Goodbye Lucifer
Page 9
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At two o’clock in the morning, Harry Deville—formerly, the devil—dressed in regular clothes for the first time ever, stood under the street light on the far side of the Brandell Bridge looking back at the five women who’d walked with him as far as the Brandell side of the river. A light fog dampened the sounds of the night, the rippling of the river below the bridge hardly audible. From across the bridge, Melanie thought Harry looked rather forlorn, even a little uncertain as he stood in the misty circle of streetlight on the other side.
“So long, Harry, and be careful,” Melanie called across the bridge.
Amanda and Claudia waved goodbye almost sadly.
Aubrey Crumb snarled, “Be gone, evil one,” and Sarah Crumb mumbled, “Good riddance.”
Harry stood there a moment longer, then turned and disappeared into the darkness of Stillman Road.
“Wow. What a weird night,” said Melanie.
“What now?” asked Amanda, a tinge of disappointment in her voice.
Aunt Claudia said, “Let’s go home.”
The Crumb sisters chanted, “He’s gone! Rejoice, rejoice!”
“Oh, shut up,” said Melanie.
SIX
DAVID SAT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE staring, uneasily, at his plate: pancakes with blueberry syrup, his favorite. Wary, he picked up his fork and cut off a small bite. He hesitated before putting it in his mouth. He figured it probably had poison in it. Why else would Jilly get up early just to fix him pancakes?
Aunt Claudia, though she didn’t protest, had not been grateful for the help in the kitchen. Jilly just got in the way. The girl had already been at the kitchen counter stirring away at a bowl of pancake batter when Claudia came down to fix breakfast.
“I wanna make something nice for David,” Jilly had said.
Claudia had wondered the same thing as David, not about the poison, of course, just why Jillian was suddenly acting so fondly towards her brother. David, resigned to his fate, decided a big bite of pancakes dripping with butter and blueberry syrup was as good a way as any to die. He put it in his mouth, chewed it up and swallowed. Nothing happened—and it was delicious. He quickly took another bite, hoping he could eat the whole stack before the poison got him.
Jilly sat beside her brother, looking at him lovingly. She reached her hand towards him. David flinched.
“Oh, silly,” she said, smoothing down an errant lock of his hair and asking, “Do you want more milk?”
Melanie, her breakfast untouched, sat at the other side of the table watching her two children.
Something is very wrong here, she thought. She had no doubt that Jillian and David loved each other, but this maternal act from Jillian was way off base.
A clattering from the veranda and Patty Clark did her usual exuberant morning burst through the door.
“Hey, Mrs. Meljac. Hey Anta.”
Jilly got up from the table. “Just be a minute, Patty. David hasn’t finished his breakfast yet.”
“No prob,” said Patty.
Melanie and Aunt Claudia glanced at each other; both felt a sense of unease. In the days ahead they would learn that, without the devil, the good got very good, and the bad got very bad.
SEVEN
EMMA PAUL WAS A GOOD WIFE. She wasn’t very pretty, and not all that smart, but she kept a clean house and never shirked her wifely duties. Although when those duties concerned her husband, and were of a personal nature, her performance was less than enthusiastic. Everyone agreed that Joe Paul, being no prize himself, was very lucky to have Emma as a wife.
Emma loved her home, she loved her children, she loved her little flower garden out back—she wasn’t too fond of Joe. As a matter of fact, she often dreamed of how nice life would be if Joe went away and never came back.
This morning, while watching her husband slopping down breakfast like the pig he was, she had a new thought. Wouldn’t it be better if Joe, instead of going away and never coming back, just dropped dead? How wonderfully final that would be. Unfortunately Joe wasn’t the sickly type and would probably outlive her—unless, thought Emma, things could be helped along a little. An idea began to form in her mind.
Yesterday, Emma would have been shocked at the direction her thoughts were taking, but today was different. Today everything seemed so clear.
‘Let’s see,’ she mused, thinking of Joe’s shotgun in the closet, or maybe the axe from the shed. Rat poison? The shotgun was probably the best bet.
Ignoring Joe, Emma got up from the kitchen table and went to the hall. She opened the hall closet, reached inside and tugged on the string that hung from the overhead light fixture. In the glare of the bare light bulb, she saw Joe’s long black 12-gauge leaning against the wall. Emma grabbed the end of the heavy barrel and pulled the gun out into the hall, the stock dragging on the floor. She didn’t bother to pick it up all the way but walked back to the kitchen dragging it behind her. When she entered the kitchen Joe had finished breakfast, and without saying goodbye was almost out the kitchen door, his back to her. She quickly hoisted the shotgun to her shoulder, staggering under the unexpected weight of the heavy gun.
Emma Paul pointed the big 12-gauge at her husband’s back and pulled the trigger. Joe, who wasn’t the type of guy to keep a loaded gun in the house, slammed the door behind him. Though he didn’t care very much, he wondered what had pissed off his wife. He could hear her through the kitchen door yelling, “Shit, shit, shit!”
Strange, he thought. Emma never cursed.