Contractual Obligations

“Grampa, do you have any paper? We need to make signs for our lemonade stand.” 

Though Abigail stood on her tiptoes to make herself as tall as possible, Joseph needed to bend in half to look directly into pale blue eyes; the same blue eyes that had run in his family for generations. As he lowered himself to her level, ribbons of pain shot out from his tired knees and creaky back, like confetti bursting forth from party poppers, but he ignored it. Enduring a few brief moments of discomfort to connect with his youngest grandchild in a meaningful way was a small price to pay. 

He gently touched her smooth, unblemished cheek with fingers that were wrinkled and twisted by arthritis into the shape of a claw, but she did not pull back in horror. As his hands had been this way the entirety of her life, she had no reason to think of them in any other way. His fingers once possessed the skill and dexterity of a concert pianist, flying over the keys and churning out pages of prose as fast as his mind could come up with the words, but those were not fingers of the Grampa she knew and loved. 

“Let me check the study, sweetie. I should have some you can use.” Delighted, Abigail bounded away towards the kitchen inform her sibling and cousins of the good news. Joseph could only imagine what sort of disaster was taking place in there, with five children between the ages of four and ten lined up around the kitchen island, each one working diligently, and messily, to help brew pitchers of lemonade they would then sell at the end of his driveway for a quarter a glass. As it was gloriously sunny day outside, they would likely sell a few glasses to kind passersby, ones who were either feeling charitable or who found their youthful energy and beaming faces impossible to resist, but more likely is they would end up with a lot of unsold lemonade that he and Mariam would purchase to make sure their endeavor was a success. Like the pain in his knees and back that lingered long after he stood upright again, this was another small price both he and his wife were willing to pay to ensure their grandchildren would all head home happy at the end of the day.

He shuffled towards his study, moving at a pace befitting his advanced age. The years had been good to him and Miriam, with both of them approaching the three quarters of a century mark without any major medical bumps in the road along the way, but as the days passed quicker and months on the calendar flew by, the speed at which he moved had slowed down inversely. The days of taking it slow and easy had begun when he announced his early retirement from writing at age fifty-five, and Joseph hadn’t regretted that decision since. 

Retirement meant more than just no longer needing to hurry. Retirement meant freedom. Freedom from dealing with the stresses that came with deadlines and obligations to publishers and promotional tours. Freedom from the long hours spent toiling away first at a typewriter, and then at a keyboard, cranking out novel after novel, to the point where the passion felt for telling stories and bringing characters to life had all burned away, leaving behind only the ashes of work that felt like work. Thanks to the worldwide popularity of the Harry Coltraine character and the series of novels that had made him famous, money would never be issue, which meant more time with his family, a slower pace of life, and most importantly, naps.

The study was one of the few rooms in the house off limits to the grandkids, not because there was anything of great value within, but because it was where, in isolation, Joseph had spent so much of his life writing those novels that made retiring in comfort possible. His wife and kids, and now his grandkids, all understood that this was his room, and knew not to disturb him when he shut himself inside. These days he came in here to read, or to keep up correspondence via e-mail, and sometimes, yes, to nap, but never to write. Those days were over.

It came as a great surprise to him then to find a figure from his distant past seated behind his desk when he entered.

Joseph’s blood ran cold. His next breath was a gasp of air that never made it past the back of his throat. Like the fur on a frightened dog, the gray hairs along his arms and the back of his neck all rose to attention.

The figure seated behind his desk spoke in calm, measured tones, tones that intended to convey safety and reassurance, but instead projected just the opposite. “Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open, Joseph. Sit. We have business to discuss.”

Joseph heard the door to the study swing closed and latch behind him. The chair near the bookcase, the one in which he liked to read until he sometimes fell asleep, slid along the polished wooden floor until it came to a stop beside where he stood. Outside, as if instinctively sensing the unnatural danger nearby, all the birds that had been singing in the tree by the window took flight and departed in great haste. 

He collapsed into the chair, grateful to get off legs that threatened to give way beneath him. A layer of cold perspiration broke out across his body as the significance of the situation began to sink in. This was anything but a social call, and though he suspected he knew the answer, he was compelled to ask, “Why? Why are you here?” The voice that squeaked past his lips was small and weak, a mirror of how he felt in the presence of the other.

The figure behind the desk rose from the chair, every bit as tall and gaunt as Joseph remembered. His hair was the same coal black as before, though styled in a neat ponytail rather than the pompadour he’d sported when they’d first met. The skinny suit and wingtips he’d worn back then had been swapped out for a modern, business casual look, complete with thick, rubber-soled shoes. Joseph’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but he could tell even without his glasses that the man hadn’t aged a day since the last time they spoke, some fifty years ago. Except that wasn’t quite right, was it, as this was no man. Some called him the Prince of Darkness. Other knew him as the Devil. A half a century ago, when he had first appeared in this same study to an up-and-coming author named Joe Maguire, he had introduced himself as Azrael.

“Why? You ask me why?” Azrael slid from behind the desk like a trained assassin. His movements were fluid and purposeful, devoid of any wasted effort; a being in absolute control of every muscle in his body. His black eyes stared into Joseph’s graying blues with a dark intensity that belied the tranquility of his voice. Joseph shrank deeper into the chair at his approach.

“We had a deal, Joseph. A contract. And you haven’t been fulfilling your end of things, have you?” Azrael came to a halt in front of Joseph’s chair. He formed a steeple with his fingers in front of his chest and cocked his head to one side, waiting for an answer.

All the moisture in Joseph’s mouth had dried up. “No, no, I have!” he croaked. “Look!” He turned to face the bookshelves, happy to tear his gaze away from those unrelenting black eyes. The shelves were lined from floor to ceiling with hard cover novels, many of them signed copies by the authors he once considered peers, if not friends. Centrally located, however, and occupying the place of honor amongst the collection of books were copies of his own twenty-seven novels, the product of his life’s work. “I wrote all these! I did what you asked!”

Azrael did not take his eyes off Joseph. “’I wrote. I did’”, he mocked. “Past tense, Joseph. Ancient history. You’ve been sitting here for decades now, doing nothing. That wasn’t the deal.”

Though he remained cowered in the chair, Joseph’s head snapped to attention at this. “Now wait just a second. The deal was—“

“—Do NOT raise your voice to me,” Azreal said, his voice only slightly above a whisper. 

Though it was mid-morning, with sunlight beaming in through the windows that faced the back of house, darkness overtook the room, drowning out the light. Joseph gasped, his bowels threatening to loosen. One moment, Azrael was standing directly in front of him, and in the next, he was gone. Joseph felt Azreal’s hands press down on his shoulders from behind, felt those hands of death brushing against the sides of his neck, ready to snuff the life out of him at any moment. Trembling overtook him from head to toe. 

Azreal’s tone turned contemptuous. “Little man, let me remind you what the deal was—“

“Grampa, did you find the paper?” The youthful voice of Abigail came from outside the door. As quickly as it had come, the darkness receded from the room, flooding the study once again with sunlight.

Seconds ticked by. Joseph was too terrified to speak or move with those hands resting on his shoulders, with those fingers so close to his neck. It was all he could to remember to breathe.

 “Grampa?” The handle on the door began to jiggle.

“Answer her,” Azreal breathed from behind his ear.

“I’m okay!” Joseph called out, answering a question that had not been asked. “I mean, I’m still looking, honey. I’ll bring you some paper in a minute. Don’t come in!”

“Okay!” Abigail’s reply was cheerful as her tiny footfalls could be heard getting further away. Joseph’s panicked words had registered no alarms in her innocent brain. Despite the immediate danger in which he found himself, he sighed in relief at this knowledge.

“How touching,” Azrael said. “You are making this far too easy for me, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

The hands tightened on his shoulders, a clear indication that he had better be paying attention. “Do you think you are the only one in danger here, Joseph?” The implied threat in these words was enough for Joseph to find his courage. He tried to rise out of the chair, determined to deal with this monster head on, consequences be damned. And though his will was strong, his body was not. Azrael kept him pinned in the chair, regardless of how much he struggled, until he worked himself breathless with the effort.

“Settle down, old timer. The girl is in no physical danger from me. None of them are. You have my word on that, and unlike you, my word can be trusted.”

Joseph did not trust Azrael, but it was useless to fight against the hands on his shoulders. “I don’t understand. Why are you here? I’ve spent my life—“

“Correction. Half of your miserable life. And don’t worry, I’m well aware of the literary accomplishments of one Joe Maguire. You were a smashing success. Twenty-seven books in just over three decades. All international best sellers. Ten made into feature length movies. Two into television series. It’s all very impressive, Joseph, and none of it surprising. Not to me, anyway. I chose you for a reason, you know.”

Joseph remained as confused as ever. “So I did what you asked. I fulfilled my—“

“No. No you did not fulfill your end of the deal. You only think you did.”

“Why? What did I do wrong?”

“You stopped, Joseph. Plain and simple. You stopped. The deal was you write the books that convince the world that I do not exist, and for thirty years, you did exactly that. People loved to read about your Harry Coltraine traveling the world over, debunking all the myths and legends that hinted at my existence, all the while shagging every buxom beauty under the sun. He’s a very compelling protagonist…he almost had me disbelieving in myself.”

“Those three decades were good to me, Joseph. Maybe even better to me than they were to you. I was free to…do what I do. And regardless of the evidence I left behind, the world was always convinced there was a rational explanation behind it. One that Harry Coltraine, if he were only real, would surely uncover.”

“But while I was living my best life, so you were you. You got rich off Harry Coltraine. Rich and comfortable and lazy. And you decided to retire. You decided, on your own, that you’d done enough to fulfill our deal. Well, I’m here to tell you that you have not.”

Joseph feared to hear what came next. “Because I stopped.”

“That’s right. You stopped, and for the last 20 years, those books of yours don’t sell like they used to. Hate to tell you this, kiddo, but they aren’t best sellers any more. The TV shows they spawned haven’t aired in years. The movies aren’t on anyone’s must-see list. You let Harry Coltraine disappear out of the public’s consciousness. Do you realize an entire generation has been born that barely knows the character ever existed? Do you know how many billions of people have NEVER read a Joe Maguire novel? To put it delicately, you killed the golden goose, the one that made you famous and me invisible.”

The hands on Joseph’s shoulder became painful, the fingertips digging into the flesh under his collarbone. “The world is waking up, Joseph. They are starting to believe in me again. It’s time for you to pull the wool back over their eyes.”

“I…I can’t. I haven’t written in years. I’m old, Azrael.  Look at me. I can barely get around the house on my own anymore. Look at my hands. How can you expect me to write again?”

“I expect you to write again, wretch, because if you don’t, it will be more than just you that suffers. We have a contract. All the success that you’ve enjoyed, and all the money and fans and good will that’s come your way as result…it can all be taken away.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I will it, your reputation will be ruined. Do you think you are the only talented writer I count among my minions? One word from me, and allegations will be printed about copyright infringements, racial slurs, alcoholism, infidelity—“

Joseph snorted despite the severity of the situation. “Infidelity? At my age?”

Azrael sighed, as though he were dealing with a child. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true, Joseph. In this day and age, accusations alone mean you are guilty in the eyes of the public. Today’s court of public opinion is quick to judge, and they long for icons to fall from grace. They love a good bit of dirty laundry about those who are famous. Fresh meat for the lions. It will be easy to topple you from this ivory tower from which you sit, to turn you from an American treasure into a cautionary tale.”

Joseph slumped deeper in the chair, hearing the truth in these words. “But Miriam, and the kids, and the grandkids—“

“They will suffer as much as you, though share in none of your blame for causing it. I do not envy your trying to explain to them why everything has turned sour, why all the money has disappeared, and why Grampa is all over the news.”

Joseph hung his head, defeated. “You want me to write another Harry Coltraine book.”

“For starters. yes. Don’t presume just one more will be enough, though. This new generation will take some convincing.”

The hands upon his shoulders receded. Joseph buried his face in his twisted fingers, wincing at the pain and sobbing great sobs until his breath hitched in his chest. When he finally looked up and wiped away the tears from the corners of his eyes, Azrael was gone. 

Joseph looked around his study. The room that had served as first his launching pad and then as his sanctuary would now act his prison, until the Devil was satisfied or until the end of his days, whichever came first, and he was pretty certain he knew which would come first. Groaning, he rose from the chair and shuffled towards the desk.

Abigail never did get her paper for the lemonade stand. Joseph didn’t come out for lunch, or dinner, or even when his kids arrived to collect their little ones. One by one, everyone in the family, starting and ending with Miriam, called to him through the locked study door, trying to make sure he was all right and imploring him to come out. 

“I’m all right!” was all Joseph would call out in return, though it was a lie. He was anything but all right. With fingers that refused to unclench, even when he bit down on them to get blood pumping into the joints, he sat in front of his computer, feebly pecking one key at a time. Fat, silent tears rolled down his cheeks. Minutes turned to hours, and daylight gave way to night fall, and then the sun began to rise again, but he dare not stop, afraid of what might happen if he did. On and on he worked, struggling through the fatigue and pain and impossibility of the task before him until, like a rotting corpse slowly being dragged from the grave, both Harry Coltraine and Joe Maguire clawed their way out of retirement.