Mickelsson's Ghosts by John Gardner (guided reading books .TXT) 📕

“I realize you’re busy,” the blond one said, and gave him a smile as general and mechanical as the smile of an orphan, “but I’m sure if you could give us just three or four minutes—”

“I’m sorry, I really can’t,” Mickelsson said, and started to close the door.

Suddenly the one with black hair spoke up—the back-up man, the hard-sell. “Everyone’s busy,” he said and, smiling genially, cut the air with the side of his hand. “If we told you we could teach you a foolproof system for living to be a hundred, that might be different, right? Or if we told you we could make you a millionaire, no ifs or buts, no tricky fine print, you’d jump at it—anyway most people would!” He laughed, almost handsome. Mickelsson closed the door a few more inches, but the boy was no fool; he knew if Mickelsson had really meant to close it he’d have closed it. “You think I’m going to tell you that spiritual things are more important than earthly things like health and wealth. That’s what other faiths will tell you. But the way we look at it, the whole thing’s interrelated. You’ll understand what I mean, Professor. Aren’t you the author of Survival and Medical Morals?”

The hair on the back of Mickelsson’s neck stirred.

The boy went on quickly, smiling hard, no doubt sensing that he’d set off a wrong reaction, “Survival’s what we’re here to talk about, Professor.” Again he gave the air a slow, sideways chop. With the gesture, his craned-forward head moved like a snake’s. “Isn’t it possible that if people live as God intended them to live, they’re likely to live longer, much healthier lives? Let me quote you some statistics about the Church of Jesus Christ Latter-Day—”

“Wait a minute,” Mickelsson said, feeling his face flush, his right hand closing the lapel of his robe against the cold. “I know the statistics. I know the whole pitch. I already told you I’m not interested. Now good-day.”

The boy blinked, then nodded. After an instant he said, “Thank you. Good-day, sir.” He smiled in a way he apparently intended to seem friendly, but he didn’t quite make it. Sour grapes, scornful superiority crept in.

The blond one showed relief. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

Mickelsson closed the door.

The unpleasant aftertaste stayed with him for hours, like the indistinct memory of a nightmare. It was still at hand, coming over him in occasional flashes, when John Pearson drove up around four that afternoon, with the long-haired black dog in the seat beside him in his pickup. He got out stiffly, held the door for the dog, then closed the door and stood looking at the house. Some kind of object, a forked stick—a dowsing rod—dangled from his angular right hand. Mickelsson went out to meet him. “Hello,” he called as the old man approached.

“Hod-do,” Pearson said. He gestured to the dog without speaking, and at once it sat down beside the old man’s left boot and stared as if thoughtfully at Mickelsson.

“Fine weather we been having,” Mickelsson said.

Pearson seemed to consider the remark, glancing at the sky—gray, wintry clouds, yellow western light shooting under them, capping the mountains. “Had a little time on my hands,” he said. “Thought I’d try to rustle you up that water.”

“Good,” Mickelsson said. “Anything I can get you?”

“Gaht it all right here,” he said, and gave an impatient jerk to the dowsing rod. He looked up at the field behind Mickelsson’s house, then, after a moment, back at Mickelsson. “Everything going all right here?”

“Everything’s been fine,” Mickelsson said. He gestured toward the trash bags, scraps of lumber, and crumbled shards of sheetrock piled more or less neatly near the firewood. “Been trying to fix the place up a little,” he said. He was aware that his smile was less than modest. Anyone who glanced through the windows would be sure he’d had professionals in.

Pearson puckered his gray lips, not quite bothering to nod. Then, pointing to the woodpile: “I guess you know that wood ain’t seasoned.”

“Isn’t it?” Mickelsson said.

“Burn that stuff in your stove, you’ll wreck your chimley.” He walked over to the wood—the dog moved with him—and, reaching down with two fingers, twisted off a small branch from one of the logs. “Pure green,” he said. “Two months ago this stuff had birds in it.”

“I guess I didn’t realize,” Mickelsson said.

Pearson shook his head as if in wonder, one side of his mouth pulled back. “Better let me bring you down some seasoned,” he said. “Leave this just set here for a year or so.” He glanced at Mickelsson. “I guess you ain’t used to country livin.” He grinned.

“Not for a long, long time, anyway,” Mickelsson said.

“Wal,” Pearson said. He looked up at the field behind the house again, then down at the dowsing rod, getting ready to start. The dog sat watching him, waiting for some command.

Mickelsson asked, “You mind if I come along and watch?”

“Suit yourself,” the old man said.

They started up across the yard, past the overgrown garden, toward the field.

The old man walked with a look of concentration, his lips pressed together, the dowsing rod straight out in front of him, level with his pelvis, his thumbs aiming straight forward on top of the rod’s two arms. Occasionally the end of the rod dipped, but apparently not to the old man’s satisfaction. He walked with stiff, long steps, as if he were pacing something off. For all his concentration, he seemed to see nothing in the low weeds on the ground ahead of him but stepped awkwardly on small rocks, sticks, and ant-hills, adjusting his step without noticing. He walked straight across the field, parallel to the road, then, at the stone wall along Mickelsson’s north line, turned and set off at an angle, up toward the woods. At the top of the hill, almost in the woods,