I noticed that she hadn’t said I could meet him. Apparently at this juncture I was only allowed to watch from afar.
“Stuart can come, too,” she added, then frowned. “I mean, if he’s not working and all.”
I made a show of moving slowly through her room. I opened the closet, ran a finger along the top of her bookshelf, then peeked under the bed. No demons. This was a good thing.
“Come on, Mom. Pleeeeeze?”
“Do I have to drive you?”
She shook her head. “Bethany’s picking us up. Me and Mindy and JoAnn, too.”
I considered that. JoAnn was Marissa’s oldest girl, but I tried not to hold that against her. Bethany was the head cheerleader and student-body president. She was a senior and seemed reasonably responsible. What’s more, I knew her mom. I also knew that her parents had bought her a Volvo. Lots of airbags. Lots of safety features. I usually didn’t protest too much when Bethany was driving.
“All right,” I finally said. “You clean the bathrooms, do your laundry, vacuum under your bed,
and
change the cat box, and we have a deal.”
She squealed and threw her hands around my neck. “You’re the best, Mom!”
I hugged her back. The sentiment may have been entirely induced by the fact that she’d just gotten her way, but I still really loved to hear it.
Eight
“Find anything?” I asked, as Eddie plowed through the front door. I waved at Laura, who was idling in the driveway. She waved back, then pulled out as I followed Eddie inside.
“Not a damn thing,” he said.
“Well I found a demon in the kitchen,” I whispered, cocking my head so that he followed me in there. I brought him up to speed quickly—about the demon and the mysterious key—then asked if he had any theories about either.
“Not a one,” he said. He looked at me, his face tight with concentration. I held my breath, wondering if he’d had an epiphany; if he’d remembered something from his past that would shed some light on this whole freaky situation.
“Got any of those mini-corn dogs left?” he finally asked. “The ones you fed to the boy the other day? I’m so hungry I could eat the rear end of a rhinoceros.”
I sighed, then turned toward the kitchen. “Watch Timmy,” I said. “I’ll go heat some up for you.” Clearly the only flashes of brilliance I could rely on here were my own. Unfortunately, I wasn’t flashing, either.
While the corndogs were heating, I made an errand list. The bank was first—I wanted to check out that key, and now that Allie was distracted, I had the perfect opportunity.
After that, my list delved away from intrigue and into the mundane. Since my trip to the grocery store had been cut short, I still needed to make another run. A quick glance into the refrigerator and pantry revealed that we still needed all manner of dairy products (we were nearly out of milk and the cheddar cheese was starting to sprout fuzz) along with the basic life staples supplied by Chef Boyardee and Kellogg’s.
The pile of laundry in the utility room was threatening to reach the ceiling, but I’d pawned part of that disaster off on my daughter. And while the house needed a thorough cleaning, I decided that my investigations into the demonic were much more important. (I love it when my justifications for avoiding housework are actually legitimate.)
I tapped the pen against the pad, trying to think what else I needed to do while I was out. Timmy needed new clothes since he’d outgrown everything he owned. For that matter, I realized that I did, too. Need new clothes, that is. The museum party required a nice dress. Without drool stains or smears of ketchup that had only partly come out in the wash. Unfortunately, much of my wardrobe had that particular element of toddler chic.
I might have something in my closet that would work, but I didn’t bother looking. I was in the mood to splurge. Since my husband works for the county—and since I have two kids who need new outfits about every seven seconds—our discretionary clothes budget tends to be allocated first toward the kids, then to Stuart (who legitimately needs suits, ties, and shirts with clean collars). Anything leftover trickles down to me. Usually the trickle barely pays for a T-shirt at Kohl’s.
Today, though, money wasn’t a problem. I’d been back on
Forza
’s official payroll for almost three months now, and my monthly stipend was deposited directly into a brokerage account held for me in trust and in secret. We’re not talking a lot of money—I could probably make more selling Pampered Chef products—but I didn’t return to
Forza
to get rich.
Although I intended that the money go to the kids someday, at the moment, I figured a few hundred for a decent dress and shoes wouldn’t detrimentally impact their futures. And it would totally boost my self-esteem. It’s one thing to wear Kmart couture to a cocktail party being held in my living room. It’s an entirely different matter to forgo Donna Karan for the latest Jaclyn Smith duds while mingling with the rich on their own turf.
(And if you’re worried that Stuart would be suspicious, the answer is no. The man is entirely clueless as to the cost of women’s clothing. I could tell him that a pair of Jimmy Choo sandals costs $49.99, and he’d not only believe me, he’d be shocked by the expense.
Men.
)
I glanced at the clock. One-fifteen. Our bank closes at three on Saturday, so I assumed most of the others in town did, too. If I hurried, I thought I would be able to check a few places before they locked up for the weekend. (I hoped the key would open a safe-deposit box at my own bank, but I couldn’t imagine being so lucky.) After that, I was heading to Nordstrom.
I shoved my to-do list into my purse, tucked the key into my wallet, grabbed my car keys, then headed into the living room to say good-bye to my brood.
I found Eddie asleep in the recliner, the
Herald
’s real-estate section open on his lap, and a stubby pencil loose in his hand. The television was still blaring, but Timmy wasn’t anywhere to be found.
“Tim!”
Beside me, Eddie snorted and shifted, but he didn’t wake up. From upstairs, I heard Allie call down, “Did you say something?”
“I’m looking for Timmy,” I said.
“Not here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Duh. I’m in the bathroom. Scrubbing the stupid toilet, remember?” She didn’t sound happy about it, but at least she was doing it. “Hold on, I’ll check his room.”
I could hear her steps in the hallway as she moved in that direction. Meanwhile, I checked the den and Stuart’s study. Nothing. I also checked all the doors. Everything was locked up tight. So where was my kid?
Honestly, I wasn’t
too
worried. It’s a big house, and we’d taken down the baby gate a few weeks ago, so Tim had the run of the place. Still, the whole demon-on-the-prowl thing made me a little nervous. I wanted to know where my boy was, and I wanted to know now.
“Timmy!” I yelled, this time making Eddie jump.
“What? Who? What!”
“I’m looking for Tim,” I said.
“Right there in front of the—oh.” He dropped his outstretched finger. “That little one’s a pistol.”
“Mmm.” I tried again. “Timmy! You answer me right now, or no television for the rest of the day!”
That
worked. Which probably says something about bad habits and my parenting skills, but I wasn’t inclined to think about that.
“But I
want
TV!” The little voice came from upstairs, followed by the patter of footsteps and then a much more concerned yelp of “Mommy! I WANT TV!”
“He’s here,” Allie shouted unnecessarily. I heard her make shooshing noises, and then, “Oh, man. You’re in for it, squirt.”
Since I didn’t like the sound of that, I took the stairs two at a time and met them in the hallway, just outside of the master bedroom. Sure enough, Mom was not a happy camper. There my little boy stood—his mouth completely rimmed in bright red lipstick and his eyes so encircled by purple eyeshadow that he looked like a raccoon on an acid trip.
“Timmy,”
I wailed. I checked my watch. I
really
didn’t need this.
“Pretty!” he said.
“I thought Eddie was watching him,” Allie said. “It’s not my fault! I was cleaning.” She held up her rubber-encased hand as if to demonstrate the point.
I just sighed. “Come on,” I said, holding out a hand to Timmy.
“The Wiggles?”
he asked.
“Don’t push your luck, sport. We need to get you cleaned up, and then we have to go run some errands.”
Honestly, I’d rather shove bamboo under my fingernails than take Timmy clothes shopping with me, but I didn’t see any other choice. Allie was going to be gone before I could get back, Laura was tethered to her garage until we passed the demon off to Father Ben, and Eddie was no longer on my list of approved babysitters.
I told myself it would be okay. I’d pretty much saved the world just a few months ago. Surely I could manage to buy one little dress despite having a two-year-old attached to my hip.
Couldn’t I?
I didn’t let myself think too much about that, though, since I was a little bit afraid of the answer. Instead, I focused on wiping the makeup off Timmy’s face and hoped the smell of cold cream wouldn’t warp his masculine sensibilities.
“Funny!” he said, looking at his Ponds-slathered mug in the mirror.
“Hysterical,” I acknowledged as I quickly wiped the bulk of the makeup away. I gave him a washcloth and let him help (“help” being a relative term). In the end, I had a sweet-smelling little boy with very smooth skin, and a slight hint of blue around the eyes. His lips looked like they might have been sunburned (when Maybelline says long-lasting, they mean it), and I feared he might randomly strike a CoverGirl pose.
Still, it was good enough, especially since we didn’t have time for a full-blown bath. I hoisted him up on my hip and hurried down the stairs, calling out to Allie that we were leaving and that she should lock up behind her.
She grunted in reply, and I figured that was about the best I could do. At least I was getting clean toilets out of the deal.
Five minutes later we’d said good-bye to Eddie, Timmy was strapped into his car seat, and I was back in the living room desperately trying to find Boo Bear. I managed to locate him under the sofa, then returned to the van in triumph.
Timmy, who’d been whimpering softly, immediately changed his attitude, looking at me with complete adoration. God, but I love that kid.
“We ready?” I asked, buckling myself in.
“Ready!” he howled, shoving a little fist in the air. “To infinity, and beyond!” he added, which made our errands sound a whole lot more exciting than I anticipated. Frankly, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
Stuart And l have a joint checking and savings account at First Mutual on California Avenue. We also have a safe-deposit box there for the kids’ birth certificates, the house deed, life insurance policies. The usual. And since I’m the one who usually goes to the box, I also knew that our shiny gold key didn’t look a thing like the silver one that had mysteriously appeared on my doorstep.
Even so, I decided to try there first. The tellers know me and, for all I knew, maybe gold keys signified the better boxes. Or maybe the bank had access to some sort of booklet that identifies safe-deposit box keys. I wasn’t completely optimistic about this plan, but I figured it was worth ten minutes.
Eleven minutes later, I wasn’t so sure. My favorite teller, Nancy, had no clue, and even the manager on duty couldn’t help. “I could make some calls,” she offered.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I don’t want to be any trouble.” Mostly, I just didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself. Not that I was doing anything illegal, untoward, or even strange. But there was still something very cloak and dagger about the whole situation.
Nancy handed Timmy a watermelon-flavored Dum-Dum, and we went back the way we came, my little boy happily sucking on the lollipop. I was trying to remember what other banks were in the area when I heard a familiar voice call my name.
I turned around, searching the lobby, and finally saw Cutter rising from a couch near a sign that read
Loans.
Cutter— actually Sean Tyler—is my
sensei.
That is, he’s my martial-arts instructor, training partner, and friend. He doesn’t know my secrets, but he’s astute enough to know I have them.
He’s also training Allie, Mindy, and Laura, all of whom I want in fighting shape. To my infinite pride, Allie’s definitely at the front of that pack. Even more, she’s kept up with the training despite the addition of cheerleading and a bunch of other extracurriculars to her schedule.
I like to think it’s because she’s good and wants to stay fit. More realistically, I think it’s because Cutter is a particularly fine-looking male specimen. And my daughter is fourteen and boy crazy.
I am nothing if not a realist.
As soon as he saw Cutter, Timmy jerked free of my hand and trotted over, holding out his candy for Cutter to inspect.
“Looks good,” Cutter said.
“You can have some,” said my son, displaying just how much he liked my martial-arts instructor. For Timmy, the sharing of candy marks the absolute highest level of affection.
“Thanks, kiddo, but I’ll pass.”
Timmy looked confused—how could anyone say no to a Dum-Dum?—then popped the thing back into his mouth, apparently realizing that since the invitation was turned down, there was more candy left for him. He sucked hard, his slurping noises underscoring my conversation.
“What are you doing here on a Saturday?” I asked. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”
“Lunch break. My landlord wants to sell, so I either have to buy the dojo or find a new location.” He waved, indicating the loan department. “So here I am, wasting another lunch hour filling out small-business loan applications.”
I made sympathetic—and sincere—noises. If Cutter moved, I was going to be severely inconvenienced. His studio was located in a strip mall right at the entrance to our subdivision, less than five minutes away from my house. Even better, there was a 7-Eleven right next door, which meant that I could bone up on kip ups and jump kicks, pick up milk and bread, and be back home in less than the time it took for Allie to get dressed for school in the morning.