Running With the Demon Read online

  But this morning as he slouched into the kitchen he was dark-browed and weary-hearted and felt not in the least as if his life had amounted to anything. Evelyn was already up, sitting at the kitchen table with her glass of orange juice laced with vodka, her cigarette, her coffee, and her magazine. Sometimes he thought she simply didn’t go to bed anymore, although she’d been sleeping last night when he’d gotten up to look in on Nest. They’d kept separate bedrooms for almost ten years, and more and more it felt like they kept separate lives as well, all since Caitlin …

  He caught himself, stopped himself from even thinking the words. Caitlin. Everything went back to Caitlin. Everything bad.

  “Morning,” he greeted perfunctorily.

  Evelyn nodded, eyes lifting and lowering like window shades.

  He poured himself a bowl of Cheerios, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee and sat down across from her at the table. He attacked the cereal with single-minded intensity, devouring it in huge gulps, his head lowered to the bowl, stewing in wordless solitude. Evelyn sipped at her vodka and orange juice and took long drags on her cigarette. The length of the silence between them implied accurately the vastness of the gulf that separated their lives.

  Finally Evelyn looked up, frowning in reproof. “What’s bothering you, Robert?”

  Old Bob looked at her. She had always called him Robert, not Old Bob, not even just Bob, as if some semblance of formality were required in their relationship. She was a small, intense woman with sharp eyes, soft features, gray hair, and a no-nonsense attitude. She had been beautiful once, but she was only old now. Time and life’s vicissitudes and her own stubborn refusal to look after herself had done her in. She smoked and drank all the time, and when he called her on it, she told him it was her life and she could lead it any way she wanted and besides, she didn’t really give a damn.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up during the night and looked in on Nest,” he told her. “She wasn’t there. She’d tucked some pillows under the covers to make me think she was, but she wasn’t.” He paused. “She was out in the park again, wasn’t she?”

  Evelyn looked back at her magazine. “You leave the girl alone. She’s doing what she has to do.”

  He shook his head stubbornly, even though he knew what was coming. “There’s nothing she has to be doing out there at two in the morning.”

  Evelyn stubbed out her cigarette and promptly lit another one. “There’s everything, and you know it.”

  “You know it, Evelyn. I don’t.”

  “You want me to say it for you, Robert? You seem to be having trouble finding the right words. Nest was out minding the feeders. You can accept it or not—it doesn’t change the fact of it.”

  “Out minding the feeders …”

  “The ones you can’t see, Robert, because your belief in things doesn’t extend beyond the tip of your nose. Nest and I aren’t like that, thank the good Lord.”

  He shoved back his cereal bowl and glared at her. “Neither was Caitlin.”

  Her sharp eyes fixed on him through a haze of cigarette smoke. “Don’t start, Robert.”

  He hesitated, then shook his head hopelessly. “I’m going to have a talk with Nest about this, Evelyn,” he declared softly. “I don’t want her out there at night. I don’t care what the reason is.”

  His wife stared at him a moment longer, as if measuring the strength of his words. Then her eyes returned to the magazine. “You leave Nest alone.”

  He looked out the window into the backyard and the park beyond. The day was bright and sunny, the skies clear, the temperature in the eighties, and the heat rising off the grass in a damp shimmer. It was only the first of July, and already they were seeing record temperatures. There’d been good rain in the spring, so the crops were doing all right, especially the early corn and soybeans, but if the heat continued there would be problems. The farmers were complaining already that they would have to irrigate and even that wouldn’t be enough without some rain. Old Bob stared into the park and thought about the hardships of farming, remembering his father’s struggle when he’d owned the farm up at Yorktown years ago. Old Bob didn’t understand farming; he didn’t understand why anyone would want to do it. Of course, that was the way farmers felt about fellows who worked in a steel mill.

  “Is Nest still in bed?” he asked after a moment.

  Evelyn got up to pour herself another drink. Bob watched the measure of vodka she added to the orange juice. Way too much. “Why don’t you lighten up on that stuff, Evelyn? It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning.”

  She gave him a hard look, her face pinched and her mouth set. “I notice you weren’t in any hurry to get home last night from telling war stories with your pals. And I don’t suppose you were drinking tea and playing shuffleboard down there at the hall, were you?” She took a long pull on the drink, walked back to her chair, sat down, and picked up the magazine. “Leave me alone, Robert. And leave Nest alone, too.”

  Old Bob nodded slowly and looked off again out the window. They had lived in this house for almost the whole of their married life. It was a big, sprawling rambler on two acres of wooded land abutting the park; he’d supervised the building of it himself, back in the late fifties. He’d bought the land for two hundred dollars an acre. It was worth a hundred times that now, even without the house. Caitlin had grown up under this roof, and now Nest. Everything that had meaning in his life had happened while he was living here.

  His eyes traveled over the aged wood of the kitchen cabinets to the molding and kickboards and down the hall to the paneled entry. He had even been happy here once.

  He stood up, weary, resigned, still in a funk. He felt emasculated by Evelyn, helpless in the face of her fortress mentality, adrift in his life, unable to change things in any way that mattered. It had been bad between them for years and it was getting worse. What was going to become of them? Nest was all that bound them together now. Once she was gone, as she would be in a few years, what would be left for them?

  He brushed at his thick white hair with his hand, smoothing it back. “I’m going downtown, see if there’s anything new with the strike,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  She nodded without looking up. “Lunch will be on the table at noon if you want it.”

  He studied her a moment longer, then went down the hall and out the front door into the summer heat.

  It was another hour before Nest appeared in the kitchen. She stretched and yawned as she entered and helped herself to the orange juice. Her grandmother was still sitting at the kitchen table, smoking and drinking and reading her magazine. She looked up as Nest appeared and gave her a wan smile. “Good morning, Nest.”

  “Morning, Gran,” Nest replied. She took out the bread and stuck a couple of slices in the toaster. Thinking of Bennett Scott, she stood at the counter and rolled her shoulders inside her sleep shirt to relieve the lingering ache in her muscles. “Grandpa around?”

  Her grandmother put down the magazine. “He’s gone out. But he wants to talk with you. He says you went into the park last night.”

  Nest hunched her shoulders one final time, then slouched against the counter, her eyes on the toaster. “Yep, he’s right. I did.”

  “What happened?”

  “Same as usual. The feeders got Bennett Scott this time.” She told her grandmother what had happened. “I walked her to the front door and handed her over to Jared. You should have seen his face. He was so scared. He’d looked everywhere for her. He was about to call the police. His mom still wasn’t home. She’s a dead loss, Gran. Can’t we do something about her? It isn’t fair the way she saddles Jared with all the responsibility. Did you know he has to make all the meals for those kids—or almost all? He has to be there for them after school. He has to do everything!”

  Her grandmother took a deep drag on her cigarette. A cloud of smoke enveloped her. “I’ll have a talk with Mildred Walker. She’s involved with the social-services people. Maybe one of them will
drop by for a chat with Enid. That woman checks her brains at the door every time a man walks in. She’s a sorry excuse for a mother, but those kids are stuck with her.”

  “Bennett’s scared of George Paulsen, too. Next thing, he’ll be living there.”

  Her grandmother nodded. “Well, George is good at showing up where there’s a free ride.” Her eyes shifted to find Nest’s, and her small body bent forward over the table. “Sit with me a moment. Bring your toast.”

  Nest gathered up her toast and juice and sat down. She lathered on some raspberry spread and took a bite. “Good.”

  “What are you going to tell your grandfather when he asks you what you were doing in the park?”

  Nest shrugged, tossing back her dark hair. “Same as always. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I decided to go for a run. I tucked the pillows under the covers so he wouldn’t worry.”

  Her grandmother nodded. “Good enough, I expect. I told him to leave you alone. But he worries about you. He can’t stop thinking about your mother. He thinks you’ll end up the same way.”

  They stared at each other in silence. They had been over this ground before, many times. Caitlin Freemark, Nest’s mother, had fallen from the cliffs three months after Nest was born. She had been walking in the park at night. Her state of mind had been uncertain for some time; she had been a very fragile and mercurial young woman. Nest’s birth and the disappearance of the father had left her deeply troubled. There was speculation that she might have committed suicide. No one had ever been able to determine if she had, but the rumors persisted.

  “I’m not my mother,” Nest said quietly.

  “No, you’re not,” her grandmother agreed. There was a distant, haunted look in her sharp, old bird’s eyes, as if she had suddenly remembered something best left forgotten. Her hands fluttered about her drink.

  “Grandpa doesn’t understand, does he?”

  “He doesn’t try.”

  “Do you still talk to him about the feeders, Gran?”

  “He thinks I’m seeing things. He thinks it’s the liquor talking. He thinks I’m an old drunk.”

  “Oh, Gran.”

  “Its been like that for some time, Nest.” Her grandmother shook her head. “It’s as much my fault as it is his. I’ve made it difficult for him, too.” She paused, not wanting to go too far down that road. “But I can’t get him even to listen to me. Like I said, he doesn’t see. Not the feeders, not any of the forest creatures living in the park. He never could see any part of that world, not even when Caitlin was alive. She tried to tell him, your mother. But he thought it was all make-believe, just a young girl’s imagination. He played along with her, pretended he understood. But he would talk to me about it when we were alone, tell me how worried he was about her nonsense. I told him that maybe she wasn’t making it up. I told him maybe he should listen to her. But he just couldn’t ever make himself do that.”

  She smiled sadly. “He’s never understood our connection with the park, Nest. I doubt that he ever will.”

  Nest ate the last bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. Six generations of the women of her family had been in service to the land that made up the park. They were the ones who had worked with Pick to keep the magic in balance over the years. They were the ones who had been born to magic themselves. Gwendolyn Wills, Caroline Glynn, Opal Anders, Gran, her mother, and now her. The Freemark women, Nest called them, though the designation was less than accurate. Their pictures hung in a grouping in the entry, framed against the wooded backdrop of the park. Gran always said that the partnering worked best with the women of the family, because the women stayed while the men too often moved on.

  “Grandpa never talks about the park with me,” Nest remarked quietly.

  “No, I think he’s afraid to.” Her grandmother swallowed down the vodka and orange juice. Her eyes looked vague and watery. “And I don’t ever want you talking about it with him.”

  Nest looked down at her plate. “I know.”

  The old woman reached across the table and took hold of her granddaughter’s wrist. “Not with him, not with anyone. Not ever. There’s good reason for this, Nest. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Nest nodded. “Yep, I do.” She looked up at her grandmother. “But I don’t like it much. I don’t like being the only one.”

  Her grandmother squeezed her wrist tightly. “There’s me. You can always talk to me.” She released her grip and sat back. “Maybe one day your grandfather will be able to talk with you about it, too. But it’s hard for him. People don’t want to believe in magic. It’s all they can do to make themselves believe in God. You can’t see something, Nest, if you don’t believe in it. Sometimes I think he just can’t let himself believe, that believing just doesn’t fit in with his view of things.”

  Nest was silent a moment, thinking. “Mom believed, though, didn’t she?”

  Her grandmother nodded wordlessly.

  “What about my dad? Do you think he believed, too?”

  The old woman reached for her cigarettes. “He believed.”

  Nest studied her grandmother, watched the way her fingers shook as she worked the lighter. “Do you think he will ever come back?”

  “Your father? No.”

  “Maybe he’ll want to see how I’ve turned out. Maybe he’ll come back for that.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  Nest worried her lip. “I wonder sometimes who he is, Gran. I wonder what he looks like.” She paused. “Do you ever wonder?”

  Her grandmother drew in on the cigarette, her eyes hard and fixed on a point in space somewhere to Nest’s left. “No. What would be the point?”

  “He’s not a forest creature, is he?”

  She didn’t know what made her ask such a question. She startled herself by even speaking the words. And the way her grandmother looked at her made her wish she had held her tongue.

  “Why would you ever think that?” Evelyn Freemark snapped, her voice brittle and sharp, her eyes bright with anger.

  Nest swallowed her surprise and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wondered, I guess.”

  Her grandmother looked at her for a long moment without blinking, then turned away. “Go make your bed. Then go out and play with your friends. Cass Minter has called you twice already. Lunch will be here if you want it. Dinner’s at six. Go on.”

  Nest rose and carried her dishes to the sink. No one had ever told her anything about her father. No one seemed to know anything about him. But that didn’t stop her from wondering. She had been told that her mother never revealed his identity, not even to her grandparents. But Nest suspected that Gran knew something about him anyway. It was in the way she avoided the subject—or became angry when he was mentioned. Why did she do that? What did she know that made her so uncomfortable? Maybe that was why Nest persisted in her questions about him, even silly ones like the one she had just asked. Her father couldn’t be a forest creature. If he was, Nest would be a forest creature as well, wouldn’t she?

  “See you later, Gran,” she said as she left the room.

  She went down the hall to her room to shower and dress. There were all different kinds of forest creatures, Pick had told her once. Even if he hadn’t told her exactly what they were. So did that mean there were some made of flesh and blood? Did it mean some were human, like her?

  She stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror looking at herself for a long time before she got into the shower.

  CHAPTER 3

  Old Bob backed his weathered Ford pickup out of the garage, drove up the lane through the wide-boughed hardwoods, and turned onto Sinnissippi Road. In spite of the heat he had the windows rolled down and the air conditioner turned off because he liked to smell the woods. In his opinion, Sinnissippi Park was the most beautiful woods for miles—always had been, always would be. It was green and rolling where the cliffs rose above the Rock River, and the thick stands of shagbark hickory, white oak, red elm, and maple predated the coming of
the white man into Indian territory. Nestled down within the spaces permitted by a thinning of the larger trees were walnut, cherry, birch, and a scattering of pine and blue spruce. There were wildflowers that bloomed in the spring and leaves that turned color in the fall that could make your heart ache. In Illinois, spring and fall were the seasons you waited for. Summer was just a bridge between the two, a three-to-four-month yearly preview of where you would end up if you were turned away from Heaven’s gates, a ruinous time when Mother Nature cranked up the heat as high as it would go on the local thermostat and a million insects came out to feed. It wasn’t like that every summer, and it wasn’t like that every day of every summer, but it was like that enough that you didn’t notice much of anything else. This summer was worse than usual, and today looked to be typical. The heat was intense already, even here in the woods, though not so bad beneath the canopy of the trees as it would be downtown. So Old Bob breathed in the scents of leaves and grasses and flowers and enjoyed the coolness of the shade as he drove the old truck toward the highway, reminding himself of what was good about his hometown on his way to his regular morning discussion of what wasn’t.

  The strike at Midwest Continental Steel had been going on for one hundred and seven days, and there was no relief in sight. This was bad news and not just for the company and the union. The mill employed twenty-five percent of the town’s working population, and when twenty-five percent of a community’s spending capital disappears, everyone suffers. MidCon was at one time the largest independently owned steel mill in the country, but after the son of the founder died and the heirs lost interest, it was sold to a consortium. That produced some bad feelings all by itself, even though one of the heirs stayed around as a nominal part of the company team. The bad feelings grew when the bottom fell out of the steel market in the late seventies and early eighties in the wake of the boom in foreign steel. The consortium underwent some management changes, the last member of the founding family was dismissed, the twenty-four-inch mill was shut down, and several hundred workers were laid off. Eventually some of the workers were hired back and the twenty-four-inch was started up again, but the bad feelings between management and union were by then so deep-seated and pervasive that neither side could bring itself ever again to trust the other.