Greg knew he shouldn’t be here. He knew it.
And yet.
It had been a more interesting day than usual. Almost fun, even. Shenanigans at school, rough justice for the Delcade boy, and then that rarest of things: a classic Russian movie in an American theater. No reason, he’d told himself, to think about anything else.
But here he was anyway, parked in a nondescript side street on the Southside Flats, neon light splintering against the windshield of his Mini Cooper. A muted bass wormed through his ears, the music becoming briefly distinct as the bar’s worn wooden door opened and closed. Two young men stepped out, college students maybe, and unsteady on their feet. They headed past him in the direction of Carson Street. It was impossible to tell whether they were headed home, or merely en route toward trendier action. Greg watched them until they reached the intersection.
He remembered the first time the Devil had come to see him. At least, the first time he remembered that the Devil had come. Aged nineteen, the bedsheets damp against his skin, shocked awake by dreams. By what they said about him.
What his mother would say if she ever found out.
He’d told himself it would never happen again. He’d been drunk, after all; the tsarskaya too strong, hurling his sleeping mind into a pit of depravity.
And yet. The Devil kept returning. ‘Where’s the harm?’ he would say, his voice a soft, honey-coated whisper. ‘No one will care. You can be whole. You can be loved.’
‘You can be free.’
His head would spin with the intoxication of it, the possibilities. But he would hold fast. Beat the Devil back.
Except the once. The once that ruined everything. Faltering steps up narrow, creaking stairs. Whisky, not vodka, pounding in his veins …
He reached into the Mini Cooper’s glove compartment, his hand seeking the worn, leather book that always lay there.
His mother’s Bible. It was too dark to read the faded Cyrillic lettering, to open its tired pages and beat himself up over the contents. It was enough to hold it. To remember what it meant. Heavy in his palm, he picked it up and pressed it against his chest.
‘Otche nash, sushchiy na nebesakh,’ he murmured. ‘Da svyatitsya imya Tvoye.’ The words were rhythmic. Soothing. He could hear the mellow delivery of the cantor, imagine himself swaying with the cadence, the sting of incense heavy in his nostrils.
It was enough. He found himself pressing the ignition button. The Mini’s small engine purred to life, the newly wakened dash splashing his face with an orange glow. Relief and disappointment swirled through his head in equal measure as he joined the traffic on Carson Street. Even though it was Monday, its loud bars and noisy drunks were in full effect. Traffic lights turned to green in front of him, as if anxious to usher him home.
By the time he turned onto the Birmingham Bridge, the disappointment had faded away. The Devil, beaten back by prayer, had left him in peace. He sped across to the other side. The dark, rippled waters of the Monongahela rolled beneath him, silent and unseen.