Demons are Forever: Confessions of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (7 page)

“She’s speaking to me again,” Laura said. “But not to Paul.” She grinned, wickedly. “About that, though, I’m not terribly upset.”

“It’ll keep getting better,” I said, because despite the wry comments about Paul, I could still hear the pain in her voice.

“I know it will. Because we had a good reason for not telling her the truth right away. She might not agree with the reason, but it’s legitimate.”

“I had a reason for waiting,” I said, latching on to the subtext.

“Maybe,” she acknowledged. “But you can’t keep putting off telling her the truth.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.” I unhooked the last of the lights and let them drop down to Laura. “I just don’t want her to get the hunting bug, you know? And that little display with the sword this morning didn’t exactly leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling.”

“You’re the mom, Kate. If she wants to hunt, you’re going to have to resort to that time-honored tradition of just saying no.”

“Thanks. You’re a big help.”

She laughed, holding tight to the ladder as I carefully descended. “Happy to be of service.” She checked her watch. “Although ...”

“I know. You guys need to run.”

“Trust me,” she said. “I’d rather stay here. But the refrigerator is empty.”

I almost asked if she wanted to leave Mindy while she ran to the grocery store, but I already knew the answer. As much as Mindy practically lived at our house, these days Laura was keeping her kid close to her, repairing the frayed threads of their relationship. I needed to be doing the same. Because as much as I didn’t want to believe it, I knew that the secret I was keeping was going to cause more than a few ragged edges between Allie and me, too.

While I gathered up the lights, Laura gathered up her daughter. By the time I made it back inside, they were heading out the back door, and Allie was fighting with Timmy over the remote control.

“Want to watch Dora,” he said, then plopped the remote down on the floor and sat on it. Over the last few weeks, he’d had a growth spurt, and not only had his little body grown several inches, but his vocabulary and level of articulation had increased, too. Unfortunately, he mostly used his newfound chattiness for arguing.

“Timmy...” She stared him down, her expression one I’d seen a hundred times on my own face. Like mother, like daughter. “Give me the remote.”

“Dora,” he said, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest.

She made a frustrated little noise that only increased in pitch when she looked up and saw me. “Mother,” she howled in a full-blown whine. “Do something.”

“Timmy,” I said, in my sternest Mommy voice. “Give me the remote.
Nobody’s
watching television.”

“But Mom!” Allie wailed.

“DORAAAAA!”
Timmy screamed.

I took a deep breath and wondered if it was too late to turn around and go back outside. Surely there were still one or two decorations that needed to be taken down. A bush that needed trimming. A flower bed begging to be weeded. A demon that needed slaying.

But, alas, there’s never a demon around when you need one.

“You,” I said, pointing to Allie, “go get his craft box. And you,” I added, pointing to Timmy, “I’ve got a nice surprise waiting for you in the kitchen.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but it piqued his interest. And in less than ten minutes, Allie and I had him settled at the kitchen table, a pile of leftover wrapping paper, a glue stick, and a collection of construction paper fragments scattered in front of him.

“Make a star, Mommy,” he demanded.

“Go for it,” Allie said. “I’m going to go claim the remote.”

“No TV,” I said as she headed into the living room. She stopped, gave me
the
look, and waited for me to explain this travesty. “We need to finish taking down the tree,” I said. “Go get the boxes out of the attic and meet me in the living room.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re leaving him alone with a glue stick? Wow. And I thought you were brave in that museum.”

“Very funny,” I said, trying hard not to show how absolutely thrilled I was that she could joke about it. I pointed a finger. “Now go.”

She went, and for the next five or so minutes, I drew a star on construction paper, used Timmy’s safety scissors to carefully cut it out, then helped my budding artistic genius glue little bits of tissue paper all over it.

“Fabulous!” I said, holding it up.

“No, Mommy. Not done yet.” He snatched it out of my hand, and proceeded to pile on more tissue paper. “Glitter? Please, glitter? Red and blue and silver and green and—”

“Whoa, whoa,” I said, laughing. The glitter would make a huge mess in the kitchen, but good manners were worth a lot, so I caved. Besides, I’d be vacuuming up pine needles in an hour. How much more trouble could a little glitter be?

By the time Allie came down from the attic with all the ornament boxes, I realized my mistake. The floor beneath the table was covered in a thin layer of glitter, as if a colorful snow had fallen. There was glitter in every crack and crevice, glitter clinging to the table and chair feet, and glitter hiding under the baker’s rack tucked in the corner near the picture window. I had faith in my vacuum cleaner, but this was above and beyond.

Even Eddie noticed the mess, his bushy eyebrows rising in silent amusement as he padded through the room, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. Or, more likely, the old man who’d just had a hot date.

“You getting any sparkles on that star, boy? Or are you just decorating the floor?”

A wide grin split Timmy’s face, and he scrambled out of his chair and sat in the middle of the floor, a glue stick in hand. Then he rubbed the stick on his palm and pressed it down hard. When he held it up, his palm was silver, gold, and green. And my little boy just laughed and laughed.

I looked at Eddie. “You are so going to pay for suggesting that.”

He waved the threat away. “So the boy gets his hands messy. It could be worse.”

That was true enough, and I had a sudden image of glitter in the furniture, Timmy’s hair, the air-conditioning ducts ...

“Fair enough,” I said. Then I smiled sweetly. “But since I’m going to have to wash glue off the floor, you do owe me a little bit, don’t you think?”

“Depends. What do you want?”

“Watch him while Allie and I finish taking down the tree.”

He cupped his chin with his palm, in full bargaining mode. “What do I get out of it?”

“You
don’t
have to help with the tree. And you get my love and devotion.” He snorted.
“Plus,
” I added, “you can have one of the apple fritters I bought on our way home from Mass.”

“Now you’re talking.” He nodded at Timmy. “Okay, kid. Let’s see what kind of mess we can make.”

“Mess!” Timmy repeated, then tossed a handful of glitter into the air.

I left the room, figuring that was a better option than having a nervous breakdown right then and there.

While Eddie and Timmy Wreaked
havoc in my kitchen, Allie and I undressed the tree and carefully packed away all the ornaments, tinsel, and little holiday knickknacks we’ve collected over the years. We gathered up the boxes and rubber tubs and headed upstairs to the attic. As for the now-naked tree, I’d get Stuart to drag it to the curb later. After that, I’d vacuum the living room and kitchen. Both, I knew, would sorely need it.

Our house boasts a fabulous attic, the kind that you access through a regular door that opens on to regular stairs leading up to a large room. The room is more or less finished (though not painted) and Allie swears she’s going to convince me to let it be her room once she turns sixteen. I haven’t yet committed, as I know the value of holding out in exchange for increased bargaining power in other arenas. Forget lawyers; moms are the best negotiators out there.

We tottered up the stairs, barely able to see over the piles in our arms. Allie dropped hers on the floor, earning a frown from me since more than a few ornaments were not only glass, but sentimental.

“Sorry!” she said, immediately contrite.

“They survived Timmy,” I said. “Let’s see if we can’t make sure they last another year.”

“I know, I know. I said I was sorry.” To her credit, I didn’t have to tell her what to do next. She took her boxes and loaded them up on the set of shelves we have on the far side of the room to hold various holiday accoutrements. And then, as if to prove she deserved a Good Kid award, she finished loading my boxes as well.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now in only eleven short months we can pull everything out again.”

We started back for the stairs, but I soon realized that Allie’ d stopped following me. I turned around and found her kneeling in front of my Hunting trunk. I keep it under a pile of old linens, but that didn’t stop her. She’d already pulled them off, and now she was looking at the brass latch, and the polished leather and oiled wood that formed the trunk itself.

“So what do you really keep in here?” she asked. In the past, I’d casually mentioned that there were various keep-sakes in the trunk. Nothing important. Only a sentimental thing or two.

Considering what she’d recently learned, though, her question was legitimate. Still, I didn’t hear natural curiosity. I heard accusations: Is this your Hunting
stuff? You’re
still using it, aren’t you? And
if you
are,
why did you
lie to me?

I sternly told the voices in my head to shut up, then crossed to her side. “I keep my old
Forza
tools in there,” I said. And then, because I knew I had to, I added, “Do you want to see?”

Her eyes sparkled, and she nodded.

“Okay, then.” I keep the trunk locked for obvious reasons, and I have the key hidden on a small nail on one of the rafters. I snagged it, then crossed back to Allie, handing her the key so that she could do the honors.

She put the key in the lock almost reverentially, then tugged the heavy brass lock open. She looked at me then, and I nodded. With that silent encouragement, she took hold of the lid and pushed it up.

“Oh, come on, Mom,” she said, her voice full of irritation and accusation. “Are you jerking me around or what?” She reached inside and came out with a recipe card. “Like you’re ever going to make a mango-strawberry soufflé.”

I laughed, because I’d forgotten that she wouldn’t see my tools right away. The trunk is the kind that has a fitted, shallow tray on top, and in a clever attempt at camouflaging, I’d filled the trunk with recipes, decorating tips, and other household hints that I’d ripped from magazines.

“I’m not conning you, Al,” I said, leaning over her to pull the entire tray out, revealing the black velvet cloth I keep over my tools. I grabbed a corner and tugged it aside, too. From inside the trunk, my well-polished tools gleamed in the dim attic light.

“Whoa,” she said, her tone full of astonishment and awe. “Now
that’s
cool.”

“I know,” I said, kneeling down next to her. Maybe I should have discouraged her enthusiasm, but it is cool. And I could hardly lie to my own daughter.

“So what is all this stuff?”

“Well, let’s see.” I shifted position, then reached in and grabbed up my trusty crossbow. “This little guy saved my life on more than one occasion.”

“Awesome.” She reached out tentatively, then drew her fingers back.

“It’s okay,” I said, passing it to her. “You can hold it.” I almost didn’t let her, fearing that by holding it she’d catch the demon-hunting bug, as if it were a virus spread by contact. But the truth is, I knew better. It wasn’t a virus, it was a gene. And now that her fear was fading, my battle was all about timing.

Surprisingly, she didn’t inspect the crossbow for as long as I expected. She gave it a good look-over, stroked the wood that had been oiled until it gleamed, then set it aside to peer once again into the trunk.

“All of this stuff,” she said, her voice filled with awe. “It’s like you’re fighting in a medieval war or something.”

“In a way we are,” I said. “The war between good and evil has been going on for a long time.”

I expected a patented Alison Crowe eye roll for that, but instead she just nodded sagely, as if she’d been contemplating the character of good and evil her whole life.

“How do you know?” she asked after a moment. “I mean, unless they look like those monsters we saw, how do you know who’s a demon and who isn’t?”

I’d been wondering when she was going to ask that. Wondering if she’d been seeing demons around every corner, in the faces of her friends and the people she passed on the street. Honestly, that’s not all that far from the truth. Demons are around us. All the time.

Fortunately, they’re mostly incorporeal, which means they’re just floating around in the ether, wishing they had a human body.

“But sometimes they do,” Allie said, after I explained all of that. “Have a body, I mean.”

“Right,” I acknowledged. “They can do that a couple of ways. They can go the old-fashioned possession route, but that’s no fun because the whole head-spinning
Exorcist
schtick doesn’t really blend in with the general population.”

Allie managed a smile. “No, I guess it wouldn’t.”

“Possessions are a priest’s problem. But your dad and I were Hunters. We went after the demons who managed to blend in.”

“How?”

“By taking over the shell of a newly vacated body. The soul goes out, the demon goes in.”

A combination of fear and disgust filled her eyes. “Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying that after I die, my body could be—”

“No, no,” I assured her. “A demon can’t inhabit the body of the faithful. Our souls fight. There’s only a tiny window of opportunity for the demon to slip in. Miss it, and the body is just a body. Nothing more.”

That, actually, was why demon infestations tended to concentrate on places where their odds increase. Hospitals are number one. And in San Diablo, the demons have laid a serious stake to the nursing home.