At last the demon exhaled its pent-up inhalation, bathing Tommy’s face in a gale of foul breath that made him want to spew up the coffee and pastries that he had eaten during the stop at The Great Pile.
The beast shuffled to the bergere, where Tommy’s mother had been sitting, and knocked her purse to the floor. It settled down and folded its killing pincers in its lap—and after a moment they metamorphosed into the fat man’s hands once more.
Tommy was afraid that his mother would leave the group, pick up her purse, and smack the demon over the head with it. But with uncharacteristic timidity, she remained as still and quiet as Mrs. Dai had instructed.
The hulking Samaritan-thing smacked its lips. It sighed wearily.
The radiant green eyes changed into the ordinary brown eyes of the murdered Samaritan.
The demon looked at its wristwatch.
Ticktock.
Yawning, it blinked at the group standing before it.
The beast bent forward in the bergêre, seized its right foot with both hands, and brought the foot to its face in a display of impossible double-jointedness. Its mouth cracked open from ear to ear, like the mouth of a crocodile, and it began to stuff its foot and then its heavy leg into its maw.
Tommy glanced at the windows.
Pale pink light spread like a dim blush on the face of the eastern sky.
As if it were not a solid creature, but an elaborate origami sculpture, the demon continued to fold itself into itself, growing smaller and smaller still—until, with a shimmer that hid the how of the final transformation, it became only a rag doll once more, exactly as it had been when he had found it on his doorstep, a limp-limbed figure of white cotton, with all the black stitches intact.
Pointing at the pink sky beyond the windows, Mrs. Dai said, “Going to be nice day.”
NINE
With paper towels and tap water, they had cleaned the blood off their foreheads.
The two Vietnamese women sat at the kitchen table. After applying a healing poultice that the hairdresser witch kept in the refrigerator, Mother Phan taped a gauze pad to Mrs. Dai’s bitten hand. “You sure not hurt?”
“Fine, fine,” said Quy Trang Dai. “Heal fast, no problem.”
The rag doll lay on the table.
Tommy couldn’t take his eyes off it. “What’s in the damn thing?”
“Now?” Mrs. Dai said. “Mostly just sand. Some river mud. Snake blood. Some other things better you not know.”
“I want to destroy it.”
“Can’t hurt you now. Anyway, taking apart is my job,” said Mrs. Dai. “Have to do according to rules or magic won’t be undone.”
“Then take it apart right now.”
“Have to wait till noon, sun high, night on other side of world, and then magic be undone.”
“That’s only logical,” Del said.
Getting up from the table, Mrs. Dai said, “Ready for tea now?”
“I want to see it dismembered, everything inside cast to the wind,” Tommy said.
“Can’t watch,” said Mrs. Dai as she took a tea kettle from one of the cabinets. “Magic must be done by sorceress alone, no other eyes to see.”
“Who says?”
“Dead ancestors of River Xan set rules, not me.”
“Sit down, Tuong, stop worry, have tea,” said Mother Phan. “You make Mrs. Dai think you not trust her.”
Taking Tommy by the arm, Del said, “Could I see you a minute?”
She led him out of the kitchen into the dining room, and Scootie followed them.
Speaking in a whisper, she said, “Don’t drink the tea.”
“What?”
“Maybe there’s more than one way to make a stray son return to the fold.”
“What way?”
“A potion, a combination of exotic herbs, a pinch of river mud—who knows?” Del whispered.
Tommy looked back through the open door. In the kitchen, his mother was putting out cookies and slices of cake while Mrs. Dai brewed the tea.
“Maybe,” whispered Del, “Mrs. Dai was too enthusiastic about bringing you to your senses and back into the family. Maybe she started out with the drastic approach, the doll, when a nice cup of the right tea would have made more sense.”