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

Needlessly, Mickelsson said, “He’s dead?”

The blond one nodded, and the dark-haired one took a step toward the door, reminding Mickelsson that they needed to use the phone. Mickelsson stepped back “Right through there,” he said, pointing. “It’s on the wall in the kitchen.”

The dark-haired one nodded, grim, unctuous, rubbing his hands, and moved past, bent forward, the collar of his black coat up over his bright red earlobes. As usual neither of the Mormons wore hats or gloves, but tonight they had galoshes. The blond one came in too, and Mickelsson pulled the door shut behind him.

“Where’d you find him?” he asked. “What happened?”

“It’s the old man called Sprague,” the blond one said. “The crazy one, you know what I mean? One that’s house burned down?” He leaned a little closer to Mickelsson, as if to tell him a secret. “We found him in the snowbank—part of his arm was sticking out. I guess the snowplow must’ve moved him. He’s real banged up.”

Mickelsson stared.

The young man nodded. “I guess the old woman must’ve been up there alone the night the house burned.”

Mickelsson, still staring, brought out, “That must be right.”

In the kitchen the dark-haired one was talking on the phone now, standing in only the dim gray light from the range. A board creaked at the top of the stairs, and Mickelsson looked up. The two old ghosts were standing there, looking down, hooked forward. Mickelsson shuddered and glanced at the blond young man beside him. He was taller and heavier than Mickelsson had realized. His round, steel-rimmed glasses were steamy. “Evening,” the young man said, nodding in the direction of the ghosts. They ignored him.

The dark-haired Mormon was saying into the phone, “We’re up at Professor Mickelsson’s. … Yes, certainly … We’ll wait right here.”

Mickelsson asked the blond one, “What were you doing out on the road so late?”

“We always put in good long days,” the boy said. He spoke earnestly, his hands in his coatpockets. His face floated closer, not more than ten inches from Mickelsson’s, turned up because of Mickelsson’s height. He could feel the ghosts bending nearer to listen. Urgently, as if it were extremely important that Mickelsson understand, as if he were justifying all his kind, the boy said, “Sometimes we put in fifteen, sixteen hours.” He searched Mickelsson’s eyes.

“That’s a lot,” Mickelsson said. “Listen, if you’re not careful—”

Now the dark-haired one was hanging up the phone and turning to them. “The police are on their way,” he said.

Mickelsson moved toward him, glad to get away from the too earnest blond one. “Let me give you some coffee,” he said. “You must be half frozen yourselves.”

“I’m sorry,” the dark-haired one said, raising his hand, “we’re not allowed, that is, we don’t—”

“Yes of course. Hot milk, then,” Mickelsson said.

The dark-haired one tucked down the corners of his mouth, uncertain, and Mickelsson glanced at the blond, who looked interested, though he didn’t dare say it. Mickelsson remembered something else he’d heard in Utah, that it was a common occurrence, when the Saints found a backslider or apostate, for the faithful to beat that person bloody. “When I came here to Utah,” Mickelsson’s friend had said, with a bemused look, “I thought the Mormons were sort of like the Shakers or something. Brother, I had no idea! They kill each other all the time, one sect against another!” It did not seem likely, even if such things were true in Utah, that the Mormons of Susquehanna County were at all like that. Certainly such horrors had nothing to do with these two.

“Hot milk,” Mickelsson said, reminding himself. “It won’t take a minute.” He hurried into the kitchen from the entryway, switching on the light as he passed the door. It flickered, then stayed on, suddenly bathing the room with the cold glare of an ice-house. The two young Mormons looked at each other, each checking to see whether the other one approved. In the bright light they looked remarkably drab, almost as if the whole thing were a joke of some kind, two characters dressed up for a play by Samuel Beckett. Where the dark-haired one had stood there was a puddle on the linoleum. Mickelsson quickly looked away from it, lest he embarrass them. “What a terrible thing,” he said, opening the refrigerator door to look for milk. He found it not there but on the counter, where he’d left it hours ago. The kitchen was cold, though; the milk would be all right. He said, to praise them, make them feel at home, “If you people hadn’t found him, he could have lain there till spring thaw.”

The dark-haired one shook his head, eyes narrowed to chinks. They both stood squinting for several seconds, their heads forward, their hands in their pockets. They made him think of two lean country dogs. Mickelsson poured milk into a pot and set it on the burner. At the far end of the house he heard movement, no doubt the cat. He glanced at the clock on the stove: 9 p.m.

“I couldn’t believe it,” the dark-haired one said. He put his hand over his mouth, his thumbtip and fingertips moving up and down, his close-together eyes staring at nothing. “There was this hand sticking out of the snow. I walked right past it, and then I knew I’d really seen it.” He shook his head.

Steam was rising from the pot of milk. Mickelsson stirred it with a wooden spoon and turned the heat down. “Up there in the cupboard,” he said, pointing, “there are big yellow mugs.” He felt something and looked down. The cat was rubbing against his leg. “Take it easy. All in good time,” Mickelsson said.

The blond went to the cupboard, walking very carefully as if afraid he might slip, and got down the mugs. Now the light in the entry-hall changed, blue flashes like shocks. The police car was outside.

“Take them with you,” Mickelsson said, pouring. He handed a mug