Page 7 of Succubus

A grudging nod. He’s still talking: “I had a snuggly cat once. She was gray with a white spot. You know what she liked to do?”

Ella wants to know but she doesn’t want to answer.

“She liked to knock things off the counter! Especially fragile glass things.”

“Why?” Ella is forgetting herself already. This damn seductive man.

“She wanted to see them break. Can you believe that? Glass everywhere. I always had to wear shoes inside.”

“We’re supposed to take off shoes in our house.”

“Exactly,” he agrees ruefully. “Can I get this?” He removes the carrier from my grasp, and I wish with savage futility that our skin had brushed. “Maybe we should bring him inside so we can see if he’s okay with the place.”

“He might not be,” warns Ella. “He’s gotten acclimated to our house already.” She heard us using that word a lot in the beginning.

“True,” agrees Joel as I say, “I think Mr. Button is very adaptable, sweetie.”

He says, “Maybe we can all hang out for a minute and see how Mr. Button feels. Let him decide.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Come on in.” He walks carefully so as not to jostle the carrier. His body has a certain excess—it isn’t strictly necessary for him to be this large or strong seeming—and his shoulders apologize for it in their slight rounding. “I’m really glad you and your mom are looking out for this little guy.”

“I’m not—” I start, glad for the opportunity, but Ella is faster.

“Titi’s my aunt,” she says. “My mom is too busy working to homeschool me.”

He glances back, startled, but doesn’t ask about the homeschooling, so I can’t deliver my usual pitch: Our group meets in a nature preserve! We believe that learning happens all the time, not just during school hours! Full disclosure: Learning didn’t seem to be happening much this morning, when Ella flung herself under the table, yelling that she’d rather die than count by nines. Pretty sure that doesn’t happen at school. Or if it does, the kid is probably wearing more than just their underwear and a headband with sequined mouse ears.

We are inside and it smells like sun on wood with a hint of some understated spice, maybe nutmeg or black tea. I like his spare, comfortable style. The leather sofa is worn and buttery. There’s a pilled wool chair, a faded Oriental rug that used to be more orange, a wooden coffee table, a black-andwhite photograph on the wall of a farm fallen into disuse.

“You’re a cellist.” I gesture at my favorite instrument where it rests next to a music stand. This room is practically begging for a woman to give birth in it.

“Just on the side.” He studies me for a second, then sets the carrier down by the coffee table and unfastens the clasp. “You’re okay, buddy. You can come out whenever you’re ready.”

He straightens, remembering something. “I got him some treats.” He goes to find them, and Ella kneels down to talk to Mr. Button, and I’m standing there at the margin of the living room on my cement feet, telling myself to stop it, just stop it right now.

Joel comes back. “You’re a doula,” he informs me.

“You’re a doctor,” I admit.

He smiles. “I saw you at the hospital the other day. The preeclampsia patient.”

“Izzy. Yeah.”

“Izzy,” he repeats, turning the rainbow-colored bag of treats in his hands. “How’s she doing?”

“Good! Um. Thank you.”

He shakes his head, uncomfortable. “No, no.”

“Yes,” I say, making it worse. We look at one another for a long moment. He blinks.

Oh my God.

I’m hauling his shirt over his head, and his glasses come off with it, and I’m shoving him back onto the couch, and—

“Are you going to give him a treat?” asks Ella.