The Shape of Desire (3 page)

I’m smiling, too—it’s pretty funny—but I’m not doubled over in mirth as Marquez and Ellen are. I don’t think I’m in a position to question anyone else’s definition of love. I’m not prepared to mock; I’m not willing to recoil in horror.

I’m almost thirty-five years old and for close to half of my life I have been in love with a man I cannot introduce to my family or my friends. People feel sorry for me; they try to set me up on dates; they think I might be a lesbian too shy to come out of the closet. They wonder if I’m simply off, strange, missing some essential component of affection or desire.

They don’t understand that what I have is so precious, so intense, such an
essential
part of my life, that I would not give it up for any inducement. If I tried, or if someone forced me to, I truly believe I would die.

W
hen I get home, Dante is up and dressed and shuffling around the house with that dazed look that means he hasn’t been out of bed very long.

“How was your day?” I ask as I toss my purse and jacket to the couch. The living room is just to the left coming through the door, so the couch is handy.

Dante doesn’t actually answer, just comes over and envelops me in a hug, rubbing his face in my hair and clutching me to his body as if he just wants to remind himself of my weight and scent. I love these moments of exploration. I feel both absolutely connected to him, as if
we have been lovers since the beginning of the world, and delighted by the wonder and unexpectedness of his presence in my life, as if we just met the night before but instantly recognized each other as soul mates.

The tension and the arguments will come later.

“My day was very dull,” he says into my skin as he nuzzles my neck. “I slept until noon, got up to eat, slept until four, got up to eat, used your computer to check my accounts, and then watched TV for about an hour.”

It only takes a few moments of thought to realize it would be very hard for someone who is only human a few days a month to hold down a job. Which means it is difficult for him to earn money or afford health insurance or pay for a car or actually
buy
anything. But what does he need? A few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, a fresh pair of New Balance shoes every couple of years? I can buy all those things for him.

But he doesn’t want me to. He wants to be my lover, he says, not my gigolo. Anyway, he has his own money, funds his mother accumulated and left in separate accounts for Dante, his brother, and his sister. I’m not sure how much cash he could scare up if he needed to, but he has enough for his needs. I know some of it goes every month, through an automated payment plan, to pay for his storage shed near the Highway 44 exit that leads to my neighborhood.

He wears the key to that shed on a cord around his neck. I know that’s the first place he goes every time he returns to town, every time he returns to his human life. I’m his second stop.

“That doesn’t sound like such a bad day to me,” I say. “Sleeping and eating and watching TV. Actually, it sounds pretty ideal.”

“And having a beautiful, sexy creature come home to you at the end of the day,” he says. “That’s the best part.”

We stand in the living room and kiss for a while, which is extraor-dinarily pleasurable. I know we will make love again tonight, but right now there’s no urgency about it. We’re still reconnecting; we’re
remembering what it feels like to be in another person’s arms,
this
person’s arms. He rubs his stubbled face against my cheek. I slip my hands inside the waistband at the back of his jeans. God, the feel of his smooth flesh against my fingers, the warmth of his breath against my forehead. I’ve
missed
this so much. Only now, when I can feast again on sensation, do I let myself admit how long I’ve been starved for contact.

I stretch up to kiss him on the mouth. “So what do you want to do tonight?” I ask. “Go out? It’s Humphrey Bogart night over at the university.”

Dante loves old movies. If it’s black-and-white, he’s seen it. Noir, screwball comedy, World War II films, weepy Bette Davis dramas. My tastes tend to skew more toward romantic comedy—and Technicolor—but I’ll watch anything with him. I was one of the first people in my area to get cable, just for TCM.

“Not tonight, I think. Not yet,” he says.

He’s often a little skittish on his first days back, uncomfortable around people and clumsy in public. I’ve watched him at restaurants as he studies the table, as if reminding himself what silverware is for. He can’t stand to use a straw. And he can’t tolerate small, crowded spaces, like movie theatres on an opening weekend or sports bars when the home team is playing. When we do take in a movie, it’s usually a matinee the day before the playbill changes or a French film showing at an art house.

“I’ve recorded a bunch of stuff on the DVR,” I say. “Let’s see if there’s anything on the menu that sounds good to you.”

An hour later, we curl up together on the couch, eating pizza in the flickering dark. We’ve reached a deal: We’ll watch an hour of
The Sopranos
—which he loves and I hate—followed by an hour of classic old comedies like
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
—which he also likes, but not nearly as much as I do. And then we’ll alternate again. Once the pizza is eaten and I’ve done up the dishes, we stretch out on the couch, entwining
more completely. My back is to his chest, his arms are around me, and an old afghan knitted by my grandmother covers both of us. I watch James Gandolfini order some hapless cohort to get whacked, shutting my eyes before the scene can play out. My fingers close over Dante’s and he kisses the back of my head.

I cannot remember ever being so happy.

T
here are two more days in the workweek and I force myself to go to the office both days, even though I am missing time with Dante. He sleeps most of Thursday, but by Friday morning he’s restless and energetic, and I know he won’t be confined to the house for long. I can hardly stand the thought that he will be roaming the streets, visiting parks, browsing through stores,
existing
, while I’m in some other part of the city. But I also can’t stand the thought of having absolutely no time off for the rest of the year, and I just have two days left. And it’s only September.

“I’ll see if I can work through lunch and come home early,” I tell him, as he gives me a lingering kiss good-bye. “Think about what you might want to do this weekend. We could drive out to the wineries. Or go hiking. The weather’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“We need to go see Christina,” he says.

I stop with my hand on the door, turning to stare at him in surprise. Christina is his sister, and I can’t remember the last time we visited her,
though I think he gets in touch with her every time he’s in human form. She lives outside of Rolla, about ninety minutes southwest of my house in Eureka. As far as I can determine, his brother has
no
permanent residence.

“She sent an e-mail,” he adds. “She wants to see us. And William.”

The advent of e-mail has made it exponentially easier for Dante to run his life, and he set up a Hotmail account ages ago. Now and then, while he’s gone off in some animal shape, and I’m worried sick about him every single minute, he has a chance to shift into human form, find a library or an Internet café, and send me a quick note to let me know he’s all right and thinking of me. I
live
for those messages, random and far too rare.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. “Is she sick?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. There was just a message in my in-box saying she wanted to see me when I was around. I e-mailed this morning to say I was here. She suggested we come over Sunday.”

“And William will be there, too?”

Again, he hunches his shoulders. “You never know about William.”

“Okay,” I reply. What else is there to say? “Well, let me know if there’s anything you want to do on
Saturday
. Love you. See you later.”

T
here’s an accident on Highway 109 and no easy way around it, so I have plenty of time to sit in my car and think. I don’t know much about Dante’s siblings—truth be told, I don’t know as much about Dante as I would like. It’s amazing how completely I have allowed him to dictate the parameters of our relationship. I accept what he tells me. I rarely push for more details. I never insist on proof that what he tells me is true.

In the past fifteen years, I have never once seen him transmogrify into a different form. I have only his word for it that, when he leaves me,
he is something else entirely—something that a sane person would never consider to be credible. There have been times when I entertained doubts, of course, as anyone would. But as the years have passed and his story has not varied, and what I have
experienced
of his life seemed to tally with what he has
told
me of his life, I have come to believe him. Mostly. With only a faint shadow of uncertainty now and then…

I think it was meeting Christina and William ten years ago that really won me over. Because they all told the same tale, or variations on it, with no theatrics, no lurking twinkle, no indication that they were merely waiting for me to swear I believed them before they cried out, “Fooled you!” Of course, they all could have been subject to the same hallucinatory hysteria, victims of an insane parent who whispered to them from infancy that they were different, they were special, they closed their eyes at night and dreamed they were dogs and sheep and bears, but the dreams were real…

And yet, when they discussed their habits of changing, how it felt and when it happened, they seemed merely to be discussing their lives. As my cousins and I might talk about how our skin reacts to a different moisturizer, how the hair on our legs grows thicker in the winter, maybe because we forget to shave. Dante and his siblings never seem to be trying to convince me of anything. They never seem to be pretending.

Although they share a certain family resemblance, they’re very different, both in attitudes and shape-shifting rituals. By the time I met Christina and William, I had finally learned a few details about Dante’s own situation. During the first years of his life, he didn’t change forms very often—maybe for one or two days a month. He couldn’t remember the first time it had happened, which he assumed meant that he had been changing shapes since he was a baby. It was never scary; it was never strange. It just was.

From the beginning, he had had little control over what animal he would become or when the transformation would occur. He had learned
to recognize the symptoms that preceded the event—the day before it happened, he would feel a buildup of pressure at the back of his head, and lights would begin flickering at the corners of his eyes. These signals proved vastly useful once he decoded them, because he made sure he was never sitting in a classroom or visiting a public space on the day he would become something else.

He never described to me the exact mechanics of transformation, though he said the process tended to be quick—five or ten minutes at the most. When he was a child, he usually turned into a small animal, such as a cat or a rabbit. As he aged and grew, acquiring weight and muscle mass, he became somewhat larger creatures, like beavers, goats, deer, and foxes. Once he attained his full adult height, he said, he was never again a creature weighing less than fifty pounds. These days when he changed, he found himself to be a wolf, a collie, a mountain lion. Mostly, he said, he took on an animal shape that was suitable to his environment.

Mostly.

“So you might turn into a bear when you’re walking the streets of a major city?” I asked him one day.

“I try not to be in an urban area when I think I’m going to change.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe if you always stayed in town, you’d never turn into anything except a German shepherd or a Labrador retriever.”

He had not answered that. I filed the suggestion away as something to mention again if the time ever seemed right.

Something else happened as he grew older: His periods in animal form became longer and longer, until he was only human about half the time—and then even less. These days, he’s in the shape of a man only about one week out of every month. I live in absolute terror of the day he changes into another creature and never changes back.

“That won’t happen,” he once told me.

“But how do you know?”

He’d laughed. “Because I’ll be dead before then.”

“What?”

He’d shrugged and given the most minimal answer, clearly sorry he’d brought it up. “Shape-shifters tend not to live very long lives. Too much wear and tear on the body, maybe. Or too much time in the form of animals that die much sooner than humans do. If I spend half a month as a collie, well, that’s a much bigger percentage of a dog’s life than it is of a man’s life. It ages me.”

“Then don’t be a dog anymore,” I said urgently. “Be a—Be a giant sea tortoise! They live for centuries! Slow down the process. Reverse it!”

I hadn’t been kidding, but he’d laughed. “You have no reason to believe you’ll live any longer than I will,” he teased. “You could go in a car accident—or a plane crash. You could get cancer or meningitis. A gas leak could cause your house to blow up. Anything could—”