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

He shuddered, then absently, dismissing the memory, folded the gloves and laid them on the flowerstand by the door, where he’d see them and remember to take them along with him to school when the roads were plowed. He switched off the radio without noticing he was doing it; then he wound the clocks, pausing for a long time after the last one, listening to the wind howl—banging on the livingroom door like a dozen angry fists—and looked down at the key in his hand, trying to remember what it opened. It reminded him a little of the key to some old-fashioned wind-up toy, something Leslie or Mark had played with, or something he himself had played with as a child in his grandfather’s study. He’d played there for hours, though his grandfather had been cranky as a goat, family stories suggested. “Grampa,” he had asked once—meaning nothing large by it (or so his mother believed), hoping to hear only of some particular event, as when one day he had dusted the furniture in the livingroom without being asked—“why does God love us?” “That,” his grandfather had said, looking furtive, cornered, “is a mystery.”

Mickelsson glanced at the Christmas tree. The cat, when Mickelsson looked over toward the stove, was gone.

“You all right?” someone asked.

“You know I’m not,” another voice answered acidly, as if with familiar anger.

“Needn’t snap,” the first voice said, the old man’s. He did not sound apprised of how deeply that feminine anger burned, how long its festering poison had been coaxed and tended.

When Mickelsson turned, slowly, as if to stir no breeze, they were standing there, perfectly still, the old woman’s face bloodless gray, her eyes full of lightning. She wore a flowerprint housedress with a faded pink robe over it, her dark, graying hair brushed straight down, to the backs of her knees. Mickelsson reached out toward the wall to steady himself—exactly as Mabel Garret had reached out, he remembered. The old woman’s carefully sealed-in fury was infecting him, it seemed. His stomach knotted tight, and a strangling feeling came into his throat and chest. The old man was in stockingfeet and workworn trousers, only a washed-out gray undershirt above, white bristly hair poking out like a hundred tentacles around the neck. Mickelsson knew him, then recognized him. It was the man in brown, from the hospital, but much older. His hair was parted in the middle and lifted at the sides, as if brushed. His beard was uneven. In his left hand he held a large silver pocket watch, which he’d apparently just wound and was now trying to read through his low-on-the-nose, thick-lensed glasses. His mouth was as lipless as an old razor cut. You could make out the white of his chin, like bread-dough, through the hair. At last he gave up on the watch and looked at Mickelsson. He seemed only a little surprised that he was there. For a moment it seemed that he would speak, but then the ghost worked his wrinkled, nearly toothless mouth—four or five long teeth in front, then nothing—as if trying to rid the inside of some taste. He turned his head, fumbled the watch into his pocket without looking at it, and moved toward the stairs. The old woman followed, clenching and unclenching her right fist, which had something in it, her eyes bright glints in the cavernous sockets, tiny glittering specks like wild-animal eyes lit up in the darkness of their lair. Mickelsson stood still as they moved past him, the two never glancing in his direction, watching the floor. In her spotted, trembling left hand the old woman clutched a fistful of the robe. With her right hand she dabbed at her mouth with what he saw now was a wadded-up hankie. When they were gone (he could hear them going slowly up the stairs) he remembered the clock-key in his hand, opened the glass door of the clock, and dropped the key inside.

“Well?” he imagined Dr. Rifkin saying.

“I don’t know,” Mickelsson said. “I’m not the only one, you know.”

“Come on now,” Rifkin said, and made a face as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

Mickelsson hovered, consciously refusing to come down firmly on either side. He thought of calling Jessie, then groaned, thinking of the face he’d seen in the flames. He must get money for Donnie. Had his mind’s chaos progressed to such a point that he’d be willing to take a loan from Jessie? Acid and darkness rose in him and he thought nothing, slowly chewing a Di-Gel, then another.

Half an hour later, as he was drifting toward sleep, he heard the snowplow roar by. Along with the engine noise there was a soft swishing sound, almost the sound of a heavy old boat cutting water. It faded away down the road toward silence.

“Got to think,” he whispered, knowing he intended to do nothing of the kind.

He had seen the ghosts. Was he afraid? He wasn’t sure.

The sudden stillness of the house startled him, in fact for an instant terrified him, until he made out that it was only that the wind had fallen off, and the waterfall in the glen below was frozen.

That night he dreamed that he saw the old man up on the roof of the house, fixing the chimney. Something was wrong. The old woman came out onto the lawn below, walking stiffly, something behind her back. He woke up sweating.

As he was feeding the cat, two mornings later, the phone rang.

“Pete? Finney here. Thought I’d just touch base, see if you-me, still blood-brothers.”

“Hello, Finney.”

“Not bad, Pete. Nothin to complain about, anyway nothin terminal, except that it’s God damn Monday. Listen, two items. First is, it looks like the squeeze play’s working. She’s makin the right noises, any day now she’ll be singin like a camel. Keep the pressure on, OK? No talkee, no cashee!”

“Actually—” Mickelsson began. He felt a queasiness in his