Demon

“Why is that?”

“I’ve been a good person.”

He said, without a trace of the escalating anger or hatred of a moment ago, “You haven’t understood a thing I’ve said.”

I left but was unable to erase the image of his parting smile from my mind. It followed me home, baleful, devoid of any attempt at congeniality. In the past he had been angry, capricious, even hostile.

But not quite like this.

Outside my building, I glanced at the house across the street where I had seen the stranger leaning against a post, but no one was there.

The music was still coming from behind Mrs. Russo’s door, borne along now on the smell of baking desserts. Perhaps her small group was coming over tomorrow.

I wrote well into the night, chasing reason, exorcising insanity. With an editor’s sense of rising narrative tension, I knew I was nearing the end, the climax when events converge to bring the story to a close. Knowing it, feeling it so near, was the one thing that gave me relief.

I worked past 4:00 a.m. and fell, exhausted, onto my couch.

28

I was sleeping on my sofa when laughter woke me. I had not experienced joviality, even vicariously, in longer than I could remember. Now I recognized Mrs. Russo’s voice outside my door, wishing someone well. Apparently her group had already come and was taking their leave.

I bolted up with a curse, stumbled into the kitchen to see the time on the stove.

It was past noon.

I didn’t even bother to shower, only changed my shirt and grabbed my coat, my laptop, my wallet. Outside my door, Mrs. Russo was still chatting with one of her group members, a man close to her age who held his jacket over his arm.

“Well, Clay! You’re home on a weekday. Have you met Mr. Hollingswor— ”

“I’m sorry, I can’t talk.” I brushed past the man and hurried down the stairs.

I could not remember the T ever operating so slowly. I was frustrated by the wait, by my inability to take the stairs out of the Kendall Station two at a time—I started to, but had to lean back against the railing to catch my breath and let my vision clear.

Inside the Brooks and Hanover offices I slipped past Sheila’s desk, now occupied by a temp, a girl in her twenties who might have been pretty had she refrained from drawing her eyebrows on with a marker. If I could get inside my office without being seen, it was feasible that no one might know I had not been there all morning. I shut my door, docked my laptop, stared at the stack of office mail in yellow tie-top envelopes on the corner of my desk.

Exactly ten minutes later my phone rang. It was Helen. “Clay, can you come see me?”

“Helen, hi. I’m really behind—I was sick this morning. I’m trying to get going on my day. I know I haven’t gotten the contract back to Anu—”

“Clay, can you just come in, please?”

I sighed. “Sure.”

I scratched my unshaven face, combed my hair with my fingers. I didn’t feel like another reprimand. I was soon to become a double asset to this house, and I needed some flexibility and respect.

Helen was wearing her usual cashmere turtleneck—nutmeg today—her glasses hanging on their beaded chain, her hair in a headband worn only by girls in high school and women in their fifties.

“Clay.” She sighed as I sat down. “I don’t know how to say this.”

My first thought was of the book—she couldn’t get the larger advance, or they’d have to defer its release by a season.

“We can’t work this way. The marketing team is behind, you haven’t had a single viable proposal accepted by the committee—not counting your own—in the last three months, and despite the fact that we just spoke yesterday, you still showed up well after noon today.” She threw up her hands. “I mean, we just talked yesterday!”

I just sat there in my wrinkled slacks, mutely gazing at her.

“There’s still a fine chance that we’ll offer you a contract for your book, though I think we should give that a few weeks to re-evaluate how many projects we’re going to be behind on and how quickly we can find an editor to take your place. It’s a good book, Clay. This is not a statement on your work as a writer—only your work habits as an editor.”

All of this came to me through a time warp, each of her words registering in slow, crawling baritone.

“Are you kidding me?” I said at last, incredulity slowly washing over me. “Are you kidding me?” I repeated when she said nothing. In one stroke she was relieving me of not only my job but also of the book that was, to my mind, all but published. How could this be possible?

I’m going to tell you my story, Lucian had said, and you’re going to write it down and publish it. He had said it. And I had written it, and the committee had accepted it! Obviously this decision would be reversed. Something would happen to change Helen’s mind.

Helen shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“The contract is in my e-mail. It’s been sent.” Why hadn’t I gone through it—or just signed it and sent it right