Chapter 22: Screwtape's challenge

Screwtape picked up a small, black plastic object that fit neatly into the palm of his hand. He pushed a tiny button and began speaking. “Miss Caliente, a letter: ‘To the Underlord of Earth, Most Ignoble Potentate Lower Regions, in Charge of Operations for the Eastern District, United States of America: Your Lowliness: Highest regards for your superb management of resources in the Eastern District. The Underworld has a true champion in your person. Your efficiency emboldens me to make inquiry regarding a subject residing in your realm. The name is Mary Parker, female, 17, runaway. Currently residing in Centerville, Clayton County, Alabama. Any further pertinent information you can provide would be greatly ap-’ no, just make that ‘appreciated.’ Let me see a draft as soon as possible, Miss Caliente.”
“Miss Caliente, call a meeting for 4 p.m.”
---
Joe's blood was boiling. His whole body felt on fire. Mary was all he could think about; the way her lips felt, hard against his; her body soft beneath her blouse and slacks. Study was out of the question. He couldn't concentrate for more than five seconds. He had to be with her; had to have her. He couldn't wait any longer. He picked up the phone. “Mary?”
“Yes, Joe?” The sweet sound of her voice raced through him, churning.
“Can I see you?”
“Sure. Come on over.”
Joe fairly sprinted for the door.
“Joe! Where are you off to?” his mother wanted to know.
“Out.”
“What about your studies? You have school--” Isabell Langston's words were cut off by the slamming of the door.
Miz Gryder was sitting in the kitchen shelling peas when she heard the knock on the door. She just started to rise when Mary zipped down the hall and flew to the door. The young lovers locked lips in a hot embrace before saying a word. Miz Gryder sat back down to her peas, shaking her head and muttering about “in my day” and “properly chaperoned.”
Joe and Mary finally extricated themselves, allowing a few inches distance between their bodies. Then they locked fingers and went off down the sidewalk, swinging their hands to and fro, wordlessly content.
Miz Gryder watched them go, then set about canning the peas. She canned until it became dark, then she prepared supper. No Mary. Miz Gryder muttered something under her breath. She grew tired of waiting, and sat down to eat by herself. She put Mary's supper in the oven to stay warm. Miz Gryder sat down and started working the crossword puzzle. She grew impatient with the puzzle and set it aside. Still no Mary.
Finally, Miz Gryder grew weary of waiting. She took the food out of the oven and put it in the refrigerator. Then she went to bed. She did not go to sleep.
---
The chief demons were assembled in Screwtape's meeting room; all the faithless workers in the service of His Most Awful Lowliness, each in charge of a district of the United States. They stood behind their respective chairs, looking toward the door where they expected him to make his entrance. Their countenances reflected a mixture of apprehension, fear, greed and defiance.
Screwtape decided to let them wait. The tactic not only showed everybody who was in charge, it added to his underlings' anxiety, thus lessening any tendency they might have to challenge him.
“Gentlemen,” Screwtape began, “…and I use the term loosely (moderate amused murmurs), we have a lot of ground to cover, so I'll get right to the point: We're losing. Let's be clear: We're not just losing, we're getting our heads served up on platters; we're being disemboweled, demolished, OBLITERATED!” Screwtape's voice started menacingly low and increased in volume until he screamed the last word. The devils were taken aback by the suddenness of Screwtape's temper. The hair on the backs of their necks tingled. They were cowed.
“WHAT do YOU plan to do about it?”

Screwtape waited a full five minutes for an answer, while his fierce gaze skewered each one of his underlings in turn. Five minutes are five eternities, even for chief demons who have lived thousands of years, when they are five silent minutes under the boss' glare, and the boss is expecting you to come up with a brilliant suggestion to win souls for the underworld - and you have nothing. You wrack your brain - nothing. Sweat pops out under your arms, on your forehead; nothing. You squirm in your chair; nothing! The boss is looking directly at you. His eyes burn. His lips curl in a contemptuous sneer. He sucks his teeth, making an obscene smacking sound. In the next instant he could be across the table; his talons deep in your side; your head deep in his throat. His terrible teeth. You strive to think of an idea, but terror drives every thought out of your mind.
“Well?” Screwtape intensified his gaze. “Anybody got an idea? ANYthing?” Then another long silence. It dragged on; the torture dragged on. Finally, Screwtape gave a derisive snort. “That's what I thought. That's just what I expected. Nothing. NOTHING! You are all WORTHLESS! I could make an afternoon's light snack of all of you - if I didn't fear indigestion! Screwtape laughed a vulgar laugh.
“I suppose it's up to me. I have to do your work for you, as usual. Well, I'm used to it. Let's get on with it. What's our best weapon against the Bully?”
Screwtape waited for an answer.
His Over Demons shuffled nervously. No one wanted to be the first to speak. It was better to have someone else offer a suggestion the Chief would shoot down. The risk wasn't worth the potential gain. The Chief never approved of anybody's ideas but his own. Even if you happened to guess exactly what he was thinking, he would change his original idea, just to make you look foolish. Well, they didn't want to play that game.
“I'm waiting.”
Still nothing.
“So nobody's got any imagination. Nothing new there. Nobody even knows standard operating procedure? Come on - it's not a trick question - what is the one thing the Enemy gave mankind that we use so effectively against him?”
“Sex.”
“Who said that?” Screwtape wanted to know. His fierce glance went around the table. Every demon was trying to avoid his gaze.
“Of course. Every Saturday night, people all over the world are getting shot or stabbed because of copulation, or the lack thereof.
“And what's second? I won't tax your miniscule brains - it's drugs. The two working together is our most potent weapon against the Enemy. Problem is, drugs often diminish the libido, so even if the barriers are lowered, sexual activity is down. The two sometimes cancel each other out.
“We need to take the next step. There's not much we can do with sex. The Enemy made up the rules on that one; all we can do is encourage excesses - which we're pretty good at. But that's not going to take us to the next level. We've maxed out our productivity in that area.
“So where do we go from here? Where can we increase efficiency?
“The answer is obvious. Our best weapon is operating at maximum efficiency. That leaves number two: Drugs.
“Every few years, we come out with newer, more powerful, more addictive drugs - but we've still got just a tiny fraction of the market potential. We need something better - the ultimate drug - a drug so sweet, so delicious, so enticing the beasts will prefer it to sex; so powerful it will overcome sex - and even - Screwtape paused for effect - even GOD himself!”
The Over Demons gasped. The shock of hearing the name of the Enemy filled them with terror and excruciating pain. One of the Underworld's most important rules was never to speak the name of the Enemy. Their eyes riveted on Screwtape, who through centuries of practice and superior willpower was able to hide his own pain.
It was worth it, Screwtape thought as he swallowed his pain. Now he had their undivided attention, respect - and more importantly, their fear.
“Yes,” Screwtape continued as if nothing had happened; as if the terrible uttering of the Enemy's name had been offhand, a matter of no concern or discomfort to him. “Yes. What we need is a new drug. It must be all-consuming; more important to the humans than breathing. We have to make it so sweet that it will be irresistible. We have to raise the addiction rates; no more paltry ten or fifteen percent - we need to raise the bar, gentlemen. I want some bold goal-setting. I want 30 percent of the population addicted after two years; 50 percent after five - after 10 years, I want every man, woman and child under its power - and ours!
The room fell silent. Screwtape was staring at a room full of dumbstruck demons. They knew Screwtape had a reputation as a tough leader, but this was madness. The entire world addicted to a single drug? It was inconceivable.
Humans are so fickle. You can't even get everybody in one small town to agree on the best hamburger joint. The demons had seen drugs of all types wax and wane. For a time this drug would be in fashion, then another would come along, promising more sweets for the Boss. But never did the addiction rate rise very high, including all known drugs, alcohol and tobacco. The whole world hooked on one drug? Evidently, Screwtape has lost his mind.
“I know what you're thinking,” Screwtape told his mute overlings. “You all think I'm crazy.”
Screwtape shrugged off a respectful murmuring and shaking of heads.
“Don't humor me. You all think I'm crazy. I'm not. We - that is you - (he pointed his bony finger all around the table) will come up with this drug. You will come up with this drug within one year. Exactly one year from today at this time, we will meet here at this table. I will share lunch with whoever has come up with the new drug. The rest of you, of course, will PROVIDE lunch!”
Screwtape licked his lips and grinned an evil grin. “Of course, if no one comes with a new drug, (Screwtape wrinkled his face into a mock sad frown) I shall have to dine alone” - Screwtape burped a vulgur burp.
“And don't think you can escape punishment by coming up with a drug that doesn't meet my goals. We will put your drug to the test. If it fails, you fail - and I eat.
“I have decided to call this grand campaign 'Project Sugarloaf.' I'm tired of half a loaf - I want it all. And I will get it all - or I will get YOU all.”
Screwtape scowled around the table. The faces of his Over Demons were pale with terror.
“That's it, gentlemen,” he said briskly. “Be back here in one year. Attendance at the meeting is, of course, mandatory.”
The district managers for United States affairs slowly filed out of Screwtape's office. At the door, Glubwart turned, mustered his courage and spoke.
“Master?”
“Well?” Screwtape demanded harshly.
“I'm still puzzled and troubled about the Mary Parker affair. She doesn't fit any known pattern. I've tried everything. She always responds with unexpected behavior. I'm at my wit's end.”
Screwtape was barely listening. “At your wit's end - well, at least you didn't have to journey very far, my dimwitted friend.”
“I only bother to mention it, because I sense something bigger may be happening, sir,” Glubwart groveled.
“You think the Enemy is planning a major offensive in Clayton County, Alabama?! Don't make me laugh,” Screwtape scoffed. “Get out. You have more important things to think about than one neurotic girl in a backwater town. You need to come up with a drug that will save your worthless hide!”
Glubwart started to object, but the red fury in Screwtape's eyes cowed him. He slunk out the door.

Chapter 21: Trial and truth

Joe floated home without once touching the ground. He almost missed the turn into his street. Everything seemed new, unfamiliar; somehow brighter; silvery.
The next few weeks went by in a blur. Every day after school, Joe picked up Mary at Miz Gryder's. They took long walks by the river. They sat on a log that had washed up on the bank during a flood, and talked for hours, about nothing. Every Friday they had a date. It was always the same; supper at the City Café (Mary didn't want to go to Hungry Jim's; that didn't seem strange to Joe; she worked there - why would she want to spend her off time there?), go to the movie, then afterwards, an ice cream at the Creamery, then back home. They never went to the train trestle again.
Joe's parents couldn't miss the change in their son. “When are we going to get to meet your girl? Don't you think you're spending too much time with one girl? You're too young to be getting serious. There are lots of other girls, you know. What about your grades? I haven't seen you studying much, lately.”
By far the most constant and insistent demand was for Joe to have Mary come over for dinner with the family. Finally, Joe asked Mary if she would come, but Mary delayed. She never said no, but she always seemed to have some reason not to come, or simply avoided answering his invitations directly.
Isabell Langston would not be denied. “Joe, you simply MUST bring your young girl to dinner. Are you hiding something from us? Are you ashamed of her? Are you doing something you shouldn't? Well then, bring her here and let us meet her.”
There was simply no getting around it. The date was set. Mary felt as if she were awaiting execution.
What to wear? Mary had to make a good first impression. She had no money for a proper wardrobe. Three pairs of blue jeans and half a dozen blouses were all she could afford on her salary. That was impossible; she couldn't let Miz Langston see her dressed like that. Suddenly she had an inspiration. She would use her waitress uniform as a starter. The uniform was a simple pair of black slacks and white blouse. At least the slacks were better than blue jeans. She added a dash of color with a red sash at the waist and a yellow scarf around her neck. She would have given 30 years of her life for a string of fake pearls.
Mary curled her hair into short wave and applied a minimum of makeup. She looked in the mirror and was aghast. She reached out to pick up the phone and tell Joe something, anything. She was impossible.
No. It would have to do. Let Miz Langston see her. Then it would all be over. Miz Langston would make sure that Joe never saw her again.
Waiting for Joe to pick her up, Mary experienced time with a unique texture that was almost tangible. Time seemed to stand still, it was moving so slowly. And then suddenly, it was there. It was like waiting for the big final exam; waiting and waiting, then discovering at the last minute that you hadn't reviewed a most important chapter.
It rushed in and caught her unprepared.
Wonderful Joe was standing there, beaming. She was climbing into the car. They were driving. Down the shady, oak overhanging street, turning left for a short block, then right onto Three Notch toward town, across the railroad at the bottom of the gully, up the hill then left on Eight Mile Creek towards the shirt factory, on, on to the manicured lawns in the fine section at the edge of the city limits. Down another oak-cool shaded lane to stop in front of the wooden columns and long front porch of the Langston home.
It was a large, one-story, wooden structure; unpretentious, but dignified. It was not an Old South mansion, but rather one of the more unassuming houses in the genteel neighborhood. There were chimneys on both ends of the house, but the fireplaces had been bricked up long ago, when the more convenient gas furnace was installed. The long porch had the usual swing, glider and rocking chairs, and the railings were lined with potted plants. All in all, it was not that much different from Miz Gryder's house.
They went up the cement steps onto the front porch. Joe opened the door, and a faint smell of magnolia mixed with floor wax wafted out. The hardwood floor creaked discretely as they walked into the parlor.
“Mom,” Joe called out. Mary jumped at the sudden sound. “Don't be nervous,” Joe said, and squeezed her hand.
Miz Langston appeared from a hallway dressed in her Azalea Club finery. She was wearing a filmy, flower pattern dress with a black belt and gold buckle. At her neck, a black silk scarf provided the perfect contrast to a trim choker of flawless natural pearls. She looked ready to sit at the seat of honor at the speakers' table.
Miz Langston crossed the room briskly and held out her hand to Mary. “We're delighted to make your acquaintance, Mary. Joe has told us so - little about you.” Miz Langston's laughter sounded like tiny silver bells.
“Mo-m,” Joe protested,
“Oh, gracious, Joe, don't be so stiff! I sure Miss Parker has a sense of humor - don't you, honey?” Miz Langston tugged at Mary's elbow. “Why don't you come into the kitchen with me so we can get acquainted?”
When they were alone, Miz Langston drew Mary to the kitchen table. “Please sit down, Mary - may I call you Mary?”
“Yes, of course, Miz Langston,” Mary replied.
Miz Langston's voice was soft and low, like a gentle Southern breeze. “Please forgive a nosy mother's curiosity, dear, but you really ARE somethin' of a mystery in this little town, you know. We DO want to know everything about our children's lives.”
“You want to know my background,” Mary offered.
Isabell Langston remained silent, but looked at Mary expectantly.
Every instinct told Mary to lie; to make up sweet tales of her past - anything to put Miz Langston's mind at rest.
She couldn't do it. An unseen force molded her words from the truth. “I - we - my Mom and me - we couldn't get along. I ran away.” The words tumbled out on their own.
“What sort of trouble did you have with your mother?”
“I can't talk about it - really,” Mary pleaded.
Isabell Langston frowned. “What about your father, dear?”
“I never knew my father, Miz Langston.”
Isabell sighed. “Have you contacted your mother since you've been here, to let her know where you are? That you're all right?”
“I can't.”
“Mary…”
“Miz Langston, I know you mean well, I do. But I really can't. There are things you don't understand; things I can't talk about.
“What about school, Mary? You ought to be in school. You don't want to go on like this. You don't want to be a waitress all your life, do you?”
“No, m'am.”
“Well, then, what are your plans?”
“As soon as I save a little money, I plan to take classes in night school.”
“What kind of classes?”
“I want to be a veterinarian.”
“That's a very ambitious goal, Mary,” Isabell Langston said. “It's almost as demanding as becoming a doctor. Where will you find the time and the money?”
“Others have done it on their own. I can do it.”
“It's a very demanding curriculum.”
Mary felt herself on the edge of a precipice. An unseen force was pushing her toward gaping nothingness. “You don't think I have the brains for it, do you?”
Isabell Langston blinked, caught off guard by the sudden challenging tone in Mary's normally meek voice.
“No, no, my dear. I'm sure you're a very bright girl. I didn't mean it that way. Forgive me.”
Mary felt herself falling through space, a giddy lightness in her stomach. She was over the edge, falling, falling. “Or maybe you think I'm really trying to marry your son, so I won't have to worry about money.” It was as if some one or something had taken over Mary's brain. Mary's lips and tongue were moving, but somebody else's words were coming out of her mouth.
Isabell Langston was stunned speechless for the first time in her life. She sat silent, barely able to keep her mouth from opening like a fish gasping for oxygen.
Mary flushed, unable to speak. Then she was running. Up and running. Out the kitchen door. Slam. Down the steps. Backyard. Cross that. Jump the creek. Up the other bank. Into the woods. Run. Run. Don't let them catch me. Long arms with scratchy fingers were reaching out to grab Mary She pushed them aside and ran and ran.
Isabell Langston sat staring through the kitchen door at Mary's receding figure.
“Momma, where's Mary?” Joe Langston had been nervously fidgeting in the living room while the women were talking in the kitchen. He came to investigate the sound of the slamming kitchen door.
His mother pointed at the screen door. Joe stared, stunned. “Why - what?” His mother just shrugged.
Joe burst out of the house and followed her. With a few quick strides he traversed the backyard where he had spent so many childhood hours playing. Beyond it was the small patch of woods where he had built a fort with friends and pretended to be Robin Hood and his Merry Men.
He quickened his pace. “Mary!” he called, gasping for breath. “Mary!” For several anxious moments he could see nothing in the thicket. He kept crashing forward, sharp branches tearing his skin. Finally, he caught sight of something that didn't belong. Now he could make it out. It was Mary's yellow scarf. He slowly moved forward.
Mary was lying face down in a small clearing, sobbing.
“Mary! What's the matter? Why did you run away?” Joe asked. No answer. He slowly walked up to her and knelt down. He put his hand on her shoulder and said nothing. For a long time they were silent. He stroked her back.
“I-I'm sorry,” she sobbed. “I was talking to your mother, and all of a sudden, it seemed I was talking to my mom. I couldn't take it.”
“You never told me about you and your mom; about why you ran away from home - came here. I think it's time you told me.”
“I - I can't Joe.”
“Mary.” Joe's voice dropped lower. “If you can't trust me with your secrets, how can you trust me with the rest of your life?”
“The rest of my life?”
“If we're going to be together, we have to trust each other,” he said.
Warmth started spreading in Mary, filling up her empty spaces inside; the spaces that were never filled. “My mother…” It was painful to find the first words. But after they started, they wouldn't quit coming. Years of pent-up feelings, bursting to get out, demanding to be spoken, that she had pushed down, now rushed out. She told it all. The alcoholic, drug-fogged mother who was never a mother; who used her as one would use a pack animal. The Billys, Joes, Sams, Zekes that pawed her and did terrible things to her while her mother lay unconscious on the sofa, dead to the world on pills and bourbon. Dead. Dead. Dead. Mary wished she was dead; couldn't wish that, not that. Yes!
Mary looked up, suddenly afraid; afraid to see the look in Joe's eyes. Would he be disgusted? Never want to see her again? Damaged goods. Dirty. Filthy.
He was still there. The shock on his face was unmistakable. But there was no disgust, only sorrow and pity.
“Don't look like that!” she exclaimed.
“Like what?”
“Don't pity me. I couldn't stand it! That's why I didn't want to tell you! If we're going to be together, it has to be because you love me - not because you feel sorry for me.”
“But I do feel sorry. Sorry anybody could be so cruel, so unfeeling.”
“OK.” Mary smiled. “You can feel sorry. But don't pity me! I won't have it!”
“Yes, ma’am. No pity.” He gave her a comic military salute. The corner of Joe's mouth turned up in a half grin that was so charming Mary just had to kiss it.
He kissed back. He felt himself disappearing, dissolving into her face, losing himself. Everything started to get blurry. She wrapped herself around him, smothering, gasping, breathing.
Finally, they both came up for air. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“You know what?” Joe said. “I love you.”
“I love you,” Mary said.
“Let’s go,” Joe said. He struggled to his feet and pulled Mary up.
“I can't go back,” she said.
“Of course you can; why not?”
“What will your mother think?”
“It doesn't matter. Come on, let's go.”
“Joe - “
“Yes?”
“There’s something else.”
“There’s more?”
“I've got to tell you now, while I still have the courage.” Mary told Joe what happened at Hungry Jim’s. When she was finished, Joe let his breath out. “Jim? Jim did that to you? I can’t believe it!”
“You don’t believe me?!”
“Yes, of course I believe you. I mean - I just mean... I never would have expected that from him. I mean, he can be a jerk sometimes - but rape?”
“I told you - he stopped -- someone came in.”
“But he tried it! We’ve got to report it to the police!”
“NO!”
“Mary - what he did was a crime. We’ve got to report it.”
“No! The way he looked! I was scared - but I think he was more scared. He won’t try it again.”
“Well, still…you can't go back there.”
“I’ve got to. Where would I find another job?”
“We’ll think of something. I won't let you go back there.” Mary looked at Joe with something new in her eyes. “You won’t LET me?”
“No.”
Mary wrapped her arms around him and kissed him so hard his teeth hurt.

Chapter 20: Confessions

“What's the matter, son?” Isabell Langston was worried.
“Nothing.”
“You've been acting so strangely lately. Out at all hours; absent-minded, even more than usual. Is it that girl you just met?”
“Oh, Mommmm!”
“Just askin'. Can't a mother ask?
“No.”
“Well, then. I declare. Just let a mother worry.”
Joe Langston didn't hear that last part. He was already up the stairs to his room. He kicked his SuperTron 10X joystick under the computer desk and flopped down on his bed. He didn't feel like studying. He didn't feel like reading. He didn't even feel like playing computer games.

Joe made up his mind. He got in his car. He drove straight to Miz Gryder's house. He parked in front. He got out of the car. He walked up to the front door. He took a deep breath. He rang the doorbell. Footsteps. The door opened. Miz Gryder stood there.
“Why, Joe -- Hello,” she said.
“Good afternoon, ma'am.”
“Can I help you?”
“Yes'm. Is Mary home?”
“Yes, just a moment.”
Miz Gryder retreated and a few moments later Mary stood there.
“Hi, Joe.” Mary smiled brightly. Then she frowned when she saw Joe's serious face. “What's wrong?” “We've got to talk,” Joe said.
“All right.” Mary felt cold.

He led the way. They walked down to the deserted school and sat in the bleachers at the ball park. Finally Joe broke the silence. “It's all wrong,” he said. Mary's heart sank. “I want to make it right.” Joe saw the look on her face. “You don't understand,” he continued. “Before, I was just trying to…and now…”

Mary's heart leapt. She turned to him and smiled.
“I love you,” they said.
They kissed, it seemed, for the first time.

Chapter 19: A tough case

Glubwart wondered: that worked so well -- why didn't it work in that other case? What was the name -- Mary, I think it is? I must see what can be done about that. It may be that case can still be salvaged.
____

Joe made up his mind. He would try again -- he had to. He had been so close.
He drove over to Miz Gryder's house, got out, walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
“Yes? Oh, hello, Joe,” Miz Gryder said. She looked at him closely.
“Mary's home, but she's not feeling well.”
“Could you please tell her I'm here, Miz Gryder? I really need to see her.”
“Very well. You wait here.”
Miz Gryder walked down the hall and lightly tapped on Mary's door.
“Yes?”
“It's that Langston boy again,” Miz Gryder sighed. “You want me to tell him to come back later?”
“No. No, don't. I'll come. Just a minute, please.” Mary hurriedly put on a fresh dress and quickly touched up her hair. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Miz Gryder had let Joe in. He was waiting in the parlor.
“Hi,” they both said at the same time. After that was a long, embarrassed silence.
Joe broke the silence first.
“So -- are you off today?” Of course he knew she was off; that's why he came; that's why she was here instead of working at Hungry Jim's. Brilliant, Joe.
“Yes.”
“You -- you want to go for a walk?”
“All right.”
Joe carefully closed the screen door behind them. It squeaked a little, nevertheless. It had been raining, and the door had swelled, making a tight fit.
Without a word, they went down Miz Gryder's front porch steps, turned left and walked past Miz Jones' house to where the street curves to the left, then back and runs into Oak Street. There they turned right and walked all the way to Three Notch Street. He didn't touch her. By mutual, mute agreement, they turned left and went down the hill. At the bottom of the hill a stream ran under the road.
They left the road and walked down a steep bank that ended in a gully leading to the stream. Mary followed Joe. Picking their way past brambles and briars, they emerged onto a short, sandy bank at the edge of the creek.
It was quiet, except for the gurgling of the water as it came out the culvert under the road, and the occasional humming of tires of passing cars.
They sat down on a log and stared at the dark, tea-stain-colored water swirling in whirlpools past the sandy bank, turning black and going under an overhanging bush with tendrils touching the surface.
They sat for a century.
“I-I'm sorry.”
They blurted out simultaneously, both turning their heads at the exact same instant and staring into each other's eyes. They laughed and looked down at their feet.
“I acted like a jerk,” Joe said.
“No, no, you don't understand,” Mary answered. She put her hand over his. A warm tingling started there and rushed all over his body.
“Don't understand what?”
“Never mind. It's all right now.”
“More mystery,” Joe kidded her.
“Do you like mysteries?” Mary asked.
“I'm beginning to.” He was more serious now.
Mary looked at him carefully. Was she finding her way home? Must be cautious. Don't be in a rush.
“I used to come here all the time,” Joe said, changing the subject. My buddies and me would come wading here and catch crawfish. Once, my dad hid some money in the sand and made me look for it. I believed I was really finding lost treasure! How naive!”
“I think that's cute,” Mary said. “Your father must love you very much.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I never knew my father. And my mother never had much time for me.”
“Is that why you left?”
She ignored the question. “Come on, let's go,” she said. They took the long way back to Miz Gryder's, stopping at the Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone.
-----
Glubwart slipped into Mary's dream as slick as a snake slides into its hole.
“Mommy, mommy, why did I run away? I can't go back home. I want to go back home. But I can't go back home. I already studied, Mommy. I cleaned it already, Mommy. But it's not clean enough. I know. Mommy, why can't I go out with Johnny?”
Mommy's face faded away. In its place was 'Uncle' Fred. “Now, listen up. Your Mommy's gone. She's never coming back. It's just you and me. Be nice to me and we will get along fine; just fine.”
“No no no. I want my Mommy.”
“Shut up, kid.”
Mary awoke with a scream. Miz Gryder's face was looking down at her, wrinkled in worry.
“You're home, child. Everything's all right. But it wasn't all right.
-----
“I'm telling you, chief, this girl's got me buffaloed,” Glubwart complained to his boss. “I turned the other one, who'd been through a lot less, a lot easier. I've tried everything I know…Chief?”
“I'm here,” Screwtape answered testily. “I was just thinking. You say she has a boyfriend?”
“Nothing serious. He seems interested, though.”
“And her? What are her feelings?” Screwtape wanted to know.
“She's even more undecided than he is.”
“Well, that seems to be the only thing you've got going now. The dream crawling doesn't seem to be getting you anywhere. I'd push the boyfriend angle - try to make something happen there. That opens up all kinds of possibilities.”
“Yes sir.”
“Anything else?”
“No sir - I've pretty much concentrated on her case lately.”
“Well, don't waste your time. Sometimes you have to cut your losses. Don't get sucked into a losing situation. I know you've got a lot invested and you think you can still break through somehow. But that's a trap. You wind up wasting your energy on a fruitless quest, while other plums are ripe for the picking. Don't pass up a few easy jewels while you're following a difficult case.”
“Yes sir.”
Click. Screwtape hung up abruptly. Glubwart was left listening to ether. His thoughts turned to Joe. Got to make something happen.
-----
Joe felt caged. His brain raced around like a gerbil on a treadmill.”Should I go to her house? I'll go to her house. I won't go to her house. Do I love her? Why should I love her? She's not even that pretty. I love her. I don't love her. Hah. I'm like some stupid fourth-grader. I love her, I love her not.”
He started toward Miz Gryder's house. He got partway there and turned back. He went back again, got there, and drove around the corner. He went around the block several times. He stopped the car. He sat. The gerbil made several more laps in his treadmill.
Joe got out of the car. He walked toward Miz Gryder's house. He got within sight of the roof, turned on his heel and walked back to his car. Spun on his heel, walked back, saw Miz Gryder's kitchen window and whitewashed lapped plank wooden siding. He turned and went back. He walked on the sidewalk right up to Miz Gryder's house -- and kept on walking. He walked around the entire block. He walked around the block again.
Joe broke out in song. He was singing a solo from a popular Broadway romantic comedy. He felt like a fool. He stopped feeling like a fool. He felt great. He felt a storm raging through his body. He felt unconquerable. He was terrified.
He walked back to his car and drove home.

Chapter 18: A learning experience

MUMMY DEAR
My hands were white white white
Now they're red red red
My eyes were coals, now they're diamonds --
Now you're dead dead dead
My stone face laughed
Into your dead silent face
Do you recognize me?
You created me
You twisted my soul into your twisted mold
Looks like you made a monster, Mummy.
Looks like you got a dose
Of your own medicine, Mummy dear.
How does it taste?

Screwtape read over the macabre poem once more, enjoying the implacable hatred pouring out of it. This was more like it! Some good news at last. Nice meter and cadence, too. There was a letter attached -- from Glubwart, detailing his latest coup in glowing verse:
My dear Sir:
I am pleased to present you with FOUR (4) sweets, delivered. (None for the Enemy.) The mother, the “victim” in this case, repeatedly sold her underage daughter to the mother's adult boyfriends, who in turn supplied the mother with money, drugs and alcohol. The girl ran away from home twice, but returned each time, to be abused again.
The case drew to its climax when the daughter, now a teenager, found a serious boyfriend. The mother refused to let the daughter see the young man, because it would have interferred with her arrangements with her “gentleman callers” for drugs and alcohol.
The daughter's rage reached a boiling point. She plotted with her boyfriend and one of the boyfriend's pals to kill her mother. (Can you imagine a sweeter scenario, sir?)
The trio approached the sleeping woman with baseball bats and knives. Her demise was most painful and horrible, I assure you, sir. A lot of hysterical, desperate screaming, a lot of blood. The woman knew what was happening to her, and who was doing it to her. She woke up after the first blow and tried, horror-stricken, to defend herself, but the knives kept coming, sticking, gushing.
Oh, it was lovely, sir! I wish you could have been there! I have enclosed a poem, written by the daughter before the murder, for your enjoyment. The mother's soul, of course, has already arrived. The other three are on the way, to be delivered immediately after their executions (the state made an exception in this case, and ordered the death of all three, despite their youth).
There's a footnote, sir -- we have a good chance of getting one more sweet out of this case. The girl's father -- the mother's first boyfriend -- disappeared after she became pregnant (a cliched, but fulfilling tale!). He is now deep in cocaine and alcohol addiction, and steals to support his habits.
I can virtually assure you that we will have him, too.
Your obedient servant,
Glubwart

Scewtape put the letter aside, sighed contentedly and leaned back in his huge leather chair. He lit up one of his favorite Cuban cigars, poured himself an extra large glass of brandy and slurped greedily. That Glubwart! What a rascal! I knew he would come through! We must give the old sod a call.
Screwtape leaned over lazily flipped the switch on his intercom. “Yes, Mr. Screwtape?” Desiree Caliente's voice asked.
“Get me Glubwart on the line, Miss Caliente.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Glubwart's barely contained exuberance reported itself on the phone.
“Yes sir? Glubwart here.”
“Well done, my boy,” Screwtape beamed. “A real coup! It looks like you've finally learned something.”
“Yes, sir. We certainly came out on top this time! Four sweets for us -- maybe five -- and none for the Enemy! Zip. Zero. Nada. Nichts.”
“No more of that five to one stuff, eh, Glubwart?” Screwtape teased. “Looks like I won't have to eat you after all, Glubwart. Good thing, too. I don't think you'd be too tasty. Hah, hah.”
Glubwart's laugh on the other end of the line was a bit strained. “Er...Thank you, sir,” he said, awkwardly. There was hardly a proper response to the news that one is not to be devoured by one's superior.
Screwtape felt tempted, but refrained from calling the Boss immediately. There would be time. Let the Boss call me to complain about some petty failing, and I'll spring this on him. Of course, Screwtape would take credit for the incident. [“I was deeply involved personally in this case, Your Lowness. I instructed my underling in every detail.”] It was only fair. Chief demons always get blamed for their underlings' incompetence, shouldn't they also take credit for their successes?