Knife Fight and Other Struggles Read Online Free PDF Page B

was.
    She had no idea that McGill went to the same school. She got his name through another chain of acquaintances. When she contacted him, he did not offer up any hint of their own acquaintance with one another. He did not let the recognition creep into his voice.
    It would be generous to say that McGill handled the interview professionally. Because McGill has never been much of a professional.
    I wish I could have heard his side of it. But I could guess—McGill and I go way back.
    “We’re not Catholic,” she’d said, and paused, and laughed nervously. “You’re not either.” Pause. “Yes, Mr. McGill, I guess that is something we have in common.” Another pause. “He’s six months old. Born February 12.” Pause. “Yes. Aquarius.” What’s your sign, baby ? Really? “So explain to me how this non-demon—erm, non-denominational business works.” And a long silence, as McGill went through the litany:
    First, he must come by and meet the child. What if it’s not a child? It’s always a child, dear. Of course,if it happens to be Gran or Uncle Terry who’s afflicted . . . well, McGill would try and adapt. But one way or another, in the course of a conversation, he would try and draw it out. McGill explains this part of his process as very simple—non-invasive—but he’s not being completely honest.
    He spends a lot of time staring, so intensely that sometimes he brings about tears. He mumbles nonsense words in a made-up language. He takes a photograph using a specially treated lens. And finally, under the parents’ supervision, he lays a hand on the child’s skull—leaving the impression with their parents that he is reading the aura. He is not. He is looking for a soft spot, a tiny hole in the skull—often no bigger than a baby’s thumb. That is really the only thing that he’s looking for in that first visit. Because if it’s there . . . well, that’s how we get in, isn’t it?
    And that is also how he can tell. If he jams his finger into it—with just the right force—well, even if we’re reticent to start it up again with old McGill, we have no choice. It starts the real conversation.
    And once that gets going, things become, shall we say, fluid.

    McGill really needed three cigarettes, given everything—but well-brought-up lad that he is, he cut himself off at just one.
    “You finally ready?” Her man was a testy one. He had never met McGill, had attended a different high school, had no earthly reason to suspect. And yet.
    “Sure,” said McGill. He started to meet his eyes, but didn’t get far. McGill looking her man in the eye would have been a challenge. And McGill hadn’t the balls for that.
    She smiled uneasily, and shared a glance with her man. Don’t fuck this up, darling , that glance said. He was not easy about bringing McGill, or anyone outside the family physician’s circle, in on what he called “the postpartum thing.” He didn’t entirely buy in to what was going on. And in one sense, he couldn’t be blamed. When the door in the basement slammed again and again, seemingly of its own accord, he was already on his way to an early meeting. He had been asleep the whole night, when the business with the hall mirror had transpired. He was at work the day the seven crows got into the nursery, and pecked one another to death as baby laughed.
    He was always away, out of earshot, when baby spoke.
    “My wife tells me that you’re going to go have a conversation now,” he said. McGill nodded.
    “That’s the first part.”
    He huffed. “Well good luck. Little Simon’s not too verbal. Except around Shelly here. That right, babe?”
    “I understand,” said McGill. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”
    “Right. Do they all talk to you?”
    “Often they do, that’s right.” McGill stepped toward the nursery. Her man stepped into his way, but didn’t stop him either.
    “You’re for real,” he said.
    “He’s for real,” she said. “Please, Dave, just let