by Julie Kenner
“He was drunk, waving a knife, and coming after the kids,” Laura said loyally. “And he was sucking on a breath mint.”
“So were you fifteen minutes ago,” I pointed out.
“But I haven’t invaded a dead body. I’m not all demonic and ooky inside.”
“Point taken.” Demons, as I’d instructed Laura, blend in a little too well with the human population. But there are clues, and sewage-rotten breath is a big one. Of course, not being complete idiots, the demons have tried to alleviate that little hygienic deficiency. And although they can’t prevent it, they can work damn hard to mask it. I’ve known demons to chew parsley, gargle Listerine, and even snack on roasted garlic. Anything to hide the real odor bubbling up from their decaying insides.
“So, does David . . . I mean, with Eric being . . . Never mind.” She busied herself by sorting the plastic tile spacers. “I’m not even sure I want to know.”
“It’s a good question,” I said. “And no. His breath is fine.”
“You’re sure?”
I remembered the kiss we’d shared the previous night. “Yeah,” I muttered. “I’m sure.”
Being my best friend, Laura knew better than to press the topic. And we were prevented from further delving into the quality of my first husband’s breath by the distinct throat-clearing and evil eye granted us by Larry the Tile Guy. Since this was the scoring-and-cutting part of the tile class, I wasn’t sure why silence was required, but I knew better than to piss off a tile specialist with a knife in his hand.
Actually, the silence suited me. Laura had raised an interesting point, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it meant. Because Eric’s breath was fine despite the fact that a demon was bumping right on the edge of bursting free. So did it mean that halitosis wasn’t the demonic barometer we’d always thought? Did it mean that the demon wasn’t as close to bursting free as we believed?
Or did it simply mean that in this—as in so many other things—my beloved Eric was a walking theological and metaphysical enigma.
“You two ladies understand the steps? Everything make sense?” Larry the Tile Guy asked, interrupting my musings.
“Absolutely,” I lied to him, unwilling to admit that my demonic mental meanderings had kept me from focusing fully on his tile lecture.
“Why don’t you give it a whirl?” He dragged over a board with Saltillo tiles already laid in, with the exception of a rectangular void smaller than the area of a single Saltillo tile. “Cut me that puppy there from one of the bigger tiles. I’ll be back in a jiff to see how you’re doing.”
“Right,” I said, as he marched to a newly married couple who’d recently passed around photos of their new home. I eyed Laura for help.
She held her hands up and leaned back on her heels. “I’m not the one being drafted to remodel. If knowledge comes my way, I’ll take it. But I’m not actively seeking it out.”
“Terrible attitude,” I chided.
“Isn’t it though?” She pointed at the bulky gizmo on the floor between us. Earlier, Larry had demonstrated how to use the contraption to score tile, then snap it along the line to form a smaller piece with straight edges. In other words, the machine helped break things. How hard could that be?
“Right,” I said, scowling at the thing. I scooted over to the tiled board and started to measure the empty space. “I can do this.” Since Laura said nothing, I took that as tacit support and made a quick mark on my tile with the provided pencil. “So what about you?” I asked, after I’d made three marks and was rolling in the satisfaction of a job well done. “Since I had to go tackle yet another demon in my backyard, I didn’t get the chance to send appropriate sympathy your way.”
“Maybe you can get something to spread around your lawn,” she said. “Forget Miracle-Gro,” she added, with an announcer’s affectation. “Get some Miracle Go!”
“It would be a miracle if they did go,” I said, feeling rather surly about the topic. Reasonable, I thought. After all, it had always irritated me when Stuart brought his work home with him. “But maybe Allie’s relic-and-holy-water mixture would work,” I said, thinking of the cemetery. “I’ll ask Father Corletti, and if it does—”
Laura held up a hand, stopping me. “I’ve been a good friend and put up with a lot, but I really don’t want to hear about you spreading crushed up saint bones in your backyard. You end up going to those kinds of extremes, do me a favor and just don’t tell me.”
“That’s what you get for changing the subject,” I said. “I was all set to lavish sympathy upon you.”
“You don’t even know what’s bothering me,” she said.
“True,” I admitted, erasing one of my pencil marks and squinting at the damn tile, which seemed determined to trip me up. “But I’m an equal opportunity sympathizer. And you don’t have the Paul-drama spark in your eyes,” I said, referring to her soon-to-be ex-husband and the murderous look that crossed her face whenever she thought of him. “I’m gonna go with Dr. Hunk.”
“Yeah, well you’ll be going far and fast,” she said grumpily. “He dumped me.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I said, abandoning the tile to grab her hand and give it a sympathetic squeeze. “If he dumped you, he must be evil.”
She managed a wobbly smile. “He didn’t seem evil.”
“Do you want me to take care of him?” I asked. “Stiletto through the eye. Drown him in holy water? I can do Paul at the same time and call it a two-for-one special.”
She rolled her eyes, but she also smiled, and I looked down at my marked-up tile, secretly pleased with myself. Being a best friend might not be as flashy or dangerous as demon hunting, but the job was just as rewarding, if not more so.
“What do you do now?” she asked, and at first I thought she was talking about her potentially demonic ex-doctor. I quickly realized she meant the tile, however.
“Score it?” I frowned, trying to remember Larry’s list of instructions. “Right,” I said, positioning the tile on the contraption, so that when I ran the slider thingy down, a slight cut would be made on the line I’d drawn. “Here goes nothing.”
I pulled back slowly, wincing a little at the sound of the blade cutting through rock. Laura peered over my shoulder as I did, the ends of her hair falling into my field of vision. “You know, if I pay attention, I could redo the entire house. Wouldn’t even look like the same place Paul ever lived.”
“It’s an idea,” I said. “But if you have the urge to tile, I’m hoping you’ll head to the mansion. Trust me when I say I can use all the help I can get.”
“Mmm,” Laura said. “I think I’m going to limit my help to the nonphysical. Research. Moral support. That kind of thing.”
“Wise,” I said. “You can start with my She-Demon.”
“No ideas at all about who she is?” Laura asked, although she already knew the answer. We’d been over that ground and more during the drive to Home Depot.
“Nothing so far. I told Father Corletti what happened, and he’s looking into this Odayne demon, but so far he hasn’t gotten back to me with anything useful. Actually,” I amended, “he hasn’t gotten back to me with anything at all.” I flashed a bright smile her way. “But that’s okay, because I have you. My super-research gal.”
“If I’m your gal, I guess that makes Eddie your guru,” she said. She rocked back on her heels, her expression thoughtful. “And he’s really going to do the alimentatore thing?” she asked. “He’s not just pulling your chain?”
“He was sincere,” I said. “He’s not going to break promises that will end up hurting Allie.”
“Well, this should be interesting,” which pretty much summed up my feelings. She pointed to the tile. “So now you snap it.”
I nodded, pressing down on the padded lever to hold my main piece of tile in place, then using my other hand to press down on the overhanging portion. I’d lined up the score with the edge of the metal box, and as I pressed against it, sure enough—snap—I found myself holding two pi
eces of tile.
“Nifty trick,” I said, shifting the tile to make another score line perpendicular to the first one. I took a few moments to look around the room. Except for a sandy-haired college-age student, everyone seemed to be moving at about the same pace. Which made me feel somewhat better at being both a novice and pathetically slow.
Our work area was near the entrance, and a few people slowed to watch as they came into the store. I saw a tall woman with gorgeous auburn hair holding the hand of a toddler with an orange carrottop and freckles. He looked about Timmy’s age and was yanking on the woman’s hand, seemingly desperate to get on with their day. She sipped idly on a Starbucks cup, hesitating near the automatic doors. For a moment, our eyes met, and I smiled, the solidarity of a shopping mom. She looked back blankly, though, and I began to wonder if she’d even seen me. Probably mentally running shopping lists in her head.
“So where do you think he’s working?” Laura said. Since we’d rode together to Home Depot, we’d both seen Eddie head off down Fourth Street, the local car-free promenade near Main Street. Unfortunately, Fourth Street curves sharply, and unless we got out of the car and actually followed him, we couldn’t pinpoint his destination. We’d actually considered that as a plan, but since that would make us late for tiling class, we’d decided to leave it to another day. “Maybe he’s doling out ice cream at Baskin-Robbins.”
I tried to picture Eddie in a uniform asking kids if they wanted a cherry or sprinkles. “I’m thinking no. Besides, he said it was a new shop.”
She frowned. “My old phone had a web browser. I probably could have figured it out by now. But I gave it up for this old thing.” She tapped the outer pocket on her purse, which held your standard-issue, telephonically functional phone. “It doesn’t do a damn thing.”
I squinted at it. “It doesn’t make calls?”
She rolled her eyes, looking remarkably like my daughter in the process. “Kate, sometimes I wonder about you.”
I ignored that, my thoughts having shifted to my missing teenager and toddler. “Do you see Timmy and Allie?”
She craned her neck and peered around, then shook her head. “Are we worried?”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “I think it’s okay. Allie said she was going to entertain him, so I’m sure they’re off doing something entertaining. Probably playing in tubs in the bathroom fixture section.”
“Or plucking the petals off flowers in the garden section.”
“Or emptying the bags of play sand all over the aisles,” I said.
I lasted a good twelve seconds before I reached for my own telephonically functional phone and managed to call my daughter despite my lack of Internet and text-messaging capabilities.
“Can we go yet?” she asked, answering on the first ring.
“About fifteen more minutes. If you want to start heading this direction, that would be great.”
“So you were just calling to check on us?” I stayed guiltily silent. “Come on, Mom! We’re in Home Depot. Even if some demon was stupid enough to jump me here, it’s not like there’s a shortage of weapons. I’m looking at a screwdriver, an ax, and a sharp pokey thing right now.”
“Hardware aisle,” I said to Laura. And then to Allie, “Is that really the place for Timmy?”
“Mother.”
“Fifteen minutes,” I said, and hung up. So long as the kid was entertained . . .
“Does she know about She?” Laura asked. I must have looked baffled, because Laura clarified. “Does Allie know about the ‘She’ that your backyard demon went on about?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had the chance to tell her. And I haven’t figured out how to tell her without mentioning her dad’s little problem.”
“How about Stuart? Told him?”
I shot her a frustrated look.
“Just saying,” she said. “You need to tell him.”
“I know. I will. But I want information before I do.” I flashed her a wide grin. “That’s where you come in.”
She looked like she had more to say on the subject, but Larry the Tile Guy showed up. “Excellent work,” he said, peering down at my cuts. “Set it aside and we’re all going to mix some mortar. I’ve got tiles over there for everyone to pick from, so go on and get dibs on a pattern.”
We headed that direction along with all the other tile warriors. “Does Eric know?” Laura asked. “Who She is, I mean.”
“If he does, he’s not telling me.” I spoke flippantly, but I could tell from Laura’s expression that she wasn’t buying it.
“You okay?”
I wasn’t entirely sure that I was, but I managed a smile. “Peachy.”
She looked like she was going to argue, but she didn’t get the chance because all of a sudden a huge clatter rang out through the room, accompanied by the dispersal of hundreds of ball bearings across the floor. And there, in front of it all, was my little boy, racing pell-mell for the automatic doors at the front of the store.
“Timmy!” I shouted, trying to vault over the pile of tile.
Allie’s own shouts echoed my own, but when she stepped on one of the bearings, her feet went flying out from under her and she landed on her rump, a half dozen onlookers standing stock-still to stare at her, no one offering a hand because of the minefield that was the floor. “Timmy!” she cried. “Stop right now or no ice cream!”
The threat didn’t work. Not so much because the kid was being disobedient, but because he was freaked. The noise, the people yelling. My kid was no stranger to a high decibel level, but usually in smaller quarters. And without a cadre of employees and customers converging on him.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
“Timmy! Right here!”
But he couldn’t see me, and those automatic glass doors opened wide, and as Laura and I sprinted forward, all I could think about was my little boy stepping out into that busy parking lot and—
“Come here, kiddo! Let’s go see your mommy.”
I positively froze in relief. The redhead I’d noticed earlier had scooped him up about six inches beyond the door, and was holding him close, pointing in my direction with a hand holding a Starbucks cup. I got there in a second, which was about a second longer than I wanted. She passed my boy to me and I clutched him close, my heart pounding in my ears, the roar of blood starting to die down around me.
“Big noise!” Timmy said. “Big noise!”
“Mom! Oh, God, Mom, I’m so sorry. There was a box and then he pulled it off the shelf, and those things went everywhere and—” Allie rubbed her rear, tears streaming down her cheeks, and as much as the fear that still coiled within me made me want to lash out, I pulled it back. All was well, I told myself. All probably would have been well even if he’d made it to the parking lot. I would have caught him in time. Nothing to freak out about.
And yet there I was, freaked, and desperately grateful to the stranger who’d waylaid my son.
I squeezed Allie’s hand, a silent promise that all was okay. To the woman, I turned my full attention. “They can really get away from you, can’t they?” she said, smiling down at her own toddler, before I had the chance to say anything.
“They can and they do,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
Larry sauntered over and ruffled Timmy’s hair. Delighted at being the center of attention, Timmy beamed. “We all okay over here?”
“We’re good. I’ll be right back. I’m sorry for the disruption, and we’ll pick up those bearings and—”
“Nah, it’s cool. We got it.” And I could see that they did. Already a crew was clearing the aisle of the mess created by one small boy.
“Can I buy you another coffee? Lunch? A small continent?” I asked the redhead.
“Australia would be nice. Thanks.” She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowed in thought. “You look awfully familiar. I thought so earlier, but—oh, I know! Cutter’s studio! You’re going to teach that women’s self-defense class!”
“Do you train there?”
>
She shook her head. “I’m in that 7-Eleven all the time.” She reached down and hauled her boy up to her hip. “I’m pretty sure he eats baby wipes and Kleenex when I’m not looking,” she said, and the little boy lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head in mock exasperation, an affectation so funny on a toddler it had me smiling.
“I know the feeling.”
“Listen, I’ve been meaning to pop in and ask about your class. I’d love to sign up. Does it start soon?”
“I’ve got a class at four, actually, if you want. Three Saturdays, and then I’ll start a new session.” Technically, the class was sold out, but I figured Cutter would give me a pass if I squeezed one more student in.
“Oh, could I?” She bounced junior on her hip. “I think about him, you know? And I just want to be safe.”
I squeezed my own little boy, clinging to my neck like a monkey. “Yeah,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Best thing to do’s just grab ’em in the nuts,” Rita Walker—Fran’s eighty-six-year-old mother—announced to a smattering of applause. “That’ll show him who’s boss.”
“Actually,” I said, “Rita has a point.” The class was scheduled for two hours each Saturday over the course of three weeks, and though I’d originally planned to open the class with a discussion of theory, basic awareness, and how to not project yourself as a victim, I soon realized that this group was keen to jump straight into the middle of things. Which left me altering my lesson plan on the fly. “And we’ll come back to that in more detail, but for the moment, let’s go with it.” I signaled to Cutter. “Want to give us a hand?”
Rita snorted. “Ain’t his hand you’re gonna be mangling now, is it?”
“Guess I’m glad I wore a cup,” he said.
“But did you wear shoes?” I asked, with an evil grin.
