Raising Demons

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Book: Read Raising Demons for Free Online
Authors: Shirley Jackson
little milk, and then, finally, one doughnut. Food, no matter how ceremonial, had its usual gracious effect, and I felt my position as international hostess relax slightly as, glasses and doughnuts in hand, our guests stirred, and rose, and spoke to one another, and moved around.
    Mr. Yashamoto at last entered into an animated conversation with my husband about Japanese coins. Laurie and Mr. Masamitsu discussed with loving detail the several beauties of the hot biscuit, the hamburger, the corn on the cob. Jannie took Mr. Lopez by the hand and led him off to see Ninki’s kittens, Mr. Babar settled down to a painstaking scrutiny of the bookcase, Sally was telling Mr. Fernandez, with dramatic action, the story of the three bears, and I came over to sit beside Mrs. Fernandez on the couch and said, “What a
lovely
skirt.” It was flaming red, with heavy gold embroidery around the hem, and I would have given my eyeteeth to have one like it. “Lovely,” I said.
    â€œYes?” she said. “I not espeak English, no.”
    I thought deeply. “Lovely,” I said, touching her skirt, and she watched me and then, touching her skirt, said imitatively, “Lovelee?”
    Inspiration came to me. “Wait a minute,” I said, holding up one finger in what I believed might be a universal gesture for patience, and I hurried over to where Barry, in his playpen, was thoughtfully chewing on his sunsuit strap. I lifted him, gave him a quick swipe across the bottom to make sure he was dry, and then brought him back and put him into Mrs. Fernandez’ lap. “Baby,” I said triumphantly.
    She put her arms around him and hugged him, and Barry, craning his neck back to see her, regarded her for a minute with a slight frown, then apparently decided that she was friendly and smiled. I wondered briefly, watching him, if Barry’s warm smile was not precisely the smile, friendly but bewildered, which we had all been using toward one another as a substitute for communication, and I looked upon my younger son with fond pride.
    â€œBébé?” said Mrs. Fernandez. She held out her finger and Barry grasped it and they both smiled again; she looked at me and we both nodded and laughed. Barry reached up and took hold of one of her gold earrings and she spoke to him rapidly in Spanish, and Barry smiled, and she and I looked at one another, and laughed. It was a masterpiece of communication.
    â€œBalli?” she said to me.
    â€œBarry.”
    â€œAh,” she said. “Barri.” She spoke to him again, and he answered her in
his
language, which was surely as comprehensible to her as mine, and he showed her his four teeth and got her earring in his hand to play with. We were getting along famously; we were all beaming at one another once again when a voice spoke suddenly behind me. “Do you eat?”
    Startled, I turned; it was Mr. Babar, squatting beside my chair. “Do you eat—” he thought, pencil in hand “—breffist food?” he finished finally.
    Blinking, I said, “Well, of course, we send for space goggles from the cartons, and compasses and things, but I personally—”
    â€œThe little Balli—what eats he?”
    â€œCereal,” I said meekly. “Strained baby food.” Mr. Babar frowned, shaking his head, and Mrs. Fernandez and Barry stared, uncomprehending, from one to the other of us. I sighed and stood up, giving them both my universal sign for patience, and went into the kitchen and came back with an unopened box of Barry’s cereal and a jar of strained squash. I handed them to Mr. Babar and he scowled at them, making notes in his book. “Most very interesting,” he said, and reluctantly gave them back.
    I felt like an idiot, but I said, “Would you like to keep them? I have plenty more.”
    â€œKeep them? Take them with?”
    â€œIf you want to.” I gestured foolishly, but Mr. Babar said with

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