Demon_ A Memoir Part 10

And then I knew.

The demon's obsession with time wasn't about getting through the entire Bible. It was about his own limited quant.i.ty of it. In our conversation upon leaving the church that day weeks ago, he said he had never been to h.e.l.l.

Yet.

On a whim I searched the Internet for Lucian. Lucian.

Back came Lucian of Samosata, the rhetorician, author of Dialogues of the G.o.ds Dialogues of the G.o.ds and and Dialogues of the Dead. Dialogues of the Dead. How fitting. Lucian of Antioch, the saint. Why would a demon take the name of a saint? Lucian Freud, the painter. Various blogs, designers, an actor, even a boxer. How fitting. Lucian of Antioch, the saint. Why would a demon take the name of a saint? Lucian Freud, the painter. Various blogs, designers, an actor, even a boxer.

Well, what's in a name anyway?

I typed: "Name meanings: Lucian."

I received: Lucian: Latin. "Light." Lucian: Latin. "Light."

Light?

I searched for Lucifer. Lucifer. I felt strange, deviant doing it. I felt strange, deviant doing it.

Lucifer: "bringer of light."

I toggled back to the file containing my notes and scrolled to Lucian's retelling of Lucifer's attempted ascent, of the darkness after its failure. And then before that, to the flas.h.i.+ng stones of Eden that reflected the light of its governor. It had all been noticeably missing from the account in Genesis. I wondered if it was anywhere in the Bible.

Returning to the online Bible, I searched for Lucifer. Lucifer. The only linked pa.s.sage that came back was a reference from Isaiah: The only linked pa.s.sage that came back was a reference from Isaiah:

How you have fallen from heaven,O morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations!

I searched next for Eden. Eden. An entire list of references scrolled before my eyes. I dropped down to the index results, to "Garden of Eden." There I found more Genesis and more Isaiah but nothing that snagged my attention-until this: An entire list of references scrolled before my eyes. I dropped down to the index results, to "Garden of Eden." There I found more Genesis and more Isaiah but nothing that snagged my attention-until this:

You were in Eden, the garden of G.o.d; every precious stone adorned you:

I scrolled down through the pa.s.sage from Ezekiel.

You were anointed as a guardian cherub, for so I ordained you. You were on the holy mount of G.o.d; you walked among the fiery stones.You were blameless in your ways from the day you were created till wickedness was found in you.Through your widespread trade you were filled with violence, and you sinned.So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of G.o.d, and I expelled you, O guardian cherub, from among the fiery stones.

I grabbed my notes and reread them, my heart accelerating. It was the same story except that, as before, the demon's account was more fantastic. More compelling.

I had sworn I would not publish his story even if he were J. D. Salinger.

Salinger never wrote a story like this.

And again I had to wonder: Why me? I was no high-profile editor. Brooks and Hanover was a small publis.h.i.+ng house. With t.i.tans like Simon and Schuster, HarperCollins, and Random House roaming the earth-with Houghton Mifflin, even, right here in Boston-why choose me?

It drifted back to me from the pile of pages: My story is very closely connected to yours. My story is very closely connected to yours.

But how could that be?

I searched for Satan, Satan, half expecting to see a warning on my screen. half expecting to see a warning on my screen.

Satan: "Accuser."

For a long time, I read and reread that single word.

I SLEPT, FINALLY, AROUND three in the morning but woke again just after five thirty.

I couldn't go on like this. Maybe that is his intent. Maybe that is his intent. I pictured myself five years into the future, a skeleton of a man, my eyes sunken into my skull, dark circles like black halos on pallid, sun-forsaken skin, ranting on street corners, and no doubt jobless. I pictured myself five years into the future, a skeleton of a man, my eyes sunken into my skull, dark circles like black halos on pallid, sun-forsaken skin, ranting on street corners, and no doubt jobless.

I got up for water, thinking I ought to return to bed, try to sleep some more. But instead I sat down at my computer, setting the gla.s.s atop a pile of proposals I had read the night before, the content of which I could no longer remember.

I touched the pad on my laptop. A page of links on Satan and Satan-related topics sprang to pixilated life. I had asked about Satan on the verge of hysteria that day in the bookstore. Now here I was with a bookmark on him.

Lucian claimed he didn't know where I was meant to spend eternity. Staring at the screen, I wondered: Was I sealing my own fate with every hour, every minute I pa.s.sed with him? I felt the cold fingers again, sc.r.a.ping the inside of my chest. Could one be d.a.m.ned by a.s.sociation?

Stop it. You'll make yourself crazy.

I looked out my window onto the darkness of Norfolk Street. All around me I was surrounded by so-called normal people chasing lives filled with normal things-money, relations.h.i.+ps, losing weight. People who went home to families or empty apartments and went to bed worrying about the same, normal things.

I wondered if I would ever return to that life. a.s.suming Lucian never appeared again, could I ever purge myself of this more vivid reality and go back, reset . . . reboot?

Just as I lifted my finger to the power b.u.t.ton, a new meeting notice appeared in the corner of my screen.

14.

That Tuesday, Helen, my editorial director, called me into her office.

Helen Ness was a strange mixture of steely, old-school-style politics and a frozen-in-time femininity that, having manifested itself in young adulthood, had never quite progressed into the next thirty years. As I entered her office, she pulled off her gla.s.ses. They hung on a beaded chain and dropped down against her sweatered bust. I took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of her heavy oak desk. From here I could see that the lines at the corners of her mouth had directed bits of color from her lipstick away from her lips like tiny irrigation ca.n.a.ls.

"I'm worried about you, Clay. Even when you're here, you don't seem here. Your skin is pasty, you look thin and worn out. You look terrible." She smoothed a strand of hair from her forehead. Shoulder-length, curled under at the ends. I doubted it had changed style since her days at Smith College. "I don't know if it's your divorce or your health or what. Sheila said you've been to the doctor a few times."

Well, see there's this demon.

"But I need you to let me know what's going on."

He's following me, and I'm pretty sure he had that runner on Arlington killed.

"Let me help, Clay."

I'm compiling the story of our encounters, which, by the way, has a nice subplot about Satan.

"I understand. I've-" I raked a hand through my hair. It needed a cut. "I'm just run down."

"I've had one viable project of yours make it through the committee in the last three months," she said.

That's because the editorial committee can't make up their minds. Despite my sick days and missed meetings, I knew for a fact I had three proposals stuck in committee limbo. Despite my sick days and missed meetings, I knew for a fact I had three proposals stuck in committee limbo.

"I need a big project to fill a hole-something we can get into production by spring, summer at the latest." She dropped her hands to her desk. "Do you have anything you can get me? Help me out here, Clay. I know Katrina's been sending things your way."

Don't even suggest it, Clay. But I could think of nothing else. "Actually, Helen, I've been working on something," I heard myself say. "A novel about a fallen angel-a memoir-style story told from the viewpoint of a demon." Inwardly, I cursed myself. But I could think of nothing else. "Actually, Helen, I've been working on something," I heard myself say. "A novel about a fallen angel-a memoir-style story told from the viewpoint of a demon." Inwardly, I cursed myself.

"Clay"- a slow, appreciative smile eased across her features-"I had no idea you had gone back to writing."

Since the failure of Coming Home, you mean.

"Sounds intriguing. Religious fiction is getting hotter, and you do know we get first right of refusal."

I'm an idiot. "I know." "I know."

"Give it to Phil or Anu, and we'll take it to committee." She replaced the gla.s.ses, sliding them down her nose.

"It's not quite finished-"

"Just get us something to look at." She smiled, a second reminder that the meeting was over.

I thanked her, eager to get out of her office, to figure out what I had just done. Eager to get on with the day and to my appointment that evening.

I pa.s.sed Sheila in the hallway, and the sight of her startled me. She looked drawn, thinner than I had ever seen her, and I realized it had been weeks since we'd had a real conversation. I had never seen her look quite like this-she was practically gaunt, and her lavender twin-set matched the smudges beneath her eyes.

"Clay, how are you? I talked to Aubrey over the holiday. She said she saw you. And that you're seeing someone." She smiled slightly.

That struck me as hilarious-in a manic, high-pitched laughing kind of way. "It's, uh, a casual thing. And you? How are you?" I thought of Helen and her "you look terrible." Apparently it was going around; I had never seen Sheila look so unattractive. I had never seen her look unattractive, period.

She took a long, shaky sigh. "Oh, Dan and I are separated."

"I'm so sorry." I said it because it was the proper thing to say. It was the thing I had grown sick of hearing from others about this time last year. But I wasn't sorry, not really. Despite her haggard appearance, I had a hard time summoning any compa.s.sion for her. Thinking back to what Lucian had told me, to the "have to see you" e-mail, I found my sympathies rested solidly with Dan. What was it with Sheila and Aubrey, the adultery twins? I should call Dan. I ought to be having this conversation with him.

"Yeah." She glanced down at the papers in her hand. She appeared to have been en route to the copy machine. "It's difficult. I don't know what will happen."

"Well, if there's anything I can do . . ." But not only was I sure there was nothing I could do-I was fairly certain I wouldn't do anything for her if I could.

"I'm glad you're seeing someone, Clay. I'm not sure Aubrey realizes yet how much she lost."

I thanked her and excused myself.

Her words stayed with me the rest of the day, as powerful, almost, as Lucian's.

I REALIZED AFTER MEETING with Helen that I might have a problem. I had just proposed a story based on the memoir that Lucian had apparently submitted-or gotten through otherwise demonic means-to Katrina. Maybe the stack of papers on my desk bore little enough resemblance to the scant pages Katrina had given me that it wouldn't be an issue, but I couldn't find the proposal she had given me to know for sure. And I did not like the idea that I was walking what felt like a thin ethical line, especially considering on whose behalf I walked it.

Closing my office door, I phoned Katrina, but she wasn't in. Not wanting to draw more attention to the matter than necessary and not wanting to talk to her a.s.sistant, I sent her an e-mail asking for electronic copies of the proposals she had given me on her visit two weeks before.

That was all I could do. That, and worry.

THE AROMAS OF WARM bread mingled with garlic, salami, and olives. It had once been an endurance test for me to make it to Prince Street without getting sidelined by every temptation on Salem. When Aubrey and I used to come to the North End for dinner, we would stop afterward at the twenty-four-hour bakery to buy turnovers and semolina bread for lunch the next day. In our last year of marriage, we still perused these streets for new restaurants, but the discussions we once had over pasta and veal dwindled to the clinking chatter of our cutlery, and we often forgot the bakery.

On the corner of Prince and Hanover, I paused before the iron gates of Saint Leonard's, which bore the emblem of nail-scarred hands folded in front of a cross. In the summer, especially on feast days, church ladies sold Saint Anthony's oil and religious icons at a table around the corner. Tonight the heavy wooden doors beyond the gate were locked tight, as though against sin itself-in addition to editors who cavorted with demons and spent entire nights contemplating Satan. Standing before the crumbling plaster of the church, I felt like more of a stranger to that churchgoing world of my youth than I did to Lucian's spirit-inhabited realm.

But most unsettling, I felt less and less a part of the secular world in which I lived.

It was nearly seven o'clock. I hurried down Hanover, the smell of the ocean briny in my nose. In summer the restaurants-barely more than little open-kitchen joints boasting no more than eight tables apiece-threw open their doors, spilling tables onto the sidewalk to catch the influx of tourists and saints' feasts celebrants. Tonight they were closed up against the coastal chill, menus peering out from windows, the flames of tiny candles dancing on the tabletops inside.

On the second-floor entrance of Vittorio's, I experienced a brief moment of deja vu when the host informed me my party was already waiting, and again when he led me to a candlelit booth where a woman in her thirties waved at me.