The Demon (27 page)

Yeah, youre

goddamn right I am. I should have had more sense. It was a goddamn stupid thing to do. I should have known better. After all this time youd think I/d know better than to do it. God damn, thats annoying. Upset the whole house, Wonder what Harry Junior thinks? Probably nothing. But Linda . . . Jesus. Just not going to allow that to happen again. Just not going to do it. Had no business going home last night. I knew it. I just knew it would be a mistake. Should have listened to myself. Maybe now I/ll learn. The next time I/ll know what to do. I know what to do when I feel like that.

 
While still on the train he decided he was not going to spend the day in conflict. He was going to take a little stroll during lunch time. Nothing special. Just browse around and stretch his legs, so to speak. He nodded in agreement with himself and when he got to the office he went immediately to work and did almost a days work in a couple of hours. Around eleven-thirty he started feeling a little fidgety, so he stopped work immediately and stood in the doorway of his office for a moment and looked to see who was nearby, then walked through the office as if he were going to the mens room, carefully avoiding the area of Wentworths office, then walked down the stairs to the floor below, then took the elevator down.

 
He had been vaguely planning a more or less innocent walk. He had no intention of concentrating his eyes on the piece of ground between his feet, but neither did he plan to leer, or even look, at every woman that came within the scope of his vision. He was, as much as he could be, planless. Just stroll around long enough to relieve the tension and antsy feeling, then back to the office.

He did not plan on being in bed with this broad, biting her

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neck as he fucked her. He knew how he got there, and part of what made him so sick was the ease with which it happened. A smile, a hello, a look and a little conversation and his cock is thrust up her flowing cunt and shes grabbing and groaning as if it were Judgment Day. And he comes, and it seems endless as he pumps his semen into that insatiable hole, and he waits for the feeling of elation, that feeling of relief that follows when more than semen is drained from his body . . .

but it doesnt come. Somehow

his ancient and reliable solution does not work the way it did, the way it should. He expects the torment in his mind, the guilt and recrimination, the disgust with himself and the taste of vileness in his mouth, but at least his body was always relaxed. If nothing else, that. That release from the rusty tin cans and broken bottles that tore apart his gut, and the agonizing twitching that constricted his chest and muscles and made him want to scream and scream and scream. At least that should have drained from him.

He lay on his back for a

moment staring at another ceiling. She was next to him. Actively still. He sensed an urgency under his agony, an urgency to get back to the office. It seemed somehow very important, almost an emergency, and he wanted to get up and get the hell out of there as he always had in the past, but he could not move. He felt his jaw clenching tighter and tighter. He could hear the clenching and scraping and splintering. Sweet Jesus, he felt sick. God damn it, what was wrong? He felt that his body was going to burst and disintegrate at any moment. It had not worked. O dear god, why didnt it work? He felt as if he were being flooded with tears. He could hear them sloshing around inside him. There was a pressure within him that he could not define nor understand. He only knew it was killing him and his answer was not working. A voice seemed to be raging inside him.

He rolled over and silenced the

voice by stuffing his mouth with a tit. He sucked and nibbled and buried his hand in her soggy cunt and she wrapped her

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arms around him and clung to him like another layer of skin until he pushed her arms away and rolled her over and forced his cock in her ass and her screams and moans were muffled by the pillow as he tried to ram his pain into her and she met his thrusts with her own violent excitement and it felt as if she would snap his joint off and he wanted to stop but continued until they shook with spasms and were forced into stillness and he could feel his body slowly obtaining that sought-after and blessed emptiness. He could feel the self-hatred and loathing fevering his brain, and their vileness burning his throat, but it was worth it. He would pay that price. At least he could breathe. At least his body wasnt making him feel that he was losing his mind.

The hot water of the shower

felt good. Krist it was great hearing it and feeling it splat against his body and roll its way down. The nausea was tugging at his throat, but he could function through that. And right now he could yell at his head to shut up. Thats right, shut up! Go haunt somebody else. You cant get me. Not now. O god, the water was good. It flowed and flowed and flowed. . . .

            
Then back to the sanctuary of the office. His office. A closed door. O dear God, a sanctuary. Work. Work! His beloved work. A haven. A place and something to get lost in. Sanctuary!!!!

              
Lost! Ruptured! Just like that. A moment of a semblance of peace, and it is all disintegrated with the opening of a door.

Where in the hell have you been, Harry?

 
Harry blinked at Wentworth for a moment, trying desperately to orient himself. Why? Whats wrong, Walt?

Whats wrong? Von Landor, remember? One oclock.

Von Landor???? O shit, was that today?

Yes, that was today. It is now three-thirty.

O, krist, holding his head in his hands, I completely forgot.

 
Thats obvious. But how in the hell can you forget something like that?—Harry shaking his head as he listened to

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Wentworth—the biggest deal the firm has ever put together. Months of work. Jesus krist, Harry, this is your baby. You put it together from the inception to the whole package. The most brilliant piece of international syndicating that I have ever seen. That anyone has ever seen. And you get it all wrapped up and suddenly you dont show up for the last stage. I even reminded you yesterday and—

I know, I know, Walt. I somehow got confused and—

Are you all right? You look like hell.

 
What? O, yeah, yeah. Im all right. Just—I dont know, shaking his head, I cant figure—

 
Look, Von Landor is still at the Waldorf. He wont be leaving for a while. After we had been waiting for a while, I faked a phone call from Linda and told him that you were sick, but would get here anyway.

How did he take that? still holding and shaking his head.

 
He bought it. We dont have much to worry about. He wants this deal as much as we do. Thank God you did such a great job in wrapping up this package—but never mind that. Lets get over there.

Right, Wentworths urgency clearing his head.

 
I/ll have my girl call him and tell him we/re on our way over. He called his secretary and made the arrangements, then looked at Harry. We wont have any trouble convincing him youre sick. What is wrong with you?

Harry shrugged.

O well, we can go into that later.

 
Harrys business mind took over and the necessary papers were gathered together in seconds and they were on their way. Wentworth was correct; there was absolutely no doubt in Von Landors mind that Harry was ill when he looked at him.

 
Harrys business genius seemed to have a life of its own and functioned perfectly, and everything was completely consummated in ample time for Von Landor to make preparations for leaving. They walked him to the limousine and shook hands and watched the car merge into the traffic. Went-

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worth was beaming when he slapped Harry on the back. What do you say we go back, nodding toward the hotel, and have a drink? We have some celebrating to do. Harry nodded and they walked past the smiling doorman.

 
Wentworth was buoyant and exuberant. Come on, Harry, smile, for krists sake. This is a great day. This deal is going to mean millions. Millions, Harry. And thats just the beginning. Just the beginning, Harry, and this is your baby. You should be bubbling like champagne, for krists sake.

I know, Walt, but Im much too tired to bubble.

 
In a couple of weeks Von Landor will be back and we/ll be in the board room putting our signatures on those documents.

Maybe I/ll bubble then, a weak attempt at smiling.

 
Come on, empty that glass and youll feel better. Wentworth indicated to the bartender with a wave of his hand that he wanted two more drinks. This calls for at least a small celebration. You need to relax. I can see it in your face. Youve been working too hard. We are going to go out tonight and I am going to help you relax. What say, old sport?

Harry nodded his head.

 
Good, slapping him on the back and picking up change from the bar. I/ll call some relaxers.

 
Harry watched him go, overwhelmingly and nauseously aware of the fact that there had been absolutely no resistance to his suggestion. He had surrendered to it before there was an urge, before there was any hint of desire, before there was a need. He was aware of a sense of loss, of a profound sense of sadness and irretrievable loss.

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14

                       
Linda finally cleared all the plants from the house. For a while she had a vague hope that their presence in the house might reawaken an enthusiasm in Harry, but that hope withered with the leaves of the plants. Each day one or two more were beyond revival, and she stored them in a corner of the garage. Eventually all were undeniably dead and piled in the corner, the macramé also piled nearby.

 
For many weeks after the last plant had been buried in the garage she would look around the house at the evidence and memories of the plants, painfully aware of their absence.

 
She also became aware, with the passage of time, that she was responding more and more to Harrys moods. She could feel herself being pulling up or dragged down by his emotional pendulum. She tried hard to resist, but she continually found herself being swept along in his emotional wake.

Linda was at a loss to explain Harrys erratic behavior and

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mood changes, and for the longest time she tried to ignore them in the hope that whatever was wrong would remedy itself. But now that it was having such an adverse affect on her she felt that she had to do something, but she had no idea what. She loved her husband and had unshakable faith in his love for her, but this feeling of hopelessness was unbearable. She wanted to help, but how? Whenever she tried to ask him what was wrong and whether she could do anything to help, he always said no, there was nothing wrong, just working hard. Or sometimes he would add that he was sorry if he was upsetting her, and he would put his arms around her and hug and kiss her. And she would respond to his reassurances and affection and forget everything until the next time his mood plunged down and dragged her with it.

 
From time to time Linda would try to pinpoint just when it had all started so she might be able to determine the cause, but it was impossible. It seemed to have happened so gradually and imperceptibly that it was impossible to go back to some point in time and say, There, thats where it all started, and then reconstruct the circumstances of that particular time and then know the cause and thus the answer to the problem. Sometimes it was impossible to realize that it had not always been like this, but then she would remember the first three or four years of their marriage and remember how different Harry was then. How most of the time his attitude and manner had been light and happy—yes, almost carefree. But even so it was not always possible to define the exact and precise difference between then and now. Except, of course, that there were those sudden flare-ups, and those depressed moods when he said almost nothing at all for days, and an overall feeling, admittedly very vague, that he was, at times, apologizing for his existence. As if, by action and implication, he was constantly saying, Im sorry.

 
But these speculations she had to dismiss from her mind, since they were confusing and just did not make any sense. She could find no reason, in fact, for believing that any of these things were true. Yet, from time to time, these vague

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and uncomfortable feelings would swell within her and she would start speculating once again and finally end by remembering how much she loved him, and his tenderness toward her and Harry Junior. Eventually she always returned to the definite and incontrovertible fact that they were very much in love and eventually everything would be all right. It had to be.

 
In the meantime, though, another undeniable fact had evolved—she had to talk to someone. For quite some time this fact tried to define itself in her consciousness, but as long as she could believe there was no real problem there obviously was nothing to talk to someone about. But as the acceptance that there was a problem grew, so did her need. She thought about whom she should talk with, not wanting to worry anyone, and one day the question was answered simply when her mother called. After saying hello and asking Linda how she was, she asked her how Harry was?

Fine.

No, how is he really?

Why do you ask? You sound serious.

 
Well, dear, I am. Whenever I ask about him I get the feeling that youre trying to hide something; and lately you havent been sounding like your old self. Now, if theres something wrong and you dont—

O
    
no, Mom, its nothing like that—

 
You know I dont want to interfere in my childrens lives and if—

 
I
  
know that, Mother, and I dont feel as if youre interfering