Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  “Me, too.” I took the bear, gave it a big kiss, and then very seriously spoke to his little bear face. “Boo Bear, we need to get Timmy up. What do you think? Time for a fresh diaper?”

  I didn’t give the bear (or the boy) time to answer. Just schlepped them both the short distance to the changing table. Less than two minutes later (I’ve been doing this for a few years) Timmy had on a fresh diaper and clean clothes and we were heading into the living room. I plunked him on the couch, turned on JoJo’s Circus, and continued toward the kitchen to heat up a sippy cup of milk.

  Forty-five seconds later Timmy was holding the cup in his chubby little hands, I had my cordless phone cradled at my ear, and I was heading back up the stairs to pound at Allie’s door once again.

  “Dupont Mental Institution,” Laura said, obviously having checked her caller ID.

  “How are things at your end?”

  “The inmates are restless,” she said.

  “At least yours is up and moving.” I pounded on Allie’s door again. “Now, Allie. If you’re not dressed at 7:20, I’m leaving without you.” The first day of car pool is always a challenge, and Karen and Emily were unknown commodities. If they were the kind who ran late—where you ended up sitting on the street, engine running, laying on the horn—I wanted a little padding in the schedule.

  I switched my attention back to the phone. “What have you got going this morning?”

  “Laundry,” she said, sounding about as excited as if she were having a root canal. “Carla refuses to step up to the plate.” Carla came in twice a month to do Laura’s heavy cleaning. This is a point of great envy on my part. One day I’m hoping Carla can be cloned. “And bills. I could be talked into procrastinating,” she added. “If you’ve got a better offer, I mean.”

  “Not exactly,” I said as I headed back downstairs. “I was hoping to bum a favor.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Now that Mindy’s a teenager, don’t you miss the pitter-patter of little feet?”

  “You’re killing me here,” she said, but I could hear amusement in her voice, and said a silent thank-you. “Just spit it out.”

  “I need a babysitter.”

  “Oh, really?” Her voice rose with interest. “And what fabulous dalliance have you got scheduled?”

  “Nothing as fabulous as all that.” I gave her the short-but-incomplete truth—that I was going to be doing some work at the church.

  She made curious noises, but didn’t ask and I didn’t volunteer. As soon as she agreed to watch the munchkin, I swore to do her bidding for the rest of eternity. “You can probably just treat me to dessert at the Cheesecake Factory,” she said, “and we’ll call it even.” A pause. “Or is this more than a one-day crisis?”

  “Hopefully just one or two,” I said, making one of those I’m-guilty-but-please-help-anyway faces even though she couldn’t see me through the phone line. “I’m hoping I can find a day care.”

  “Really?” Her surprise made sense. I’d told her over and over that I love doing the stay-at-home-mom thing (I do). “Two days, two desserts,” she said, playing babysitting hardball.

  “Done. I’ll drop him by after I offload the girls.” We hung up and I stood silent for a moment, listening for Allie. I heard the shower running. A good sign. At least I wouldn’t have to race back up the stairs and drag her bodily into the bathroom.

  “More milk,” Timmy said as I headed toward the kitchen. “Chocolate milk, Mommy. Chocolate.”

  “I don’t think so, kiddo.”

  I took the sippy cup and filled it with boring white milk, then I ripped open a packet of oatmeal, dumped it into a bowl with what looked like the right amount of water, shoved the bowl into the microwave, and set the timer. I was already pushing it with Laura; I couldn’t expect her to feed the kid breakfast, too.

  Two minutes later I had Tim happily settled in his booster seat poking at tepid, gloppy oatmeal with his spoon. Hopefully one or two bites would actually make it into his mouth.

  Allie barreled down the stairs and into the kitchen a few minutes later, eyed the packet of oatmeal on the counter, and shot me a look of disdain. “I’ll just have coffee,” she said.

  “You’ll eat breakfast,” I said, keeping a proprietary grip on my own mug. We’d compromised on the coffee thing midsummer (that’s when she’d claimed to be a true high-schooler). Minimal guilt on my part, though, particularly when I discovered that my daughter takes a little coffee with her milk rather than vice versa. Breakfast, however, I was holding fast on.

  “Fine. Whatever.” She grabbed a Nutri-Grain bar from a box on top of the fridge, then disappeared back upstairs to finish the getting-dressed ritual. “Makeup?” she called down.

  “Mascara and lip gloss,” I said.

  “Mo-om!”

  “I’m not having this conversation again, Allie. I’m deaf to your protests until you’re sixteen.” The real score? I knew she’d continue to bug me and I’d eventually cave. But I was holding fast for at least a month.

  No response, but I did hear a lot of stomping going on up there.

  “Makeup, Momma!” Timmy howled. “My makeup.”

  “I don’t think so, bud. Not even when you’re sixteen.”

  In lieu of pouting, he threw a glob of oatmeal across the room. I watched it land with a plop near the missing window, knowing I should go clean it up. For that matter, I should get on the phone and find a glazier to fix the damn thing. Instead, I drained my coffee and poured myself a fresh cup. Procrastination, thy name is Kate.

  Allie made it back down the stairs just before Mindy rapped on the back door. I ushered the lot of us to the van, the girls carrying their brand-new day packs, me sporting a toddler, a purse, and a diaper bag.

  We caught a lucky break and both Karen and Emily were ready when I honked at their houses. Emily was last, and as soon as she piled in, I headed to the high school, where I lined up behind a dozen other vans and SUVs. I caught a glimpse of some of the other moms (and a few of the dads). From what I could tell, I was the only one pulling car-pool duty sans shower, with my hair yanked carelessly back, the T-shirt I’d slept in tucked into ratty old sweats. I slumped down in the driver’s seat and made a mental note to get up fifteen minutes earlier on car-pool day.

  When the line of cars had moved enough so that we were in the driveway, Emily slid the door open and the girls started piling out. I reminded them that Karen’s mom had pickup duty, then put the van in drive. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “But not for me and Mindy,” Allie said, her hand on the sliding door. “Remember? We’re staying after to talk to Ms. Carlson about cheerleading.”

  “Right,” I said. “I remember.” I hadn’t, of course. (And what are they doing scheduling a cheerleading meeting on the first day of school, anyway?) I mentally rearranged my schedule, realized it was completely impossible, but figured I’d manage somehow. “Call me on the cell when the meeting starts and let me know what time it’s supposed to be over. We’re having some of Stuart’s political folks over for drinks tonight, so Mrs. Dupont may end up picking you guys up.”

  “Whatever,” Allie said. It really was unfair. I’d give myself an ulcer trying to work out who was picking who up and when, and all she had to say was whatever.

  I sighed. Whatever.

  Ten minutes later I was seated at Laura’s kitchen table, a fresh mug of coffee tight in my hand. I nodded toward my munchkin, who was seated across from me, his nose even with the tabletop since Laura had long ago packed away her booster seat. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Honestly. It’s fine.” She was already dressed to the nines, which made me feel even grimier.

  I nodded at her outfit. “You look like you had plans.”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, no. Not really. Paul’s just working late again tonight, and I thought it might be nice to, you know, look extra special for him.”

  I thought about how I’d looked that morning as Stuart
had headed off—how I looked now, for that matter—and shrugged. “I’m sure he appreciated the gesture,” I said.

  I expected her to give me some dish or make a snarky comment. Instead, she just looked embarrassed and started unloading her dishwasher. I decided to change subjects. “If he gives you any trouble at all, just call my cell. And for nap, just plunk him in the middle of your bed and put some pillows around him. He won’t roll out.” I tried to think what else to tell her. “There’re sippy cups and diapers in the bag, but if you need—”

  She held up her hand, laughing. “Kate, you aren’t heading to Australia. And I have a key to your house. We’ll be fine.”

  I looked at Tim, who was happily shredding a napkin into smaller and smaller pieces. “You going to be okay with Aunt Laura? Mommy’s got to go run some errands.”

  He didn’t even slow down with the shredding. “Bye-bye, Mommy. Bye-bye.”

  Laura and I exchanged glances, and I could tell she was trying hard not to laugh. So much for my guilt about leaving him.

  When I actually reached the door, Timmy’s tune changed. Not a full-blown fit, mind you, but enough whining to soothe my mommy ego. I gave him a couple of big hugs, some sloppy kisses, and a promise to be back soon.

  I’d left the van in Laura’s driveway, and as she herded Tim back inside, I settled behind the wheel, then mentally ran over my list of things to do today. Shower, find day care, buy groceries, arrange afternoon car pool, gas up van—the usual stuff. In fact, except for two items—enroll in kickboxing class and review cathedral archives to determine object coveted by vile demon—the list wasn’t that different from a typical day’s to-do list. I’d always managed to tackle my tasks, and today would be no exception. Just a list of errands and me, supermom extraordinaire. No problemo.

  I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifty. Just nine and a half hours until the cocktail hordes descended on my house.

  I cranked the engine. Dawdling was over. It was time to get moving. Goramesh might have invaded San Diablo, but he was going to regret it. I was Kate Connor, demon-hunting supermom. And I was going to take him down.

  Two hours later I was Kate Connor, discouraged toddler mom. Apparently, enrolling one’s toddler in day care requires an act of Congress. The three facilities that I’d noticed in the neighborhood were maxed out on their kid quotient. KidSpace (inconveniently located on the opposite side of town) had a full-time opening in the two-year-old class, and that for a tuition payment that made my blood run cold. I was only looking for part-time, and I turned it down. The woman had made a cluck, cluck noise as she asked if I was sure, offering to hold the spot overnight if I wanted to give her a fifty-dollar deposit, charged conveniently to my credit card over the telephone.

  I said no.

  A dozen phone calls later I realized the magnitude of that mistake. I’d have better luck enrolling the kid in Harvard. And I knew then that the only way Timmy was getting into day care was if I latched on to any opening—no matter how inconvenient or expensive. So far, only one location had fit that description—being both inconvenient and expensive. I practically burned my fingers dialing the KidSpace lady back.

  Was the slot still available? Yes, it was, but they’d had three other inquiries. Those moms were coming by to scope the place out. But they hadn’t put down a deposit, and she could still hold it for me if I wanted. . . .

  I wanted. I whipped out a credit card so fast it would have made Stuart’s head spin. So what if I hadn’t seen the place? It was full and in demand, right? That had to say something. Besides, if it was a dump, they could keep the fifty dollars. A small price to pay for being on what I was now referring to as The List.

  I told Nadine (the KidSpace assistant director, with whom I suddenly felt a close and personal bond) that Timmy and I would come by tomorrow to check the place out and meet his teacher, and that Timmy would start on Wednesday. She told us to drop by anytime, and I considered that another good sign—a toddler crack house would, after all, surely not want “anytime” visitors.

  By now it was almost lunchtime, and half of my day was already shot. Despite my looming list of tasks, I still felt an overarching sense of accomplishment. Absurd, really, when all I’d actually done was make some phone calls and spend fifty dollars against the promise of forking out eight hundred and twenty-five more every month.

  Stuart was going to kill me.

  I decided not to dwell on that little reality and instead moved on to my next, most basic task—getting dressed. I hadn’t yet eaten, so I rummaged in the back of the freezer until I found a box of last year’s Thin Mints. Since I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, I took an entire sleeve out and schlepped it upstairs to the bathroom, along with a can of Diet Coke.

  The cookies thawed a bit while I was in the shower, and I snarfed down six, washing the crumbly goodness down with a swig of soda. I didn’t bother to do much with my hair, just ran a comb through it and slicked on a tiny bit of gel to keep the frizzies at bay once it air-dried. (Except for the occasional ponytail, I never do much with my hair. There’s no point. It’s dirty blond and hangs just past my shoulders. I can curl it, spray it, coax it into styles, and two hours later, it’s back to being dirty blond, straight, and hanging just past my shoulders. For those special evenings out, I’ll pile it up on top of my head with a rhinestone-studded clip. Not fancy, but it works for me.)

  I pulled on jeans, a sleeveless sweater and matching cardigan, then shoved my feet into loafers. After a moment’s hesitation I changed out of the loafers and into an old pair of Reeboks. The chances of bumping into a demon today were slim considering I intended to spend most of my time in the cathedral archives, but it’s best to be prepared. If I did meet another one of Goramesh’s flunkies, I wanted traction—and lots of it.

  When I headed back downstairs, I remembered the window (the gaping hole in the kitchen jogged my memory). I glanced at my watch, made an unhappy little noise, and sat back down at the kitchen table, where the phone book was still open to the yellow page listings for Day Care Centers.

  I flipped to the G’s and scanned the pages, running my finger down the thin yellow paper until I found a display ad that seemed nicely laid out and not too cheesy. Not the most responsible method of choosing a repairman, I know, but I was in a hurry. The receptionist answered on the first ring, had a pleasant phone voice, and seemed to know what I was talking about when I described the oversize window in our breakfast area. Impressed as I was by such blatant professionalism, I asked if someone could fix it today.

  I heard the receptionist tap-tapping at a keyboard. After a moment she came back with the verdict—today was doable, but only if I could be available at four and was willing to pay the rush service charge. Sure, I said, why not? We made all the arrangements, and only then did I think to ask for a rough estimate.

  She hedged the response with the caveat that the final cost would be determined on site, then quoted me a number that had me grasping my chest. For two seconds I considered hanging up and letting my fingers do the walking a little bit longer. I nixed that idea fast enough, though. I didn’t have the time to juggle estimates, and Stuart wanted the window fixed by the cocktail party (which was scheduled for six-thirty, according to the note he’d left by the coffeemaker). If Stuart said something about the cost, I’d do a mea culpa then. At least the window would be intact.

  I relayed all the necessary info, promised to be home at four, and hung up, mentally congratulating myself for having accomplished yet another task.

  At this rate I’d have Goramesh figured out and conquered before the first guest showed up. I was, after all, on a roll.

  I arrived at the cathedral invigorated, optimistic, and raring to go. I found Father Ben in his office reviewing his notes for that evening’s homily, and after the usual small talk—the weather, my family, the progress of the restoration project—we headed toward the cathedral.

  After a brief pause while I once again refilled my holy water vial, I followed him over the san
ctuary toward the sacristy and the stairs leading to the basement archives. From the outside, the cathedral looks old but well preserved. From this new perspective, though, I could tell just how time-ravaged the building really was.

  Father twisted a large skeleton key, causing a dingy brass lock to creak. There was no doorknob, and once the lock had disengaged, he pushed on the wood—now smooth from centuries of just such pressure. The door swung inward, ornate hinges creaking with the effort. “Mind your step,” Father said, moving over the threshold.

  As I followed, he reached to his side and flipped a switch, the light from five low-watt bulbs suddenly illuminating our path. The bulbs were strung along an ancient bit of wire tacked into the stone wall that lined the staircase on one side. I looked up and could just make out a faint streak of black on the low stone roof above my head. Father had turned back to make sure I was coming, and he saw the direction of my gaze.

  “Smoke,” he said. “Before electricity the priests lit their way down these steps with torches.”

  “Cool,” I said, then realized I sounded like my daughter. I was enjoying this, though. It reminded me of the churches and crypts that Eric and I had prowled back in our glory days.

  The stairs made a sharp turn to the right, and the temperature seemed to drop at least ten degrees. I started thinking about earthquakes, and sincerely hoped California didn’t decide to do the shaking thing now.

  “I can’t tell you how much the Church appreciates our volunteers. We’re paying an archivist to catalog the noteworthy items, of course, but having volunteers help organize the material is certainly helping to keep our budget in line.”

  “The cathedral’s well known for its holy relics,” I said. “Presumably some are already archived and cataloged?”

  “Absolutely,” Father Ben confirmed. “Although until the restoration is complete, most of the relics are packed up and stored in the basement vault.”