A Manhattan Ghost Story (21 page)

“Sam, I’m hungry,” I said.

“Ain’t nothin’ to eat here,” he said, and grinned, “unless, of course—” He inclined his head slightly toward Joe Hammet’s vault.

 “Jesus H. Christ, Sam, that’s disgusting!”

He laughed quickly.

I stood. “That’s disgusting,” I said again. “And I’m sicka sittin’ here watchin’ you turn blue from not breathing and gettin cold and havin’ my rear end go to sleep.”

“I can’t help what your rear end does, Abner.” He nodded at the spot where I’d been sitting. “But if you’re my friend—”

“Course I’m your friend.”

“Then you’ll sit down.” He sounded distinctly and suddenly sullen. “I like it here, Abner.”

I thought a moment. I sat down again. I said, quietly, “For real, Sam?”

“For real, Abner. I like it here. I don’t know why, but I do.”

And I felt, at once, more affection for him than I ever had before.

BOOK THREE

Heaven can wait

And all I got is time until the end of time.

—Meatloaf

CHAPTER ONE

It was close to 6:30 when I left the theatre. I did not go back to Art’s apartment, though I needed a shower and shave and a change of clothes. I went straight to Serena Hitchcock’s apartment. I thought of her and the book and the cancelled contracts as gritty, almost venal links with reality. And I thought of Art’s apartment as a link to something else altogether.

Her building was one of a series of three-story, red brick row houses on West 11th Street. It was streaked brown from air pollution and steep, snow-covered concrete steps led to a set of heavy, black-painted wooden doors which opened onto a brightly lighted foyer. I found her name on the building’s directory—she was on the third floor—rang her once, then again, and again. She answered on the fourth ring.

 “Hi, Serena,” I said. “It’s me. Abner. You decent?”

“You’re early,” she said. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

She clicked off. I waited with my hand on the doorknob. After several minutes, I rang her again.

“Yes?” she said, clearly annoyed.

“Hi, Serena—”

“I’m not dressed, Abner.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She clicked off. I put my hand on the doorknob again. I saw a man and woman, dressed well, as if for an evening at the theatre, come out of a first floor apartment and walk quickly toward the door, the man with his arm around the woman’s waist. They saw me, and he grimaced slightly; I smiled at him, let go of the knob. From behind the closed door he said, “You’re not coming in.”

I pointed toward the ceiling. “I’m waiting for someone,” I said.

“Then you’ll have to continue waiting,” he said. “Back away from the door, please.”

I backed away from the door; he opened it, and they walked through. He closed it firmly, and they moved quickly past me, eyes averted, through the first set of doors.

I rang Serena again.

“How’s it going, Serena?”

“You can come up now, Abner,” she answered, and the door buzzed. I grabbed it, pulled it open, went inside, and climbed the three sets of noisy, wooden stairs—which tilted noticeably to the left, so climbing them was something of an adventure—to her apartment, at the rear of the building. I knocked, she answered at once, and showed me in.

Her apartment was small: a living room, kitchenette, and bedroom, I guessed, the walls a soft cream color, the floors well-polished oak, and the living room furnishings, two chairs, a couch, a loveseat, all of the same type—heavy beige fabric on chrome frames. There were two large chrome-framed prints hanging, one of lilacs with the name Galen in blue beneath, over the loveseat. The loveseat was near a south-facing window that looked out on a spacious, well-lighted garden behind the row house. The other print, near the chrome and glass dining room table, was a colorful, stylized painting of various vegetables—corn, cucumbers, several tomatoes—and the words EXHIBITION, 1964 beneath it in black.

“Very nice,” I said, and nodded to indicate the apartment.

“Sure,” Serena said. We were standing just inside her front door. She was dressed in black designer jeans, a white, long-sleeved blouse, and she made no attempt to hide the fact that I was imposing on her. She nodded at the dining room table. “Do you mind if I finish eating, Abner?”

“Of course not.”

“Fine.”

We went to the table; she sat, and immediately started in on what looked like linguini with red clam sauce and a glass of wine. She nodded at the other end of the table, said, “Sit down, Abner,” put some of the linguini into her mouth, and chewed it very slowly and delicately. It was clear that she was enjoying it.

I sat at the other end of the table.

“Now, what is it you want to talk about, Abner?” she said, and dabbed at the edges of her lips with a pale violet napkin. “The book?” she went on, and put the napkin on her lap.

“Yes,” I said. “The book.” I nodded at the linguini. “That looks good, Serena. Your own recipe?”

“Sure,” she said. She gave me a quick once-over and pursed her lips, as if in annoyance. “You look terrible, Abner.”

I looked down at myself, grinned. “Yes,” I said, “I do, don’t I? I haven’t been home. I spent the day in a theater.”

“Oh?” She sipped the wine, and a look of great pleasure spread over her face. She held the glass up. “You want some of this, Abner?”

I shook my head. “No. Thanks.” I patted my belly. “Not on an empty stomach.”

“Sure,” she said, put some more linguini in her mouth, and went on as she chewed, “You want to do the book on spec, Abner, go ahead. I can’t promise you anything though.” Some of the red clam sauce dribbled down the right side of her chin. She dabbed it away with the violet napkin.

“Yes,” I said, “I know that. But this book is something that I really
need
to do. It’s why I came to New York in the first place.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic, Serena.”

“I’m not.” She sipped the wine, set the glass down, pushed her plate away. “I wish I were, but I’m not.” She stood, said nothing for a moment, looked confusedly at her plate, then up at me. “I’m sorry, Abner; did you want some of this stuff? It’s not very good, but if you’re hungry, I’ll get you a plate.”

I said something about not wanting to put her to any trouble.

“It’s no trouble, Abner,” she said, and went quickly into her kitchenette, got a plate from the cupboard, went to the stove with it, ladled some linguini onto the plate. She said, over her shoulder, “You have to forgive me, Abner. I’ve been … somebody else, I guess. Since my brother’s murder.” She turned from the stove, came to the table with the plate of linguini and red clam sauce, set it in front of me. I stared at the plate a moment, looked apologetically up at her. “If you could tell me where the silverware is, Serena …”

“Oh, sorry.” She turned quickly, went back to the kitchenette, got some silverware, came back to the table. “I really loved him, Abner. I didn’t know just how much.” She put the silverware down next to the plate. “I guess that’s an old story, isn’t it?” she went on. “You don’t really know how much someone means to you until he’s gone.” She smiled sadly, hesitated, then went back to her seat at the table.

 “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Abner? You’ve lost people, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Who?”

“My parents,” I answered. I scooped up some of the linguini; it was quite good.

“They died together?” Serena asked, and I noticed that her tone had changed, had become lighter.

“No,” I answered.

“Separately, then?” she said.

“Yes.” I nodded at the linguini. “This is very good, Serena.”

“They died … close to one another?” she asked. “In time, Abner? Within a couple of weeks of each other? That’s nice. It happens that way quite a lot, you know.”

“No,” I answered. “My mother killed herself. My father died several years later.” A short pause. “Can we talk about the book, Serena?”

“I’m bothering you, aren’t I?” She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry. Just trying to … make some sense of it all, I think.”

“Yes,” I said, and then, because I could see her pain clearly in her eyes and around her mouth and because I thought she was reaching out to me with it, I hurried on, “I’ve met some people, Serena.”

“People?” She held the bottle of wine up again. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this, Abner?”

“No. Thank you.”

She set the bottle down. “What kind of people, Abner?” A stiff, flat grin appeared on her mouth.

 “I’ve met a woman,” I explained. I ate some more linguini, complimented her again on it, continued, “And she’s … taught me quite a lot, Serena.”

“Does this woman have a name?”

“Yes. Her name’s Phyllis.”

“Phyllis? I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone named Phyllis.” She picked up her fork, popped some linguini into her mouth, set the fork down, dabbed at her lips with the violet napkin. She looked very civilized; I liked that. She continued, “You must love this Phyllis very much.” She sipped her wine, set the glass down, picked up her fork again. She nodded to indicate my clothes. “Assuming, I mean, that she’s somehow the reason you’ve been letting yourself go like this.”

“In a way, I guess she is,” I said.

“What’s she like?”

“You mean Phyllis?”

She put another forkful of linguini into her mouth, chewed it slowly, swallowed. “Yes, I mean Phyllis. Tell me about her.?

“Phyllis is dead.”

The phone rang. Serena stood, dabbed at her mouth again, said, “Excuse me, please,” and went to answer it. She said good-bye to whoever had called a minute later, went to the kitchenette, and brought back a small salad and some bread in a wicker basket. She sat, held the basket up, “It’s sourdough, Abner. Would you like some?”

“No. Thanks,” I said. The linguini was filling me up quickly. “You go ahead.”

 “Thank you, I will,” she said, and spread some butter on a piece of the sourdough. The butter was soft, the bread warm, apparently, because the butter formed little yellow pools on it. Serena took a small bite; some of the butter clung to her lip. “And that’s why you look the way you do?” she asked. “Because Phyllis died?” She looked properly concerned.

“No,” I said.

She dabbed at the butter on her lip with the violet napkin. “I don’t understand, Abner.” She ate some more linguini, gathered some salad up on her fork. “Phyllis’ death didn’t upset you? I would say that that’s very unusual, wouldn’t you? Assuming, of course, that you were in love with her. Didn’t you tell me you were in love with her?”

“I was in love with her, yes. I still am in love with her, Serena.”

She put the forkful of salad into her mouth. A small piece of lettuce fell to her lap; she picked it up, set it next to her plate. “Then that’s the problem, I’d say. You’re in love with … you
profess
to be in love with a dead woman.
That’s
the problem. When did she die?”

“In December.”

She brought the glass of wine to her lips, hesitated. A look of confusion passed swiftly across her face. She sipped the wine, set the glass down. “In December? Was this a woman you knew in Maine?”

“No.”

“Where then?” She dabbed at her lips with the napkin, again.

 “Here,” I answered. “In Manhattan.”

“Oh?” She picked up her dinner fork, set it down, picked it up again. “Oh,” she repeated. “Someone you had known for some time, then?” This seemed to please her. She scooped up another forkful of linguini, put it into her mouth, and chewed slowly, as if savoring it. “Someone you met before?”

“No, Serena.”

She stopped chewing for a moment, started again, swallowed. “I’m sorry, Abner. You’re confusing me.”

I looked away, out the window that overlooked the large garden behind the row house. The garden was brightly lit and I could see that there were people walking in it, despite the snow—a woman pushing a baby carriage and a man, several yards behind her, dressed in a red turtleneck sweater and blue jeans, who was walking with his hands in his pockets and his head down. I said to Serena, “I want to tell you something. About Phyllis.” I looked away from the window, into Serena’s eyes. She looked back expectantly.

“Yes,” she said, “go ahead.”

A big, quivering grin broke out on my face. I was nervous. I grin when I’m nervous.

Serena repeated, “Go ahead, Abner. I’m listening.” She had a forkful of linguini poised halfway to her mouth.

I looked out the window again, at the brightly lit garden. I saw that the woman pushing the baby carriage had stopped and was leaning over it, as if tending to her baby, and that the man in the turtleneck was closing on her. I said, “She’s a part of something, Serena, that’s … much bigger …” And I grinned again.

“You mean Phyllis?”

“Yes.” I looked away once more, toward the garden. The man in the turtleneck was very close to the woman leaning over the baby carriage. He still had his hands in his pockets, his head lowered, and the woman looked up at him as I watched. I believe that she smiled. I looked at Serena. “Yes,” I repeated, grinned once more, forced it down. “We lived together for three weeks.”

Serena thought a moment, then said, “You’re confusing me, Abner. Please, don’t confuse me. You said Phyllis died in December. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you said that you met her here. In Manhattan. Isn’t
that
correct?”

“Yes.”

She picked up her fork, set it down. “You’re making me nervous, Abner. You’re making me very nervous.”

“I can see that,” I said. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you nervous, I want to give you … hope.” I smiled.

She reached for a slice of sourdough, stopped—her hand halfway there—brought it back, picked the fork up again. “I sweat when I’m nervous, Abner. I don’t like to sweat.”

I said again, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re telling me that you lived with a dead woman for three weeks.” And now a small, quivering grin appeared on her lips.

I looked out, at the garden, again. The man in the red turtleneck had passed the woman pushing the baby carriage, who was still leaning over it. I looked back at Serena. I said to her again, “I want to give you
hope
, Serena.”