you
going to ask me what happened? Aren’t you going to ask me if he called up my father
and told him I’d sent him a note saying why don’t you kill yourself and another one
saying we’re closing in on you?”
“He didn’t do that, did he?” Al asked, knowing the answer already.
“No,” Marty said quietly. “He hasn’t talked to my dad, and he hasn’t talked to my
mom, and he hasn’t talked to me.”
“Marty, there could be a hundred reasons for th-”
“No. There’s only one. He’s the werewolf, he’s the Beast, it’s him, and he’s
waiting for the full moon. As the Reverend Lowe, he can’t do anything. But as the
werewolf, he can do plenty. He can shut me up.”
And Marty spoke with such chilling simplicity that Al was almost convinced. “So
what do you want from me?” Al asked.
Marty told him. He wanted two silver bullets, and a gun to shoot them with, and he
wanted Uncle Al to come over on New Year’s Eve, the night of the full moon.
“I’ll do no such thing,” Uncle Al said. “Marty, you’re a good kid, but you’re going
loopy. I think you’ve come down with a good case of Wheelchair Fever. If you think
it over, you’ll know it.”
“Maybe,” Marty said. “But think how you’ll feel if you get a call on New Year’s Day
saying I’m dead in my bed, chewed to pieces? Do you want that on your conscience,
Uncle Al?”
Al started to speak, then closed his mouth with a snap. He turned into a driveway,
hearing the Mercedes’ front wheels crunch in the new snow. He reversed and started
back. He fought in Viet Nam and won a couple of medals there; he had successfully
avoided lengthy entanglements with several lusty young ladies; and now he felt
caught and trapped by his ten-year-old nephew. His crippled ten-year-old nephew. Of
course he didn’t want such a thing on his conscience-not even the possibility of
such a thing. And Marty knew it. As Marty knew that if Uncle Al thought there was