With Mrs. Russo gone, I felt exposed, vulnerable, fearful. And hopeful.
Would Lucian come back to me now that she was gone and the “spiritual static” was no longer present? And if he did, would I welcome him? I could not shake the recollection of our last encounter, the screaming that, even in memory, sent chilly spikes through my gut.
I told myself I should get back to my life. There was still a life waiting for me as far as I knew, and I needed, if nothing else, to find a job.
One night I lay in bed trying to picture my future. It was filled with insomnia and demons. I stared at the ceiling and thought of Mrs. Russo.
“El?” I spoke, softly, feeling foolish. And then, “Elohim?” The night answered with silence.
I missed Mrs. Russo. I hoped for selfish reasons that her son would recover quickly. Lucian was right: I was not such a good man.
I was gathering mail—mine and Mrs. Russo’s—the next day when I saw it, peeking out from between a bill and her Cooking Light magazine. I knew the letterhead by the large B showing on the corner. I pulled it out of the stack and, by the feel of the single page inside it, knew I didn’t even need to read it.
But I did anyway.
In light of our recent separation, we feel it best to pass on Demon: A Memoir at this time. Please feel free to pursue publication with another house.
Best of luck,
Helen Gennaro
Editorial Director
Brooks and Hanover
My manuscript, my story—and now I knew that it was indeed my story—was my truth broadcast to the world. It was my voice.
But now that, too, was gone.
The next morning came upon me in a panic. I dressed in the same clothes I had worn the day before, hurried to my computer, and slammed my fist down on the keyboard when my calendar yielded, as I knew it would, nothing.
Outside on the street I turned away from Massachusetts Avenue and walked toward Saint Mary’s. But I wasn’t going to Saint Mary’s. I stopped half a block shy of the grand church in front of the diminutive Gospel Room, a converted house that could not hold more than fifty people, if that. I stood there for a long moment before opening the tiny chain-link front gate and trying the door.
Locked.
Why were houses of God always locked?
As I turned away, I caught sight of someone standing on the corner of Inman, watching me. It frightened me at first, and then I became indignant.
“What? Who are you with?”
The figure, a man in a short jacket, just stood there.
“Is that you?” I asked it with a spark of I knew not what—hope, anger, desperation, recklessness. I crossed the street, but the figure turned and sauntered away. Something about that posture—the man leaning against the post of the house! Could it be him? Willing the glowing spots from my vision, I started after him again, but when I gained the corner, he was gone.
I scrolled through the directory on my phone and dialed a number I had not called in months—had only saved, in fact, in order to identify the caller and avoid answering if I didn’t feel up to talking to her.
After five rings of waiting, for once, to actually get her on the phone, I resigned myself to leaving a message. But then someone picked up, and I thought I must have had the wrong number. The voice sounded nothing like the woman I knew.
“Is Katrina there?” I said.
“This is she.”
“Katrina,” I said, caught off guard. She sounded tired.
“Clay?”
“Yes, sorry. This is Clay,” I said, fumbling.
“I heard you left Brooks and Hanover.”
“I guess you could say that. Did I wake you up?”
“No, no. I’m just worn out.”
Katrina Dunn Lampe? Worn out? “You sound so different.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going through treatment for a small tumor.”
I hesitated, having never considered that Katrina might be subject to the same whims of nature as other mortals. “I had no idea. I’m so sorry.” And I meant it. Why do bad things happen to good people?
There are no good people.
“I’m glad you called. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve cut back to just a few days here and there.” A dog barked in the background. After someone shushed it, she added, “I’m considering leaving the business, actually.”
I stared, unsure what to say, what to ask. This was the most I’d ever known about her beyond the artifice of name-brand purses and manicured nails. And there was something remarkably attractive about the moment, and about her in it, despite the circumstances. Something remarkably human.
We talked for the better part of a half hour. I listened as she said she had gone to Connecticut for a few months to stay with her sister during treatment, that she had taken some time off to heal and reevaluate.
“You’ll think it’s wild, Clay, but this experience has really made me think about things like spirituality.”
She was the last person from whom I ever expected to hear anything of this sort.
Of course, anyone might have said the same of me.
I almost said something. I almost told her. But instead I said, lamely, “That’s really great, Katrina.”
“My friends call me Kat.”
“Kat. That’s really great.”
I left the conversation without mentioning my manuscript, but saying I would call her again next week.
That night, as I drafted letters of application to a few local publishers, I glanced toward the window. Was he there? Was anyone? For all I knew, with Mrs. Russo gone, Lucian himself might show up at my door at any time.
But my calendar remained staunchly empty, as bright and impersonal as the face of the moon.