In the days following Helen’s Christmas party, I told myself I was finished—with the story and possibly with writing in general. Even if I saw the demon again, I would write no more. But the lilt of his voice would come, wending its way through my memory. And I wouldn’t be able to bear it if I couldn’t expel the words onto the page like a medieval surgeon bleeding himself into a bowl to cure himself of ill humors.
So I would write only to rid myself of it, but I would shred the pages. And I would delete the account beckoning to me from my hard drive like a Lorelei.
But even as I thought this, I knew I wouldn’t.
At least I wouldn’t publish it. I would tell Helen it wasn’t working, that the well had gone dry, that I had a phenomenal case of writer’s block. She would have no choice but to believe me.
But I didn’t talk to Helen because the truth was this: I wanted it. I wanted the story, and I wanted to publish it. I had access to something no one else did, a story too fantastical to stay in the drawer. And like Cassandra of myth, I could never purport to be telling the truth without being seen as a liar, a lunatic, or worse. But I could sheathe it in fiction, where lies were warmly welcomed.
Meanwhile, as though to punish my vacillation, five full days passed in silence.
I stared at the papers on my desk. I returned to the chronicle on my computer.
Sheila closed my door and came to stand at the corner of my desk, her arms crossed not so much in front of her as around herself, her hands clasping her upper arms as though she were cold.
“Yes?” I didn’t bother to disguise my impatience with her hallway request to talk to me. I was practically unable to look at her of late and found the way her wasting state garnered sympathetic inquiries from others nauseating.
“Clay, I need a favor.”
“Yes?” I repeated.
“I know you haven’t seen Dan much since your divorce . . .” She unfolded her arms and pulled at her hands as if they ached. Her lips looked chapped, as though they would crack and bleed if she merely grimaced. “But right now, I don’t know what’s going through his head.”
I looked at her.
“I thought if you could talk to him, it might help.” Her eyes were shining but did not seem to have the energy to well over.
“Excuse me?”
“I wondered if you’d be willing to call him.”
Anger surged up my torso. It wasn’t enough that she was cheating on him—now she had the gall to pull me into it? To win sympathy or say, as Aubrey had, that she had tried everything?
“I’m not going to do that,” I said, flatly. “You need to straighten this out with Dan yourself.”
Just then, an incoming chat request from “Light1” jerked my attention to the corner of my screen.
My heart stuttered in a mixture of relief and anger. I could hardly look away from it. I was vaguely aware of Sheila nodding, of her hesitation. The way she loitered, as though waiting for more, or to say something more, annoyed me. I lifted my gaze meaningfully to her.
She looked on the verge of breaking down, as if she would have already, had she the strength. For a moment I almost reconsidered my response. I would not talk to Dan on her behalf, but maybe I could be gentler. I could encourage her to talk to him herself. To consider what she really wanted and how she was going about it. But she murmured something unintelligible and let herself out, her hair shielding her face.
I turned my attention to the blinking request on my monitor and clicked Accept.
LIGHT1: As much as humans strive to be individuals, they have one universal weakness: the susceptibility to temptation.
BANDHCLAY: You played me.
LIGHT1: Like the two little eyes on a coconut, the perfect place to crack it open. Eat enough coconuts and you know.
BANDHCLAY: You knew just how to do it, didn’t you—how best to tempt me. Is that what you’re saying?
LIGHT1: With what would I tempt you?
I stared at the screen. Did he not think I would realize what he was doing? After several minutes, he sent:
LIGHT1: Have you been writing?
“When haven’t I been?” I wanted to type in large, angry caps. I wanted to yell through that chat window that I was like a man possessed, that I was running on an average of four hours of sleep, Chinese takeout, coffee, and whatever happened to be in the office break room, that he had manipulated me, that I was never going to give the story to Helen, and that the sooner hell was invented, the better.
BANDHCLAY: As though I could help it, as you very well know. You know you could have written it all down and really submitted it to Katrina—or even here—yourself.
LIGHT1: And languish in submission and publishing hell? Please and no thank you. Besides, I told you: My story is ultimately about you.
BANDHCLAY: I still don’t understand!
LIGHT1: You will.
I must have broken a sweat at the first appearance of the chat box. It beaded now against my nape, my hairline.
LIGHT1: Distribute the proposal for next week’s meeting.
BANDHCLAY: What makes you think I have a proposal? I need a synopsis for that, and to write a synopsis, I need to know how it ends.
LIGHT1: Just give her what you have. Helen will love it and ask for the full manuscript.
BANDHCLAY: Don’t you get it? There isn’t a full manuscript!
LIGHT1: There will be.