Demon_ A Memoir Part 18

There's a monster.

I tilted my head back against the headrest, but it seemed to curve the wrong way and only succeeded in making me more uncomfortable. "They killed him," I said, but I was scouring our last meeting for oddities, recalculating the time of his nervous departure and Mrs. Russo's appearance in her camel coat. Mrs. Russo, who went faithfully to church and sometimes hosted a Bible group in her apartment.

Spiritual static, he called it. he called it.

"They wondered at his rising from the dead, but that didn't amaze me. I knew better than any mortal who this G.o.d-man was. Of course his power extended over death as well."

This brought my attention back to him. "You're saying he really rose from the dead."

"Yes, really. By then I knew for gospel fact, if you'll pardon the expression, that it would happen. Everything was coming to horrible fruition. I also knew El would call back that part of him to himself, and this G.o.d-man would ascend to heaven. Later, it struck me as ironic that he had achieved with ease the thing Lucifer attempted so long before-ascension to heaven and a seat at the right hand of the Almighty. Lucifer took it as a blow, but the reality was harsher than that: Lucifer's star had been eclipsed by a new Son.

"The followers of Jesus scattered to spread the news about what had happened. And people began to believe with an insight that incensed and amazed me. It was one thing for us to know that this Jewish carpenter had been more than a religious fanatic, but it was an altogether different thing for the clay humans to believe it."

"What did it matter to you?"

He sighed, and the Shadow Creek logo on his polo stretched and slumped back into a wrinkle. "Ordinary men, hitherto blind, began to see this redemptive blood for what it was and this man, this Messiah, for what he was. And they saw it because El gave them yet another thing: guiding discernment, the gift of his own Spirit, given first to the G.o.d-man before the spilling of his messianic blood and freely offered afterward. To anyone. It was awful. Gone were the days of Israel's elite, the heyday of the Jew. Anyone could have this 'Holy Spirit' freely for the asking." He dropped his head back, reached up to adjust the airflow.

"I'll never forget the first human I watched receive it, this gift. Before my very eyes, he changed from a shattered thing of darkness, like a mirror reflecting nothing but shadows no matter which way its fractured surface turned, into something whole, reflecting El's radiance, so that I had to-could not help but-turn away. When I recovered, I saw that it was true; my eyes had not played me false. On the outside he was still flawed. But the soul inside had come alive, as though all defects had been erased. There was only that loveliness, that light, s.h.i.+ning in him."

"But he was still human."

"Yes, but here was the difference: El drew close to those people who called to him as he had with Adam in the garden. Not only did he walk with them, he began to change them. And in them I saw more than the uncanny resemblance to that first man and woman. I saw something beyond what they were originally meant to be: 'Children,' he called them."

"Children of G.o.d," I said, with some wonder.

"I hated them! Never had I dared to aspire so high. Never had I imagined any such thing. Hades, I'm so tired of saying that I'd never fathomed this or that. But I hadn't. It surpa.s.sed any angel's dream, any human's deserving. How I craved it, jealous of your inheritance. Like Cain to your Abel, wanting you to die."

His last words jarred me, and I remembered the final line of his e-mail.

"For the first time, I saw the ill effects of the ages upon Lucifer, his waning brilliance, the wearing of the years taking its toll upon him like the first wrinkles of your human age. The moment I saw that, I wanted to hate him, too. Disdain and rage came naturally to me by then, and this time they came with such force I thought I would kill him had I only the power to do it."

"You used to adore him." Echoes of our first conversations washed over me like waves on a tranquil sh.o.r.e. "Oh, my Beautiful One!" "Oh, my Beautiful One!"

Lucian's laugh was hard. Gone was the slight mania, the high-pitched sound. "What reward had I gained in following him? What prize but the forfeiture of my soul? But even my hatred could not save me from misery. Every moment I looked upon these followers, these renewed people, these believers-and their numbers were growing-the more wretched I became. But as much as I wanted to kill Lucifer that day, I also wanted to rip from every one of those believers the brilliant vestige of their new souls, knowing El had no such designs for us. For me."

I searched for something to say as a beverage cart stopped in the aisle. Over the top of Lucian's head, a flight attendant smiled and asked if she could get us something to drink.

HE WAS SILENT AFTER that, not looking at me. I gazed out the window, sipping tomato juice and wis.h.i.+ng it were a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary, his words still reverberating between us.

"El had no such designs for us. For me."

Shortly before we landed, he unbuckled his seat belt and got up, ostensibly to go to the lavatory, but he never came back. As the plane taxied to the terminal, I noted his shoes, still under the seat in front of us.

24.

I lay on the beach beneath an umbrella, the skin of my chest and back too pink to withstand the sun. That had happened the first day despite 45 SPF lotion. Between the sunburn and the swelling in my legs from the flights, I bore a stunning resemblance to a hotdog. But none of this mattered; I was glad to be out of Boston, to feel the air on my arms and chest, to sit with my laptop at the breakfast buffet and read-even with pen in hand-by the side of the pool. I could get used to wearing swim trunks every day, eschewing underwear, ambling over to the grill for a burger whenever the mood struck, and watching the bikini-clad scenery.

I pa.s.sed on the Coronas and Dos Equis, which was no hards.h.i.+p, never having been a beer drinker, but a shot of tequila had never sounded so good.

I didn't need it. I had run up my credit card getting here, but it was worth every all-inclusive penny. The only thing missing was Lucian. It was almost as though he had truly disappeared on the plane that day, leaving only his shoes behind. I tried not to think about it; doing so sent my heart into strange stutters even when I was at rest. Obviously, I needed this reprieve. And I deserve it, And I deserve it, I thought, as I gazed out over the pale turquoise water. Out toward the Cabo San Lucas arch where the Sea of Cortez met the mighty Pacific, wave runners scored the surface with raised white welts, and the sun dappled the water with platinum as they receded. I thought, as I gazed out over the pale turquoise water. Out toward the Cabo San Lucas arch where the Sea of Cortez met the mighty Pacific, wave runners scored the surface with raised white welts, and the sun dappled the water with platinum as they receded.

I want to show you something. Do you know what they look like, these believers?

I saw the daubing brushstrokes of the sun on the ocean-except that it was no longer an ocean. The water was running too swiftly, and I could see the bottom. It was a brook, a creek, and the stones of the bed shone beneath it. They were iridescent, glittering through water that ran clear in the middle but muddy in the eddies. A clump of dirt broke off from the side of the stream, and the water clouded, but several of the s.h.i.+ning pebbles glinted through the mud and debris.

A child ran pell-mell toward the water, chased by his mother. The sound jolted me, and I realized I had drifted into reverie.

Sometime later I looked out at the water and thought of Lucian walking along the beach by the light of the moon. As I considered the water, the bright blue of the ocean, a cloud pa.s.sed before the sun, dimming it. I could not see from beneath my umbrella that it was a thunderhead.

THAT EVENING, RAIN PELTED the balcony of room 408. A rare storm, they called it. So unusual this time of year, the hotel workers said. But nothing seemed usual or unusual to me anymore, the words having become meaningless to me.

I was, however, troubled by Lucian's near silence. I expected him to show up by the minute-every day, tonight even-to ramble at length into my internal tape recorder. I expected, alone at night, to purge myself of every word here, at this desk, before weaving them into the fabric of my ma.n.u.script like a bright thread. But despite his constant a.s.sertions that our time was short-was growing shorter, even-he never showed.

During the daylight, with burgers by the pool and smooth bodies lounging on chairs to distract me with thoughts comfortingly base, I could manage not to think about it too much. But by my fourth day I saw through the beautiful drinks on poolside trays to the cheap, plastic gla.s.ses and recognized the second-rate nature of the evening entertainment on the stage beside the outdoor bar as I ate my dinner from a scratched Fiestaware plate. I became aware of the fraying hems of the flamenco dancers' costumes, the gauche makeup of the girls. And I began to notice the plaster peeling from the edge of the stage itself, the painted gold scrollwork chipped where careless workers had run into it, the cracking Mexican tile beneath the staircases.

I could not help but think of the home in Belmont, once so grand, reduced to a pile of rubble.

One night as I ate my dinner outside, I observed a man and a woman sitting at a table off to the side of the stage. They appeared neither raucously drunk nor so old that they applauded the dancers in the way that grandparents did at dance recitals.

In fact, there were no drinks on the table in front of them at all. And though the man-I judged him to be in his thirties-looked perfectly at ease in his Billabong T-s.h.i.+rt and cargo shorts, and the woman was elegant in her beaded halter, they reminded me of the men at the mall, of the two women at the bar in the Four Seasons Hotel, so that I finished my dinner in a rush, wondering if I only imagined the weight of their gazes upon my back as I strode across the pool area toward my room.

The next night my room seemed too dark, the light of the lamps insufficient and sallow against the moonless night, the black of the ocean seeming to encroach upon the beach. I was edgy, irritated, checking the clock, the calendar on my laptop.

The wind s.h.i.+fted, and water pelted the casing of the sliding gla.s.s door. I got up to close it, and as I did, the phone rang. The sound, so electric, so mechanical against the backdrop of rain, of the waves I was able to hear from my bed at night, startled me. I had not heard the ringing of a phone in four days.

I frowned. The tour desk had tried relentlessly to sell me any number of day excursions, all of which I had declined-could they have taken to phoning my room? But it was well past ten o'clock, the time when most hotel guests were out dancing, drinking, or in town at the Cabo Wabo Cantina hoping for an appearance by Sammy Hagar.

When I answered, the voice on the other end of the phone was thick and so emotive that I barely made out the sound of my own name.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Clay? How did you do it?"

"Sheila?" I said, confused. I had left the number of my resort with her in case anything came up at work-or if the committee felt compelled to rush me any good news that couldn't wait until I returned. In fact, Sheila was the only one with my hotel number, as Mrs. Russo had not yet returned from Haverhill.

I thought again of Lucian's warning to keep away from Mrs. Russo.

"How-how did you do it? How do you get by?" Her voice caught repeatedly as she spoke, making her sound like a child that had cried too hard to talk except in hiccupping gulps.

"Sheila, what's going on?" My alarm mingled with impatience. I was in Cabo. I had come here from the opposite coast on two long flights in a carefully researched package deal to get away from the office, from my single life in Boston, and from the winter.

I had come here to write.

"How did you do it?" she choked between staggering breaths.

"Do what, Sheila?"

"Get by. After Aubrey left." The last word was a sob.

"What do you mean, how did I do it? Sheila, what's going on?"

"I don't know if I can do it. I don't know how to do it."

My impatience sparked annoyance. The last thing I felt like dealing with was Sheila's self-inflicted turmoil. "I just did, Sheila."

"He just doesn't know. He just doesn't know." Her voice squeaked up an octave.

I'd never heard Sheila like this before-Sheila with her empathetic ear, who had never demanded much, if anything, of Dan, who turned the warm light of her love so readily on her family and children and friends.

"He doesn't know what? What's happened?"

"He's left. He left."

"I know, Sheila. But what happened tonight to cause this breakdown?" I hated the calm, measured sound of my own voice. It reminded me of the way Lucian talked to me that day in the bookstore.

"He-he doesn't know if he's coming back. Oh, Clay!" My name became a tight keen.

I sighed, tried to summon empathy. Had Aubrey cried like this when she left me? Had she ever shed a tear even? "Sheila, where are your children?"

"With Dan. They're with Dan. He took them. I don't mean he took them, but for the night."

"All right. And you're not worried about them, right?" I couldn't imagine either one of them doing anything stupid when it came to their children.

"No. I'm not. I'm all right." She inhaled sharply, her breath catching. "He doesn't know what he wants. It's all right. I'm not angry."

I stared at the receiver. She wasn't angry? She had cheated on him, and she she wasn't angry? I had to work to suppress my rage, rising like tar on hot pavement. "I don't know what to tell you. It sounds like you have it figured-" wasn't angry? I had to work to suppress my rage, rising like tar on hot pavement. "I don't know what to tell you. It sounds like you have it figured-"

"You can't hate her," she said suddenly.

"Who?"

"Aubrey. She just didn't know what she wanted. It was a mistake. She knew it. She had to know it."

"Sheila, you're babbling," I said more firmly. I was trying to be diplomatic but found it more and more difficult. I was glad I wasn't in town where I might feel compelled to ask if I ought to check on her. I was sick of being a good guy. "You know what I think? I think you you need to figure out what you want." need to figure out what you want."

Silence. And then a sniffle. "You're right. You're right, Clay."

I didn't say anything.

"Thank you."

I nodded, though I knew she couldn't see it. I waited a moment more to hear the soft click of the line before hanging up the receiver.

25.

On the morning I left Cabo, my plane sat on the tarmac for an hour. The storm had caused cancellations and delays, and now that the sun was s.h.i.+ning again, planes were baking in line on the runway like fish laid out to dry. I glanced repeatedly at my seatmate, trying to ascertain if he was less human than he looked in his Bermudas and flip-flops, until he dropped his head back, let his mouth fall open, and started snoring.

Gazing out the window, I stared at the gray cement until I, too, dozed. I woke, dry mouthed, just before the plane began its descent into the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. I wondered if I should have kept Sheila on the phone longer or called Helen, wondered where Lucian had been these five days, what the committee thought of my book.

My book. Sometime in the last few days it had evolved from my ma.n.u.script to "my book." I had already decided that if Brooks and Hanover didn't take it, I would submit it elsewhere. Maybe I would ask Katrina to represent it, to take it to one of the t.i.tans-Random House, perhaps, or Hachette.

But I needed to know how it ended.

Sitting in a bank of seats at my gate in Dallas, I reached for my cell phone but hesitated before turning it on. Pus.h.i.+ng that b.u.t.ton carried so much finality; either there would be a message waiting from Helen, or there wouldn't. If there were, I might know now, before I even boarded my plane, the fate of my book. Or at least whether I should be calling Katrina.

What I would not know is how to finish it.

I didn't turn it on. I told myself that I should welcome this limbo. I had languished in purgatory through my separation, in between appointments with Lucian, nearly every moment of the last three months. Now, perhaps on the cusp of something-some new direction-I should sit here during this layover and savor the feeling of truly being in transit. In between.

I put the phone in my bag, shoved it toward the bottom, pulled out a pen and the last few pages of one of the ma.n.u.scripts I had taken with me. My legs felt swollen again, the skin tight across my calves. I had meant to walk around for a little while, but they would only swell again on the next flight, and I had promised myself I would return home with every piece of work I had brought with me finished. Every piece except my own.

My pen hovered above the page as, with the same apprehension with which I noticed Aubrey's increasingly frequent absences in the months leading up to my discovery of her affair, I wondered where Lucian could be, where he went when he was not with me.

That's so pathetic.

Someone was staring at me-a woman, sitting in a row of boarding area seats across from mine and one row over. Her legs were crossed beneath a long, stretchy skirt. Her brown hair was slightly frizzy, pulled back into a ponytail that gave her a girlish appearance, though a closer look at the lines around her eyes and mouth put her, I guessed, in her forties. She wore one of those fabricated pieces of jewelry they sold at women's stores, the kind Aubrey used to disdain for looking like an antique or an art piece, though they were ma.s.s-produced and sold at exorbitant prices. Except for the jewelry, she would have fit in perfectly in Boston; she was wearing all black.

"Look at that sunburn," she said to me, the furrow above her lip marred by a thin scar. "The committee loved what we gave them, by the way."

I almost dropped the pages on my lap, so great was my relief. It was quickly followed by anger. "Where have you been?" I hated how transparent I was, how desperate I sounded.

"Roaming." She pursed her lips into a little kitten mouth. "I thought you deserved a vacation before things got busy."

"Busy? What do you mean busy? You said our time was short."