Whatever you do, don't forget to feed the werewolf, Mom said before she died, or maybe it was before she left for Paris. We knew what she meant. He was the furry little creature who lived in our china closet, tucked into what happened to be my favorite teacup from our grandmother's set, which was hand-painted in a sentimental shade of pink with a gold edge. Mom said the werewolf gave us the blessing of perspective. He was so tiny it was easy for us to meet his needs, so old his bite could not transmit the dreaded infection. One of us would offer him a slender finger to gnaw on, and then a quick cauterization with a silver lighter would heal the wound. If he had been the usual size, Mom said, we would have been terrified and screaming on every full moon, trying to evade all that murderous manliness. Or manly murderousness. Or beastly drooling. He was cute and small and therefore our maternal hearts felt the need to nurture and protect him. Once, during an earthquake, I carried him outside in his teacup home. Family heirloom? a neighbor asked. You know it, I told her, treating the werewolf to three silver sprinkles, the kind the FDA warns you not to eat.

Sometimes, on hot evenings or long weekends, our husbands would threaten to get rid of him. Our laughter rang like silver bells. Where are you going to find a gun that small? Bullets that small? And don't forget: if you want to kill him, it takes a silver bullet to the heart, fired by the one he loves.

On cue my sisters and I would glance at each other, then down into the teacup, then over at the mirror, trying to catch a glimpse of true love or facial hair, whichever came first.

Jan Stinchcomb is the author of FIND THE GIRL, a novella, and THE BLOOD TRAIL, a chapbook. She lives in Southern California.

Read her postcard.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Marc-Anthony Macon.





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