Page 93 of Succubus

“Thank you very much!” He breezes by me, calling cheerfully, “Hello, Ella child!”

“Hi, Al!” Ella’s two favorite men are a murderous angel and a lethal pain demon. This is what happens when you’re raised without a loving father figure in the home, apparently.

While Al is taking his time in the bathroom, Molly writes that she’s at the chiropractor, but her husband is there with the kids if we want to go over.

“We’re going to Sinai’s,” I announce. “You can finish your math later.”

Ella jumps up.

“Would you mind very much if I ate some of your food although you’re leaving?” Al asks, reappearing. “I am not sure where in this area to catch a fish. . . .”

“Yeah, fine, just open the fridge. Help yourself.” I can’t seem to locate the polite register of my personality, the instinct to be nice.

His eyes widen. “I am permitted to eat anything in your frigid box?”

Actually, frigid makes a little more sense than the real word, come to think of it. “Yup. Go ahead.”

He looks deeply conflicted. “I should come with you.” He taps his fingers on the counter, then taps them together in a fast spidery motion. “I am sworn to protect you.”

“This has nothing to do with the angel,” I hiss, embarrassed that I have to explain myself to him. Ella yelps at the same time, “From what? Why do we need to be protected?”

“You’re scaring her,” I whisper, leaning forward to loom over him. My mood is its own creature, rampaging.

“I am so sorry!” he cries. “I have frightened this poor child whose mind is too young to contemplate the wonder of her death.”

“Al!”

Ella gasps. “Wonder of my death?”

“Child.” Al reaches toward her. “Death is only silence. There is nothing to be so afraid of. It’s perfectly natural to fear, of course, but— ”

“Al!” I snap.

“I am saying another wrong thing.” He looks crestfallen, his mouth twisting with regret. I doubt he finds me delightful now.

“Why is he saying I’m going to die?” Ella splutters. She’s standing with her rainbow boots in her hands.

“All of us die, except for immortals.”

“Come here,” I say very sternly. Al follows me obediently into the living room, where I flick through the iPad until I find a particularly colorful game. “I want you to try this.”

“Not dots?” He sounds a little disappointed.

“Even more fun.” I hurry back to the kitchen, toss some cheese on a plate, bring it over, slap it down on the coffee table.

He sniffs, intrigued, crams a piece into his mouth. His eyes bulge with joy as he follows the exuberant bludgeoning monkeys on the screen. He’s already reaching for the iPad. I show him how to capture the golden banana before it gets smushed. He tries, gasps when the banana is pulverized with a loud squish.

“I have failed!”

“Nah, you’re fine. Try again. You’ll get points—see?” I show him where they accumulate, vibrating, in the corner.

“Points!” He seems impressed. “I hope I will get them.”

“Yeah, you will. Just keep going.”

He nods many times.

I drag Ella out the door, holding her pink coat with the winged rabbits on it, and off we go to our playdate at Molly’s idyllic half a farm in Hopewell, with the garden that stretches for whole regular-sized backyards. It’s been threatening rain since dawn, and the sky hangs moodily over the trampoline as the girls bounce and I stand there in the grass looking at my phone. The weather seems pent up, repressed—a day that was taught not to touch itself, that release is a sin.