The Lycanthrope of Woodberry Drive

Cara approached her father cautiously. His heavy snores shook the kitchen table, his ambivalent face nestled between a blueprint and a bottle of bourbon. She told him about the exhibit weeks ago, not that he had a memory for that kind of thing, but today was the last day to see it, and she loved the Brothers Grimm.

“Dad,” she poked his shoulder with the business end of a wooden spoon, “I want to see the Twelve Dancing Princesses.”

He rose from hibernation with kind eyes and placed a soft palm upon her cheek. “Good morning to you, too.” He laughed through his yawn and rolled up his designs, neatly returning his fineliner pens to their sleek leather pouch. The bourbon was returned to the top shelf of the cabinet, but only for a moment.

“You hungry?” he asked, twirling the half-empty bottle. His eyes were fixated on the volatility within, watching patiently, as if waiting for it to speak. “I can make eggs.”

The liquor was stored away, and the cabinet door was firmly shut.

“Yes, please.” Cara smiled and pulled out the colorful pamphlet she had tucked away in her pocket, pointing indiscriminately around the trifold. “It’s a bunch of different paintings about the fairy tales. Some of them are from a hundred years ago.”

“Ya know, the museum itself is almost two hundred years old. Now, that building, that’s a work of art.” Architecture was all he cared about; he once scolded her for calling a grotesque a gargoyle and an aegicrane a stupid double-goat-faced statue thing. “People like me, we’re part painter, part sculptor, part…person who makes living in the world a little more bearable.”

He danced around the kitchen, humming the tunes of her favorite Disney movies as she sang into the spatula. She loved him when he was like this. She always loved him before the turn.

Cara heard the alarm. Then she saw the smoke. “Dad, the toast!” She used her pamphlet to fan the fumes away from the convection oven. Her father was doing the same with a chair, a towel, a stubborn detector, and a collection of swear words.

When the room again fell silent, a glass was placed next to her father’s omelet, and his stomach was filled with a full moon. Her stares were noticed, and reassurances were made. “It’s just one. I’ll be fine to drive us. Finish your breakfast and go wash up.”

She braided her hair and wore her most comfortable shoes—and clutched her pamphlet like a rosary as she walked down the stairs.

An empty bottle was surrounded by empty cans. Excuses were tossed about as tears were shed. “Don’t give me that. It’s my weekend too, Cara. Why is it all about you all the time?” A soft palm was placed upon her cheek. “We’ll go later, okay?”

Wanting eyes looked out the window onto Woodberry Drive. Where promises for other girls were unbroken. Where fathers were unbitten. Where fairy tales weren’t so real.