Fur

05 | A Bad Dream

"Uh, no badger. Just me." I take the white boater hat from off a nearby ottoman to hand to her. She places is atop her grey curls, picking at this hair or that in the mirror. "I couldn't sleep so I rearranged the cabinets. You know how you always say you can't reach what you need. I'm sorry, Nanni. Did I wake you?"

The vague banging noises can be passed off easily enough, but my shouting will be another challenge entirely. The muscles surrounding my stomach clench in anticipation for how the brain will talk our way out of this one.

I'm one lie in already. What's another, if necessary?

"Nooo," Nanni drags out distractedly, inspecting her shoulders meticulously for lint. "I was in and out all night. Blasted knees were flaring up every other ache in this old body."

There's no hinting tone or angle to her voice like there is when she's leading up to something, usually a scolding. She has a fantastic affinity for running words around your head until you've dug your own grave beneath your own feet. I'm relieved to see that I still stand on level ground, and that she hasn't yet tried handing me a shovel.

Nanni must have been in one of her spells of sleep when the yelling had taken place last night. I would say it's uncanny how lucky I got, but after all the absurdities that led up to it, I think I might actually deserve it.

"Don't call yourself old," I say, a bit too happily due to the hook I'd recently hopped off of. "What's the saying? You're only as old as you feel, right?"

She lets out a great guffaw, more bitter than it is humorous. "If that were true I'd have been dead twenty years ago."

Nanni finishes her nitpicking of herself and leaves the floor length mirror to hobble past me. "Have you your keys, Leila?" She asks, and then, in a murmur so quiet that it's meant for herself, she says, "Since I can't seem to find them," before raising her voice back to its natural volume. "You can drive us."

"Uh, actually Nanni, I was hoping to take a few hours off today. Around 8:00 probably. I have a few errands to run."

"Well that's fine. So long as you come back by closing and I don't miss my programs."

She shuffles out the door and down the hallway, and I can only assume by the sounds of things, to the top of the stairs.

"Who put these godforsaken things here? What an absolute nit!"

I prevent myself from telling her it was the carpenter she contracted sixty some odd years ago that put stairs in her two story house—mostly because I'm afraid doing so will result in me being thrown down them.

Mouth sealed, I run to help her with her descent.

~

The first two hours of the cafe being open crawl by as though they have all the time in the world to pass. The usual Monday customers, those passing through on their early morning commutes to out-of-town jobs, come and go like normal. I've been juggling the front—taking orders, interacting with customers, serving, billing—whilst Lattie has been in the back with Nanni baking pastries and brewing coffee. Usually, Lattie is front and center at the counter taking orders (as well as compliments) and working the register while I serve and Nanni brews and bakes.

Lattie's position at the front counter is an unspoken strategy of Nanni's which I've picked up on but haven't mentioned. Everyone loves her, regardless of demographic. I've seen schoolboys as well as working adults order two separate coffees on two separate bills just so they could have a reason to speak to her twice. More than once I've caught boys sneaking glances at her from afar, and girls beaming happily at her after they've just handed her their money. Sweet little Lattie McNamara is a Heisenbühl treasure and, second to the mouthwatering food and lush coffee, why this little cafe is as popular as it is.

Which is why the damp mood that settled over Nanni was so prominent when she and I decided that it would be best if Lattie worked in the back today. People talk in small towns, and a local girl's unnatural death is guaranteed to be a hot topic. As far as I'm concerned, the less outside human contact Lattie has for the next few days, the better. At least until people grow bored with the subject.

"Thank you," a woman of about thirty says once I've handed her her coffee. "Is Lattie not working today?"

I've dealt with these types of questions all morning. One elderly couple even asked if she was sick, followed by the wife offering to bring over a pot of her great grandmother's medicinal kartoffelsuppe, "Guaranteed to cure everything from the bubonic plague to a persistent sniffle." I force my smile and warm my voice and give everyone the same answer: that Lattie is just in the back learning recipes from her grandmother, that she's perfectly fine and no alarms need to be sounded.

The congenial woman in front of me receives the same answer as she hands me her euros, thanking me again and wishing Lattie good luck with the recipes. Once she's gone, leaving the cafe in a moment's emptiness, I slump down behind the counter with a deflating breath. The forced smile I've been wearing drops, finally allowing the muscles in my face to relax.

It's not the people. The customers have all been perfectly friendly and mannered. If I were to break down in front of one and spill all my life's problems, I'm confident most would comfort me, if not reciprocate the gesture. Though I'd rather the earth swallow me whole before doing that.

I have to get out of here. Too many things are eating at my mind.

Sophie's fate.

The werewolf in my driveway.

The handprints on the McNamaras' windows and the replaying sounds of the man who left them attempting entry.

While I sat wide awake through the night, I wondered if the person who wanted in the house was the same one who'd paid a visit to mine. He isn't. When we were leaving this morning, I stepped outside a minute before the McNamaras. I smelled the air, the body oil on the windows, the outer side of the front door where he'd touched. I got my answer.

The man who had tried to break in is not a werewolf.

I don't know whether to be relieved or distressed about the discovery.