* * *
After a cup of coffee that had a name I was incapable of pronouncing, for which Benny paid with money that may or may not have been real, I headed home. The pain in my shoulder had settled into a sort of dull throb, not unbearable but not delightful.
I admit that I felt a level of relief, not only because I had hopefully satisfied Selena and would no longer potentially be facing her as an enemy, but because an illegal game of poker was not something which I had been greatly looking forward too.
On the down side, my free ticket out of poverty had vanished as quickly as it appeared. I considered taking the incident as motivation to better my life, maybe look for work that satisfied me a bit more than the limp kick in the crotch that was being a “researcher”. But really, such things would have to wait until after demon harassment was not the forefront of my life.
I arrived home and headed inside, my intention being to spend some time further practicing my place of calm. But as I entered, I was side-tracked by an unwanted but inevitable event.
“Jet,” my mother called from the kitchen, “In here.”
I considering ignoring her, but knew the situation would have to be faced sooner or later.
As I approached the kitchen a sound became audible, a repetitive noise recognisable as a potato peeler doing its business. The grating noise seemed to correspond with the discomfort that was intensifying in equal measures; being in my mother’s presence was now not something that made me comfortable on any level.
I entered, finding Clinton at the kitchen table with a pile of potatoes before him. He laboured away tirelessly with a small silver peeler, creating a mountain of peels on a sheet of newspaper. My mother stood at the stove, expertly basting a whole chicken with restaurant manager efficiency.
“Staying for dinner, dear?” She asked the question without turning.
“I guess so,” I responded, trying to make eye contact with Clinton, but he kept his gaze locked firmly on the task at hand. “What are we having?”
“Can’t you see? Whole roasted chicken, basted with my own special marinade.”
“Great.” I did love my mother’s chicken, there was no denying. But my appetite had all but dried up since the beginning of the affair.
There was a pause, punctuated by the ceaseless scraping of the peeler, then my mother turned to face me. Her smile was so radiant and beautiful that you would swear she had just stepped from the front cover of a glossy magazine, (something other than The Whisperer). I did a quick check of my mind, satisfying myself that there was no intrusion occurring.
“How has your training been going?” she asked.
“Not brilliant.”
“Yes, it never is.”
Odd comment. She had not gone for professional training I was aware of. But before I could point this out she was looking over Clinton’s shoulder and reaching for one of the potatoes.
“Do it properly, dear. You missed this part here.” Her tone suggested she was speaking to a slow child. He took the potato and obediently skimmed off a few more slivers. “Did you wash your hands?” He showed her his palms. “Go wash them. We can’t handle food with dirty hands.” He stood and exited, not so much as acknowledging my presence. My mother watched him go, picked up a potato and continued the peeling. After a second she glanced up and let her eyes rest on my face, only for a moment, then proceeded with what must have been a planned endeavour.
“It’s in our blood, Jet.”
“What is?”
“Magic. It’s been in our family for generations.”
Assumption was that she meant her bloodline and not my father’s, but either way it was the first I was hearing of it. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course not, and you never would have, if you had not developed magical abilities.”
I thought about this, wondering if I dare accept the small, ever intensifying feelings of smugness that were growing in the back of my mind. Being “special” and part of an “exclusive club” was becoming something I enjoyed.
“Gran was also a magic user,” I muttered, more to myself than her.
“Was?” My mother glanced up at me again. “She still is, Jet. One of the best, in fact, she’s a world class Enforcer.”
I gaped. “Gran is… an Enforcer?”
“Oh yes. Very professional, very efficient, very highly acclaimed. Still keeping pace with the youngsters, I might add.”
Apparently physical dexterity was not a requirement in the profession. “How can I have never heard about this?”
She shrugged, took another potato and continued peeling. “Your great grandmother was also an Enforcer. It’s been a sort of family tradition. As I said, it’s in our blood.”
I realised one of my hands was unconsciously fiddling with the scruffy beard on my chin, finding a nervous outlet. “But if Gran is an Enforcer…”
She picked up on my chain of thought and finished the sentence. “…how could I partake in “illegal” things? It’s very simple, Jet, your grandmother is my Enforcer. It’s not against the rules for family to regulate family.”
Another bombshell. My eyes widened and my mother chuckled in response.
“You really are very dramatic,” she said sweetly. The rhythmic sound of peeling was starting to fray my nerves. “Let me make things a bit more clear for you, son. The Clarence family have been involved in magical activities since before the telephone was even a blueprint. We used what we were naturally given, our natural talents, to make our own way through life. And, with hard work and dedication, we made exceptionally good butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. In fact, we have been renowned as some of the greatest in our trades.”
My mind was sprinting to keep up. “We’re a family of criminals?” The words were a whisper.
“Again, very dramatic, Jet. What we did was perfectly legal until somebody decided to make a law. And why, exactly, were these laws made? Because we were too good at what we did, and somebody deemed it necessary to drag us down to the accepted level of average.” She took a moment to fix me with a firm look. “Fair? Or just insulting?”
I shook my head slowly, speechless. Part of me was still clinging to the hope that she was lying, that this was some kind of mental assault. But in equal measure I knew it all to be true.
“You’ve finally come of age, son,” my mother continued, finally setting the peeler down.
Her gaze was now direct and uncompromising, transforming into something both maternal and attentive. She studied my face with the affection of a mother acknowledging a child’s greatest achievement. But there was something else. I thought I detected a hint of a deeper emotion; what appeared to be caution, bordering on fear. She was scared of me and hiding it.
“You like it, don’t you?” she continued, “The power? It’s very intoxicating, but it can be dangerous, Jet. We can help you harness it. Your grandmother and I, just the way she taught me. You’re part of the family now.”
“Part of the family now?” My voice was louder than intended. “And If I had never developed any magical abilities? What then? Would I have remained a mindless slave? Like Linda? Like Clinton?”
She recoiled. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, mother? Tell me, please.”
Her mouth drew into a pout and she planted one hand firmly on a hip. “You should speak to your grandmother.”
“I don’t want to speak to gran.”
“Jet!” The word was sharp. Its delivery did not have the effect of which it was once capable, but still I paid attention. “Meet with your grandmother. You are making judgements before you understand the situation. We’re a big family, son, significantly bigger than you think. And it would be in your best interest to get the full picture. The advantages, I promise, are something with which you will be greatly intrigued. Just speak with your grandmother. Okay?”
I took a moment to consider the new shift in my reality.
Exactly what my mother was referring to I was no
t sure, but what she was hinting at was clear enough. And, once again, I was a little ashamed to feel the lure of power refusing to be ignored. Whatever “big family” and “advantages” meant, I could not deny I at least wanted to know. After all, as an unemployed person it sure sounded like a great alternative. And even if I were to find another job, all I had to look forward to was a 39th birthday party similar to that of big Cecil.
“I’ll think about it,” I said at last.
“Good.” The angelic smile returned to her face. “I’ll inform your grandmother.”
“Fine.”
I turned and exited, getting the feeling that surprises relating to my family were just beginning.
I headed up to bed to face the next dilemma in my life; my demon. The events of the previous window scratching incident had not been forgotten and I wondered, with some great levels of foreboding, if I would be seeing a repeat of the situation.
I had just settled onto my bed to practice finding my place of calm when a thought occurred to me; the painkillers were still in my pocket. I did not think the now fading pain in my shoulder required medication, but the promise of another demon free night suddenly seemed very appealing. After a brief hesitation I popped two pills and lay back, waiting for the euphoria to embrace me.