Titivillus
Kim Bogart graduated college in 1985, the year Ronald Reagan began his second term as president, Mikhail Gorbachev was chosen to lead the Soviet Union, Coca-Cola announced that it was changing its secret soft drink formula, the Live Aid concerts were held in Philadelphia and London, and Robert Ballard found the wreckage of the Titanic on the ocean floor. Although the summa cum laude graduate began her career in journalism a mere three weeks after accepting her diploma, she was not assigned to cover any of these major events. It was not because she was young and inexperienced. She was a gifted writer. Some people went so far as to call her a prodigy. The reason she did not report on any world-changing news stories was that she was hired by a small, weekly newspaper that covered only local news.
There were only five full-time employees on the staff of the Lancaster Town Crier. Stanton Wendover was the editor and principal owner. Hendrick Mosier, who had worked for the paper for more than thirty years, was the senior reporter. Chris Ringgold was the one-man sales and accounting department. Hedy Carraway, the only other woman on the staff, was the receptionist and all-around gal Friday.
"Everybody listen up," Stanton's voice boomed through the small office early one Monday morning. "I want to officially introduce our new hire. This is Kim Bogart. To celebrate having a new member of our family, Hedy has made a large pot of coffee and I bought a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts."
The young reporter was not sure if the smiles on her coworkers' faces were for her or the donuts. By the way the others headed directly for the lunchroom, she assumed it was the latter.
"You look like you ought to be in high school," sixty-two-year-old Hendrick said, before taking a bite out of a chocolate-frosted, cream-filled donut.
"I just graduated college."
"So, this is your first job?"
"Yes, but when I went to Annenberg, I interned at The Philadelphia Inquirer."
"You went to UPenn?" Chris asked. "I'm impressed. The Crier now has an Ivy Leaguer on staff."
Once he finished his coffee and donut, Stanton showed Kim to her work area. On top of her desk was a large box containing a Macintosh computer.
"Have you ever used one before?" the editor asked.
"Yes."
"Then you know how to set it up?"
"Sure."
Hendrick, who sat one desk away, watched her as she removed the Mac from the box and attached the keyboard and mouse.
"Don't you have a computer?" she asked him.
"Hell, no! And I don't want one. My old IBM typewriter suits me just fine."
The senior reporter got up from his chair, walked to her desk and picked up a three-and-a-half-inch disk.
"What on earth is this?"
"It's a floppy disk. Inside the plastic casing, there is magnetic media on which you can store your files."
"It looks like something I saw on Star Trek," he said, shaking his head in disapproval.
"I can teach you how to use this," she offered. "It's pretty easy."
"No, thanks."
The old-school reporter returned to his desk, turned on his IBM Selectric, inserted a sheet of inexpensive bond and began to type.
* * *
For the next three days, Kim was out of the office on assignment. Her first article for the Town Crier would be on summer programs for teenagers and adolescents. Unlike the older reporter, she did not take notes with paper and pen. Instead, she dictated ideas into her microcassette recorder.
Friday, when she was back at the office, Hendrick watched her as she booted up the computer, inserted the tiny cassette into a transcription machine, put a pair of earphones on her head and began to type. Curious, he leaned over and watched the words appear on her computer screen. He smiled when he noticed his new coworker had made a typographical error. Moments later, however, Kim caught the error and easily corrected it.
Noticing she had an audience, the cub reporter stopped typing and lowered the earphones.
"Is there something you wanted?" she asked politely.
"No. I was just looking to see how this thing works. That's all."
"If you want to learn to use it, my offer still stands."
"Nah," he replied. "But I do like the way you can just go back and make corrections like you did."
"With MacWrite, I can do so much more. I can add or delete words, sentences and entire paragraphs without having to retype what I've already written."
"Imagine that! I bet these computers really piss off old Titivillus!" Hendrick laughed.
"Who?"
"Don't tell me they didn't teach you about Titivillus when you were at Annenberg?"
"No, they didn't."
"Titivillus is the patron demon of scribes. Monks back in the thirteenth century blamed him for mistakes that appeared in the handwritten manuscripts they created."
"You're pulling my leg, right?"
"No. I'm serious. For seven centuries, writers, reporters and printers have blamed him for mistakes that appear in their work. I don't think he'll be happy with this new technology."
"Seven hundred years, huh? I think it's high time he retired, don't you?"
Seeing that the young woman could barely contain her laughter, Mosier walked away, embarrassed. Maybe he did not graduate from an Ivy League school, but he was no fool.
And I don't need an expensive computer or a tape recorder to write a story, he thought in his own defense.
"I'm gonna make a donut run," he announced to the rest of the paper's staff.
If there was one thing that could make Hendrick Mosier forget that he was on the fast track to obsolescence, it was a chocolate-frosted, cream-filled Krispy Kreme donut.
* * *
Later that night, when Chris took Kim to dinner on their first date, she brought up the subject of her fellow reporter.
"He's a character, isn't he?" Chris laughed.
"That's one way of putting it. What's his story?" she asked.
"He grew up in Reading and moved to Strasburg when he got married. As you can tell from all the Nittany Lions memorabilia on his desk, he attended Penn State."
"And he's a huge football fan, I'll bet."
"I heard he petitioned the pope to canonize Joe Paterno; however, John Paul II is a Notre Dame man."
"So, Hendrick is a religious man. That explains the ridiculous story he told me today."
"What story is that?"
"It was about a demon who liked to cause medieval monks to make mistakes in their manuscripts."
"You must mean Titivillus."
"You've heard of him?" Kim asked with surprise.
"Of course. Haven't you?"
"No. I thought Mosier was just busting my chops again."
"No, he wasn't. Titivillus is a bona fide legend. In fact, it's from the story of Titivillus that we get the expression 'printer's devil.'"
The waitress then came to the table to take their order, and the patron demon of the scribes was forgotten about.
* * *
Since Hendrick had been with the paper for more than three decades, he got his pick of the stories even though Kim was a far better reporter.
"It's only fair," Chris told her when she complained to him about her lackluster assignments. "He's got seniority."
"But this isn't some factory job. It's a newspaper. In this week's issue, he covered the candidates for the mayoral race and the proposed tax hike. Do you know what I wrote about? Mrs. Swope's lost dog and Missy Dodwell's wedding announcement."
"Did Mrs. Swope find her dog?"
"Yes."
"Is he okay?"
"He's fine. Somehow, he got locked in the neighbor's garage for the weekend."
"Good. I'm glad he's all right."
"Is that what concerns you?" she asked, annoyed. "The dog?"
"I like Chipper. He's a good dog. Look, Kim, it's a small-town paper, not The New York Times."
"That's for damned sure! I wouldn't have to write about Mary Sue Brownlee's award-winning shoofly pie recipe if I worked for the Times."
"With your education, you could have gotten a job at a much larger paper," Chris pointed out. "Why did you come to work for the Crier?"
"My father passed away in January, and I didn't want to leave my mother alone. She's not well."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"What about you? What keeps you bound to Lancaster County?"
"I like it here," he admitted. "I grew up in Ephrata. After college, I got a job on Wall Street."
"You're kidding! You worked in New York?"
"For two years. The novelty soon wore off, and I began to miss living in a small town. I came back home for a visit, and Stanton offered me a job."
"Do you ever regret accepting it?"
"Never. Not only am I back home where I belong, but I enjoy what I do as well. In addition to keeping the paper's books, I sell advertising space and even write an occasional article on investments or changes in the tax laws. I'm much happier here than I ever was on Wall Street."
It must be nice to be content with your life, Kim thought, looking up at Chris's serene countenance. Maybe I should just be happy with what I have rather than wishing for something else.
* * *
As the weeks passed, Kim and Chris's friendship blossomed into a romance. Thankfully, the Lancaster Town Crier had no rules forbidding fraternization between staff members.
"I see you and Chris really hit it off," Hedy observed. "I'll bet you'll be writing your own wedding announcement before long."
"One never knows," the reporter said with a smile.
Although it was far too soon for Chris to bring up the subject of matrimony, Kim sometimes wondered what her answer would be if he did. She did not question her feelings for him. He was a great guy and would no doubt make an excellent husband. But she was not sure that marriage was what she wanted. Eventually, she hoped to fulfill her dream of becoming a real journalist and covering meaningful news stories, not fluff pieces.
During her times of indecision, a quote from one of her favorite episodes of Star Trek frequently came to mind. Mr. Spock tells the rival for his intended wife's hand, "After a time, you may find that 'having' is not so pleasing a thing after all as 'wanting.'" If she got the job of her dreams, would it make her happy? Or, like Chris, would she come running back home?
Resolved to take life one day at a time, Kim continued to live at home with her ailing mother, write her assigned articles for the Crier without complaint and see Chris Ringgold two or three nights a week. Because her job was not demanding, she had plenty of free time on her hands. She took an aerobics class to stay in shape, read books, listened to music and watched movies on HBO. It was a comfortable, worry-free existence, but she knew she was "settling" rather than living the life she wanted.
The holiday season helped keep her spirits up. She loved holidays. Starting with Halloween in October, continuing through Thanksgiving in November and culminating in Christmas and New Year's Eve in December. New Year's Day was quiet. Chris went to his brother's house to watch football games, and Kim stayed at home with her mother. She cooked a pan of lasagna, half of which went into the freezer for future use. After finishing their dessert, the two women sat in front of the television and watched Gone With the Wind on the VCR.
"No matter how many times I see this movie, I still love it," Diane Bogart declared.
"I feel that way about The Wizard of Oz."
"Really? I always thought your favorite movie was Citizen Kane."
"I like that one, too. It was the reason I wanted to become a reporter. I wanted to grow up and be a female Charles Foster Kane."
"I can't imagine why. In the end, he turned out to be a lonely old man whose last thoughts were of a sled he had as a child."
"Rosebud," Kim said.
I wonder what my last thought will be, she mused. I hope it won't be "Chipper," Mrs. Swope's lost dog.
* * *
On January 2, the staff of the Lancaster Town Crier arrived at the office looking tired and, in Hendrick's case, hungover.
"I can't believe we lost to Oklahoma," the senior reporter said despondently.
"Only two things come out of Oklahoma," Chris teased, quoting from the movie An Officer and a Gentleman.
"Apparently the third thing is a winning football team," Stanton joked as he walked through the front door, carrying a box of Krispy Kremes. "I figured we'd need these this morning."
After getting a cup of coffee and a glazed donut, Kim sat at her desk and turned on her computer. She had interviewed Fire Chief Ulysses Marbury on December 22 about his department's successful toy drive but had yet to write her article. She would do that first before starting her next assignment. She took a bite from her donut and a sip from her coffee, and then she put on her earphones and opened MacWrite.
Reaching for her coffee cup, her hand was nowhere near the keyboard, yet words began to appear on the Macintosh's screen.
SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER WILL BLOW UP SHORTLY AFTER LIFTOFF.
"What the hell?" the reporter cried aloud.
"What's the matter?" Hedy asked.
"I'll bet something's wrong with that damned computer of hers," Hendrick said. "I told Stanton they were nothing but trouble, but he wouldn't listen to me."
The smug I-told-you-so look on her fellow reporter's face irked Kim. It also made her wonder if he had done something to deliberately sabotage her Macintosh.
How? she asked herself. He knows nothing about computers. Or does he? Was he only pretending ignorance?
"It's nothing," she lied. "I accidentally deleted my story, that's all. Thank goodness I made a backup copy."
"It wasn't an accident," Mosier laughed. "It was Titivillus."
Ignoring his good-natured ribbing, the rookie reporter deleted the bizarre writing and began to type. However, the letters on the screen did not coincide with the keys she pressed.
ALL ABOARD WILL BE KILLED.
This time, in addition to deleting the writing, she closed the word processing program, shut down the computer and rebooted it. When she reopened MacWrite, there were no more glitches. She looked at the blinking cursor, reminded of the words that were spoken at the end of every episode of The Outer Limits: "We now return control of your television set to you."
A little more than three weeks later, on January 28, 1986, just as Kim and Chris were discussing their lunch plans, the news bulletin came over the radio. The Challenger exploded seventy-three seconds into its flight. The entire staff of the Crier hurried into the conference room to watch the news coverage of the event on the portable television there.
"No one could survive that!" Hedy exclaimed, on the brink of tears.
Kim was speechless.
It couldn't have been Mosier or anyone else on the paper messing around with my Mac. There's no way they could have known this would happen!
If it wasn't a coworker, then who or what had predicted the tragedy?
Once the portable Zenith TV was turned off and everyone returned to work, Kim reached behind the Mac for the on/off switch. Her hand was trembling as she moved the mouse and opened MacWrite. She stared at the blank screen for several minutes. Just when she was about to begin typing, the letter "Y" appeared on the screen, followed by "O" and "U."
It's happening again.
YOU SHOULD HAVE COVERED THIS STORY.
It took close to twenty minutes for Kim to compose herself. When she did, she rose from her seat and went into Stanton's office.
"Are we going to put anything in the next edition about the Challenger?" she asked.
"No. This is a local paper. We don't cover national news. Besides, by the time the issue hits the stands, everyone will have heard all about it."
"Can't I write an article about Christa McAuliffe? Maybe a short bio or a memorial of some kind."
"No. I want you to stick to your piece on what specials the local florists and restaurants will offer on Valentine's Day."
"What about the fire in Manheim?"
"Mosier will cover that. He is the senior reporter," the editor added, noting the look of disappointment on her face. "I know you want to get ahead, but this isn't The Washington Post. Frankly, I wouldn't blame you if you went to another paper. You're young and hungry, and you've got the education to go far in this business."
"You know I can't leave my mother. She needs me."
"We all need to make compromises. I'd rather be working for a TV news crew, but I stay here because my family is more important than my career."
When she returned to her computer, the screen was blank. Moments later, another message appeared.
DO YOU WANT TO COMPROMISE?
No, she thought. I don't.
As though the Mac could read her mind, more words appeared in response to her thought.
THEN FOLLOW YOUR DREAMS.
The screen suddenly went black, and Kim had to reboot the computer.
"That thing giving you trouble again?" Hendrick asked, noticing the look of frustration on her face.
"What have you got against modern technology, Mosier?"
"Nothing. I just think people rely on it too much. Take pocket calculators for instance. I went into the hardware store the other day and bought a paintbrush that cost two for three dollars. Do you know the cashier had to take out his calculator to figure out how much to charge me for one? I predict the same thing will happen with these computers. Someday, there will be one in every home in America. And if that happens, who knows what uses people will find for the damned things!"
"I suppose we'll just have to wait and see," she said, turning her attention back to her work.
* * *
"I wasn't sure if you wanted candy or flowers, so I got you both," Chris announced and handed Kim a dozen roses and a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
"You didn't have to get me anything. You're already taking me out to dinner."
"Nonsense! It's Valentine's Day, one of the few times during the year a man gets to spoil the woman he loves."
It was the first time he ever mentioned the word love, but he mentioned it in such a way that she wasn't sure if he really meant it. Did he love her?
"What are the other times you plan on spoiling me?" she laughed, wanting to keep the conversation light.
"On your birthday, Christmas and our wedding anniversary—that's assuming you'll stay in Pennsylvania and marry me and not run off to New York or some other big city."
Not knowing if his comment was a proposal, Kim did not know how to react. She quickly decided to ignore it.
Her eyes went to her watch, and she announced, "It's getting late. We better leave now if we want the restaurant to hold our reservation."
As was often the case with Kim and Chris, their conversation at dinner covered a variety of topics: work, movies, television programs, sports teams, music and books. It was not until dessert was served that he brought up a more serious subject.
"Let's get back to what I said when I picked you up at your mother's house," Chris began. "You never had an answer for me."
"I don't remember you asking me a question," she said, suddenly feeling as though her stomach was tied in knots.
"Do you plan on staying in Pennsylvania?"
"Honestly? I don't know yet."
"Because I don't think a long-distance marriage will work."
"Is this your way of proposing?"
"Yes. But, as much as I love you, I don't think I could ever go back to living in the city."
"So, I would have to choose between you and my career. Is that what you're telling me?"
"That's a hell of a way of putting it, but yes. I want to stay here and raise a family with you."
"Can I have some time to think about it?" she asked.
He looked hurt and disappointed. Clearly, he had expected her to readily accept his proposal.
"Sure," he replied, his gaze shifting from her face to his cheesecake. "Let me know when you make up your mind."
* * *
On Monday morning, February 17, Kim again felt as though she were thrust into an episode of The Outer Limits. She turned on the Apple computer and was about to write her article on Ezekiel Hochstetler, the winner of the best Fasnacht recipe contest. (As Hendrick described them, "Fasnachts are not quite as good as Krispy Kremes, but they're tasty little donuts just the same.")
As soon as MacWrite opened, the letters began appearing on the screen.
IF YOU MARRY HIM, YOU'LL NEVER BE A REAL REPORTER.
She wondered if perhaps she had subconsciously typed those words herself. But when she looked down at her hands, they were nowhere near the keyboard.
What the hell is going on? her brain screamed. Who is doing this?
IT'S ME. TITIVILLUS.
No. It can't be. This is either some sick joke or I'm losing my mind.
NEITHER. I'M REAL.
What do you want from me?
I'M HERE TO HELP YOU.
Help me do what?
FULFILL YOUR POTENTIAL. YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR THIS SMALL-TOWN PAPER, AND YOU KNOW IT.
But I have my mother to care for, and then there's Chris.
WHO'S MORE IMPORTANT? YOU OR THEM?
Me.
Titivillus's words vanished, and Kim found herself staring at a blinking cursor.
* * *
That night the UPenn grad typed up her resume on her Brother portable typewriter. After work the following day, she took it to a printer and had a hundred copies made. She mailed resumes and cover letters to the larger newspapers first, including The New York Times, The Philadelphia Enquirer, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Washington Post and The Boston Globe. Not wanting to limit herself to the East Coast, she also applied to papers in Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Detroit, Dallas, Baltimore, San Francisco and Seattle.
"Someone must be hiring," she told herself optimistically. "Even if I get an entry-level position, at least I can work my way up. I have no future here in Lancaster."
The following week, Kim mailed out another twenty-five resumes, and twenty-five more the week after that. By the end of the second month, she had covered cities large and small including Scranton, Pennsylvania; Phoenix, Arizona; Charlotte, North Carolina; Denver, Colorado; Memphis, Tennessee; and New Orleans, Louisiana.
She received hundreds of replies but no job offers.
"Just like all the others," she cried, frustrated at the response from the Miami Herald. "Nothing is available now, but they'll keep my resume on file. Blah, blah, blah!"
Meanwhile, Chris was becoming impatient. He had hoped she would make up her mind by now.
"We're not getting any younger," he told her as they took a ride on the Strasburg Rail Road one spring afternoon.
"I know. It's just such a big decision, one that will affect my entire life."
It seemed a simple enough matter to him: either she loved him or she didn't.
To complicate matters, Diane Bogart's health was deteriorating, and she needed her daughter more than ever.
Even if I were offered a job, I couldn't accept it now, she realized.
Resigned to spending her life in Lancaster County and working for the Town Crier, she decided to accept Chris's marriage proposal. Why not? If circumstances prevented her from having a career, she would then settle for being a wife. No sooner was the engagement official than Titivillus returned. His taunts made Kim second-guess her decision.
WILL YOU BE HAPPY PLAYING HOUSEWIFE WHILE LESS GIFTED REPORTERS COVER THE MAJOR NEWS STORIES?
Probably not, but there's not much I can do about it.
IF YOUR MOTHER WERE DEAD, WOULD YOU STILL WANT TO MARRY CHRIS RINGGOLD?
No, but she's still alive, and her doctors say she can live another five years or more.
YOU CAN CHANGE THAT.
Kim's hand went to the back of the computer and pressed the on/off switch. As much as she regretted being cast in the role of nursemaid, she would never harm her mother.
"Done with your article so soon?" Hendrick asked.
"Why don't you mind your owned damned business for once?" she barked at him, surprising the rest of the staff with her uncharacteristic, unprofessional and entirely uncalled-for display of anger.
* * *
Over the next fourteen months, Kim desperately tried to ignore the demon's attempts to engage her in conversation. Each day when she turned on her computer, Titivillus would hint at major news events on the horizon including the fall of the Berlin Wall, the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the savings and loan crisis, the Chernobyl nuclear disaster and the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland. All these forecasts were followed by heckling.
AND YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO COVER THE STORY. INSTEAD, YOU'LL BE PICKING OUT BRIDESMAID'S DRESSES OR WRITING ABOUT CANNING RECIPES AND QUILTING BEES.
As her June wedding date neared, however, she found it increasingly difficult to keep her emotions in check. Although she loved her mother, she also resented her. She was a young woman in her twenties; she shouldn't be burdened with caring for an invalid. And as for Chris, he was five years older than Kim. He was eager to marry and start a family whereas she wanted to enjoy herself before settling down.
WHAT ABOUT YOUR CAREER?
Damn you! Why can't you leave me alone?
I CAN SEE IT NOW. YOU'LL GO FROM TAKING CARE OF YOUR MOTHER TO TAKING CARE OF YOUR CHILDREN.
She had the sudden urge to pick up the Macintosh and toss it through the window out into the street. But she still had enough self-control to rein in that impulse. Somehow, she managed to remain at her desk and complete her assignment on gift ideas for high school graduates.
YOU WON'T WIN A PULITZER PRIZE FOR THAT ARTICLE.
As she turned off the Macintosh, she wondered if Steve Jobs or Steve Wozniak had ever encountered Titivillus when they tested the first Apple computer.
* * *
House-hunting. As though taking care of a sick mother and planning a wedding weren't bad enough, Chris wanted to buy a house.
"I don't want to raise our kids in an apartment," he said.
"Kids? We're not even married yet, and you're worried about where we'll raise our kids!"
"Why wait? I have the money for the down payment. If we get the house now, we can do whatever remodeling we want before we become parents."
Remodeling? Good God! Another nightmare!
After seeing three houses on Saturday afternoon, Chris fell in love with the second one the real estate agent showed them on Sunday.
"This is perfect for us!" he exclaimed. "There's a den in the basement that we can convert to a bedroom for your mother. And the smaller bedroom across from the master will make a great nursery."
Kim imagined herself running up and down stairs, tending to her mother and their baby, and she wanted to vomit. She had not worked her ass off for four years in college for this!
Titivillus is right. This isn't the life I want.
"I think we should call the agent tonight and make an offer on the house," Chris suggested as they drove to the Log Cabin restaurant in Leola.
"Let me think about it first," Kim told him.
"What's to think about? We're not going to find a better place than that one, especially at that price."
"I don't want to rush into anything."
"Are you always this indecisive? Look how long it took you to accept my proposal."
"What's wrong with being cautious?"
"If we don't act fast, someone else will buy it."
"So? There are other houses."
The couple stopped arguing. In fact, they said very little to each other for the remainder of the evening.
* * *
HE'S GOING TO BUY THE HOUSE WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT.
What a great way to start the week, she thought facetiously after reading Titivillus's message first thing on Monday morning.
HE'S ALREADY MADE AN OFFER ON IT.
He wouldn't do that without telling me.
HE'S HEDGING HIS BETS. HE THINKS YOU'RE HAVING SECOND THOUGHTS ABOUT MARRYING HIM.
She did not waste time denying the truth.
HE'LL BUY THE HOUSE, YOU'LL BREAK UP WITH HIM AND HE'LL MARRY SOMEONE ELSE.
Are you teasing me or is what you're saying an accurate prediction?
HE'S GOING TO MEET A WOMAN NAMED MARIETTA IN AUGUST 1989. THEY'LL GET MARRIED, HAVE THREE CHILDREN AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER.
And what about me? What does the future hold in store for me?
IT DEPENDS.
On what?
WHETHER OR NOT YOU HAVE THE GUTS TO PUT YOUR MOTHER OUT OF HER MISERY.
I told you before. I won't do it.
THE CHOICE IS YOURS. YOU CAN HAVE A REWARDING CAREER WITH THE NEW YORK TIMES OR STAY HERE IN PENNSYLVANIA AND BECOME A LONELY SPINSTER WHO, AFTER WORKING EIGHT HOURS AT A JOB YOU HATE, WILL GO HOME TO HER CAT.
But she's my mother. I love her. How can I murder her?
DON'T THINK OF IT AS MURDER. THINK OF IT AS A MERCY KILLING. IT'S MERCIFUL FOR BOTH HER AND YOU.
The Town Crier's outer door opened, and Chris walked in, carrying a white paper bag.
"I stopped and bought bagels," he announced. "I figured it would be a change from donuts."
"What's the occasion?" Hendrick asked.
Chris glanced in Kim's direction as though he were afraid to speak in front of her.
He bought the house, she realized. And he's waiting for the right time to break the news to me.
Apparently, Titivillus may be a demon and an all-around pain in the ass, but he was clearly not a liar.
* * *
"Hi, Mom. I'm home," Kim called out upon entering the Bogart home.
She went into the kitchen and put the stack of mail on the table. A stew was cooking in the crockpot, so she would not have to make dinner.
"It's time to eat," she announced, taking two bowls out of the cabinet and two spoons from the drawer.
"Can you help me?" Diane asked. "I can't seem to get out of bed."
Kim walked down the hall to the master bedroom, glad the house was a one-level ranch. Her mother would never be able to go up and down stairs in her condition. The strong smell of urine greeted her as she crossed the threshold.
"Did you have an accident?" she asked.
"I couldn't help it. I had to go, but I couldn't get out of bed."
"Let me wash you and put clean clothes on you. After dinner, I'll change the bed and do a load of laundry. Just let me go turn the stew off first."
When she walked back into the kitchen, the letter on top of the stack of mail caught her attention. The return address was that of The New York Times. Temporarily forgetting about both the crockpot and her mother, she ripped open the envelope. Inside was a job offer. It was an entry-level position, but if she accepted it, she would have her foot in the door at last.
"Kim!" Diane cried. "I need to go again. I can't hold it."
This time, it was not pee her daughter smelled. The awful stench made her gag.
"I'm sorry to be such a bother," the sick woman sobbed.
Kim smiled weakly and reached out her hand to help her mother sit up. As she leaned forward, her eyes went to the pillow on what had been her father's side of the bed. At that moment, Titivillus's words came back to her: think of it as a mercy killing.
* * *
"Everybody listen up," Stanton Wendover called to his staff once everyone was present. "I want to officially introduce our new hire. This is Duncan MacKay."
As had been the case on Kim Bogart's first day on the job, coffee and donuts were in the lunchroom.
"On behalf of everyone here at the Lancaster Town Crier, I'd like to welcome you," Hendrick announced, after grabbing a Krispy Kreme and a cup of coffee.
"This will be your desk," Stanton said, showing the young man to the place where Kim once sat.
"A Macintosh computer," Duncan noted.
"You know how to use it?" the senior reporter asked between bites of his chocolate-frosted donut.
"Yes. It's so much easier than writing articles on a typewriter."
"That's what your predecessor said, but she seemed to have trouble with that thing."
"Oh?"
"But then she wasn't ...."
Hendrick's eyes went to Chris's office door, and he stopped speaking.
"She wasn't what?" Duncan prompted.
"I probably shouldn't be telling you this," Mosier said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "But she wasn't right in the head. Sharp as a tack, mind you, but crazy nonetheless. She murdered her sickly mother and wound up in the lunatic asylum in Harrisburg."
"You mean the Harrisburg State Hospital?" his young coworker asked, calling the mental institution by its current name.
"Yeah. I don't like to mention her in front of Chris. He was going to marry her. Lucky for him he didn't. Who knows? She might have killed him, too."
As Hendrick headed for the lunchroom to get a second donut, Duncan reached behind the computer and turned it on. No sooner did MacWrite open than words began appearing on the screen.
SO, YOU WANT TO BE A REPORTER, DO YOU? WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO DO TO ACHIEVE YOUR GOAL?
The legend of the demon Titivillus dates back to the thirteen century. It was believed he worked on behalf of Satan, causing monks to make errors in religious works.
If there are typos in this or any of my other stories, don't blame Titivillus. The fault for all my errors lies with you-know-who!
