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

had laughed, again the same instant, and had kissed briefly, like teen-agers. Her scent and the softness of her lips made his heart crash, his id, in its dark, grimy pen, bleating dolefully. “Merry Christmas,” Jessie said, patting Mickelsson’s shoulder, sisterly, then moving away.

“Should we light the menorah?” Mickelsson asked, catching her hand.

She gave him a look, a half-smile. Apparently there was some trick to it. Perhaps one couldn’t do it without a rabbi. “Whatever,” she said, and shrugged.

Tom Garret came out to the kitchen and set his mulled wine down to help Mickelsson chop onions. Tillson came too and stood by the outside kitchen door, drinking and smiling, his humped back to the woodpile in the snow. He said nothing, but eagerly laughed at all Garret and Mickelsson said, laughed as if he’d never had so interesting a time in his life. His laugh was like an old ram’s.

The Blicksteins’ young friend appeared at the kitchen door—gray of face, dark circles under her eyes—and said, “Mmm! Smells good in here! Can I help?”

“Ladies’ night off,” Mickelsson said, “but you can keep us company.” Garret laid down the vegetable knife and fussily spooned the chopped onions into the waiting bowl, then stepped back—a quick little dance step—out of the way. Mickelsson pushed into the oven a heavy pan of pastitsio, made for him in Binghamton by the man who ran the Greek restaurant, checked the temperature setting and closed the oven door. The kitchen bloomed with food smells. He wiped sweat from his neck with a paper towel, then from the upper oven took a pan of hors d’oeuvres, which he quickly spatulaed out onto a plate.

“I could take it around for you,” the young woman said.

He almost resisted; then, catching the look in her eyes, put the plate in her hands. “Thank you! Wonderful!” he said. “That does make it easier!” He gave her his crazed grin.

“How long does that take?” Tom Garret asked, uncrossing his arms for a moment to point in at the pastitsio and smiling.

It was interesting that Garret didn’t know. He was one of those little Napoleons who give the impression of being thoroughly informed on every subject—the Iranian power-struggle, Queen Elizabeth’s affairs of the heart, boat-building, tax law, Gödel’s proof, Sumerian astronomy. … “Forty-five minutes or so,” Mickelsson said, “assuming it doesn’t catch fire, so we have to start over. Lot of oil on it.”

“Forty-five minutes! That fast!” Garret said, pleased to have this new information. He recrossed his arms and tipped his head.

Garret’s wife Mabel was standing at the kitchen door now—silent, as usual, remote from the rest of them as a woods creature, her head ducked, drawn in, her fingertips exploring the scraped place on the door where Mickelsson had scratched off the hex sign. What she was thinking no one could have guessed, probably not Garret himself. Somewhere beyond her in the livingroom Kate Sw¡sson laughed falsely, tinkle tinkle tinkle, as she might laugh in a song, and Mabel Garret looked up, as openly curious as a child, black eyes widening, looking in the direction of the singer. Mickelsson was tempted to snatch a look, hardly aware of why it interested him; but there were more hors d’oeuvres to be gotten out, and anyway he’d be in there with the others soon enough. From the far end of the livingroom, or perhaps from the study, came the opening notes of a Christmas carol, maybe three or four singers, the grad students, no doubt. Someone was playing a violin. Then suddenly Dean Blickstein was planted at his elbow, as if he’d just materialized there, like Mephistopheles, smiling so hard his eyes were slits, holding a glass in each muscular little hand. “Ice in the refrigerator, Pete?” he asked. “I thought I’d just freshen up everybody’s drink.”

“Some in the refrigerator, some in the livingroom in the ice-bucket, and some in the plastic bag in the sink,” Mickelsson said, and pointed toward the sink with his chin. Tom Garret backed off, grinning like a child who knows he’s in the way, then retreated into the livingroom.

“Ah!” Blickstein said and, pivoting, went over to the sink. He nodded at Tillson, a little duck of the head like a wrestler’s feint, and again the muscular face punched out a grin. “Holding up through the cries and alarums?” Blickstein asked.

Geoffrey Tillson chuckled, his head going quickly up and down like the front end of a jitney, and he stretched his glass toward Blickstein as if accepting a toast. Tillson had on a dark pinstripe, tailored and expensive; he looked like Rumpelstiltskin dressed for an audience with the Pope.

“What’s it this time?” Mickelsson asked, about to step into the livingroom with his plate of hors d’oeuvres.

“Sociology, what else?” Blickstein said, half turning to face Mickelsson as his two hands, unwatched, deftly filled the glasses with ice. “Seems the Philosophy Department’s not so good on Karl Marx. Sociology Department would like to teach the course themselves, get it right for once.” He laughed. “Also the course in Contemporary.”

“That’s crazy!” Mickelsson said.

“You don’t have to argue with me,” Blickstein said, amused by Mickelsson’s blush of anger, “and I doubt that Geoffrey here will give you much argument either.” He winked at Tillson, then came away from the sink, Tillson silently laughing, head bouncing, behind him.

“What a bunch,” Mickelsson said. “Poor Jessie!”

“ ‘Poor Jessie’ is right,” Blickstein said, and shook his head. For a moment the muscular smile froze, as if the dean knew more than he felt at liberty to say. Then the smile warmed again, and he shook his head once more and said, “They’re feeling their oats—their ‘minority appeal,’ all the usual business.”

“You’re suggesting—?”

“Well, you know,” Blickstein said, “they would like a solid Marxist front. They need it, really.” He laughed and winked, then gave Mickelsson another sharp look. “If you asked me to predict, I’d say they’ll move to get rid of her before the year’s out.”

Mickelsson stared, for an instant not sure of his bearings. Blickstein