A Manhattan Ghost Story (9 page)

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Wait a minute. Are the cops looking for you?”

A brief hesitation. “Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe. I thought it was all straightened out; I had
hoped
it was all straightened out.” A quick chuckle of clearly pretended impatience. “But maybe it isn’t, Abner. There’s this homicide captain—hell, I don’t even remember his name. He was there, at the hospital; his name was Whelan, I remember now. His name was Kennedy Whelan. He might show up at the apartment one of these days. You’ll probably have to talk to him, I’m afraid. And he was there, Abner, at St. Ignatius, when I took Phyllis there, and he’s been calling it manslaughter right from the start—”

“Did you say St. Ignatius, Art?”

“Yes. It’s on the Lower East Side.”

“Art, I don’t understand; this is very strange—this is very, very strange. Listen to me now, because when I got here, to your apartment, I found this woman here and she told me her name was Phyllis; she said she was your girlfriend—”

“Phyllis is
dead
, Abner. She died at St. Ignatius Hospital a month-and-a-half ago. I know that because
I
killed her, so whoever this woman is, she cannot be Phyllis Pellaprat.”

“She showed me a picture, Art. She got it off the mantle. It’s a picture of you and her together—”

“Yes, Abner. I know the picture.”

“Art, listen to me, please. Listen to me. Phyllis and I have been living together. Here. At your apartment.”

“No, Abner. It’s not Phyllis, it can’t
be
Phyllis. You understand that. You must understand that.’” He was speaking slowly, his enunciation crisp, as if he were talking to a small child. “You are sharing the apartment with
someone else
, Abner. I don’t know who. But my very strong suggestion is that you get
rid
of her!”

“I can’t do that, Art. I love this woman; I really do love this woman.”

“Jesus!” He was clearly at a loss for words. “Jesus, Abner—”

“We’ll move out if you’d like, Art.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.” He sounded uncertain.

“Art, I
trust
her.”

“Of course you do. I just want to know who she is, Abner; you can understand that.”

“She said her name was Phyllis; I don’t know—she showed me the picture. Hell, Art, she even introduced me to her parents.”

“Phyllis Pellaprat’s parents are dead.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake, I met
someone
, Art.”

“I believe you. I do believe you. But now I think, for your sake, and for my sake, Abner, that you have to find out who the woman is. There are lots of con games going on, and obviously someone read about it …” There was a short pause; when he continued, his voice had altered slightly, had become higher in pitch. “Someone read about the shooting—”

“The shooting?”

“Yes.” Another pause. “That’s how Phyllis died, Abner. I shot her.”

“Good God!”

“I had a gun. I was cleaning it. Christ, it’s the same old story, isn’t it? I was cleaning the gun, and I didn’t know it had any live rounds in it, and it went off—”

“What in the hell did you have a gun for, Art?”

“For protection. You need a gun in Manhattan, Abner. Ask anyone. It’s not like Bangor.”

“She told me you hit her. She said that you hit her in the stomach and you ruptured her spleen and she went to St. Ignatius …”

“Abner, please, find out who this woman really is, okay?! Because she is
not
Phyllis Pellaprat.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“I’ve got to go now.”

“Can I have your number, Art. In case I need to get hold of you?”

“Sure, Abner. I’ll see that you get it. Good-bye.” And he hung up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I called Stacy’s home in Bangor immediately. Her mother answered.

“Hello, Aunt Jocelyn,” I said. I sat in a dining room chair near the phone. “It’s Abner.”

“Hello, Abner.” She sounded strained, as if she didn’t want to talk. “What can I do for you?”

Jocelyn Horn and I never got along. She guessed right from the beginning how I felt about her daughter, and I knew that she harbored deep-seated feelings of anger and resentment toward me because of it. She also thought I was a tad perverse; Stacy
was
my cousin, after all.

“I’m calling from Manhattan, Aunt Jocelyn. Could I talk to Stacy, please?”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t,” she said.

“She’s out?” I asked.

“No. She’s away.”

“Oh? Away where?”

“Abner, Paul and I have been discussing you.” Paul is Stacy’s father, Jocelyn’s husband.

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s not that we don’t like you, Abner. We do.
I
do, anyway. And I think Paul does, too. He’s never actually said that he does, but he’s never said that he doesn’t, either.”

“What are you driving at, Aunt Jocelyn?” She’s the kind of person who has lots of very firm and very well-thought-out opinions, but who also finds it extremely difficult to express them. She needs to be prodded. “Just tell me what you’re driving at, okay?”

“What I’m
driving
at, Abner, is you and Stacy.”

“What about me and Stacy?”

“My God, Abner—My God, what if she were to get pregnant?”

“You’re not making any sense, Aunt Jocelyn.”

“The world’s already full of idiots, Abner. It doesn’t need any more of them.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Aunt Jocelyn—”

“And it’s not that I don’t like you. I
do
like you; so does Paul—you’re my sister’s boy, so you’re really a part of me, sort of, in a way—”

“Could you just tell me where Stacy is, Aunt Jocelyn?”

“And I think the real problem is
you
, Abner, and this … unseemly attraction you have—”

“Is she in New York? Just say yes or no, Aunt Jocelyn. Yes or no.”

 “I can’t tell you where she is; I
won’t
tell you where she is, Abner. Paul and I have been discussing this, and Paul and I have come to the conclusion—”

I hung up, an act which I regretted at once because I liked Jocelyn (despite her opinions of my relationship with Stacy, opinions which were essentially true and good and moral), so I redialed her number, waited for two rings, and hung up again. I’ve never liked confrontation very much.

Phyllis came in then. She came in very quietly, snuck up behind me, and put her hands over my eyes. “Guess who?” she said, sounding playful.

“Art called,” I told her.

“Art?” She kept her hands over my eyes.

“Your former boyfriend. Art DeGraff. The guy who owns this apartment; you remember him.”

“Art DeGraff?” She kept her hands over my eyes.

“Uh-huh. He called and we had a good long talk.”

“Did you?” She sounded unconcerned; her hands stayed over my eyes. I put my hands around her wrists; her skin was cool, the muscles taut.

“Please,” I said, “take your hands away.”

She didn’t. “I hate him,” she said. “I will always hate him.” Her hands tightened. “He should be punished for what he did to me.”

“Phyllis, please—” I tried to pull her hands away. I couldn’t. “Phyllis, what in the hell are you doing?”

“Guess who?” she said, in exactly the same playful tone she’d used a minute earlier.

 “I don’t know,” I answered, trying for a tone of deadly seriousness. “I really do not know.”

“Yes,” she said. “How could you?” And she laughed. I tried again to pull her hands away, but in vain. “Phyllis, you’re hurting me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to hurt you.” I believed it. I tried to stand, but her incredibly stiff arms and hands kept me seated. “Please don’t do that, Phyllis.”

“Do you love me, Abner?”

“Please, Phyllis, let me up.”

“Do you
love
me, Abner? Do you
love
me?” It sounded strangely like an ultimatum.

I answered, “Yes, I love you.”

“And will you take my pain away?”

“I will, Phyllis. Yes. I’ll try.” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Because I want so much to love you, too, Abner.” Her fingers tightened. “But I reach backward, and I reach inside, and I try to find it; I try to find what love is, and it’s not there—it’s just not there, and I wonder what it is. I wonder what it
was
.”

Silence.

“Phyllis?” I said.

I became aware that her hands were no longer over my eyes.

“Phyllis?”

I heard nothing. I turned my head. The dining room was empty. I called, “Phyllis?” and stood, went into the kitchen, called to her again. I went into the bedroom, the bathroom. I did not find her.

I went out, into the hallway. It was empty, too. I went to the elevator, pressed the button for service, waited. Eventually, it came. Empty.

The Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965

I asked, “You know what I’m talking about, Sam?”

“No,” he answered.

“I mean about the spooks not wanting to hang around here.”

He answered again, “No,” grinned, added, “Why don’t you tell me.”

I readjusted my position on the cement floor so my left leg was out straight and pointing to the left. Another of the candles set around Flora’s skull went out; Sam ignored it. “What I mean is,” I began, “that they didn’t
die
here, so why should they want to
hang around
here?” I grinned a big, self-satisfied grin because I had just uttered what I felt quite certain was the crowning profundity of my young life and I wanted to let it linger for awhile.

Sam said, “Asshole!”

“No,” I said, my voice low, “I don’t think so.”

“Sure you are. Shit, what do
you
know? You don’t
know
anything, for Christ’s sake.”

“Neither do you, Sam.”

“The shit I don’t, the shit I don’t. I know this, Abner—I know that all these people here—” he gestured expansively to indicate the six vaults—”could be standing around laughing.
That’s
what I know. And I know that they could be making love or they could be hunting out something to eat—”

 “Why would they need to eat, Sam?” Another profundity, nearly as great as the first, I thought. “Why in the hell would they want to eat?”

He ignored me. He picked up where I had interrupted him. “They could be doing just about anything, Abner. That’s what
I
know.”

“That’s not much to know, Sam. All you’re saying is you don’t know anything.”

“I know
I’m
going to die,” he said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The following morning, at a little after 9:00, I called to arrange to have the locks in Art’s apartment changed. I was given a tentative date of February 3: “If we can get to you by then, and I’m not say in’ we
can
, I’m sayin’ we
might
,” the locksmith said. “That’s a little longer than I was hoping for,” I said, and told him I’d get back to him, which was a lie. The whole idea seemed pretty foolish anyway, because I knew well enough that if Phyllis found she couldn’t get in, there’d be no chance I’d keep her out. And that scared me.
She
scared me. She scared me in a way that I’d never been scared before; it was like having a constant, dull ache that probably signifies something serious but you won’t have it looked at because you don’t want to know the truth. I didn’t want to know the truth about Phyllis. I wanted to believe that she was exactly what she appeared to be—a captivating, incredibly passionate, and vaguely eccentric woman with whom I was sharing Art DeGraff’s apartment, at least occasionally. I wanted to believe that I was being made the brunt of some stupid joke, that she and Art had cooked the whole thing up between themselves just to rattle me. Lord knew why.

And yet I did call to have the locks changed. It was a kind of sideways affirmation of my fear and my ignorance, I realize now.

I knew that the only rational thing for me to do was to find another place to live. I also knew that I wouldn’t do that either, because if I did, I’d probably never see Phyllis again.

I was lovestruck, you understand. I still am. And I was scared, too. And still am. And I think I knew that something very, very profound was happening to me. A transformation. A metamorphosis. As if I were a bottom-dwelling, all-but-blind fish who was very slowly and steadily bringing himself up into the light.

The advance check for the photo book arrived that afternoon. I went to my bank, on East 44th Street, deposited most of the check, pocketed some of it, and had a celebration lunch at a place called Marty’s, on East 50th and Third Avenue. This was my first book, and I thought a celebration surely was in order, but the food—several bowls of what was purported to be homemade oyster stew, a crème-de-menthe parfait, and three glasses of scotch—began churning about in my stomach shortly after I left the restaurant, and by the time I got back to the apartment was just about ready to make its second appearance.

I sat in one of the dining room chairs, put my head down, close to my knees, clasped my hands, closed my eyes, and fought back the nausea. I’m very good at that kind of thing. Sometimes I can actually will pain to stop, if it’s not awfully severe, and nausea, too, and after a few minutes my stomach calmed. I made my way to the bedroom, lay face down on the bed, and, before sleep came, noted the faint odor of damp wood, Phyllis’ odor, on the pillow.

I called St. Ignatius Hospital early that evening. I tried the Admitting Office first, got transferred to the Emergency Department, and ended up talking to a Pakistani doctor named Mubarek, who told me that, “Indeed, yes, a young woman named Pellaprat, a tall black woman, sir, was admitted here, on December 10th. I was not working in the Emergency Department, you see; I only read the report the next day.”

“Do you remember who worked on her, Dr. Mubarek?”

“Could I ask, please, your interest in this young woman?”

“I’m with the police,” I told him. “I’m working with Kennedy Whelan, in the Homicide Division.”

And Dr. Mubarek said, “Then you know that name, of course, sir.” He paused very briefly, then went on, “Isn’t that so?” And hung up.