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

Just as they stepped onto the porch, Mickelsson steadying the doctor’s elbow, a small yellow car came down the mountain and, approaching Mickelsson’s place, slowed.

“Company?” the doctor asked.

Mickelsson ducked a little, trying to see the driver. “I imagine it’s one of your friends,” he said. “No doubt they’ve recognized your car.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s Tim’s car.”

“Maybe somebody who’s lost, then, or some friend of Tim’s …”

Taking pains to ignore the cold, he walked down the porch steps with her, still helping to steady her, Tim walking on the other side, then down the shovelled path toward the road where Tim’s dark blue car was parked.

Directly in front of the house the yellow car stopped, sliding a little, and he realized with a start that the driver was his student Alan Blassenheim. The boy rolled down the window, grinned, and gave Mickelsson a mock salute. “Hi, Professor,” he called. Over on the passenger side, beyond him, Kate Swisson waved and smiled foolishly.

Depression washed through Mickelsson’s body like a drug. “Hello,” he called to both of them. He scowled then, looking down, and returned his attention to helping the doctor down the poorly shovelled steps from the high, snowfilled yard to the road. Alan waited while Mickelsson and Tim walked the doctor to Tim’s car, Tim going to the driver’s side, Mickelsson holding the passenger-side door while the doctor got in.

“Drive carefully,” he said, leaning in on the window as if to keep them a little longer. He added, trying humor in spite of his gloom, “Watch that temper now, Doctor—don’t make him drive too fast. Could be snowmobiles out.”

She laughed lightly, letting her head fall back. “Isn’t that the silliest thing!” Tim started the engine, waved and ducked his head, then drove off, fishtailingat first, then steadying.

When they were out of sight, Mickelsson pushed his freezing cold hands into his trouser pockets, drew his head into his collar as well as he could, and walked to Blassenheim’s window. “Out sightseeing?” he asked.

They both answered at once, then both backed down, each deferring to the other. It was finally the boy who spoke. “The Swissons are looking for a place in the country, and since her husband’s away I told Mrs. Swisson I’d, like, drive her around.”

“Ah,” Mickelsson said. He studied first Blassenheim, then the woman. At last he nodded and, against his will, asked, “You have time for a cup of coffee?” He was smiling his wide, crazed smile.

Kate Swisson tried to mask panic with a heavy-flower bend of the head and a vast, limp smile. For all the biting cold, Mickelsson felt a strange sleepiness coming over him. He knew pretty well what it was: crushed rage. Alan Blassenheim’s cheeks somewhat darkened.

“I guess we better not,” the boy said. “We’re supposed to get over to Montrose.”

“Montrose,” Mickelsson said, correcting him.

“Whatever,” the boy said, slightly surprised by Mickelsson’s tone.

Mickelsson caught the Swisson woman’s eye. “Montrose,” he said, and smiled. “I can see you’ve got real taste—nothing but the best, and the cost be damned!”

“Well,” she said, smiling, raising one hand to her collar as if to protect her frail, white throat from the cold, “we thought we’d look at it.”

“Incredible town,” he said, “all white and green, quiet, dignified, wonderfully kept up—most of us don’t get to live in such a place till we’re dead.” He laughed. “Well, give my love to Brenda,” he said, and gave Blassenheim a friendly little punch on the arm. Blassenheim looked startled. “Well, see ya,” Mickelsson said, and gave his student another little punch.

Blassenheim drew his arm back and reached around with his right hand, as if unaware that he was doing it, to rub the punched place. “Well,” he said, and at the same instant Kate Swisson said, “Well—” They laughed. The boy shifted into drive. “I guess we better get going,” he said.

Mickelsson gave a mock-salute.

“See ya!” Kate Swisson said brightly, and waved.

He gave another mock-salute, somewhat sharper. As soon as the car started up he turned, shuddered violently once from the cold, and hurried up toward the porch.

6

The philosopher’s treatment of a question is like the treatment of an illness. Philosophy leaves everything as it is.What is your aim in philosophy? To show the fly the way out of the fly-bottle.

Monday morning. He awakened suddenly, tearing himself from a dream and staring, half awake, at the white wall opposite, gradually realizing—the life draining out of his arms and legs—that he must finally face the world: drive in and teach. He’d already missed the beginning of the new semester. It was perhaps not so bad. Students often came back late. Outside his window, the valley was as white as ever, deeply drifted. White and empty, perfectly silent, frozen, spring still far away. When he closed his eyes he saw in his mind the crowded university hallways and heard the ocean roar of talk, merry greetings, infinitely repeated dully echoing phrases, wave after wave of them, all mind-boggling, philosophical: “Hey, man, what’s happening?” “Jesus, I thought you transferred!” He saw himself standing in the corner of the mailroom, cowering like one of Miss Minton’s naughty boys, his elbows drawn close to his sides, eyes averted, avoiding eager glances from students and colleagues whose names he no longer remembered. If he were wise he would leer, bob his head, play crackling madman. But who had strength for that? His oversized mailbox would long since have overflowed into cardboard boxes in the departmental office, armload on armload for him to carry down to his own office and, closing his eyes, dump into his file drawers. “Gosh, Pete,” Tillson would say when the drawers no longer closed—his moustached grin trembling, meaning no offense—“isn’t this getting, you know, out of hand?” (Perhaps he would say nothing, defeated, bowing to things as they are.) He saw Jessie striding up to meet him, smile wide, hand outstretched—surely she would brazen it out; or would she snub him, say