Evil Incarnate

“It’s moldy.”

“What’s moldy?”

“The bread.”

“Oh, rot.”

“Exactly,” he said from the kitchen. “And we just bought it.”

“Tragic!” she called from the living room. “What color is it?”

“The bread?”

“The mold, you goof.”

“Greenish.”

“It’s fine, then.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

A few moments later he asked, “What if I had said blue?”

“Also fine.”

“Black?”

“Fine.”

“Pink?”

“Delicious.”

“Gross! I’m not eating mold.”

They were both disappointed. Sunday breakfast had become a thing for them. It wasn’t a fancy thing—just toast, always toast, but it was already a little tradition.

For him, it was marmalade and butter without fail, no matter the type of bread. Perfection had been reached, he always said, so why stray elsewhere?

For her, it depended on the bread and what was in the house. Strawberries, cream cheese, bananas, cinnamon, avocado, tomato, basil leaves, hummus, or just butter if the bread was really special. Once, when the bread was a simple white, she had peanut butter and jelly.

They were still trying to impress each other with the little secrets they had discovered along the way to meeting each other. So far, neither had succeeded in converting the other.

She got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen, coffee in hand. The kitchen was small but was the center of their home. It wasn’t because either of them was a great cook—they didn’t venture far beyond toast—but because of the light that poured in from the wide window above the sink. They often ate breakfast standing in the kitchen with the sun on their faces.

She joined him at the counter, pressing her hip against his. The sun had a straight shot through the bare branches of the dogwood that was the pride of their little yard, but it was low in the sky and gave little warmth. They held their coffee cups tightly as they inspected the four slices of rye laid out in front of them.

Seeing just a few flecks of green, she said, “We’ll toast them, then scrape off the mold. It’ll be fine.”

He shook his head. “It’s worse than it looks. You can’t see all the mold because it’s made up of tiny spores. The spots we see are only the vanguard.”

“The vanguard?” she said, laughing.

He picked up one of the slices. Smiling, he pointed to a speck of mold. “Yes, this is where it has a foothold. But behind, hidden everywhere, are armies of spores ready to follow. They’re preparing to devour without mercy everything they encounter on their quest for domination.”

Setting her coffee on the counter, she slid behind him and put her arms around his waist. “It sounds like evil is invading our house."

He nodded. “Something like that, yes. That’s how it happens. It lurks, then pounces. It needs to be destroyed. Otherwise it spreads—it takes over.”

Peering around his shoulder, she looked at the rye in his hand. “Hmm. You look at a speck of mold and see evil. What I see is a fledgling civilization, struggling to emerge into somethingness, maybe on the cusp of flourishing—of accomplishing great things.”

He laughed. “That’s a generous view of what’s going on here, but any great things accomplished by this mold will come at the expense of others—of us.”

“That might be true, but sometimes you just need to let things take their course.”

He turned his head to look at her, as if to figure out who was hugging him. “Well, I guess we agree on what’s happening, at least. The difference is that you don’t recognize it as a danger. You don’t see this creeping blight as a threat.”

She thought for a moment. “Actually, I do see that. I just don’t have a problem with it. That’s the way things go. Nothing lasts forever.”

He twisted out of her embrace and faced her, holding up the slice of rye between them. “How can you not have a problem with that? If we don’t distinguish between right and wrong, and fight for good, what’s the point? It’s like you’re rooting for the other side.”

She didn’t like the idea of there being another side, but didn’t say so. Better to let it drop. “I just have a hard time seeing evil in a slice of bread.”

He wasn’t ready to drop it. “Of course not—forget the bread. You know what I mean. We can’t just float through life, indulging in whatever pleasures come our way. Good doesn’t just happen on its own—we have to create it. We have to keep steering toward what’s right—both in ourselves and those around us.”

“It sounds like a crusade.”

“I wouldn’t call it that, but it’s a matter of being vigilant.”

“And if we’re not vigilant?”

“Then we fall.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Fall?”

“We descend into chaos, baseness. We go bad—we rot.”

“So we go to hell?”

She was trying to make fun, but he didn’t find it funny. “Sure, if you want to call it that—we go to hell.”

She shook her head. “So life is all about fighting evil? That’s it? It’s all work?”

“Yes, of course it’s a fight, and of course it’s work—it takes hard work to keep evil at bay.”

“So what’s the point, then? Where’s the joy?”

”The point? The joy?” he said, the pitch of his voice ticking up. “It’s about not succumbing. The point is to prevail. Isn’t that enough?”

She didn’t respond, so he added, looking hopefully into her eyes, “What could be more joyful than that?”

Several ideas occurred to her, but she didn’t share them. “Do you know what I see in the mold taking hold in that slice of bread?”

“What?”

“A reminder of us—of people—the beginning of humanity’s journey.”

He scowled. “Seriously? You’re comparing mold to humanity?”

“Yes.”

He let out a breath, deflated. “That’s so dispiriting.”

“Not to me. It’s comforting.”

They stood facing each other. He still held the slice of bread, letting it hang at his side. She took her coffee cup from the counter and held it with both hands, but it was cold.

Breakfast was a failure. She tried to remember why it mattered. She pictured herself alone in the kitchen. What would her breakfast be, without him? She wouldn’t bother with the cucumber or chopping the dill that she had in mind for the rye. What about him? She smiled to herself in the certainty that he wouldn’t have made the special trip to the gourmet shop, returning home triumphantly with the jar of marmalade wrapped up fancier than jewelry.

She reminded herself that they were just beginning. Neither of them could know, alone, the best path. That’s why they had chosen each other—to put their secrets together and plunge ahead, hand in hand. She tried to open herself to his words.

It takes hard work to keep evil at bay.

Maybe he was right. She snatched the bread out of his hand and stuffed it into her mouth, biting off half of it.

He grimaced, but then as he watched her wrestle with the glob in her mouth, he smiled. “You’re eating all your little spore friends.”

“Yes, with sincere apologies to all of them,” she said, her voice muffled. “Now let’s have a kiss.” She leaned into him, still chewing.

He turned to avoid her mouth but let her kiss him messily on the cheek. He laughed, then pulled her close and kissed her neck, holding his lips there. She closed her eyes as the warmth flooded her body.