Mickelsson's Ghosts (97 page)

“Hello?” he said.

Though it was feathery soft, he recognized Donnie Matthews' voice instantly. “Hi, Pete. It's me.”

“Donnie,” he exclaimed, hunching his shoulders in, clenching the receiver in both hands. “When did you get back?”

“I'm naht hahrdly back.” Her laugh was as carefree as a ten-year-old's. “I'm in Cali
forr
nia!”

“You're kidding! What time is it there? Are you all right?”

“Naht so
fast,”
she said, and laughed. “I'm fine.”

“Listen,” he said. “Jesus, I'm glad you called, Donnie. I was worried about you, and—” He bit his lower lip, then rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, as if to wake himself. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“You should see me! I gaht a tan.”

“That's swell,” he said, paying no attention. “Listen, I've been wanting to tell you … I've been thinking, and … I want you to have that abortion if you want it. I was wrong. Forgive me for all those things I said.”

“I already did,” she said, and laughed. “Have the abortion, I mean. And forgive you. That's why I wanted to call you. To tell you …”

“You already had it,” he said. He knew he'd heard her right. Why he dumbly repeated it he had no idea.

“Yeah,” she said. “I had to, Pete.”

“Sure. I know. That's good—that's wonderful. You did the right thing. I hope it didn't hurt much.”

“Actually
it hurt like hell, but it's over now.”

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. “I should've been with you.”

“It's OK, don't yell at yourself. My brother's wife, I mean my sister-in-law, was with me. They're where I came to.”

“I didn't know you had a brother.” For some reason it astonished him that she did.

“We never even met each other till a while ago. He's my half brother, really. He's almost as old as you are! Anyways, can I tell you why I called?”

“Sure. Go ahead, Donnie. I'm sorry I keep jabbering.” He looked up at the wall, waiting.

“I wanted to tell you, you're a really swell person, and I didn't treat you right at all, so now I'm sorry. What you did for me—I mean, I know how awful it was for you. When I saw your face that night you looked like you'd just died or something, and then you didn't even keep any of the money for yourself. It was dangerous, what you did, and scary, and I guess sort of terrible for you, I mean really
really
terrible, like giving up your
life
for—” She paused a moment to get her voice in control. “So anyways I want you to know I'm a whole different person now. I've changed. I've been saved—I go to church every Sunday—and I don't do any of those things I used to, and … well, I miss you.”

Suddenly his eyes, too, were swimming. “I miss you too, Donnie.” After a moment, when he was sure of his voice, he said, “I hope you're doing something worthwhile with the money.”

“I did. I threw it in the ocean.”

Mickelsson closed his eyes.

“It was blood-money, Pete. It saved my life, but I just couldn't have it around me. If you could see this new life I have, these people … Let somebody find it that doesn't know. Maybe it will save
their
life.”

“You threw it in the ocean,” he said.

“Yeah. Crazy, huh? I threw away my whole suitcase, everything I had. It was the bravest thing I ever did in my life.”

He listened to the soft, mindless singing of electrons in the line.

“Are you mad at me again?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. No, of course not. How is somebody supposed to find it in the ocean? You're not kidding me, are you? You really threw it in the ocean?”

“Splash.”

He was still shaking his head.

“Well, I guess I gahtta go now. Be happy, Prafessor.”

“You too, Donnie. Write me sometime.”

She hesitated. “I dunno,” she said at last. “See, I'm tryin ta stahrt over. …”

“OK,” he said, tears welling fast now. “Good-bye, then, Donnie.”

The pause was long, this time, before she said, “G'bye.”

California, he thought. He'd walked with Ellen along the edge of the Pacific, on the beach down below Seal Rock and Sutro's, the pastel houses of San Francisco on their left, far to their right a faint suggestion of the planet's curve. As in another new life he'd sat on dark rocks with his daughter and son, looking out over the seemingly endless gray churning of the Atlantic. Toward Iceland. Toward Germany. The collision of stone and waves made him remember drums.

California. He imagined Donnie Matthews timidly walking out, her face turned sideways, into the breakers.

Sublimieren.

God be with her.

When he bent down to throw more wood into the stove, he remembered another dream he'd had. It was this same house, but the walls had been stone. His mother had come in, still young and beautiful, at least in Mickelsson's eyes, leading by the hand his dead sister, who was not dead after all but had been sewn up and patched like a cloth doll. There had been other people too, quite a number of them, but he couldn't make out who they were. It was cold in the house, and Mickelsson, happy to see his family safe and sound, made a fire in the woodstove. After they'd talked awhile—he could remember nothing of what they'd said; his sister kept smiling and nodding like one of those dolls with a weight in it—they'd all gone to sleep. The stove burned warmer and warmer, heating the stones. Something stirred beside him, and in his dream he awakened to find the whole room crawling with fat, slow-moving rattlesnakes.

When he'd put the wood in and closed the stove doors, he went back to the couch and lay down and let his eyes fall shut. He dreamed the same dream again.

It was morning when he awakened. There was someone gently knocking at his door.

7

He registered the car down by the road only as one he ought to know but didn't, perhaps because his emotions were still clouded by the nightmare; and then, with suddenly changing emotion—half guilty discomfort, half delight and surprise—he saw Lawler. Mickelsson smiled and drew the door open farther. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Professor Lawler! Come in!”

Edward Lawler smiled shyly, not quite meeting Mickelsson's eyes but clearly pleased to see him, perhaps timidly congratulating himself on having driven all this way and found the place. He stood a little to the right of the door, his leather-gloved hands folded in front of him, his many-chinned head bowed, eager to give no offense. He wore a fur hat but with the flaps up, nothing on his ears, a white silk scarf wrapped twice around his neck and tied in front, and a formal, no doubt once-expensive black coat that considerably increased his already prodigious bulk. He looked more impressive than comic—a graying Russian prince on a formal visit. In the coat he seemed almost literally as wide as he was high; the top of his hat came to the middle of Peter Mickelsson's chest.
“Buon giorno,”
he said, and moved his left hand in the faintest possible suggestion of a wave.

“Come in,” Mickelsson said, and laughed at the
buon giorno,
hardly knowing why. In all this time, he'd never gotten a clearer image of Lawler as brilliant, frightened fat boy, ready to turn at the slightest hint of scorn or danger and flee. His galoshes were so perfectly buckled, below the flaring, tucked-in pantlegs, it looked as if his mother had done them.

“I hope you're not in the middle of something,” Lawler said. His voice had such refinement you almost didn't notice. Years ago he'd studied in Cambridge, in the days of Russell.

“Heavens no, do come in!” Mickelsson said. He reached out, took Lawler's left hand, and drew him a little toward the door, nodding encouragement. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Lawler smiled like a fat girl unexpectedly complimented, started through the door, then remembered his galoshes and, looking horrified by what he'd almost done, stopped to bend over and take them off. It was difficult work, on account of all that bulk, and in the end, sheepishly grinning, he straightened up again and unbuckled one of his galoshes with the heel of the other—at which point Mickelsson at last overcame his fear of offending and bent down with a laugh, saying, “Here, let me help you with that.” Lawler accepted his assistance gratefully, breathing “Thank you, thank you!” slightly winded by his efforts. Then Mickelsson led him into the house and took his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. As he carried them to the closet, Lawler stood beaming, admiring the wallpaper in the livingroom—it was through the livingroom door that he'd entered—or perhaps gazing
through
the wallpaper, lost in ironic thought.

Mickelsson asked, dusting his hands as he returned, “What brings you way out to Susquehanna, Edward?” and then added, before Lawler could answer, “Can I get you something? Coffee? Glass of wine?”

“No, no. No thank you,” Lawler said with a laugh and a wave, then apologetically patted his belly. “I'm afraid my stomach's all acid, today.”

“Let me offer you a Di-Gel, then,” Mickelsson said, and reached into his pocket. “I eat them like candy, myself. Acid stomach all the time. I suppose it's the gin.”

“Gin will do that, alas,” Lawler said, and nodded, as if distressed to find Mickelsson a fellow sufferer. “I never touch it anymore.” He held out his small, plump hand, cupped to receive the Di-Gel, looked at it for a moment as if uncertain what to do with it, then popped it, as if greedily, into his mouth. He looked admiringly at the Christmas tree Mickelsson had not yet taken down, then for a place to sit, half his mind elsewhere; at last it came to Mickelsson that the man was afraid none of the furniture would bear his weight.

“Here, have a seat,” he said, crossing to Lawler and indicating the couch. “Sit here by the fire, where it's warm.”

“Good, thank you,” Lawler said, his face lighting up with exaggerated relief. He moved obediently to the couch, turned around, taking several steps in place—like a hippopotamus, Mickelsson thought—then carefully lowered himself, his left hand on the arm of the couch. “There!” he said, and beamed like an Oriental. He folded his small hands in his lap. Mickelsson drew up a chair and sat, then got out his pipe.

“So,” Lawler said, as if something were now resolved. “I'm glad to see you're well.” When Mickelsson raised his eyebrows, Lawler explained, rather bashfully, almost prissily, evading Mickelsson's eyes, “You weren't in school, you see, and considering everything that's been … in the papers, all the
trouble
in the world—well, I'm a nervous man anyway, as I'm sure you know. When your phone didn't seem to be working I just … thought I'd come out.”

“How good of you!” Mickelsson said, slightly puzzled. “I thank you for your concern.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I'm sorry you had to come all this way for nothing.” He poked tobacco into his pipe.

Beaming, eyes closed, Lawler slowly passed his right hand through an arc in front of his chest—a little like the blessing of a Buddha. “Don't mention it! I must say, it's a pleasure to see your arrangements.”

The cat appeared at the kitchen door, wide head tipped, then decided to come and settle, sulky, not far from Mickelsson, between him and the fire.

“I've been putting too much time into it,” Mickelsson said, “but it's refreshing, working with your hands now and then.”

“You
did all this?” Lawler asked, tilting his head. For an instant something like panic showed in his eyes, no doubt the book man's horror before the mysteries of artisanry.

“The painting and wallpapering, yes, and the sanding and staining of the floors,” Mickelsson said, as modestly as he could manage. “Did that for the whole house. You should've seen the place when I moved in! The diningroom was the worst“—he pointed toward the closed diningroom door—”I had to tear out the walls in there, put up sheetrock.”

“My goodness,” Lawler said. He shook his head, looking around.the room with interest, running his eyes along the moleboard, the window casements, the moulding that framed the ceiling. “Goodness,” he said again, shaking his head, tapping his fingertips together on his belly. “I take it it must not
bother
you, then, living way out here. Well, I'm a coward, of course, myself. I read about fires, murders, mysterious goings-on. … But I suppose it's no safer in Binghamton—that chemistry man you mentioned, murdered right there in his Ziiingroom. …” He got out a large white handkerchief and patted his forehead.

“Yes. Professor Warren,” Mickelsson said. For some reason he added, perhaps with unconscious sadism, given Lawler's timidity—or with that same evil luck that turns conversation repeatedly to noses in the presence of a man with a long nose—“It's an odd coincidence. Professor Warren was investigating something involving this very house at the time he was murdered.”

If it was sadism, Mickelsson couldn't have hoped for a better reaction. Lawler jumped a foot and, with the quick, cunning look of a rabbit, glanced left and right.
“This
house?” he exclaimed. “What was he looking
into?”

“I'm not sure,” Mickelsson said, putting on an expression of unconcern. To heighten the effect of safe domesticity, he smiled fondly at the stray cat he had in fact not yet dared touch. “Some legend, I think.”

“Legend?” Lawler echoed. His eyebrows were raised as if permanently above his spectacle-rims.

“It's said the house has ghosts,” Mickelsson said, and chuckled. “I suppose it was that that Professor Warren was looking into. I must say, I've thought of consulting a chemist myself, now and then. Sometimes the house gets a strange cooking smell.” He chuckled again.

Lawler's mind was elsewhere, his hands busy laying out the white handkerchief like a napkin in his lap. “It can't have been the
ghosts
he was interested in,” he said. “I talked with our student”—he glanced at the floor, then continued—“our
late
student Michael Nugent, about this Warren. The man was an
atheist,
or claimed to be.” The mention of Nugent made Mickelsson suddenly awkward; even so, he registered with distant amusement Lawler's use of the word
atheist
as opposed to
non-theist.
The man was, of course, a medievalist.