Infernal Affairs

by Jane Heller

  “Oh, David,” I sighed. “David David David. You’re a nice guy, really you are. But I told you last night and I’ll tell you again. I’m a real estate agent, not an agent of the devil. I will not have the devil’s babies in exchange for the body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. I’ll get my old life back if it kills me.”

  I hoped it wouldn’t kill me but I wasn’t about to be scared off. I had spent my whole life being scared off. By my parents, by my husband, by grumpy supermarket checkout ladies. Anyone and everyone. But not anymore.

  “Look, Pete. I really have to go to this meeting,” I told the dog that Monday morning. “I may be under the influence of the dark forces, but I’ve got to at least project the appearance of normalcy, you know?”

  Pete nodded. I swear he did. If I could growl, he could nod, right?

  I arrived at the office at nine-fifteen, popped a couple of BreathAssure capsules into my mouth so I wouldn’t offend anyone with my darksider halitosis, and hurried into the meeting, which was already in progress. June Bellsey was reporting that she and her husband, Lloyd, had run into Donald and Marla Trump at a charity function in Palm Beach and that The Donald had mentioned he was looking for land in Banyan.

  “To build on?” asked Deirdre with her customary obtuseness.

  “No, to sit on,” said Althea with her customary sourness.

  “Althea, please,” Charlotte scolded. “There’s no need to snap at Deirdre. We’re all ladies here.”

  Well, not quite all, I thought. I was no longer sure what category of person I was.

  “Sorry,” said Althea from between pursed lips. “But it’s fairly obvious that if Trump is looking at land here, it’s because he wants to put something on it. Something with his name on it.” She snorted derisively. “I can see it now. A big, grotesque Trump Tower where our beautiful nature conservancy used to be.”

  “Oh, there you go again, Althea,” said June as she rolled her eyes. “Always the voice of doom and gloom. You’re not going to start that business of how the town has gone to the devil, are you?”

  The devil.

  I recalled David’s words as I regarded Althea. The devil is hiding in the body of someone you know. Well, I knew Althea. For over ten years. She was always grousing about the devil, about the way Banyan Beach had gone to hell. And when she wasn’t grousing about that, she was grousing about something else. She was the most negative human being I’d ever met. The perfect person for the devil to call home. Was he living inside her body? I wondered as a chill went through my own. Was he sitting right there in that room with me? Watching me? Studying me? I narrowed my eyes to examine her closely. Was Althea Dicks, the office manager at Home Sweet Home, Satan’s cover in Banyan Beach?

  I glanced over at June as she continued to drone on about Donald and Marla. Maybe she was the one who was harboring the devil. The woman was a relentless social climber, the sort of person who wanted everyone to view her as a big shot even though it was her husband who was the big shot while she was just a big mouth. She was a phony and so was the devil. Didn’t David say that Satan had a talent for deceiving people? What’s more, she and Lloyd spent a lot of time in Miami and Palm Beach, the devil’s previous pit stops. Maybe June Bellsey was the one whose body he chose to hide in while he was in Banyan Beach. Maybe she, not Althea, held my fate in her hands.

  “Did you tell Trump you’d show him property?” Suzanne asked June. “We’ve got that twenty-five-acre listing on McGregor Avenue. The owner’s pretty motivated.”

  June shook her head. “It was a social evening,” she pointed out. “I wasn’t about to shove my business card in his face, although I did slip one inside Marla’s purse when we went to the ladies’ room together.”

  “Atta girl,” Frances cheered, clapping her hands together. The gesture made the layers of flesh around her middle jiggle. “I think that shows real creativity.”

  June stood up and took a self-congratulatory bow, and as she bent over, the button holding her skirt around her waist popped open.

  Frances, in a burst of comic spontaneity, erupted into a lively rendition of the old show tune, “June Is Busting Out All Over.”

  Hey, she’s got a good voice, I thought, as Frances sang with the gusto of Ethel Merman. Had I never heard her sing before? Or had I never noticed that she could? Or was her musical talent something brand-new? Could it be that the devil was hiding in Frances Lutz’s body, not Althea’s or June’s? At over three hundred pounds, Frances could certainly be carrying more than herself around, couldn’t she? Who knew what lurked beneath that voluminous caftan? What’s more, it was Frances who’d been the listing agent on the Nowak house, the house that had brought David and me together. Maybe Frances had engineered the whole thing under Satan’s influence.

  I spent the rest of the meeting observing the other women, one by one.

  I focused my attention on Deirdre, the ex–beauty queen. She was so wholesome-looking with her blond, blue-eyed coloring and clean, clear skin. The fact that she had sex with strangers in order to get their listings didn’t automatically qualify her for a bodily takeover by the devil, did it? On the other hand, if I were the devil and I had my pick of bodies to enter, I’d certainly take Deirdre’s over, say, Frances’s.

  I turned to Suzanne Munson, my best friend in the office. There was no way the devil could be hiding inside her. None. I knew her better than I knew the others. I’d be able to tell if there were anything different about her. We were attuned to each other’s moods and temperaments. We commiserated with each other about our problems. Of course, I had become a darksider and hadn’t commiserated with her about that. Was it possible she was keeping her relationship with the devil a secret from me? No, I decided. It wasn’t possible. If the devil were hiding inside Suzanne’s body, he’d have to listen to her talk about menopause all day long and why would he want to put up with that, given the choice?

  And then there was Charlotte. As she congratulated me for being “Agent of the Week” (I had signed up the most listings of any other agent the week before and, therefore, merited a Whitman’s Sampler), I wondered if she could possibly be the one the devil had chosen as his cover. She was the least likely. So proper. So ladylike. So genteel. Then again, maybe that’s what the devil did: he picked the person nobody would ever suspect, someone whose behavior had always been beyond reproach, someone who never drank or cursed or drove through exact change toll booths without paying.

  “Now, who would like more tea?” Charlotte asked us as she poured herself another cup.

  I was about to say “I would” when a ferocious growl emanated from somewhere deep inside me—the same savage animal sound I’d made the night before. Everyone turned to look at me. I was mortified.

  “If you’d prefer a beverage other than tea, you only need to say so, Barbara dear,” said Charlotte.

  “No, tea would be fine,” I said, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  And then I growled again, this time even more viciously.

  My God, maybe David is right, I thought with a shudder. Maybe the devil is making me growl in order to send me a message: that I’d better do his bidding or else. Or else what? I didn’t want to know.

  “Barbara?” said Suzanne, arching an eyebrow, a look of bewilderment on her face. “Was that you?”

  I laughed, trying to feign nonchalance. “I’m afraid so,” I said. “I was in such a hurry this morning that I forgot to eat breakfast. I guess my stomach isn’t happy.”

  Suzanne nodded tentatively.

  “It’s true. Really,” I said. “Whenever I skip breakfast, I growl something fierce.”

  She relaxed a little and then shook a finger at me. “You look terrific after taking off all that weight, but you really shouldn’t skip breakfast,” she advised. “As you approach menopause, you need all the nutrients you can get. We all do.”

  “Right you are,” I said, wanting desperately to flee the room. Instead, I sat there, sipping tea and listening to the conver
sation move back and forth between menopause and real estate, as if the subjects were related somehow.

  As the meeting broke up, Suzanne followed me over to my desk and plunked herself down in the visitor’s chair.

  “I didn’t want to ask in front of the others,” she said, “but I’m dying to know how your date was on Saturday night. With David Bettinger.”

  If only I hadn’t told Suzanne about David, I thought. If only I had never mentioned his name. Now what would I say? That he turned out to be a devil’s agent? That he had entered into a bargain with the force of darkness? That he had a tail?

  “It was okay,” I told Suzanne as I shuffled papers on my desk and tried not to meet her gaze.

  “Just okay? A couple of days ago you couldn’t wait to go out with the guy,” said Suzanne, surprised by my air of indifference.

  “I know, but David wasn’t…”

  “Wasn’t what?”

  “Wasn’t what I thought he was.”

  “In what way? You said he was the most perfect man you’d ever laid eyes on. You were going to ask him if he had a brother for me, remember?”

  “I remember. But truthfully, Suzanne, he’s not what he seems. He…he has a dark side.”

  Suzanne’s eyes opened wide. “A dark side? You mean he’s changeable?”

  “He’s changeable, yes.”

  “Changeable, as in moody? Or changeable, as in indecisive?”

  “Neither.”

  “Well then how? Does he have a temper? The type that goes berserk? Ballistic? Into a tailspin?”

  “A tailspin,” I nodded. “That’s it exactly.”

  David’s tail hadn’t actually spun, of course; it had snapped, back and forth against my wrists, which still smarted.

  “Gee, that’s too bad,” said Suzanne. “I was hoping you’d have a great time with him. You deserve a break after what happened with Mitchell. Does David want to see you again?”

  “Yes, but I told him there was no possibility of a romantic relationship,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll continue to see each other though. He’s my customer, and we close on the Nowak house in three weeks.”

  “Hey, that’s something, isn’t it? After that awful slump you went through?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell you what,” said Suzanne, getting up from the chair. “You and I are going man hunting tonight.”

  “Man hunting?”

  “That’s right. There’s this place that’s opening up on Route 1, next door to Sam Goody.”

  “Thanks anyway, but I’m not the singles-bar type, Suzanne.”

  “It’s not a singles bar from what I hear. It’s just a really cool restaurant and bar where they have live music. It’s called The Hellhole.”

  The Hellhole. Oh, swell. I couldn’t escape the devil if I tried.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m not up for that kind of thing. I’ve got a lot on my mind these days.”

  “Oh, come on, Barbara. One bad date and you’re ready to hang it up? I’ve had hundreds of bad dates and I haven’t given up, have I?”

  I looked at Suzanne and wondered why she hadn’t given up. She’d been out with everything under the sun—deadbeat dads, men who couldn’t commit, Peter Pan Syndrome sufferers, the whole gamut of self-help book characters. Still, she kept at it, night after night, forever in search of that special someone.

  “What do you say, Barbara?” she urged. “You didn’t lighten your hair and lose twenty pounds so you could sit in your house by yourself, did you?”

  “No, I guess not,” I said, not knowing what else I could say.

  “You improved your appearance and now it’s time to show it off,” she said.

  “At The Hellhole?” I said, making a face. “It sounds like a dive.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It didn’t look too bad from the photo on the flyer they sent out. Tonight’s the opening. There’s going to be a rock ’n’ roll band, free welcome rum punch, and a lobster dinner for $10.99. What do you say? It could be fun.”

  Fun. I had forgotten what the word meant. Maybe a night out with Suzanne was just what I needed. A way to forget my predicament, if only for a few hours. And I did love lobster…

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  “Terrific. Who knows? You just might meet your Mr. Right the minute you walk in the door.”

  Chapter 14

  There was no point in continuing my therapy with Dr. Schaffran, I decided, given that I was in the throes, not of a nervous breakdown, but of a demonic possession. Besides, I didn’t have time to sit around whining about my childhood; I had to figure out which of my acquaintances had been taken over by the devil. I had become obsessed with the subject, racking my brains for something, anything, that would lead me to the person who was harboring the Evil One. What would make him choose one type of man or woman over another? I asked myself. Was it a random thing? Did he simply hop inside the first body he saw when he came to town? Or did he give it a lot of thought? Did he watch people and study them and make his decision on the basis of their personality? Their looks? Their religious affiliation? What?

  I was tempted to call Louise and break the news over the phone that I was canceling our sessions, but I felt I owed it to her to show up for my Monday afternoon appointment, to tell her in person that I would not be coming again. This was the new me, after all. The new and bolder me.

  The session began with her question about Saturday night.

  “How…was…your…date…with…David?” she asked. “You were a little apprehensive about it, as I recall.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should tell Louise the truth about David. First of all, she probably wouldn’t believe me. And if she did, she might blab the story to someone—her pal, Dr. Messersmith, for instance. Pretty soon, everyone in town would know that I was an agent of the devil and I could kiss my career in real estate good-bye. On the other hand, Louise was a shrink. My shrink. We had a doctor-patient relationship and she was duty bound to keep her mouth shut about me. Besides, if this was to be my final session with her, there was no point in wasting my time or my money by lying to her. And it would be a relief to tell someone what really happened, I decided. An unburdening.

  I cleared my throat. “It started off okay,” I began. “David was a very gracious host. He served champagne and hors d’oeuvres and gave me a tour of the house he’s renting. And then he made this fabulous dinner for me.”

  “How…did…that…make…you…feel?” Louise asked.

  “Pampered. Cared for. Special. It was a nice feeling.”

  “Go on.”

  “We were sitting at the table, sipping our wine, when David got up to massage my neck and shoulders. I was incredibly aroused by him—and a little drunk, to tell you the truth—and I just let myself enjoy his touch. Before I knew it, we were kissing. Passionately. I don’t think I ever wanted a man so badly and I didn’t try to hide it.”

  Louise nodded. I guessed she was pleased that I had been able to throw off my inhibitions.

  “David took me to his bedroom,” I went on. “He lit candles. Then we stood in the middle of the room, embracing. He undressed me. I undressed him. It was thrilling.”

  “Then why doesn’t your expression reflect that?” asked Louise. “Didn’t the lovemaking go well?”

  “There was no lovemaking,” I said. “Once David was out of his clothes, I discovered that he had a tail, just like the devil. Obviously, I was no longer interested in him—sexually or any other way.”

  Louise didn’t say anything for several seconds. First, she just stared at me. Then, she reached for a notepad and began to write. Finally, she looked up at me and said, in that self-parodying manner of hers, “Are…you…trying…to…punish…yourself?”

  “Punish myself?”

  “For your parents’ accident.”

  “What do my parents have to do with my date with David?”

  “Barbara,” Louise sighed, as if I were the village idio
t. “Haven’t we talked about your guilt over the way your parents were killed? How you felt you caused the accident by standing up for yourself, by stating your own needs? Haven’t we?”

  “Yes, but I don’t—”

  “And haven’t we talked about your recent delusion that you cause other people’s accidents, merely by willing them to happen?”

  “Well sure, but—”

  “And haven’t we talked about your subconscious desire for power? How you tell yourself you make things go awry in order to control these situations?”

  “Yes, but all that has nothing to do with my date with David. I wasn’t trying to control anything on Saturday night. I was standing stark naked in the middle of the man’s bedroom when I felt this thing sticking out from his backside. This tail! I didn’t will it to be there. It just was!”

  Louise laughed. Laughed! And then she said, “Barbara, I’ve got to hand it to you. You’re one of the most creative patients I’ve ever had. You come up with such innovative ways to sabotage your happiness.”

  I hadn’t expected her to believe me, but I would have preferred a little more sympathy, a little more mothering, a little more respect!

  “You think I invented David’s tail so I’d have a reason to ruin our evening?” I said.

  She laughed again. “Do you remember the Paul Simon song ‘50 Ways to Leave Your Lover’?” she asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Because you’ve just invented Number 51: My lover has a tail.”

  “But I didn’t invent the tail. It was real,” I said. “I swear it was.”

  She nodded dismissively and made more notes on her pad. And then she looked up and said, “I wonder if I might ask you something, Barbara.”

  “What?”

  “I’m writing a book,” she said. “It’s a study of the ways in which people deny themselves pleasure.”

  It didn’t sound like a big seller to me, but I tried to look impressed.

  “I’d like your permission to use your devil’s tail anecdote in my book—without giving your name, of course. It’s not only ingenious. It’s very entertaining. I’m trying to reach a mass audience with the book and your anecdote—along with the stories of how you imagine you caused a tire to go flat and a telephone to go dead and hot coffee to burn your husband and his girlfriend—will certainly get people’s attention. You see, once the book is published, I’m hoping to get on ‘Oprah.’”