Book of Souls

He took the bottle from her and poured. “I don’t recall.” The room was moving; he felt like a piece of driftwood on a choppy lake. He was out of practice, but he could get used to serious drinking again, no problem. It felt good, and he wanted the feeling to last. He could think of worse times to be numb.

“When I was little,” she said with a faraway lilt, “I used to take the book from the library and lie right here by the fire and play with it. I always knew there was something special about it. Something magic. All those names and dates and strange languages. It boggles the mind.”

“Yes it does.”

“Have you come to grips with it? I mean, after living with it for a time?”

“Maybe on an intellectual level. Beyond that, I don’t know.”

She paused, then said emphatically, almost defiantly, “I don’t find it frightening.”

He didn’t have a chance to respond because she was in too much of a hurry to finish her thought.

“Knowing there’s a predestined moment of dying. In some ways it’s comforting. All the running around, worrying about the future. What should we eat, what should we drink, what kind of airbags should we have in our cars, everything, ad nauseam. Maybe it’s best to just live our lives and stop worrying.”

He smiled at her, and said, “How old did you say you were?”

She crinkled her forehead as if to say, please don’t patronize me. “My parents were always cross with me because I never took religion seriously. The Cantwells are famous old Catholics. I liked the Latin bits, but I always found the rituals and ceremonies painfully irrelevant. Perhaps, in the morning, I’ll reconsider.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I’m knackered, so you must be absolutely paralytic.”

“I could sleep.” He finished his drink. Then, given their newly forged bond he felt comfortable enough to ask, “Do you mind if I bring the bottle with me?”

In New York, it was the Phillip’s bedtime. After his bath, Nancy lay on the bed with her infant beside her. He was powdered and diapered on a soft fluffy towel. He was placidly playing with a plush toy, clutching at it, putting the bear’s snout in his mouth. She opened her cell phone and reread Will’s last message. Arrived safely. Home soon. Love U. She sighed and typed a reply. Then she stroked Phillip’s soft, round belly making him giggle, and kissed him on both cheeks.

To Will, the long, upstairs hallway was swaying like a suspension bridge in a canopy jungle. It was a pleasant, free sensation, and he felt light on his feet, as if the law of gravity was about to be suspended. He carefully followed Isabelle as she tiptoed as not to wake the old man. He wasn’t sure, but she seemed to be under the demon’s influence too-she was weaving around invisible obstacles and midway down the corridor she brushed the wall with her shoulder. She opened his bedroom door with a whispered flourish. “Here you are.”

“Here I am.”

It was dark and the quarter moon shining through the lace curtains turned the furniture into black-and-gray shapes. “You’ll never find the light,” she said.

He followed her in, watching her slender silhouette against a window. Dormant circuits in his brain started tripping, the ones dealing with booze and women. He heard himself saying, “You don’t have to turn the light on.”

He knew that was all it would take. He sensed that her pump was primed by the drink, the excitement of discovery, the isolation of the country.

They were on the bed. Clothes were being shed in the once-in-a-lifetime way that marked first times. Cool, dry flesh became warm and damp. The heavy bed frame creaked at its joints, and the high-pitched squeals of wood on wood played counterpoint to their low grunts. He wasn’t sure how long they were taking or if he was doing well. He only knew that it felt good.

When they were done the room was completely quiet until she said, “Wasn’t expecting that.” Then, “Did you bring the bottle?”

It was safely standing on the floor by the bed. “I don’t have a glass.”

“Doesn’t matter.” She took a swig, gave it back to him, and he did the same.

His head was swimming. “Look, I…”

She was already off the bed, reaching in the dark for her things, saying a quick sorry, when she brushed her hands against his privates, fishing for her knickers. “What time should I wake you?” she asked.

He was taken aback, unused to being on the receiving end of casual sex. “Whatever works for you,” he said. “Not too late.”

“We’ll have a cooked breakfast, then we’ll get on with it. I can’t find my other sock-now can I turn the light on?”

He closed his eyes protectively at the flare and felt a peck on the lips, then squinted at her naked retreat, her clothes bundled under one arm. The door closed, and he was alone.