The Good Demon Page 7

  “I don’t like all this fancy terminology,” said Miss Mathis. “If you can’t say it pretty, don’t say it at all. And that goes for science and politics and everything else in the free world.”

  “I have your box,” I said.

  “Not my box, dear,” said Miss Mathis. “Cléa’s box. And she wouldn’t be too happy about me getting hold of it, I’ll tell you that. Not to mention her daddy. I’d steer clear of Mike’s for a while if I was you. Now, if you don’t mind.”

  She stretched her hands out to me. I pulled the box out of my backpack and handed it over. Miss Mathis caressed it, slid her long red fingernails in a scratch over the rosewood, tracing the spiraling eye carved into it.

  “This is for protection, see. So no one can peek into it. No infernal powers, I mean. It’s like a veil drawn over the whole thing.”

  “What was she trying to hide?”

  Miss Mathis smirked at me.

  “You opened the box, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Then you know.”

  I watched as Miss Mathis flipped open the rosewood box and dumped its contents on the coffee table. The necklace clattered, the chicken foot fell on the ground. The shih tzu started to gnaw on it.

  “Why is there a goddamn boll of cotton? Christ almighty,” said Miss Mathis.

  Miss Mathis found the leather scroll and let out a little gasp. She snatched it off the coffee table and untied it, ran her fingers over the scratches in it, seemed to try to read it by touch, like it was braille.

  “This is it, Clare. You did it. You did very, very well for Miss Mathis.”

  She held the scroll up to her lips and kissed it.

  So that was it. The valuable thing—the magic thing—was the scroll.

  “Now, let me get my pocketbook,” she said.

  Miss Mathis stood up and hobbled toward the kitchen. I followed her. The sink was filled with dirty dishes, the counters stacked with Styrofoam take-out containers, and moldy coffee mugs were scattered about like laboratory test tubes. It was about as far as you could get from any witch’s kitchen I’d ever imagined.

  Because that’s what Miss Mathis was. I knew it now. She was a witch, same as Cléa. Or whatever you call a witch in real life, where words like “witch” seem ridiculous.

  Miss Mathis dug her billfold out and placed eight one-hundred-dollar bills in my hand. I couldn’t believe so much money took up such little space. It felt like less than what it would take to tip the pizza guy.

  “I guess I don’t totally understand,” I said. “All this money for that little leather scroll?”

  “First off, dear, it’s not very much money. Not really,” said Miss Mathis. “And second? That scroll ain’t cowhide. It’s human skin.”

  My stomach dropped. Human skin? I’d touched some dead person’s carved-up belly?

  “Don’t look so peaked, dear,” she said. “You’re such a pretty girl, and disgust is unbecoming.”

  Miss Mathis shuffled back into the living room and sat down in her easy chair. Prissy leapt up into her lap, the chicken foot clamped tight between her jaws. I stood by the coffee table, clutching the money, not sure what to do next.

  “Thank you, Clare. You saved me a heap of trouble. Don’t be scared to come on by when you’re sad or needing advice. Old Miss Mathis is a good listener. Bring me a liter of Smirnoff, and I’ll listen to your worries all day.”

  “I don’t have any worries,” I said.

  “Bullshit. You’re what, fifteen? Sixteen? Your whole life is one big worry. Don’t think I don’t know. Don’t think I don’t remember what sixteen was like.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Alright, alright,” she said. “But I’ll be seeing you again soon enough.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because whatever’s coming involves the both of us. That I’m sure of.”

  I just stared at Miss Mathis. For a moment, she didn’t seem so frail to me. She seemed strong somehow, wise, like a veteran from an old war that could still rise up and fight at a moment’s notice.

  Miss Mathis lit a cigarette.

  “Now, run along,” she said. “Miss Mathis needs to get tanked and watch her Jeopardy.”

  Miss Mathis fished around for the remote and flicked on the TV. As I walked out, both she and Prissy sat upright, the TV blaring so loud it hurt my ears.

  Old people can really surprise you sometimes.

  I got back to my house with a head full of questions. This was starting to seem a lot bigger than just me and Her. Roy was involved, Uncle Mike and Cléa, and now Miss Mathis as well. But I still didn’t understand all of Her message.

  Like: which stories was I supposed to remember, anyway? She told me a million of them. The No-ear Rabbit? The Girl with the Fang Face? The Old Hermit and the Broke-Up Sky? The Windmill and the Weeping Giant? The Woman with the Bag of Stars? Whirly Pearl? The Kitty Skull? Or any one of the hundreds She would make up on the spot, happy nothings to quiet the day away. That was something about Her I missed. She knew more stories than anyone else alive.

  And what was so important about June 20?

  I walked through my silent house alone, missing Her something fierce. My loneliness was like another creature in the room, the way a shadow is nothing really but it’s still there anyway. I closed my eyes and imagined Her there, tucking a stray black curl behind my ear, whispering soft words to me, telling me a story.

  I could do this. I could figure everything out. I just had to try.

  Maybe the box for Miss Mathis wasn’t the only thing I was supposed to find at the junk shop. Maybe the orange notebook was every bit as important. I remembered how it felt, secret and mine, like reading my own words written back at me. There had to be some kind of clue in the notebook, I just knew it. I walked upstairs and shut my door. I leaned a chair against it, so there’d be noise if someone tried to open it.

  I flipped open the notebook to where I left off.

  Nicolas knew things. Not just flying.

  Nicolas walked me to school every day. It was fun to walk not by myself. One time Aaron Kilpatrick rode up in his Chevrolet. It was a real nice car. Aaron Kilpatrick threw a beer can at me from out the window. The beer can was full, he shook it up first. He said hey idiot, eat this. There were other kids in the car too, Becky Chapman who is real pretty and two more girls who were cheerleaders. The beer can hit me in the head.

  It knocked me over. It splurted beer all over me. Now Dad would think I was drinking, the teachers too. I couldn’t go to school, I’d get in trouble.

  Becky Chapman laughed. She looked pretty when she laughed.

  Blood dribbled down my nose.

  The car drove away. I cried.

  Nicolas was touching my hair. He said it’s okay I’m here, take my hand.

  I did.

  Nicolas said do you want to know a secret about Becky Chapman?

  What Nicolas?

  She’s going to have a baby.

  A little bitty baby?

  Yes, with Aaron Kilpatrick. Soon too, so soon you’ll hear all about it. Her parents will kick her out of the house and she and Aaron will get married.

  Aaron’s mean.

  Yes he is said Nicolas. Can you imagine what being married to Aaron will be like?

  Very sad.

  Yes, very sad. Becky will be very sad until she is old, until her children are grown and have left home, and Aaron is fat on the couch, a front tooth rotted out, and she will wonder what has become of her life, and where her dreams went, and why it is all already gone.

  What will happen to Becky Chapman then?

  Her hair will fall flat, her cheeks will sag. She will wither and grow old. And then she will be gone.

  Where?

  That’s not for you to know. But she will never hurt you again. Aaron won’t either. I won’t let them. And their lives will fold out like an old map to a country that doesn’t exist anymore.

  I feel bad for Becky Chapman.

/>   That’s because you’re good, Kevin.

  I’m not good, I’m stupid.

  You’re good, and you’re brilliant, and one day they will all know it.

  I love you, Nicolas.

  I love you too, Kevin. Let’s go.

  Nicolas walked me to the woods, to a sunny place with birds. I never even went to school.

  Here is a picture of Becky Chapman while she is still pretty.

  The page was a miracle. Never before had I seen such a perfect, realistic drawing of a person before, especially in black and white. Becky Chapman really was pretty, in that typical sort of boring way that popular girls always are. Kevin had drawn her face just right, the sort of arrogant half smirk that comes from having everyone love you all the time. It isn’t a happy smile, not by a long shot.

  Because those girls aren’t happy either. I’ve seen them at school, the worried looks they get when they’re alone, when there’s no one there for them to smile at. Like they know that they’re fakes. Like they know the only difference between them and me is some other popular girl’s opinion, like all it would take is one public fuckup to turn them into me.

  I’ve had boys like me before, too. I’ve been one of the desired ones. It’s the dirty secret of the jock that he always wants the weird girl. That she’s some kind of escape from his shit-grinning life, like she can be his door into a different world. Also they assume you’re a slut because you wear black and like bands they’ve never heard of. I’ve been one of the desired, but I didn’t give in. Even when someone tried to make me, I wouldn’t let him. She wouldn’t let him. No one could touch me but Her. And compared with Her, jock boys seemed ridiculous, popularity contests petty. It was hard to care about a bunch of kids when you had someone ageless inside you. She made every boy seem weak, pitiful.

  And without Her I was all alone.

  I turned the page.

  There were more drawings. I flipped through the book and saw them, all beautiful black ink and pen. Like photographs, but realer somehow. There was the Eiffel Tower, lit up and gorgeous, just like Kevin said it was. A garden with giant flowers, a clock tower in the rain, an old windmill covered in lost birds. It was like a sketchbook of dreams, each one so real I wanted to reach my hands into them, their world of whites and darks, and pluck the fleshy petals of a flower, feel the softness of the rain on cold cobblestones, see the midnight glow of the moon in a hermit’s broken window. Around the fringes of the pictures swirled strange symbols, eyeballs and runes like in cave paintings and hieroglyphics. These weren’t just dreams. They were visions, what Nicolas had shown Kevin when they were flying.

  It made me wonder about Kevin. His writing was strange and scribbled, singsongy in a way that seemed a little off. And yet, there was no doubt that he was a genius, a real artist. Based on the stuff with Aaron Kilpatrick and Becky Chapman, I guessed Kevin was about my age when he made this, or maybe a little older. The notebook had to have been from before Cléa disappeared. Kevin would be an adult by now. But maybe he was still around somewhere. Maybe I could somehow find him and we could talk. Maybe he would know how to get Her back for me.

  I read on.

  Nicolas told me about a man. He lived in a big house in the woods. He is a magic man, gentle and kind. Nicolas said go see that man.

  I said why?

  He said aren’t we special friends?

  I said yes Nicolas you’re my first best friend.

  Do you like being best friends?

  I do every day is good now.

  The man can make us closer.

  How do you mean Nicolas?

  We could be the same person.

  I don’t understand.

  Nicolas said it’s like putting on new clothes, those new clothes are me. Don’t you want to be together always?

  Yes.

  Then go see the man in the woods. He is a magic man, gentle and kind. He understands about you and me. He can help us.

  Why do we need his help Nicolas?

  Because some people I can just step into and out of, like a pair of shoes. But sometimes it takes a little help to fit me into a person. It takes someone of great power, and there aren’t many of those left in the world.

  Okay I said.

  You’re very special said Nicolas.

  Thanks Nicolas, you are too, I love you.

  I love you too Kevin.

  When do we go Nicolas?

  Tomorrow.

  I go to see the man in the woods tomorrow. He is a magic man, gentle and kind. He understands about me and Nicolas. Tomorrow I go to have him put Nicolas inside me for always.

  There wasn’t anything written after that. Not even any more drawings. Just four blank pages, and they were the most mysterious of all.

  I read the notebook again and again. I touched the drawings with my fingertips, felt where the tip of the pen bore down on the paper. I knew that in the drawings were secrets, that if only I stared at them long enough, conjured them up in my mind clear and full, the truth of the world would appear to me.

  I had to find Kevin. I wanted to know what happened with the man in the woods, if Kevin got what he wanted. I had so many questions for him. Kevin would know. He would understand me.

  It made me think of a story She once told me when I was just a kid. Well, not so much a story, but a game we would play, about a wise man who lived deep in the woods. A man who could grant our secret wishes.

  The game was called One Wish Man.

  It went like this:

  She would ask, in her lisping, scratchy, little-girl’s voice, If you could wish for one thing, what would it be? What would you ask for from the One Wish Man?

  The One Wish Man was tall and handsome, he was mysterious, he lived in a house out in the woods called the Wish House. It was a mansion, not some little cottage like in a fairy tale, with rooms and rooms for many guests whenever the One Wish Man would throw a party. But not just anyone could enter the Wish House. You had to be invited, and the gates to the Wish House had to be opened for you. If the One Wish Man didn’t open the gates, or if the Wish House didn’t want you, you’d be lost wandering the woods forever.

  But if you knew what you were looking for, if you had it perfectly clear in your heart what you wanted from him, then the Wish House would accept you, and the One Wish Man would grant your request. Of course, he always asked for a payment, a boon, she called it. I liked that word. It sounded silly, harmless, like a birthday present nobody wanted. One Wish Man was a game we played over and over again, especially when I was sad. She would ask it at curious times, almost like it was a test, to see if I was ready.

  What would you ask the One Wish Man for today, Clare?

  A puppy.

  What kind of puppy?

  A dachshund. A long-haired, dopey-eared dachshund named Sweet Potato. Who could bark the alphabet.

  And today?

  A moon-colored frog.

  And today?

  A cyclops raccoon. With a fire tail.

  And today?

  A dandelion circus. A knife made out of a rainbow.

  And today?

  A frozen piece of light. For my pocket.

  And today?

  A bridge made out of sea turtles straight to Japan. They don’t mind me walking on them, because I’m so light, because I tickle their shells with my bare feet.

  And today?

  A new daddy, a new house. For the One Wish Man’s house to be my house, so I could stay there asking things forever.

  And today?

  For you to never leave me, ever. For it always to be just the same as this.

  She would laugh at that. She would run shivers all through me. That meant I passed the test. That meant She loved me more than anyone else, even my mom.

  That meant She would love me forever.

  It was just a game, just a story we told back and forth, always, changing it slightly. But that was back when I was little. We hadn’t played One Wish Man for ages. Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I’d gott
en tired of asking for things, for always wishing around for things that would never happen. As I got older the game slowly faded away, same as most other childhood play.

  And yet there was one night, maybe four years ago, when the One Wish Man came back into our lives.

  This is the story of the second time She took over my body.

  I was twelve years old.

  I awoke in the darkness, on a dirt road, in nothing but my night-shirt and Converses. I was cold and terrified, the sky a black swirling menace above me. I was far, far from home, surrounded by woods, the leafless trees stretching their twiggy arms above me. In the road an opossum hissed, its eyes glowing coals in the darkness.

  “Where am I?” I said.

  Look, She said.

  “I don’t understand. How did I get here?”

  Look.

  Just as She spoke in me, moonlight cut through the clouds and shone down on a tree at the edge of the road. It was a broad, fat oak tree, the kind you know has always been there and will always be there, the kind they build whole roads around. And on its bark, scarred white as if seared by lightning, was the outline of a bird.

  I reached my hand out and touched it, traced the markings with my fingers, in awe of how any knife could ever have carved something so beautiful, so intricate. I felt a power in that tree, in that sign, something deeper than language.

  “What is this place?” I said.

  That’s where he lives.

  “Who?”

  The path starts here. These are the gates. When the bird becomes real.

  “What path? What are you talking about?”

  The Wish House, Clare. That’s where the One Wish Man lives.

  “How did I get here?”

  You walked, silly.

  “This isn’t funny,” I said. “Why did you do this to me?”

  I had to show you the way, so you wouldn’t forget. Now come along, we’re walking back.

  She guided me back, speaking into my ears, pulling me by the hand when I got too tired. It was late at night and the moon had vanished again and the wind on the road was cold, cold. Creatures wandered in the dark, howling things far off, deep in the woods where I couldn’t see.