Immortal Lycanthropes

II. The Derailing: PART TWO

As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck would have conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able to restrain my tears.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich, The Story of a Bad Boy

chapter 1.

Myron Horowitz regained consciousness in a soggy ditch. Two black children were looking down at him and speaking French. He was in so much pain he passed out again. When he came back, he was on a couch, wrapped in a blanket. A very broad man was looking down at him.

“What did they tell you?” the man asked.

“They told me I was an immortal lycanthrope,” Myron said.

“You’re in shock—drink this,” the man said. Myron drank it and passed out.

It would be tedious to enumerate the number of times he came into and out of consciousness. “I’ve been hurt worse,” Myron insisted, and that was certainly true, but he couldn’t remember that hurt, and that made all the difference. Children, all younger than Myron, although not younger than he looked, would come down a flight of stairs bearing orange juice and aspirin. Sometimes they would bring just the aspirin, along with an empty glass and a guilty look. The walls of the room were wood-paneled, and the carpet was a thick dark red, and filthy. A bedpan was utilized, for the first day at least—but Myron had trouble keeping track of time. Occasionally the sound of a distant train would whistle through the windowless walls. At last the broad man returned. He was wearing a tattered robe and leafed through the mail as he walked. The mail went into a pocket in the robe as he sat on an ottoman.

“I thought you were worse off than you were. It was your face, see. That’s all old wounds, I guess, but it had so much dirt on it, I thought it just got tore off.”

“No, it’s old,” Myron conceded.

“You was bleeding some, and I thought your legs was broke, but I guess not. I guess you’re going to be okay, with a headache maybe. You was talking crazy for a while.”

“I do have a headache. Can I call my parents? I’ve had kind of a weird time of it, and they must be worried.”

“Sure, you can call your parents, but after we talk. We’ve got to talk first, see.” The man reached down, groped under the couch, came up with a cigarette butt, and lit it with a transparent lighter. “My name is Mr. Rodriguez, and I run a kind of school here for international students. You may have noticed the many international young people running around.”

“It’s very impressive,” Myron said.

“They are students, of course, and I run a kind of school. I can show you my papers, papers from the government that show I have a school.”

“It sounds like a delightful school.”

Mr. Rodriguez looked at Myron a long time in silence. “How old are you, now, eight?”

“Thirteen, actually.”

“Well, I prescribe plenty of bed rest and some fruit juice. You’re healing nice. Kids heal real fast with bed rest and fruit juice.”

“Maybe I can call my parents now?”

“We don’t got no phone. Schools are for learning, not foolery, so of course we got no phone. But I’ll send Kwame to the candy store, have him call. Write your number down here.” Mr. Rodriguez groped around, looking for a pen, finally located one behind his ear, and then groped around for a piece of paper. He settled on a torn-open envelope, part of the day’s mail. Myron neatly printed out his number and passed the envelope back. Mr. Rodriguez turned away.

“My name,” Myron called after him.

“Your what?”

“My name. You should tell my parents my name.”

“Right. What is it, then?”

“Myron.”

Without a word, Mr. Rodriguez nodded and left. From his fist, Myron removed the wadded-up paper he had slid from the envelope.

He was excited to have acquired a clue, like a character from one of the adventure books he liked to read. “I’ll figure out what’s going on here,” he muttered.

“Hello,” said a voice, and Myron jumped. The ball of paper fell from his hand. A young Asian boy bearing a glass stepped forward and picked it up.

“You are Myron,” the boy said. “I am John.”

“Did you bring me fruit juice?” Myron guessed.

“I think water.” He passed over the glass and the paper.

“Do you know what kind of school this is?” Myron asked.

“We learn very good English,” John said.

“Where are you from, John?”

“I am Malay. We learn very good. Mr. Rodriguez is good man.” His eyes looked terrified.

“Where is a Malay from?”

“Malaysia. In Indochina.”

“Have you ever seen a binturong?”

“A binturong?”

“Um. A bearcat? Black and shaggy, long tail.” He gestured with his hands.

“Ah, binturong. Very nice, very pretty.”

“Do you trust binturongs?” Myron asked, but of course John said nothing. It was a stupid question.

Myron drank the water and passed the glass back. John left. Holding his breath and listening for anyone to arrive, Myron quickly unwadded the paper. “You may already have won . . .” it said. Some clue! Myron tossed it to the ground angrily, where it bounced back off the ottoman and rolled under the couch.

From the top of the stairs came John’s whisper. “We are all prison.”