Paul sat with his elbows on his knees and a full cup of coffee between his two hands. Great, I thought, just what I needed, Paul spilling coffee on my mother’s rug. “I don’t know,” he said, “Lisa kept saying she’d never hurt me.”
“She’s a Malignant One,” I reminded him. “It doesn’t matter what she says.”
“Yeah, I know. But sometimes you read about Malignant Ones helping people. Picking up some individual and, you know, just doing things for him.”
“You mean like promotions?”
“Well, yeah. Lisa said she loved me, you know.” Before I could say anything he rushed on, “Sometimes you see something on TV, about some great statesman, or billionaire, who dies and they discover a Malignant One helped him his whole life and that’s how he became so rich or important. And obviously the Malignant One didn’t harm him. It helped him. You know, Benign Ones won’t do that. They’ll help you in some crisis, if they feel like it, but they won’t really take hold like that. Malignant Ones—”
“First of all,” I said, “you don’t know what happens to these great figures after they die.”
“Come on,” Paul said, “you don’t believe that old superstition about the dead suffering endless torture, do you?”
“That’s not the point. You just don’t know. And what about all the stories of people who make deals with helpers and suffer horrible agonies in this life? Like last month, on 20/20. Did you see that?”
He shook his head.
I said, “Some woman in Arkansas summoned a Ferocious One to save her from bankruptcy. She ended up in the hospital, vomiting crude oil for two weeks without stopping. Do you want something like that to happen to you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Paul. Listen to me. Malignant Ones are not good for people. Okay? You got that?”
He smiled. “Sure. Okay. It’s just that she always said—”
“Paul?”
“All right. Okay.” He put down the coffee cup and came over to hug me. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re the greatest kid cousin anyone ever had.”
“We’re going to take care of you,” I said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
For most of the thirteen days everything went pretty well. We had some small incidents. A couple of times when my folks or I answered the phone we heard a noise and then whoever (or whatever) it was hung up. Once, Paul picked up the phone and though he said nothing he started to sweat. My mother saw it first and shouted for my father who ran up and grabbed the receiver out of Paul’s hand. After that, we forbade Paul to answer the phone. And several times people came to the door, with prizes they said, or government business (my father got a jury summons; he told the man to put it in the mailbox), even a box supposedly to make us part of the TV rating system. But nothing actually happened. And then, on a Sunday morning, my grandmother—or at least someone who looked and sounded just like her—showed up at the door.
“Mom!” my mother said. “Um—hi.” Grandma never just shows up. And she never goes anywhere before three o’clock.
“Well?” Grandma said. “Isn’t anybody going to invite me in?”
I ran up before Mom could say anything. “Make her say her name,” I said. Behind “Grandma” I could see a car that looked just like hers. It even had the dent on the back fender and the Sacred Wildlife Fund sticker on the side window.
While Mom stood there looking confused and unhappy, Grandma said, “Will somebody tell me what’s going on? Why can’t I just come in?” By now Daddy had joined us, and when I looked back I could see Paul standing in the kitchen doorway. “Paul,” Grandma said, “what are you doing here? Michael? Why is everyone acting so funny?”
“Say your name,” I told her. “Say ‘My name is’ and then your name.”
She laughed nervously. “Ellen, what are you talking about?” To Mom, she said, “Really, June, this is not very funny.”
Daddy ordered, “Say it. Say ‘My name is’ and then your name.”
Mom stared at the floor as her “mother” said, “June, I don’t know what’s going on with Ellen, but Mike too? And you? Are you going to take part in this silliness?”
Half crying, Mom said, very softly, “It’s part…part of a blessing enactment? You have to…For the house. Everyone has to say their name. Please.” She repeated, “Please?”
“Well, I’m just sorry,” Grandma said. “I thought I was welcome in my own daughter’s house. Obviously, I was wrong.” She turned and headed for her car.
While my father closed the door, my mother stood crying, with her arms crossed over her chest in an X. “I can’t live like this,” she said. “I just can’t stand it.”
Daddy said, “Honey, I’m sorry.” He reached out for her, but she twisted away. He added, “You did that really well. I’m proud of you.”
“Don’t patronize me!” she shouted at him. “I don’t want to do really well. I want a normal life.” She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.
She was in there less than a minute when she started to shriek. Daddy and I came running, but the door was locked. “Honey,” Daddy shouted, “open the door.” A sickening smell was washing over us and I suddenly realized my sneakers were getting wet. I looked down to see brown water coming under the door. Mom’s screams died down as she fumbled open the lock. Inside, sewage was pouring out of the toilet—over the bowl, out the top of the tank, through cracks in the sides—“Make it stop!” Mom cried. Holding his hand over his face, Daddy sloshed through to the main valve. Looking back at me, he said, “Ellen, get out of here. Run.” The handle came off in his hands. “Shit,” he said.
I ran, but only to the basement where I shut off the main valve, and then back to the kitchen for the pump bottle. On the way, I could hear Paul, crying or something, but I couldn’t pay any attention. When I got back to the bathroom my folks were stuffing things down the toilet bowl. Fighting not to vomit, I sprayed the toilet, the floor and the air, my parents, myself, all the while repeating the Standard Formula, as well as our own enactment spells and the ones the team had taught us. The flooding stopped. We all leaned against the walls, gasping.
“How am I going to clean this up?” Mom said. “How can I clean this up?” I went into the living room and called Alison Birkett’s office. When the answering service came on I told the woman “My name is Ellen Pierson. I need to speak with Alison Birkett right away. It’s an emergency.”
When the return call came I grabbed it before the first ring had even ended. “This is Alison Birkett,” she said.
I took a breath and told her the story, trying to make it complete and concise. I’d been practising while I waited for her call.
Ms Birkett asked a few questions and then she said, “My very deep apologies, Ms Pierson. I will send a clean-up team immediately. If it serves as any consolation, I suspect that this attack came as a last ditch effort by the enemy. Frustrated rage.”
“Last ditch?” I said.
“Do you think you and your family can come to my office tomorrow morning?”
“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
“Good. It may not seem like it in the context, but I do have good news. 9 o’clock?”
“I’ll tell my parents.”
“Fine. An escort will arrive at your house tomorrow at eight. Please be sure to convey my apologies to your parents and tell them that the clean-up team will be there within the hour.”
“I won’t forget,” I said.
“I’m sure you won’t,” Ms Birkett said. “You’ve done very well, Ms Pierson. Very well indeed. I look forward to meeting you.”