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

“Her lawyers have agreed to a meeting in court,” Finney said, and grimly laughed. “They don’t like it, natch, but thanks to a little pressure from the court itself, which is thanks in turn to a little clever manipulation by yours truly (no applause, please! Thank you!)—I’ll spare you the details (thanks, Shirley; Jesus; all right, tell the fucker I’ll get back to him right away). … Let me tell you, Pete, the whole God damn world’s comin apart at the seams, you aware of that? Begin’s gone crazy and Sadat’s still tryin to learn to imitate his fart; piss-ant politicians out there shaking the ash can—‘You don’t go long with me I’ll blow up the world.’ Not that I care. Be glad it’s not me up there. I’d put my fingers in my ears and push the button with my cock. Actually, don’t be glad it’s not me. I been thinking of running for office, maybe. State legislature. No crap! Man needs to broaden his avenues of income, get more screws on more people, these troubled times. All that filthy corruption, it makes me sick that I’m not in on it. But OK, OK, we’re still down here in the pigshit dealing with the piss quotient, right? You there, Pete?”

“I’m here.”

“I was afraid you’d gone to sleep. Listen, try to groan a little when I talk to you, OK?” Finney laughed. “I keep getting the feeling there’s nobody out there, I mean nobody in the whole fucking city of Providence, whole universe even. Isn’t that weird? Finney at his lawyerdesk oinkin away, putting his feet up, puttin ’em down again, looking at the ‘out’ box, looking at the ‘in’ box, sweating and scheming, squinting his little eyes, and nobody out there—I mean nobody, nowhere, nothin. Little stirrings of dust.”

“Finney, you should see my psychiatrist, Rifkin. He lives right near you. He’s a good man.”

“You tellin me I should see a psychiatrist! Believe me, no room in the schedule, I gotta keep runnin, cover my ass. OK. Thanks, Shirley. OK, where was I? Oh. Got it. OK, so all we’re waiting for now is a court date, which is up to the court, you know; nothing I can do about it. So stay loose and stay in touch. That all clear, Pete?”

“How much warning—if we get this court date—”

“Couple days, maybe. Never mind, kid, we’re getting down to payshit.”

Mickelsson said, “How does Ellen seem?”

“She’s alive. What can I tell you? Or if she’d dead she’s still walkin. People will do that, you know. Walk around dead. Fucks up the census count. Listen, second item: I got a call from a sap named diSapio. Name ring your bell?”

“I know who he is,” Mickelsson said, reserved.

“He’s got a lien on everything you eat or evacuate—I guess you know that. I’m tryin to work something out with him, but it’s likely he’ll garnishee your salary any day now. He could keep you eating sawdust for years, if we’re not careful. He’s pretty crazy, from what I gather. One false move and suddenly you’ll be a whole lot easier to find, if you take my meaning. Get yourself a lawyer in P-A, OK? And don’t put it off, you got that? You want me to find you one, sing out.”

“I’ll manage it. Anything else?”

“That’s it from this end.”

“OK, I’ll be in touch.”

“So long, pal.”

“So long.”

“Man, you said it!” Finney laughed.

The other phonecall he received that morning he would discover to be important only later, though it fit well enough with the way his world was going; it was suitably depressing. It began oddly. Intending to telephone the Susquehanna Home Center to order hardwood, any odds and ends they might have, small stuff—he was not quite sure yet what he meant to make with it, chests, trinket boxes, plant-tables, maybe; something to make the house look less barren—he’d just picked up the receiver, the phone had not rung, when a voice said, “Professor Mickelsson?”

“Hello?” Mickelsson said.

“Professor, this is Michael Nugent.”

“Oh, hello,” Mickelsson said. He recognized the voice now, and felt a twinge of simultaneous guilt and annoyance. He imagined Nugent’s coldly staring, rapidly blinking eyes.

“I guess you didn’t look at the note on your door. I asked you for an appointment.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been in,” Mickelsson said. “We’ve been having a lot of snow out here, as I assume you’ve heard.” He heard in his voice the cool, autocratic tone he too often took with students, and quickly made an effort to soften it. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“I’m sorry to call you at home,” Nugent said. “It’s about that term paper, for one thing.”

“Yes,” Mickelsson said, careful, knowing well enough where such openings generally led.

“I didn’t hand it in, as I guess you must’ve noticed by now.” It was the expected tone, half aggressive, half whiney, but unusual in its urgency, emotionally packed. Mickelsson wondered if the boy was drunk. “I really haven’t got any very good excuse. I worked a lot on it, but I was getting later and later, and then …” In a strained voice he brought out, “I’d been having a lot of trouble with schoolwork. It’s not that I wasn’t interested. As I guess you know, I got an A average in your class up to now. And now this—” He couldn’t finish. He seemed actually to gag on his wretchedness.

“Wait a minute now,” Mickelsson said, growing alarmed. “Take it easy. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s not … I can’t …” At last he was able to say, “I can’t do the term paper, and I can’t take the final.”

Mickelsson pressed the receiver tighter to his ear. Nugent’s voice seemed to be drifting off. “You can’t take the final? Are you telling me you want an Incomplete?” he asked. “Look, if you’ve got a good reason, I’m not likely to object.”

“What I was really wondering …” Now the voice was more controlled, less aggressive, still more urgent. “What