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

of thinking, or the ideas of Peruvian Indians? Perhaps, to take the optimistic view, human beings instinctively widened their horizons, at least in certain situations, to take in views held by strangers. Perhaps, in accord with a principle he’d explored in the one book he was at all well-known for, on medical ethics—the ultimately Platonic idea that justice and reason give advantage in the battle for survival—people were programmed by Nature to make an effort, if they were given sufficient time to rise above their fears, to find merit in the opinions of people not like them superficially, that is, culturally. Or was it, to take the darker view, that people of the Western tradition were turning from their tradition in disgust, jettisoning the community and the “reality” it cherished, because the tradition had led to the kinds of things his son was concerned about, greed, bestiality, fascistic rectitude—the same kinds of things he himself was concerned about now, not just in his mind but in his misanthropic heart: above all, the murderously logical righteousness with which he himself cringed from the image of Jessie in Tillson’s office—cowardly bitch, afraid to let his car be seen parked near her house. (His original sympathy was, he saw, long gone.) Jessie of all people! He saw her as in the picture when she was twenty-five—radiant, innocent. And Tillson, that miserable, crooked-backed, chittering … He shuddered, seeing the fat man’s dead eyes. The weight of his guilt, rage, and helplessness rolled over him again, and again he slept.

It was mid-day, maybe later. Clean golden light streamed through the windows. Mickelsson groaned before he knew why he was groaning, imagining he’d missed some appointment or class, and threw his legs over the side. Then it all came back. He touched his chin and found it grown out like a bum’s, and from the feeling of bristles under his fingertips he got a brief, puzzling image of himself as a hobo, maybe the Wandering Jew, walking forever along a highway in a ragged coat.

He dressed in his work clothes—old jeans, tattered shirt—though he had no idea what he intended to work on, more puttering in the wood-shop, perhaps. He noticed that, over on the bedroom wall, the phone was off its hook. He stood thinking a moment, scratching his head, once again touching the bristles on his chin, then replaced the receiver. As he turned again toward the bedroom door he got an image of the fire up at the old people’s house—how many days ago now?—black rubble, clouds of steam in the black-branched trees. He saw the firemen moving around slowly in their long black slickers, Owen Thomas among them, John Pearson leaning on Dudak’s truck-fender, his mouth cocked back in a grin.

At the foot of the stairs he found the cat waiting, looking up at him. When Mickelsson was five feet away the cat turned quickly and ran toward the kitchen, pausing just once to look back, balanced like a squirrel on a branch, then moving on again, more silent than Mickelsson outside Tillson’s office door. Mickelsson got out a can of 9-Lives, fitted the top into the electric canopener, opened it, then dumped the meat into the bowl beside the sink. The misshapen cat hung out of reach, head on one side, one paw lifted, until Mickelsson stepped back; then, after one more careful glance in Mickelsson’s direction, the cat lowered his huge, wide head and glided toward the dish as if the meat might be still alive. Mickelsson fixed himself cereal and carried it to the livingroom, where he sat on the couch to eat. On the stand by the door, near the shotgun, he saw the box he’d made, marked Jessie’s Gloves. She was everywhere. He remembered how she’d sat here on the couch beside him, the back of her head resting gently against his arm; how she’d gazed out the window, the night of the party. He remembered the awkwardness about the mistletoe. While he was down at the hospital, had she and Tillson slipped away from the others? Maybe fucked standing up in the bathroom, or used Mickelsson’s bed?

His heart felt swollen; he couldn’t eat. He stood up, then stopped, listening for some hint that he might not be alone, but there was nothing; the house was empty except for the cat. The most powerful presence in the room was the shotgun by the door.

He thought again, abstractly, with no flicker of intention, of what it would be like to kill oneself. Would he hear the report, or would the instant, all the time he had left for all Time, be too brief? Almost without meaning to, he went over to the shotgun and touched it, then picked it up by the barrel. He had nothing in mind, simply felt an impulse to look at it. He saw in his mind’s eye Ellen’s streaked, angry face in the courtroom, then his daughter’s face, smiling, a shine of tears in her eyes as she turned from him and ran toward the car. He saw Mark, bearded, standing beside a road somewhere, hitch-hiking. Mickelsson held the shotgun in two hands, looking around and through it, lost in thought. He must do something, he whispered to himself. He slipped the shells back in and closed the chamber. He was looking out the window. Snow. Sunlight. He might have been the only living creature in miles.

When the phone rang he jerked, almost pulling the trigger, frightening himself, then carefully set down the gun. He turned, wiping his hands on his pantlegs, trying to remember what it was that, an instant ago, he’d meant to do, then heard the phone again and walked into the kitchen. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Professor Mickelsson?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good. I’ve been trying and trying to get hold of you. This is Lawrence Cook’s secretary—”

“Cook?”

“Your lawyer? Dealing with your tax case?”

“Oh, yes.” He leaned against the wall.

“Mr. Cook’s a little hard of hearing, so I’m phoning for him;