The Demon

by The Demon

  Harry tried to ignore the plants, and the many books he had bought, but was always dragged back to them by his guilt. From time to time he would try to make some effort to take care of them, but when he did he was overcome with inertia bordering on paralysis. When he got home at night, he instantly

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  seemed to know—to sense—how many additional leaves had died that day. Everywhere he looked, no matter where he was, he seemed to see brown. Brown, brown, brown—in a thousand shades, in a thousand tones. Brown.

  One morning he noticed that Linda wasnt smiling. He didnt know if it was just for that moment, that morning, or had not been for a length of time. He wanted to ask her if anything was wrong, but was afraid. He was afraid she would tell him, and he knew that whatever it was, it was his fault. A couple of times he almost got the question out of his mouth, but the words just died on the vine. He just could not sit there and listen to her tell him what was wrong and how he was responsible for the pain on her face and in her heart.

  And his son . . .

  O Jesus.

  He spent the morning interrupting his work and thoughts with the reliving of the morning; he had her smile when he asked her, and tell him that nothing was wrong. I just must have slept on my shoulder in a peculiar way and it aches a little, thats all, sweetheart.

  You sure theres nothing I can do?

  Positive.

  And she smiled at him and he put his arms around her and kissed her, and kissed Harry Junior, and then hugged and kissed Linda, his dear, dear and beautiful wife, again.

  His fantasy was interrupted by a call from Walt. He wanted to know if Harry could join him and Simmons for lunch.

  Thanks Walt, but I think I/ll give it a pass today, Harry feeling off-balance.

  You all right, Harry?

  Sure, fine, his heart pounding, feeling trapped and panicky.

  You dont sound right. And we havent seen very much of you lately.

  Well, you know, Walt, Ive been real busy with the Von

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  Landor project, Harry painfully aware of the quavering tone in his voice.

  Yes, I know, Walt obviously dubious. But don't forget, we see Von Landor tomorrow at one.

  Right Walt. Harry started to sigh before he cradled the phone and instantly wondered if Walt had heard it, or if he could somehow hear it even after the phone was hung up. He turned his back on the phone.

  He browsed the streets and stores at lunch rime, but it did not give him the usual relief. He felt conspicuous. Almost as if he were lurking. He knew he could not continue to steal these lunch times, that his position and responsibilities prohibited it, but he could not stop right now. Later.

  The afternoon was agonizing. He could feel the muscles in his legs twitch and his skin seemed to squirm. A dozen times, perhaps more, he picked up the phone to call Linda and tell her he would not be home tonight, but he didnt. He fought and fought and the conflict seemed almost to be eating him alive, so that there would be nothing left of him by evening. The battle continued to rage, and each time he reached for the phone, he forced himself to leave it alone. He had to go home tonight. He just had to. He felt as if it were a matter of life or death. At least this one time he could not give in. He just could not do it.

  He did not realize just how incredibly tense he was until his body started to relax as the train left the station that evening. When the train had surfaced and was starting to trek its way to suburbia, he.could actually feel his body crumbling, and he was suddenly afraid he was going to fall asleep.

  During dinner that evening his eye kept being drawn toward a large Dieffenbachia that was completely seared and was the same color as the dusty soil in the pot. As he ate his consciousness became more and more filled with the damn plant and his goddamn hand started to shake slightly as he looked at that ugly dumb-cane son of a bitching plant and his stomach kept knotting and his teeth seemed to be attacking his

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  food and he started slashing at his meat until he could not stand looking at the fucking thing and he got up from the table and hacked that goddamn thing right down!!! right down to the surface of the soil! hacked that rotten son of a bitch with his steak knife, hacked it, hacked it, hacked and twisted that ugly brown bastard and then stabbed the soil over and over again and again until he felt his throat constrict with fire and he stumbled over to a chair and sat, rigid, his eyes closed, his head hanging.

  He could hear Harry Junior asking

  Linda why Daddy chopped down the plant and could hear the tremor in Lindas voice as she tried to hush him and get him to ignore what had happened and changed the subject and finally quieted him with some pudding.

  Harrys body continued to

  tremble and pound with rage and he felt chilled and poisoned and just endured the evening until it was time to go to bed. After Linda had finished bathing Harry Junior, and had put him to bed, she went over to Harry and put a hand on his shoulder and asked him if anything was wrong? He shook his head. You sure theres nothing I can do? He shook his head again. She looked at him for a moment, then slowly took her hand off his shoulder and spent the remainder of the evening reading a book.

  It was cold in the room. Harry could feel it in his bones. He never felt cold like this before. It was icy and tomblike. And his body still felt poisoned. They went to bed and Linda kissed him good night and he could feel her concern and worry and all he could do was crawl deeper into his poisoned iciness.

  He felt as if he had been awake all night. It seemed that even if he did fall asleep, he dreamt he was awake and tried so hard to sleep that he would wake himself up and start the cycle over again. He felt exhausted when the alarm went off in the morning. He somehow managed to talk with Linda in the morning while he ate breakfast and she took care of Harry Junior. It was all hazy, but he knew it was real.

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  As he rode to work that morning the clicking and clacking of the train seemed to be saying, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, and it seemed to come up through the floor of the train and through his legs and body and pound into his head: STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!!!!

  Yeah, youre

  goddamn right I am. I should have had more sense. It was a goddamn stupid thing to do. I should have known better. After all this time youd think I/d know better than to do it. God damn, thats annoying. Upset the whole house, Wonder what Harry Junior thinks? Probably nothing. But Linda . . . Jesus. Just not going to allow that to happen again. Just not going to do it. Had no business going home last night. I knew it. I just knew it would be a mistake. Should have listened to myself. Maybe now I/ll learn. The next time I/ll know what to do. I know what to do when I feel like that.

  While still on the train he decided he was not going to spend the day in conflict. He was going to take a little stroll during lunch time. Nothing special. Just browse around and stretch his legs, so to speak. He nodded in agreement with himself and when he got to the office he went immediately to work and did almost a days work in a couple of hours. Around eleven-thirty he started feeling a little fidgety, so he stopped work immediately and stood in the doorway of his office for a moment and looked to see who was nearby, then walked through the office as if he were going to the mens room, carefully avoiding the area of Wentworths office, then walked down the stairs to the floor below, then took the elevator down.

  He had been vaguely planning a more or less innocent walk. He had no intention of concentrating his eyes on the piece of ground between his feet, but neither did he plan to leer, or even look, at every woman that came within the scope of his vision. He was, as much as he could be, planless. Just stroll around long enough to relieve the tension and antsy feeling, then back to the office.

  He did not plan on being in bed with this broad, biting her

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  neck as he fucked her. He knew how he got there, and part of what made him so sick was the ease with which it happened. A smile, a hello, a look and a little conversation and his cock is t
hrust up her flowing cunt and shes grabbing and groaning as if it were Judgment Day. And he comes, and it seems endless as he pumps his semen into that insatiable hole, and he waits for the feeling of elation, that feeling of relief that follows when more than semen is drained from his body . . .

  but it doesnt come. Somehow

  his ancient and reliable solution does not work the way it did, the way it should. He expects the torment in his mind, the guilt and recrimination, the disgust with himself and the taste of vileness in his mouth, but at least his body was always relaxed. If nothing else, that. That release from the rusty tin cans and broken bottles that tore apart his gut, and the agonizing twitching that constricted his chest and muscles and made him want to scream and scream and scream. At least that should have drained from him.

  He lay on his back for a

  moment staring at another ceiling. She was next to him. Actively still. He sensed an urgency under his agony, an urgency to get back to the office. It seemed somehow very important, almost an emergency, and he wanted to get up and get the hell out of there as he always had in the past, but he could not move. He felt his jaw clenching tighter and tighter. He could hear the clenching and scraping and splintering. Sweet Jesus, he felt sick. God damn it, what was wrong? He felt that his body was going to burst and disintegrate at any moment. It had not worked. O dear god, why didnt it work? He felt as if he were being flooded with tears. He could hear them sloshing around inside him. There was a pressure within him that he could not define nor understand. He only knew it was killing him and his answer was not working. A voice seemed to be raging inside him.

  He rolled over and silenced the

  voice by stuffing his mouth with a tit. He sucked and nibbled and buried his hand in her soggy cunt and she wrapped her

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  arms around him and clung to him like another layer of skin until he pushed her arms away and rolled her over and forced his cock in her ass and her screams and moans were muffled by the pillow as he tried to ram his pain into her and she met his thrusts with her own violent excitement and it felt as if she would snap his joint off and he wanted to stop but continued until they shook with spasms and were forced into stillness and he could feel his body slowly obtaining that sought-after and blessed emptiness. He could feel the self-hatred and loathing fevering his brain, and their vileness burning his throat, but it was worth it. He would pay that price. At least he could breathe. At least his body wasnt making him feel that he was losing his mind.

  The hot water of the shower

  felt good. Krist it was great hearing it and feeling it splat against his body and roll its way down. The nausea was tugging at his throat, but he could function through that. And right now he could yell at his head to shut up. Thats right, shut up! Go haunt somebody else. You cant get me. Not now. O god, the water was good. It flowed and flowed and flowed. . . .

  Then back to the sanctuary of the office. His office. A closed door. O dear God, a sanctuary. Work. Work! His beloved work. A haven. A place and something to get lost in. Sanctuary!!!!

  Lost! Ruptured! Just like that. A moment of a semblance of peace, and it is all disintegrated with the opening of a door.

  Where in the hell have you been, Harry?

  Harry blinked at Wentworth for a moment, trying desperately to orient himself. Why? Whats wrong, Walt?

  Whats wrong? Von Landor, remember? One oclock.

  Von Landor???? O shit, was that today?

  Yes, that was today. It is now three-thirty.

  O, krist, holding his head in his hands, I completely forgot.

  Thats obvious. But how in the hell can you forget something like that?—Harry shaking his head as he listened to

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  Wentworth—the biggest deal the firm has ever put together. Months of work. Jesus krist, Harry, this is your baby. You put it together from the inception to the whole package. The most brilliant piece of international syndicating that I have ever seen. That anyone has ever seen. And you get it all wrapped up and suddenly you dont show up for the last stage. I even reminded you yesterday and—

  I know, I know, Walt. I somehow got confused and—

  Are you all right? You look like hell.

  What? O, yeah, yeah. Im all right. Just—I dont know, shaking his head, I cant figure—

  Look, Von Landor is still at the Waldorf. He wont be leaving for a while. After we had been waiting for a while, I faked a phone call from Linda and told him that you were sick, but would get here anyway.

  How did he take that? still holding and shaking his head.

  He bought it. We dont have much to worry about. He wants this deal as much as we do. Thank God you did such a great job in wrapping up this package—but never mind that. Lets get over there.

  Right, Wentworths urgency clearing his head.

  I/ll have my girl call him and tell him we/re on our way over. He called his secretary and made the arrangements, then looked at Harry. We wont have any trouble convincing him youre sick. What is wrong with you?

  Harry shrugged.

  O well, we can go into that later.

  Harrys business mind took over and the necessary papers were gathered together in seconds and they were on their way. Wentworth was correct; there was absolutely no doubt in Von Landors mind that Harry was ill when he looked at him.

  Harrys business genius seemed to have a life of its own and functioned perfectly, and everything was completely consummated in ample time for Von Landor to make preparations for leaving. They walked him to the limousine and shook hands and watched the car merge into the traffic. Went-

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  worth was beaming when he slapped Harry on the back. What do you say we go back, nodding toward the hotel, and have a drink? We have some celebrating to do. Harry nodded and they walked past the smiling doorman.

  Wentworth was buoyant and exuberant. Come on, Harry, smile, for krists sake. This is a great day. This deal is going to mean millions. Millions, Harry. And thats just the beginning. Just the beginning, Harry, and this is your baby. You should be bubbling like champagne, for krists sake.

  I know, Walt, but Im much too tired to bubble.

  In a couple of weeks Von Landor will be back and we/ll be in the board room putting our signatures on those documents.

  Maybe I/ll bubble then, a weak attempt at smiling.

  Come on, empty that glass and youll feel better. Wentworth indicated to the bartender with a wave of his hand that he wanted two more drinks. This calls for at least a small celebration. You need to relax. I can see it in your face. Youve been working too hard. We are going to go out tonight and I am going to help you relax. What say, old sport?

  Harry nodded his head.

  Good, slapping him on the back and picking up change from the bar. I/ll call some relaxers.

  Harry watched him go, overwhelmingly and nauseously aware of the fact that there had been absolutely no resistance to his suggestion. He had surrendered to it before there was an urge, before there was any hint of desire, before there was a need. He was aware of a sense of loss, of a profound sense of sadness and irretrievable loss.

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  14

  Linda finally cleared all the plants from the house. For a while she had a vague hope that their presence in the house might reawaken an enthusiasm in Harry, but that hope withered with the leaves of the plants. Each day one or two more were beyond revival, and she stored them in a corner of the garage. Eventually all were undeniably dead and piled in the corner, the macramé also piled nearby.

  For many weeks after the last plant had been buried in the garage she would look around the house at the evidence and memories of the plants, painfully aware of their absence.

  She also became aware, with the passage of time, that she was responding more and more to Harrys moods. She could feel herself being pulling up or dragged down by his emotional pendulum. She tried hard to resist, but she continually found herself being swept along in his emotional wake.

  Lind
a was at a loss to explain Harrys erratic behavior and

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  mood changes, and for the longest time she tried to ignore them in the hope that whatever was wrong would remedy itself. But now that it was having such an adverse affect on her she felt that she had to do something, but she had no idea what. She loved her husband and had unshakable faith in his love for her, but this feeling of hopelessness was unbearable. She wanted to help, but how? Whenever she tried to ask him what was wrong and whether she could do anything to help, he always said no, there was nothing wrong, just working hard. Or sometimes he would add that he was sorry if he was upsetting her, and he would put his arms around her and hug and kiss her. And she would respond to his reassurances and affection and forget everything until the next time his mood plunged down and dragged her with it.

  From time to time Linda would try to pinpoint just when it had all started so she might be able to determine the cause, but it was impossible. It seemed to have happened so gradually and imperceptibly that it was impossible to go back to some point in time and say, There, thats where it all started, and then reconstruct the circumstances of that particular time and then know the cause and thus the answer to the problem. Sometimes it was impossible to realize that it had not always been like this, but then she would remember the first three or four years of their marriage and remember how different Harry was then. How most of the time his attitude and manner had been light and happy—yes, almost carefree. But even so it was not always possible to define the exact and precise difference between then and now. Except, of course, that there were those sudden flare-ups, and those depressed moods when he said almost nothing at all for days, and an overall feeling, admittedly very vague, that he was, at times, apologizing for his existence. As if, by action and implication, he was constantly saying, Im sorry.