Demon

Now, abandoned by Lucian, I found my thoughts returning to her in lieu of any other crutch on which to lean. My selfishness filled me with self-contempt, even as I wondered if she was happy or if she might be tiring even now of Richard, of his habit of playing the radio too loud, of chasing his food around on his plate with his fork as if it were a hockey puck, of predictably retreating from certain topics or conversations, of repeating the catchphrases that had once seemed funny but had grown as tedious as a pull toy. For the first time since the day in the museum, I considered calling her.

But I returned to my manuscript instead, adding to it my conversation with Mrs. Russo, my thoughts of Aubrey, my dread of the monster at the end of the book.

30

With Mrs. Russo gone, I felt exposed, vulnerable, fearful. And hopeful.

Would Lucian come back to me now that she was gone and the “spiritual static” was no longer present? And if he did, would I welcome him? I could not shake the memory of our last encounter—hearing that screaming, even in my mind, sent chilly spikes through my gut.

I told myself I should get back to my life. There was still a life waiting for me as far as I knew, and I needed, if nothing else, to find a job.

One night I lay in bed trying to picture my future. It was filled with insomnia and demons. I stared at the ceiling and thought of Mrs. Russo.

“El?” I spoke, softly, feeling foolish. And then, “Elohim?” The night answered with silence.

I missed Mrs. Russo. I hoped for selfish reasons that her son would recover quickly. Lucian was right: I was not such a good man.

I WAS GATHERING MAIL—mine and Mrs. Russo’s—the next day when I saw it, peeking out from between a bill and her Cooking Light magazine. I knew the letterhead by the large B showing on the corner. I pulled it out of the stack and, by the feel of the single page inside it, knew I didn’t even need to read it.

But I did anyway.

Dear Clay:

In light of our recent separation, we feel it best to pass on Demon: A Memoir at this time. Please feel free to pursue publication with another house.

Best of luck,

Helen Gennaro

Editorial Director

Brooks and Hanover

My manuscript, my story—and now I knew that it was indeed my story—was my truth broadcast to the world. It was my voice.

But now that, too, was gone.

THE NEXT MORNING CAME upon me in a panic. I dressed in the same clothes I had worn the day before, hurried to my computer, and slammed my fist down on the keyboard when my calendar yielded, as I knew it would, nothing.

Outside on the street I turned away from Massachusetts Avenue and walked toward Saint Mary’s. But I wasn’t going to Saint Mary’s. I stopped half a block shy of the cathedral, in front of the diminutive Gospel Room, a converted house that could not hold more than fifty people, if that. I stood there for a long moment before opening the tiny chain-link front gate and trying the door.

Locked.

Why were houses of God always locked?

As I turned away, I caught sight of someone standing on the corner of Inman, watching me. It frightened me at first, and then I became indignant.

“What? Who are you with?”

The figure, a man in a short jacket, just stood there.

“Is that you?” I asked it with a spark of I knew not what—hope, anger, desperation, recklessness. I started across the street, but the figure turned and sauntered away. Something about that posture—the man leaning against the post of the house! Could it be him? Willing the glowing spots from my vision, I started after him again, but when I gained the corner, he was gone.

I SCROLLED THROUGH THE directory on my phone and dialed a number I had not called in months—had only saved, in fact, in order to identify the caller and avoid answering if I didn’t feel up to talking to her.

After five rings of waiting, for once, to actually get her on the phone, I resigned myself to leaving a message. But then someone picked up, and I thought I must have had the wrong number; the voice sounded nothing like the woman I knew.

“Is Katrina there?” Perhaps she had changed her number.

“This is she.”

“Katrina,” I said, caught off guard. And I knew why I had not recognized her at first: She sounded tired.

“Clay?”

“Yes, sorry. This is Clay.” I said, fumbling.

“I heard you left Brooks and Hanover.”

“I guess you could say that. Did I wake you up?”

“No, no. I’m just worn out.”

Katrina Dunn Lampe? Worn out? I was speechless. “You sound so different.”

“Yeah, well, I’m going through treatment for a small tumor.”

I hesitated, having never considered that Katrina might be subject to the same whims of nature as other mortals. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” And I meant it. Why do bad things happen to good people?

There are no good people.