A Manhattan Ghost Story (6 page)

I glanced around at him. He was leaning against a building now, his eyes lowered and his big head twitching to the left in time with that phrase: “Ain’t we
all
(twitch) doin’ a book. Ain’t we
all
(twitch) doin’ a book?”

“No,” I said.

“Ain’t we
all
(twitch) doin’ a book? Ain’t we
all
(twitch) doin’ a book?”

I watched him for a few moments longer. He’d apparently forgotten about me. He reminded me precisely of a wind-up toy that’s gotten itself stuck against a wall.

I hurried back to the apartment, made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup, watched something X-rated on cable TV, and went to bed at a little after 10:00, which is early for me. The cold air makes me tired. It has always made me tired.

CHAPTER NINE

Phyllis came back to the apartment at about 2:00 that morning. I heard her come in; she was singing softly. I couldn’t hear the words clearly, but it sounded like a nursery rhyme, and since I had been only on the edges of sleep all night, hoping she’d come back, it woke me.

I called to her from the bedroom: “Phyllis?”

She went on singing.

“Phyllis?” I called again, and added, “Is that you?”

“Yes,” she called back, “it’s me.” And she continued singing.

I’d left the bedroom door open, and I stared now at the doorway—very dark and monolithic at the center of the cream-colored walls—and waited for her to appear in it. I waited a full five minutes. Then I called once more: “Phyllis?”

She still was singing. She did not answer me.

“Phyllis, are you going to sleep on the couch?”

She went on singing. Her voice sounded a little raspy, as if she were coming down with a cold.

“Did you lock the door behind you, Phyllis?” I called.

I still had my eyes on the doorway; she appeared very quickly in it, as if she had been there all the while, and I was simply not seeing her. “Jesus!” I breathed. “You scared me!” I could not see her well in the darkness, but I could tell that she was wearing only a bra and panties.

“I didn’t
mean
to scare you, Abner.” Her voice was low, and that slight raspiness gave it a kind of gritty sensuality. “I don’t
want
to scare you, Abner.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Did you lock the door behind you?”

“The door’s locked.”

I reached to my right to turn on the bedside lamp.

“No,” she said, and there was urgency in her voice. “No, Abner, the dark is better. Don’t you like the dark?”

“Yes,” I said, and settled back. “Art called.”

“Art?”

“Uh-huh. At about eight o’clock. He was checking to see if everything was okay here. I didn’t mention you; I didn’t think it would be … politic.”

She didn’t acknowledge that. She started singing again. I could hear the words now
: Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
… And I liked the way she sang it. “Do you think it would have been politic, Phyllis?”

She still didn’t acknowledge me. She took her hands from the edges of the doorway, let her arms hang loosely at her sides, stepped into the room a few feet, stopped. She continued singing. I asked her, then, “Where are you going to sleep, Phyllis? Are you going to sleep here? With me?” She stepped further into the room; she was in pale light coming in through the window. She reached behind herself, unfastened her bra, slipped out of it, let it fall. She came forward, stopped at the side of the bed. I could see her very clearly now. I reached up, cupped her breasts in my hands. I told her her breasts were lovely; I used the word
lovely
. It was a word that seemed to please her; she smiled slightly.

She slipped her panties off, swung her leg over so that she was straddling me. I kept my hands on her breasts; my thumbs diddled with her nipples; I felt her nipples erect. She was still singing, very low and deep in her throat. The raspiness was gone.

“I like the way you sing, Phyllis.”

She leaned over; her mouth was close to mine. She smelled of damp wood. “You like
what
, Abner?”

“You, Phyllis.” The odor of damp wood grew stronger, more offensive. “All of you.”

“Of course you do,” she whispered.

I turned my head away slightly.

“Is something
wrong
, Abner?”

I felt myself slip into her. “No,” I whispered, and added, my voice suddenly very husky and very pleased, “Hell, no!”

AFTERGLOW

“Want to play Yahtzee with me, Abner?” She had thrown one of Art’s robes over herself and was walking just ahead of me, toward the dining room.

“I think I want to sleep,” I answered.

She chuckled. “Of course you do, Abner.”

“That was quite a workout.”

She stopped. She was still in front of me, her head turned away; she said, “Want to do it again?” and she sounded eager, which gave me a little boost.

“I can’t,” I told her. “I wish I could; I really wish I could, but I can’t.”

She turned her head slightly, so I could see her profile. She grinned. “All wrung out, Abner?”

“Something like that.”

“Shot your wad?”

“That’s right. Shot my wad. Sorry.”

“Couldn’t get it up with a rope, huh?”

“I don’t know. In a little while, in an hour or two, maybe.”

She turned her head farther, glanced down, nodded.

I glanced down. I was wearing blue bikini briefs, and they weren’t doing much to cover my erection. I grinned, surprised. Phyllis grinned. She looked up at my face; “Hold that, please,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” I said. I felt my erection begin to fade.

“Hold that, please,” she repeated. A quick laugh erupted from her. And then another, and another. She turned away, went into the dining room. Her laughter now was continuous, and loud. I stayed put. I listened to her laughter continue. I remember thinking that it was like listening to a bad laugh track being played over and over again.

It could have continued for a couple of hours, although logic says it could only have been a minute or two. But I remember watching the darkness fade beyond the window; I remember hearing my clock radio switch on; I remember hearing someone in the apartment above get up and use the toilet. And I remember hearing her laughter over all of it. Even after I knew that she’d gone.

At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965

When the candles were lit and the cat’s skull properly placed between us; we were seated Indian-style in the center of the mausoleum floor, the plastic bag of Mallo Cups beside Sam—and after our fit of hysterical laughter was done, I said, “You think there’d be any spooks here anyway, Sam?”

And he said, “They don’t like to be called spooks, Abner. It’s disrespectful.” A small, lopsided grin came and went quickly on his lips. “The proper word is
spirits
.
Spirits
, Abner, okay?”

I fidgeted; the concrete floor was hard and cold and my cheeks were going to sleep. “That sounds like bullshit, Sam.” It was the first time I’d said anything like that to him, and it made me instantly uncomfortable.

 “It’s not,” he said. One of the candles went out. There were six of them, all arranged in a circle around the cat’s skull. Sam relit the candle very quickly, shook the match out, tossed it to one side, whispered, “Demon’s breath did that, Abner.”

And I protested, “I’m not a little kid, Sam—I’m almost as old as you—and I don’t believe in demons.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I believe in
spooks
—I believe in spirits.”

“Do you?” he asked. “Do you really?”

I thought about that, and at last I answered, “I don’t know for sure. I guess not. I don’t know.” And the same candle went out. I nodded at it. “What is that anyway, Sam?—Is that some kind of trick candle or something?”

“No,” he said.

I smiled. “You’re fulla shit, Sam. Admit it.”

“Maybe,” he answered. He took the box of kitchen matches out of his pocket, lit one, touched it to the candle. “Demon’s breath,” he whispered.

“Shit!” I said aloud.

“Demon’s breath did that.” He was still whispering; I could barely hear him. “My breath did that.”

“What’re you—still trying to scare me, Sam? It won’t work.”

“
My
breath,” he said again. He grinned. “Gotta have some nourishment.” He reached into the plastic bag, withdrew two Mallo Cups, unwrapped them, tossed the wrappers aside, popped one, then quickly the other of the Mallo Cups into his mouth. He touched the bag. “Want some, Abner?”

 “No, thanks.”

“Good stuff, Abner.”

“Not here, Sam.”

“Oh,” he said, and glanced about. “Sure.”

CHAPTER TEN

In Manhattan: January 14th, 1983

I showered; I shaved. Then, at 8:30, I went out to breakfast at a little Greek restaurant near Lexington Avenue and East 75th Street. It was small; the tables were small, the chairs straightbacked and uncomfortable—but the eggs were cooked in real butter, and the whole wheat bread was
real
whole wheat, the fresh-squeezed orange juice real fresh-squeezed, and the service was excellent. There are ten thousand places like it in Manhattan.

And when I was just about finished and was pushing some remnants of egg yolk across my plate with a piece of toast, a good-sized cockroach scooted across the top of the table and disappeared around the underside. I leaned over, looked under the table, saw that the cockroach had stopped several inches from the edge of the table and was sniffing around with its little antennae. I straightened, lifted my knee reflexively into the spot where the roach was, heard the roach crack, heard it hit the grimy tile floor. After a moment I looked at where I supposed it had fallen, but saw nothing. I ordered more coffee, lingered over it, thought about the photo book, about Phyllis, about how great it was to be alive, and working, and falling in love.

I had an appointment with Serena Hitchcock that morning at 10:00. So, at 9:30, I went straight there by bus from the restaurant.

“Sit down, Abner,” she said, and nodded at the armless, steel-framed chair in front of her desk. “God, you look awfully tired.”

“Yes,” I said. “I feel tired.” I sat, took the signed contracts from my coat pocket and handed them across the desk. Serena took them, gave them a quick once-over. “No problems with these, I assume, Abner?”

I shook my head. “No problems.”

“And that July deadline is okay?”

“I’d have preferred a few extra months, but I can do it. I’ll just work a little harder, sleep a little less. I’m looking forward to it, Serena.”

“Good.” She smiled pleasantly and set the contracts aside. “We’ll get you your advance check as soon as possible, within a week I hope; it’s got to come out of Chicago—?

 “That’s fine, Serena,” I cut in. “I’m not starving.” Which was true, thanks to my father’s life insurance policy; it hadn’t left me independently wealthy, but it had made it possible for me to worry about things other than money.

“Good,” she said. “We wouldn’t want you to starve, now, would we?” She put her hands palms-down on her desk; it was a signal that I should leave. I stood.

She said, “You really do look tired. You’re not coming down with something, I hope.”

“No. I don’t think so, Serena. I had … a long night.” I tried in vain to suppress a big, shit-eating grin. I said through it, “I didn’t get as much sleep as I needed to, I’m afraid.”

She nodded, said, “Uh-huh,” and stuck her hand out. I took it. “Well, Abner, it’s good to have you on board. I just
know
that you’re going to give us one hell of a book.”

“Sure I am, Serena.” I paused, went on, “Serena?”

“Yes?”

“Is there a man working here, maybe an editor, I don’t know—he’s in his forties, his middle forties, handsome, I suppose, and he wears a gray, pinstriped suit—”

“A suit, Abner? No one wears a suit.”

“No one?”

“Of course not. These are liberated times. We wear what is comfortable; we wear what we can work in. Look at me, for instance.”

I did. She was wearing designer jeans and a white, shortsleeved blouse. She looked casual. “Uh-huh. You look pretty good, Serena.”

“Do I?” She sounded pleased.

“Sure. You look … informal.”

“Informal?” Her tone changed.

“I mean, you look …” I was stuck.

“You mean I look ‘good’ and ‘informal,’ Abner?”

“No.” I smiled an apology. “I mean you look … very attractive.”

She grinned. I realized that she was toying with me. “No one here wears a suit, Abner. Not any more. Our accountant used to, all the time—the same damned suit every day, a gray pinstripe. It got pretty threadbare, I remember. They buried him in it, which probably pleased him.”

“They buried him in it, Serena? You mean he’s dead?”

“Yes, Abner.? Another grin. “At last report.”

“Oh, of course,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.” I nodded at the contracts on her desk. “About a week, you say then, on the check? It has to come out of Chicago?”

“Maybe two weeks, Abner. It depends on what side of the bed those people get up on, I’m afraid. If there’s a problem—”

“No, no problem. Thanks.” I shook her hand again, turned, went to the door, looked back. “I should have something to show you in a few weeks, Serena—by the end of the month anyway.”

“Good, that’s good. I’m looking forward to it.”

I opened the door. I heard: “Abner?”

I looked back. “Yes?”

“Get some sleep, okay?”

“I’ll try to,” I answered. I liked her maternal tone. “I really will try to, Serena. Thanks for your concern,” I added, and then I left.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

January 20

These are the things I knew about Phyllis Pellaprat from our first week together at Art’s apartment: I knew that she was intelligent, that she was incredibly sensuous, that she liked to play Yahtzee—Christ, she liked to play Yahtzee—and I knew also that she was not a romantic. This disappointed me because I am a romantic; I have always been a romantic—the words
I love you
fly easily from my lips. And when I said to her for the very first time, “Phyllis, I love you,” her reaction was not what I had hoped for.