Lycanthrope

By Liza Sparks 

I bury Daisy in the yard, near the largest pine.

 The phases of the moon have been our religion, our god, our guide. So much rested on her—luna, lua, lune—and our ability to heed her transformations. It did not always feel like such a great burden, after all, aren’t all humans tied to time in one way or another? And don’t all of us make sacrifices for the ones we love?

Ben and I were together for two years when it happened. At first, he tried to hide the wound from me, but it’s impossible to hide one’s body from a lover for too long.

I lived in a one-room apartment on the second floor of a small building. The outside was covered in white stucco. There was a flower garden in the back, a grill, and a patio furniture. In the foyer was a small library the landlord kept up—mostly romance novels, some biographies. It was the first time I lived alone, away from my mother. Sometimes I got scared in the night. Ben slept over often.

We were having sex in my bed—he was on top of me, thrusting his hips, his mouth on my neck, when I started pulling his shirt up, hungry to feel more of his skin against mine. He pushed my hands away. I pulled his shirt again. This time, he rolled off and away from me. I asked him what was wrong, but he only shook his head, turned away, and sat on the edge of the bed. I’m sorry, I said. Whatever I did to upset you, I won’t do it again, but will you talk to me? I could see he had lost his erection and my own need was dissipating. You didn’t do anything, he said, turning toward me. I’m afraid to tell you. You won’t believe me. I thought perhaps he had been unfaithful, and I knew then, I would forgive him anything. I kissed the back of his neck and rested my face against his right shoulder blade. I love you I said and inhaled his scent.

II 

My hands hurt from gripping the shovel—my shoulders and my back. I have to bury her, what is left of her, deep, so the wild animals don’t smell her. Daisy has been our dog for ten years—my Daisy, my sweet husky girl. She had one gray eye and one blue eye. She could see the living and the dead.

 We bought a cabin in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, away from people, but near enough to a little town to get the things we needed, about an hour drive in the pick-up truck, mostly dirt roads. We have survived more than a few harsh winters.

The town is only a few houses, a market, an old church with a small cemetery, and a gas station. Most of the people in town keep guns and backwards ideas—bigoted ideas. I think I might’ve been the first brown person some of them had ever spoken to. They got used to seeing me after a while, and as long as Benjamin was with me, nobody cared. Benjamin is tall and white.

 There is a grove of aspens on our property and a little stream. When the sun shines on the water it sparkles, and if I had been a little girl looking at it, I would’ve thought the place haunted by spirits.

Yesterday we drank coffee together at the kitchen table, me and Benjamin, and I was surprised by his wrinkles. When did my love get old? I kissed his cheek.

I look at my own reflection in the mirror and see an old woman I do not recognize.

I collect wild flowers. I dry and press them, make jewelry out of them, encapsulate the flowers in resin. Suzanne, who lives in town, runs an antique shop out of her house. She buys my jewelry and sells it online. Suzanne is probably the most progressive person in a twenty-mile radius and she’s not shy about it. Her house has been graffitied a couple of times. She wasn’t upset at all. Just kids, she said, they don’t know any better.

Years ago, someone wrote about my jewelry for a magazine in New York. I spoke with the writer over the phone—she was very business. I never saw the article, but after it was published, Suzanne got orders from all over the world, as far as Tokyo, and once, the first lady wore one of my necklaces for an interview with Vogue.

I have never been to New York. I have never been to Tokyo.

III 

There is a squirrel in the tree and she chirps incessantly. I know it isn’t true, but it feels like she’s mocking me. I pick up a stone, hurl it towards her, and miss. “Go away!” I yell. I am surprised by my own voice. I am surprised the stone left my hand. The squirrel shakes her bushy tail, scurries down the trunk of the tree, and bounds away from me and the dog’s grave.

We’re sitting by the fireplace on a new moon night. He says to me, aren’t you ever sad we can’t travel the world? Wouldn’t you like to see the Duomo in Italy or the beaches in Morocco? Don’t you feel trapped…with me? I imagine folding clothes into a suitcase, boarding a plane with ticket in hand, looking out the window—the scenery getting closer, everything taking shape. It would be a lie to say I was always happy with the life I lived, but how could I say that to him. How could I say to him, yes, I dream of running away from you? Instead, I say, there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be.

A person can become accustomed to anything—any hardship, any solitude.

In the beginning, we would talk about all of the worst-case scenarios—I made lists, but what good does that do? Always worrying, always in the midst of what-ifs. Eventually, you just have to live and accept the life you’ve chosen…or been dealt. There is always someone who has it worse, isn’t there? Isn’t that supposed to bring you comfort?

I almost told Suzanne once. I was delivering a big order of jewelry to her house. She asked if I wanted to come inside for a bit. I figured there was no harm—it was a half-moon night in early spring.

Suzanne poured me and herself a glass of strawberry wine. We sat together at her kitchen table like we were old friends. We laughed and it felt so good just to sit there, just to talk, just to be in her company. She asked if I ever got lonely. She said she herself was a bit of a hermit, but it was nice to be around people in town, even if they were a “bunch of hicks and hillbillies.” She asked if I ever got scared living that far away from anybody. She said, me and Benjamin didn’t seem like the most rugged people. She asked me how we were getting along. 

I don’t think I realized until that moment how pressing and sharp our secret had become. I wanted to give some of it away—all I had to do was speak the words, but how could I betray Benjamin like that? And so, I said nothing. But Suzanne heard something in my silence. She reached for my hand, gripped it. I’m here for you, if you ever need somebody, she said. And I knew she was telling the truth. If I had told her, would she have believed me?

IV 

I bring a ladder from the shed and climb into the hole I have dug. I dig deeper down. There are worms and roots in the soil. It is early morning. I listen for Benjamin, but I do not hear him, not even a howl. I don’t let myself cry, not yet, or a I won’t be able to finish the task at hand. And so, I sing a lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was very little:

            “Why is the moon round? Mama, Mama.

            Why does it disappear? Mama, Mama.

            It will always reappear. Baby, baby.

            A wheel, a circle, a globe. Baby, baby.

            Like Mama, it will always reappear. The moon, the moon, the moon.”

I think about the baby I lost so many years ago.

There is a howl in the distance. And then a gun shot. All of the birds fly into the sky and I wish I was one of them.

—

Liza Sparks

The writer has work forthcoming or published with Allium, TIMBER, CALYX, Honey Literary, Powders Press, Split This Rock’s social justice database—The Quarry, and many others. Her debut short story collection, All of the Ghosts in the Room, is forthcoming with Trouble Department. Her work is informed by her intersecting identities as a brown-multiracial-neurodivergent-queer-woman. You can find more of her work or connect with Liza on IG @sparksliza534, TW @lizathepoet, or on her website, lizasparks.com.