Loretta takes her phone from her pocket and dials her parents. “I’ve called them like five times today,” she says sheepishly.
“Lucky them.” I hurry down the stairs ahead of her.
The basement is semi-finished, and my “recording room” is in the finished section. It’s like a toasted marshmallow inside with thick padded walls, and high shelves that hold water and beef jerky. I go down before sunset and get ready, taking my clothes off so I don’t shred them, trying to force down an extra dose of wolfsbane extract tonic that keeps the worst of the feral symptoms at bay, and curling up in some of the half-shredded blankets on the ground. There’s a sturdy futon that I’ve had since college, the thing I collapse onto when I transform back into a human at sunrise. Then I drink the water, choke down the beef jerky, and stagger upstairs.
“What? No, he’s showing me his basement because I’m going to be his housekeeper, but this is where he does some recording work. He’s on the WPNR station, Daddy. I don’t think you can get it in Rochester. Maybe online.” Loretta has arrived, just as I notice tufts of black and gray fur dotting the floor.
I have a handheld vacuum down here. I usually use it, and I usually remember to take the half-shredded blankets up and toss ‘em in the washer. Of all the months to be a slob...
In my defense, Pine Ridge is frantically busy in October. “Uh, all my stuff is still at my office at the studio. Right now, it just looks like a really crappy studio apartment,” I try to joke.
“It’s very basic. But not at all serial killer-y.” Loretta sounds relieved. “Oh, did you have a cat?”
Of course, she spots the fur.
And I’m saved from a total lie by the fact that, yes, when I was a child, I did have a pet cat. “Yes. Miss Tiggy. From Beatrix Potter. I mean, not exactly, but when I was a kid, I thought Mrs. Tiggy Winkle was a cat, even though the book clearly said hedgehog.”
“Oh my goodness. My parents bought Ari the whole set of Beatrix Potter stories in little chubby books when she was born. I read one to her pretty much every night, even though I knowshe can’t understand all of the words. They’re sitting in her room on...” Loretta’s nostalgic smile is snuffed out. “Well, maybe someday Matt will send them to her.”
“Bastard might keep them out of spite,” Rob says.
I like Loretta’s dad. I like her mother, too.
“Daddy, things are getting started. If I have to borrow the books from the library for a little bit, I—”
“Wait! Wait, wait, come on!” I grab Loretta’s hand, and we trot, my long legs taking the steps far too quickly for her petite ones. Stupidly, I scoop her up against my side when I feel her start to trip up the basement stairs.
“Where are we going?” Loretta asks breathlessly.
“To the guestroom—the other one. It’s a storage room.”
“How big is this place?” I hear Loretta’s dad mutter.
“It’s big enough,” I call out, and to my surprise, Loretta doesn’t let go of my hand when we get to the next flight of stairs. She’s chuckling a little and panting, and I love those sounds so much more than crying and sobbing.
“It’s really big, Dad! There are two fireplaces, Mom.”
“Fancy,” she laughs.
I say, “You have to come visit when things are calmer.”
“Speaking of calm, you’re not. What are we doing?” Loretta giggles.
“In one of these boxes, I have my mother’s complete collection of Beatrix Potter books. They’ve been sitting in a box, just waiting for kids of my own. I want Ari to have them!” I declare, opening the door at the end of the hall. Cardboard boxes and big storage boxes fill the entire room. “Working our way to the south corner,” I announce like some cheesy tour guide, “you will see early Wainwright collectibles that Mrs. Wainwright Senior insists on passing onto Mrs. Wainwright Junior, and the little Wainwrights. Stacking cups, building blocks, things from the eighties.” I pop open a box. “Ah! The Golden Age of Fisher-Price. And this one... Ooh, first-edition Richard Scarry and Saturday morning cartoon collectibles. Oh, look at this mobile. Ari would like these, wouldn’t she?” I hold up a mobile with soft, fuzzy lambs and felt bunnies.
“You can’t give her those!” Loretta protests.
“She can always give them back when she’s done,” I insist, stubbornly searching through the boxes. “Books! Jackpot.” I pull out the large, boxed set of books in their pale pastel dust jackets. “She can have these.”
“No. Jasper, you can’t—”
“I literally can.” I thrust the books at her, hitting her in the chest. I back away, horrified, hands flying to my mouth. “Oops. That was an accident.”
Loretta smiles at me. “I know that, silly.”
“Let the boy give you the books for a little while, sweetie. Ooh, Rob! Look, I found WPNR’s channel online. Ohh! He is handsome! The other night, I only saw the little headshot in the corner of the screen, but now I can really see. He’s a looker.”
“Mother!”
