The Good Demon Page 5

  “Good boy,” I said, and left him book-browsing.

  I walked myself up to Uncle Mike’s counter.

  “Where’d you pick up the kid?” Uncle Mike said.

  “That’s just what I came to talk to you about,” I said. “See, I met Roy at church—yeah, so what, I go to church—and he’s, like, this ‘troubled youth’ or whatever, and I’m supposed to mentor him. You know, take him around to places, be a good influence on him, things like that.”

  I know, it was a pretty lame excuse, but I couldn’t think of anything better on the spot. Besides, I was banking on Uncle Mike’s paranoia to overpower any obvious holes in my story.

  “You, a good influence? When pigs fly maybe. When grasshoppers sing the opera.” Uncle Mike snorted. “Besides, he looks like a nice boy.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” I said. “See, the whole ‘nice boy’ thing is just an act. It’s how he gets away with everything. No one ever suspects him until it’s too late.”

  “And what does he get away with?”

  I needed to lay this next part on thick. I leaned in close to Uncle Mike and whispered in his ear.

  “Thing is, Roy’s a big-time shoplifter.”

  Uncle Mike’s eyes went wide.

  “A shoplifter, you say?”

  “The worst. He’s been arrested like six times.”

  “And you bring him here? To my place?”

  “I know, I know, I’m sorry. But you better go keep an eye on him.”

  Then Uncle Mike did something I almost never saw him do. He rose up from behind the counter and scuttled off toward the bookshelves. He pretended to organize stuff next to Roy, watching him. A full success, if I do say so myself.

  I snuck off toward the staircase in the back of the store. I crept up the stairs as quickly as possible, glancing back now and then to make sure Uncle Mike was still spying on Roy. He was totally preoccupied, but it wouldn’t last long. I had to hurry.

  At the top of the stairs there was a narrow walkway to a closed door. I turned the handle. It wasn’t locked.

  The door led to an upstairs apartment with a small living room, half kitchen, and a bedroom. Despite the fact that it was above a junk shop, the apartment was surprisingly clean. An old TV, deep as it was wide, rested on an oak cabinet in front of a small coffee table and a green sofa. A few plates hung on the wall, and an orange coffee mug sat drying by the sink. Little knickknacks dotted the shelf, not like the chaos of downstairs, but carefully arranged, dusted, all ceramic puppies and mushrooms and snow globes. A couple of ancient family photos hung framed on the wall.

  I walked quickly through the kitchen and into the bedroom. People always hid their valuables in the bedroom.

  It was the loneliest room I’d ever been in.

  A bed was pressed against the wall, an old quilt for covers, tucked without a wrinkle. The pillows fluffed, symmetrical, as sparse and tidy as a hotel room. A crucifix dangled above the bed, but that was it.

  There was a door on the far side of the room, right next to the closet. That had to be Cléa’s room. I tried the doorknob, praying it wasn’t locked. The door squeaked open and I beheld the room of a vanished teenage girl.

  One side was simple, sparse as her father’s. The windows had pale dusty curtains that glowed from the sunlight, casting a whiteness over the room. The bed was neat, tucked tight, a simple quilt spread over it. A reading lamp that probably hadn’t been turned on in decades sat on an end table. Nothing special.

  The other side of the room, however, was a miracle.

  A white wooden vanity stood on the back wall, with a giant cabaret mirror hanging above it, big white bulbs and all, just like in the movies. A feather boa was draped over one corner, and little snapshots were tucked into the sides of the mirror: yellowing photos of a handsome man in a sailor’s uniform and a beautiful woman with long black hair, her dress whipping in the wind.

  I guessed the man was Uncle Mike and the lady was his wife. It was hard to imagine. They looked so gorgeous back then, a Hollywood couple, exotic and untouchable. I was suddenly afraid of aging, of growing frail and dotty, of wasting away on my feet, alone. If the years did all that to Uncle Mike, what would they one day do to me? The next picture showed Uncle Mike holding a little black-haired girl’s hands while she tried to walk. I guessed that was his daughter, Cléa. Another one with all three of them posing in front of a lighthouse, the girl no more than five or so. They seemed so happy, the kind of family you always wished you had. And one more photo tucked into the vanity mirror, one that would burn itself in my brain, one I would never forget. It was Cléa—older now, maybe my age—walking on some kind of cliff’s edge, the ocean smashing underneath her. It must have been taken shortly before she disappeared. She smiled mysteriously, lovely and aloof, like there was some secret she was hiding. I liked that about her.

  On the vanity were bracelets, gold necklaces, all kinds of expensive-looking jewelry, arranged, but you could tell never touched—not in decades. The whole thing felt like a museum piece. I wondered if it was exactly how it looked the day Cléa left, and if Uncle Mike had kept it just like that, as a sort of shrine to her. He must have loved her very much.

  I scanned the dresser top and opened the drawers, but found no trace of the rosewood jewelry box. I did however find a giant old sea trunk under the vanity.

  I tried to pull it out by its strap, but it was too heavy. I had to grab it with both hands and lean my whole weight against it to get the thing to budge. There was a huge rusty padlock on it but it wasn’t locked. I slipped it off and opened the trunk.

  The smell hit me first, mothballs and incense and time. Something else too, an ancient crackly smell, like an old library. I pulled out a shawl first, blue and purple with a pattern of yellow moons. Underneath were books of a very particular kind. I opened a fat volume called Gods of Antiquity, which was sort of an index of old beasts: Moloch, Baal, Ishtar, and others, batheaded beings in ink drawings, Satan’s black hand rising from the waters in a strange wicked salute. Human sacrifice, a giant metal man with a fire inside it, babies placed on its open palms to sizzle and burn. The pictures were horrible, the stuff of my worst nightmares. Some of the other books were in languages I had never seen, whose letters were like tiny eyes winking at you. Books half-burned and bound in leather, with charts of the stars. An illustrated book of metal charms: a hand with a finger pointing out, a peasant man covering his head, death with a scythe, a crescent moon.

  If Uncle Mike’s wife had been some kind of witch, it was pretty clear that Cléa kept at it after her mother’s death. Maybe witchiness was hereditary like that. Or maybe it was all a bunch of garbage, just something for a lonely girl to pick up so she could feel close to her dead mom, like how music and old records tied me to my dad. It was amazing how looking through a stranger’s old things could make you feel like you knew them, could maybe even make you like them a little bit.

  And at the very bottom of the trunk I found a little rosewood box with an eye carved on the top.

  This was the moment I’d been dreading. Do I steal the box or not? Uncle Mike had always been so good to me, had let me roam free throughout his store, had given me a place where I could feel strange and comfortable, a refuge from school and everything else in my life. Sure, I’d stolen from him before, but little things, a dress or a book or a record here and there. Nothing as important as one of his dead daughter’s possessions.

  And yet, something about the rosewood box tugged at me. It seemed to shimmer in my hands, to thrum with some sort of hidden mystery. I realized that I didn’t want to steal the box for Miss Mathis, I wanted to steal it for myself. To keep it close, to let some of its magic rub off on me. Besides, there was no doubt in my mind She would want me to take it. There was something special to this box. Some things you just know.

  I slid the box in my purse. I put everything else back in the trunk, as right as I could possibly get it. I knew I had taken too long, that my absence had become conspic
uous. But while I was repacking the trunk, a strange little book caught my eye, a skinny orange volume with no picture on the cover and no title. Somehow I had missed it before.

  It was thin, not even an actual published book, just someone’s personal notebook. I flipped it open. Across the blank, white pages someone had made lines and margins with a ruler and pencil. The first lines, scribbled in dark black ink, said this:

  My name is Kevin and I have a demon. It is my demon, my very own.

  I felt a cold prickle on my neck, as if someone was watching me.

  I whipped my head around. No one was there. I held my breath and listened. No footsteps, no breathing. Just the mechanical hum of the air-conditioning, the insect buzz of fluorescent lights.

  But someone saw me. I knew it in my bones.

  I dropped the orange notebook in my purse. Hopefully Uncle Mike wouldn’t miss anything I’d taken. Hopefully he would never even know I had been here. I folded the shawl and put it back on top, pushing the trunk under the vanity with my feet.

  I made sure I put every single speck of everything back the way it was, eased the door shut, and crept back downstairs. I was hoping I hadn’t been missed too much, that no one had wondered where I’d gone. I knew Roy wouldn’t come looking for me because I said I was changing, and I’m pretty sure nothing scared him more than the thought of walking in on me naked.

  Uncle Mike was screaming at Roy. They were still in the book section.

  “Buy something already,” said Uncle Mike. “Why does he not buy?”

  “Cool it, Mike,” I said.

  “But he is a thief!” said Uncle Mike.

  Roy looked terrified. His face was red and sweaty, like he’d never gotten in trouble before, like he didn’t even know what being in trouble was like. Must be nice.

  “Did you steal something, Roy?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “But I found a book I want to buy.”

  “Wanted to steal,” said Uncle Mike. “He wrapped it in that pink shirt, see?”

  The shirt was wrapped in a bundle around something, that much was obvious. If Roy was trying to be a thief, he was pretty terrible at it.

  “I wasn’t hiding it!” he said. “I was just trying to keep all my stuff together.”

  “What book you got?” I said.

  Roy seemed embarrassed. He unwrapped the shirt and handed me a tattered fat volume of a book I knew very, very well. It was The Obscure Life of John Dee, the book I was reading on the porch the first day Roy came to visit me. I had about six copies at home, and sometimes I would bring one to Mike in hopes that someone else would find the book and love it like I did. Roy had remembered.

  “I didn’t want you to see it,” he said.

  “Oh my god, Roy!” I said. “That’s my favorite book! I mean, ever! It’s the most fascinating thing you’ll ever read in your whole life.”

  Nobody paid much attention to me, what books I read, what music I listened to. No one had ever cared, except for Her. I had been so lonely for so long. I don’t know. I guess it just meant a lot to me that he remembered.

  I was so happy I threw my arms around him.

  I could tell it surprised Roy by how he flinched, how he didn’t know where to put his hands on me. When I let go, he wouldn’t look me in the face, like he was embarrassed for touching me at all.

  Uncle Mike seemed embarrassed too, even a little confused. He shuffled away behind the counter where I couldn’t see him anymore. Apparently Roy was off the hook, even though he still wouldn’t look up at me.

  “You okay, Roy?” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “Right as rain.”

  I laughed.

  “Sometimes you talk like an old man, you know that?” I said. “Now come on, I got to get home before my mom and stepdad get back.”

  Roy followed me to the register. Uncle Mike rang us up, scowling the whole time. He didn’t even tell Roy the price of the book, he just pointed at the green lights on the register. He tried not to give Roy any change either, so I tapped on the register and glared at him. Uncle Mike sighed and gave him some ones and coins. I leaned over the counter and pecked Uncle Mike on the cheek.

  “Get out of here,” Uncle Mike said. “And don’t come back.”

  But Uncle Mike was smiling.

  In the car I was almost giddy. I cranked this old Misfits tape of my dad’s and barreled down the highway, as happy as I’d been since I lost Her. I had the rosewood box. I was following Her plan now, things were happening, I was going to get Her back. It was enough to get me singing. Roy kept staring at me, dog-eyed, flinching every time the song cussed. But I knew he was having fun, I knew Roy didn’t want to be anywhere else but with me. That felt more than a little bit good.

  We pulled up to my driveway and I let him out by his bike.

  “Thanks,” said Roy, “for the best day ever.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It was pretty good, wasn’t it?”

  I’d spent a month thinking of Roy as my enemy, as some brainwashed joy-robbing minion of evil. It was amazing to think that he was awful close to becoming my only friend.

  “So when can I come see you again?” he said.

  “Soon,” I said. “It’s not like I’m doing anything else.”

  “I’ll call you?” he said.

  “Please do.”

  Roy biked away into the night. In my heart I wished him a safe ride home.

  That night I lay in bed, listening to Mom and Larry argue beneath me. They always found something to fight about, whether it involved me or not. Whenever things got too bad around here She used to daydream me off somewhere to escape. I knew it wasn’t a physical place, that my body never left this room. But She would take me there in my mind.

  We called it the Hidden Place.

  It was a meadow on top of a mountain overlooking the sea, a windswept green oasis streaked with swaying bluebells, a steep precipice on all sides that plunged a thousand feet into the wild bashing surf. The Hidden Place was as real to me as anywhere in this world, realer even. I could smell the grass, the ocean water, hear the crash of the waves and the boom after lightning flickered on the horizon. When I touched the flowers in the meadow they seemed to touch me back. Even now I can taste the salt in my mouth, feel my longing for the far-off storm.

  It was here in the Hidden Place that She would reveal Herself to me. She would step out of the air and into a body, a small pale girl with black hair in a long dress. Sometimes it was pink polka-dotted, sometimes it was yellow, like dandelions. She would sit down next to me and we could talk face-to-face then, though I never liked looking in Her eyes, grey as the sea and endless, gone fathoms and fathoms deep. We would sit and talk and sometimes She would hold my hand, touch my cheek with Her fingers, warm real flesh. She was my age at first, eight also, but She never grew up like I did. As I got older, She always stayed the same.

  Why do you fret, little Clare? She would say, and all my troubles would turn silly, soft as clouds; I could dash my hand through them and they would scatter.

  You’re with Me now. There’s never any need to worry when you’re with Me.

  We didn’t just go to the Hidden Place when I was panicky either. We went other times too, like in school when I was bored, or on quiet nights when I’d be lounging around my bedroom. I could never ask to be taken to the Hidden Place, and no matter how hard I begged, She would always say no. We couldn’t go there anytime we wanted. No, that wasn’t how hidden places worked.

  It’s for when you need it, She said. It’s for when both of us do.

  “But what if I need it all the time?” I said.

  You don’t, silly. It’s a special place just for you and me. If we could go any old time, then it wouldn’t be special anymore. No, it’d just be a regular place, and what good would that be?

  The hours we spent in the Hidden Place felt like weeks. The sunlight, the bright golden moon that rose over still waters, the clouds streaking like grey mice across the sky—they were the happiest days of
my life.

  “Can we take Mom here sometime?” I asked Her once. “I think she needs a place like this.”

  No, She said. It’s just for you—for you and me. No one else can come here. No one else even knows how.

  We would walk together through the tall scratchy grasses, hand in hand, and the bluebells would turn to watch us pass, speaking to us with their scents. At night in the Hidden Place the stars sang down their light and I could hear it—I could hear all the light pouring from their mouths. And then I would awake dazed, feeling as if weeks and weeks had passed.

  It got me in trouble at school, which pissed Larry off. Even worse was at home, when She’d snap back at Larry straight from my mouth, before I could stop Her. I’d beg Her and beg Her to keep quiet, but She’d say, No one should speak to you like that. No one should ever raise a voice against my Clare.

  I always loved Her for that.

  Eventually Larry got so mad at me he took my computer and canceled the Internet. He said he had it on his phone and Mom hated computers and what was the point? I was pissed at first, but it turned out to be maybe the best thing that ever happened to me. For one, all this dead-space time at home that I used to spend gazing off into a screen I now spent exploring outside, same as I used to when I was a kid. I wandered all through the woods, named every tree and giant rock, knew every ditch and patch of wildflowers. I hadn’t done anything like that since I was a little girl.

  But the best thing was when She told me there was a surprise hidden in the attic for me.

  You’ll like it, She said. I swear.

  She led me up the creaky attic ladder into the sweltering upstairs dark, the bare wood of the walls and support beams everywhere. It was the kind of thing that reminded you that all the furnishings and carpet and wallpaper were just cover-ups for the bones of the house, the brick and insulation and splintered wood. She led me to the very back of the attic, to the darkest space, to what Mom had hidden off behind the Christmas decorations, under a tarp where not even my stepdad knew about it.

  Go on, She said. Pull back the tarp.