A Manhattan Ghost Story (20 page)

“Everything. You know. Everything. And you figure since the spook’s been through it all, he’d know, right? But who’s to say?—That’s my question. Nobody; that’s who. I bet the spooks are just as stupid and ignorant as the rest of us. Course it depends on where they’ve got off, right?”

“Right, Sam.”

“Shit, you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I do, Sam.”

“Okay, tell me. What am I talking about?”

“You’re talking about spirits, and where they go, and … like that.”

He grimaced.

“I don’t know. Sometimes you’re fulla shit, Sam. Sometimes you scare me, you’re so fulla shit.”

He closed his eyes, put his hands on his knees, thumbs up, fists closed.

“What’re you doing, Sam?”

“Shhh. I’m meditating.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you, Sam?”

“Shhh.”

“I think Joe Hammet touched my shoulder, ya know. A little while ago.”

“Shhh, I’m sensing the vibrations.”

“You look awful, Sam. You look blue.”

“I’m holding my breath.”

“Why?”

 “Because the dead don’t breathe.”

“Oh.”

He opened his eyes suddenly. He grinned, tilted his head to one side, shrugged. “Maybe they do,” he said, “and maybe they don’t. If they can walk around, they can breathe, too. Habits, Abner—like I said.”

“Yeah, like a—” I stopped.

“Like a what?”

“Nothing, Sam. I’m getting cold. Why don’t we get outa here, okay?”

“You can go. I’m staying for a while. I like it here.”

I sighed. “You know something, Sam? I bet that if old Joe Hammet came in that door—” I nodded sagely at the mausoleum’s door—”you’d faint dead away.”

He shrugged again. “Maybe. Like I said, it’s the not-knowing that gets you scared. So maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn’t. It depends on how friendly he was, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah? You mean if he said, ‘Boy, it’s a nice day,’ and gave you one of his big smiles, you’d get up and shake his hand?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’d scare me more than if he was carryin’ his head between his legs and pukin’ at the same time. I don’t know. It depends, Abner. Everything depends.”

* * *

I stood with my back to Art’s door for a very long time. I didn’t think for a moment that it would keep anyone out, but I thought the gesture was important.

I watched morning light slowly fill the apartment. I listened to Manhattan come fully awake. I thought that love was often enough, but that sometimes it isn’t—sometimes it isn’t enough by a long shot.

And I thought, too, that what I most wanted was to be able to work on the big photo book that I’d come to New York to do. I wanted to take ten thousand pictures; I wanted to feel the Nikon in my hands, wanted to push chemicals around in a darkroom, I wanted to make decisions about lighting and about angles, and moments out of time.

CHAPTER TEN

I called Serena Hitchcock at 9:15.

“Serena, it’s Abner Cray. Can we get together soon? I’d like to talk about the book.”

“Abner, there is no book, you know that; it’s been cancelled.”

“I want to do it anyway, Serena. On spec. Can I do it on spec? I
need
to do it.”

“I’d prefer to talk about other projects, Abner. I have several in mind—”

“I’d really like to do the big book, Serena. The one I
came
here to do.” I waited. She said nothing. “Serena, I thought you’d be pleased. Are you there, Serena?”

“I’m here.”

“And?”

“And I wish I could help you, Abner—”

 “I said ‘on spec,’ Serena. I’ll do the book, and I’ll show it to you, and if you don’t like it, you can give it back.”

“I know that
I’ll
like it, Abner. But that’s not the point—”

“I’ll come down to your office. We’ll talk. I
need
to do this.”

“You sound … manic, Abner. No, don’t come here. Please. You can come to my apartment, it’s in the West Village—you’re familiar with the West Village?”

“Sure I am.”

“Okay. Come over after 7:00, closer to 7:30 really. I’m at 230 West 11th. You’ll see my name on the directory.”

“Thank you, Serena.”

“Sure,” she said, and hung up.

I went to breakfast at the small Greek restaurant near the apartment. I sat at the same table; I ordered scrambled eggs, fresh-squeezed orange juice, whole wheat toast, coffee.

The owner of the restaurant—a dark-haired, smoothfaced man in his early forties, wearing a soiled, white apron over a shortsleeved white shirt and black pants—said from behind the counter, “I thought you were not coming back,” and glanced quickly about, apparently to see if there was anyone else within earshot. There wasn’t. A very thin young man with receding blonde hair and a thick mustache was seated at a corner table reading
The Christian Science Monitor
, a couple of nicely dressed women in their early thirties were talking animatedly in a booth on the other side of the restaurant.

The owner went on, at a high whisper, “I thought our little friends scared you away.”

“Little friends?” I said.

“The cock-a-roaches,” he said, his accent now plainly in evidence. “The bastard
cock
-a-roaches. I saw you squash one of them and I thought it scared you away. I’m glad for my restaurant that it didn’t.”

“Your food’s good,” I said. “And I don’t care about cockroaches.” I smiled. “It’s hard to get away from them anyway, in New York.”

He swiped at the counter with a dishcloth. “It’s hard to get away from many things in New York,” he said.

“Like the pollution,” I said.

He swiped at the counter again, his smile stuck on his face. On the other side of the restaurant, the two nicely dressed women still were talking animatedly. In a far booth, the young man with receding blonde hair and thick mustache still was reading his
Christian Science Monitor
. “I’m glad you like my food,” the owner said. “All the time I make good food.”

“Yes,” I said, “you do.”

He swiped at the counter again. “Not like some of the others,” he said. “Some of the others don’t care no more. I care. I always care.”

I speared some egg with my fork, pushed it around the plate. “Yes,” I said again. The fork scraped shrilly against the plate, sending a shiver down my back. I put the egg into my mouth; the egg was cold.

“Fifty years I been makin’ good food for my customers. Gets to be a habit, you know. You want more coffee?”

“No.” I stood. “Thank you. No.” I fished in my pocket for some change, put two quarters on the table, watched as a fat cockroach scooted up from the underside of the table, across the top, over the quarters, and disappeared around the other side. “No,” I said again, and found that I was grinning oddly. “I think I’d better get—” the cockroach scooted across the table top again—”to work,” I finished, and started for the door.

“Sure, go ahead,” the owner said, that smile still stuck on his face. He swiped at the counter again. “Sure, go ahead,” he repeated. In a corner booth, the two nicely dressed women still were talking animatedly. At a table, the young man with the blonde mustache still was reading his
Christian Science Monitor
. “Sure, go ahead,” the owner said again.

I looked at the door. It was open; some people were walking hurriedly past, and a light snowfall had started that was already beginning to collect on the single cement step.

“Sure, go ahead,” the owner said again. He swiped at the counter. “Go ahead. It’s good for my restaurant that my little friends didn’t scare you away.” He glanced at the women in the corner booth. “More coffee, girls?”

Both of the women looked over. One was a redhead, her skin very pale, her lips thick with bright red lipstick. “No,” she said. “No, thank you. We’re going to leave soon.” And she turned to the other woman, an incredibly well-endowed brunette in a tight, pink dress, who was holding a small, black purse on her lap. “We should leave soon,” she said to the woman, and the woman said to her, holding her hand horizontally at her throat. “I’m full up to
here
with coffee. I’ll
never
sleep.”

“Sure,” the owner said to them, “go ahead. Sure, go ahead.” He looked at the young man reading the
Christian Science Monitor
. “Some for you, young man.”

“None for me,” the young man said.

“I’ll
never
sleep!” said the incredibly well-endowed brunette in the tight dress. “I’m full up to
here
.”

The young man pushed himself away from the table, dropped his newspaper, bent over, picked it up, went to the door, hesitated, went out, turned right, was gone.

The owner whispered, “He didn’t pay me,” then shouted, “Hey, you come back here!” and ran around from behind the counter, dishcloth still in hand. He stopped, grinned, looked at me, said, “He’ll be back. He’s one of my regulars.”

“Yes,” I said. I was making my way slowly to the door. “One of your regulars,” I said.

“And you?” he said.

“No,” I said.

“It’s good for my restaurant that my little friends didn’t frighten you away.” He went back around the counter, swiped at it with the dishcloth.

“No,” I said. I was at the door now. I went through it, turned right on Lexington Avenue. “No,” I said to myself, when I was half a block from the restaurant. I shook my head violently. “Not me,” I said.

And a middle-aged man in a rumpled, brown suit who’d been walking parallel to me said, “Got a lot on your mind, huh, bub?” and chuckled, hurried on, said loudly, when he was a yard or so in front of me, “New York’s just chuck full of ‘em,” and chuckled again.

“Not me,” I said again. “Not me, mister!” I shouted.

At times it is imperative that we grab hold of something that seems real, something that has mass and weight, something that can cut, something mechanical, soulless, gauche, temporary.

We need such things when we feel certain that we are going to be caught up, suddenly—or already are caught up—in something exquisite, and eternal. Like death, or love. Or both.

And we need such things because they can help affirm for us that we are, ourselves, soulless, gauche, and temporary. Sure it’s a lie, I know that it’s a lie, but it’s how most of us make it from one day to the next.

* * *

I went to a small shop called Gifts for Giving, on Madison Avenue, near East 79th. I had been in the shop once before, very briefly, several years earlier, in search of a birthday present for Stacy and I’d found that it dealt in goods that could only be called exquisitely tacky. There were lava lamps—in pastel green and gold—and picture clocks, “Starving Artists” oil paintings, toilet-paper holders with built-in AM radios, battery powered mittens, and even a miniature wooden outhouse whose door opened to reveal a tiny, pantless ceramic man in the midst of urinating.

I went to this shop after breakfast and I happily prowled the all-but-empty aisles unbothered for several hours, until a fat, balding, thirtyish man wearing rimless glasses, a pink shirt, and shiny gray pants come over, said he was in charge, and asked if I could “please loiter elsewhere.”

“I’m still deciding,” I told him.

“On what?” he said, clearly incredulous.

“On what I’d like to buy, of course. I’m trying to find a birthday gift. For a friend.”

“You’ve been in here for quite a while, mister, and if you haven’t found anything yet, I’d say you probably never will.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re wrong. There’s so much …
stuff
.” I grinned. Nearby, some aprons were on display. I picked one up, looked it over. It was a full length white apron, and imprinted on it, in big, black letters, were these words:

GOT MORE TIME FOR MISBEHAVIN’

SINCE I STARTED MICROWAVES’!

“This is nice,” I said. “I think she’d like it.”

“Your wife?” he said, sounding suddenly less incredulous. “Is this something for your wife, sir?”

“No. A friend. As I said.” I laid the apron down on a display table behind me. “I’ll let you know,” I said.

He glanced about, picked up a needlepoint picture on another display table, held it up to me. “Perhaps she’d like this, sir. It’s a fine sentiment, I’d say.”

The picture had these words on it:

TIME ENDEARS

BUT CANNOT FADE

THE MEMORIES

THAT LOVE HAS MADE.

I took it from him, studied it a moment, said, “Yes, it is a fine sentiment,” and set it next to the apron.

“Can I show you something else, sir?” asked the balding man.

“No, thank you,” I answered, “I’d like to browse some more, if you don’t mind.”

“Take your time, sir.”

“Yes. I will.”

“It’s the only thing any of us have, isn’t it, sir?”

“Sorry?”

“Time. All we’ve got is time.” He smiled a wide, flat smile. “All we’ve
got
is time, sir.” His eyebrows shot up, as if he were doing a Groucho Marx imitation. He said it again, “All we’ve
got
is time, sir.” His smile was stuck. His eyebrows stayed up. His head looked like a cueball with a happy face painted on it.

“I’d better go,” I said.

“Whereto, sir?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere else.”

“There is nowhere else, sir.”

“Sure there is.” I started for the door, felt his hand on my arm, looked back. He was still smiling. His eyebrows still were up. He said, “The apron, sir? Do you want the apron?”

“No,” I told him.

“Or the picture? It’s a fine sentiment.”

“No. I’d just like to leave.”

“Certainly, sir.” He let go of my arm, gestured with his hand, quickly, toward the door. “Go ahead. Leave. Please. We want you to leave.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“So are we,” he said.

And I left.

I went, my head down and my hands thrust into my pockets, to a porno movie house off Broadway, on 49th Street. Something called
Vixens In Cellophane
was playing, and I seated myself in the last row, which was empty, in the corner, and I wept.

At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965