Summoning Love

  Mr. Jones heard his wife begin to sing among the other kitchen noises through the door. His stockinged feet rested on the ottoman before the small fire in the living room. It seemed to Mr. Jones that he and his wife had lived a contented life thus far. However, as of late, Mrs. Jones seemed to be walking through her days in a mist of quiet sadness. The universe had not seen to bless them with children in their thirty-two years of marriage, but Mrs. Jones had not once said a word on the subject.

A yelp from the kitchen disrupted his ruminations, followed by unusual smells wafting through to the living room. He did hope all was well. He made it a point never to interfere in women’s work. He found he rarely entered the kitchen at all, except to get a glass of milk in the night when his indigestion bothered him. Perhaps she had changed her mind and was trying a new recipe. He heard a clanging noise and some coughing through the door.

“Oh, dear.” He tried to peer through the closed door from his seat across the room to no avail.

After a time, he heard Mrs. Jones’s voice call out someone’s name. Gloria, was it? Did they perhaps have a neighbor by that name come to call? He could wait no longer. His curiosity and concern were getting the best of him.

“Mrs. Jones!” he called. “Mrs. Jones is anything amiss?”

She came through the door slowly, her head held high as usual, but her eyes brimmed with tears unshed. She clasped her hands tightly together as she walked to the chair beside him and sat down.

“What on earth is the matter?” he asked.

“Something...” she stopped to swallow and turned to gaze into the fire as she spoke, “something terrible has happened, and I’m afraid it was entirely my fault.”

Mr. Jones couldn’t imagine what could have gone so wrong while she was cooking dinner. “Tell me what has happened.”

“Latin is a dangerous language, Mr. Jones!” As her voice broke, the tears poured over her lids and down her cheeks.

Mr. Jones looked warily at his, usually, calm and sensible wife. “Please, Mrs. Jones, what has happened?”

“I was cooking dinner,” she said, “and I accidentally summoned a demon!” Her hand flew to her mouth as if to unsay the words.

Mr. Jones’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “You what?”

Mrs. Jones had gone into the kitchen and begun taking out the necessary ingredients for dinner. She laid out the linguine, the salt, oil, garlic, and various herbs beside the stove. After filling it with water, she plunked the heavy pot on the back burner to boil and set the frying pan onto the front. With some effort, Mrs. Jones managed to twist open a jar of anchovies. Carefully scooping several of them out with a fork, she set them onto a cutting board on the kitchen island.

She turned on the front burner and began to sing a Latin choral song. She didn’t know all of the words, so she made them up as she went along.

"Glo-o-o-o-o-oria! Eeee-vo-co fae-le-e-e-es!”

She poured a circle of salt into the pan like she always did and then poured in some oil.

WHOOSH!!!

Orange-yellow flames shot up nearly six feet into the air. In a panic, Mrs. Jones grabbed a cover and smothered the blaze. Smoke filled the kitchen with smoke. She pushed open the door to the garden and carried the still smoking pan outside, hoping that the smoke would clear shortly.

Back in the kitchen, the smoke had mostly cleared at this point, she found, to her horror, a great, black demon! She froze, unsure of how to proceed. She had never encountered a demon before, but there it was, eating her anchovies.

The creature was black as night and filthy, except for what appeared to be its white ears. Mrs. Jones was sure the ears were simply a spell of some sort to hide its horns. It had four legs, claws and fangs, and a long, fluffy tail. There was an evil, evil gleam in its eyes. And the smell, oh it reeked of the deepest, filthiest pit of Hell itself.

She thought back to the Latin song. “Mrs. Jones! You know better than to make up words in Latin!” she muttered to herself.

Then there was the fire. She must not have closed the circle of salt; that would be how it escaped. How on earth would she explain this to Mr. Jones? She would have to banish the demon.

“How does one banish a demon?” she wondered. She paced back and forth a moment watching the demon closely. “Its name! If one knows its true name, one can send it on its merry way.”

She stared at the disgusting creature who was now licking its paws. “What is your true name, demon?” she demanded.

The thing stopped licking to look at her for a moment and then began licking the rim of the anchovy jar.

“Well, I never!” she said. “Your name, demon, what is your name?”

Once again, the demon stopped and looked into her eyes, causing a shiver to run down Mrs. Jones’s spine. Then, the beast contorted its body and began to lick itself in a most unseemly way.

“You insult me, demon.” She replayed the events in her mind, trying to come up with an answer. “Gloria!” she said at last. “Your name is Gloria. I was singing that song when I summoned you. Now I shall be rid of you, you offensive fiend.”

Mrs. Jones squared her shoulders and put her hands in front of her, palms facing the demon. “I banish you back from whence you came, Gloria!” she declared.

Nothing happened. The demon didn’t even look up from its licking.

She tried again. “Gloria, beast from Hell, be gone from this place!”

This time the creature moved, but only to lie down on the island and close its eyes.

“Your name is apparently not Gloria,” she said.

After hearing this story, Mr. Jones insisted upon seeing the demon. Mrs. Jones eased the door open so she and Mr. Jones could peek around it. They edged their way into the room and stopped just inside.

Mr. Jones looked closely at the filthy creature still lying on the island next to the nearly empty anchovy jar. Throughout Mrs. Jones’ tale, he had wondered about her sanity. Now, looking at this pathetic creature, he was sure his wife had lost her mind.

“We should try to push it out the back door?” he said.

“No!” She looked at him, shocked. “We can’t send the demon I summoned out to run amok around the neighborhood. We must keep it here until I can banish it back to Hell.”

Mr. Jones felt an odd weight in his gut. He looked closely at his wife of more than three decades, and the weight grew heavier. She had never complained, not a single time, about their lives being just the pair of them. When it became evident that children would not come, she had asked, only once, for a pet.

“Perhaps a dog?” she had said hopefully. “Or a cat to keep away the mice?”

“Pets are a waste of time and resources,” he had told her. “If we have mice, just set a trap.”

Mr. Jones recoiled now at his response to her plea all those years past. He realized now how much it meant to her to have something to look after. She asked for so little, and he was a fool of a husband. All she had wanted was a pet. He examined the ball of mats and tangles laying on the kitchen island. Well, it looked like this filthy creature was here now.

“Then you should probably close the door.” he nodded toward the door, standing open to the back garden.

She rushed over and slammed it shut. The demon startled at the noise and let out a deep yowl. This made Mrs. Jones and Mr. Jones jump abruptly.

“Well, that is quite enough of that,” Mrs. Jones said. “If you are to live here, I will not tiptoe around you. You smell bad, demon. I will not have you stinking up my lovely furniture with the scent of Hellfire. You must have a bath.”

At this, both the demon and Mr. Jones looked at her. The demon’s face was impassive. Dinner would have to wait.

Mrs. Jones picked up the demon by the scruff of the neck and carried it, yowling loudly, to the guest bathroom. She closed the door behind her and set the demon on the floor. The demon looked around and hopped up onto the vanity to watch the goings-on.

Mrs. Jones started the water in the bathtub and readied a bottle of shampoo. She laid a towel on the floor beside the tub and another, folded beside it for drying the smelly demon.

“I hope it doesn’t ruin the towels, Mr. Jones,” she said. “It really does smell bad.”

“Perhaps, a conditioning rinse as well would help,” Mr. Jones replied helpfully.

“Excellent idea Mr. Jones.” she reached for the conditioner and set it next to the bottle of shampoo.

Mrs. Jones turned around and picked up the demon again and set it into the water. In the next twenty-two minutes, Mr. and Mrs. Jones learned what Hell looked like. The screech that came forth from the demon’s throat was unlike anything they had ever heard. It tried to escape the bath, but Mrs. Jones held it by the scruff. She poured water over its fur and it raked her forearms from elbow to palm with its claws.

After a few minutes, it froze stock still and just seemed to vibrate. Mrs. Jones began to lather it with shampoo. From ears to tail, it was brown with filthy foam and swirls of loosened fur. She realized she still needed to give it a conditioning rinse. She looked down at her bleeding arms and sobbed a little, then picked up the cup and began to rinse the vibrating fiend. This caused it to climb up the side of the tub and onto Mrs. Jones’s shoulder.

Still covered in filthy foam, the demon clung to her flesh with his claws as it caterwauled. Mrs. Jones managed to yank it off her back by sheer strength of will and put it back into the tub. After rinsing it, she drained the tub of its murky water. She lavishly covered the demon in conditioner and turned on the tap. It started and hissed, trying to climb her again. She grabbed for its scruff, realizing too late that conditioner made it nearly impossible to hold. It bolted for the top shelf of the towel cupboard. There it sat, hissing and shrieking, swatting at her every time she reached for it.

“Now may be a good time for a break, Mrs. Jones,” Mr. Jones said. “I believe you both could use one.”

She turned off the water in the bathtub and carefully reached for a washcloth in the cupboard. Turning on the tap in the sink, she gingerly began to clean the various wounds on her arms and shoulder. Her blouse was soaking wet and stained with blood. Streaks of red adorned the vanity and the near side of the bathtub like macabre Christmas garland and drops seeped into the towel on the floor. It looked like nothing less than a crime scene.

“Oh my,” Mr. Jones said. “I do believe that demon is shivering.”

It sat high on the shelf, visibly shaking with cold. “I summoned it. I am responsible for it,” she sighed.

Without hesitating, she grabbed the slippery demon and plunked it into the bathtub. She started the water and checked the temperature while the demon shivered and hissed and scratched at her already damaged arms. When the warm water flowed from the cup over the trembling demon’s slimy fur, it didn’t run away this time. It growled low in its throat and glared with evil intention at her, but it sat still and let her rinse it.

When she finished, Mrs. Jones opened the folded towel and threw it over the demon. She wrapped it around the creature as she lifted it out of the bathtub and began rubbing it dry. Mr. Jones had never seen a creature with a more murderous look in its eyes than this very demon at this very moment, but it held still for a short time. Then Mrs. Jones unceremoniously dumped it out of the towel onto the floor. It landed on its feet, hissed, and began licking itself in various places about its body.

Mr. Jones wondered if he should let on to his wife that he knew the demon was, in fact, a cat. Once again, the weight filled his belly, and he wondered about her grasp on reality. Perhaps it would be best if he allowed her this concession. Whether she was losing her mind or attempting to trick him, either way, it was, after all, his doing.

Mrs. Jones opened the bathroom door, and the waterlogged demon stalked out. Her arms were battered and bloody, and her shirt was soaked through, but Mrs. Jones’s eyes shone with the light of someone full of tenderness. Mr. Jones’ chest twinged with compassion.

“It seems we have a pet demon now, Mrs. Jones,” Mr. Jones said, taking her hand. “Here, let me tend to your arms.”