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

not a word—silent as Cosima to poor Fritz’s obscene, mad cries—then Alan Blassenheim sheepishly grinning, not sure what expression he ought to wear, keeping himself out of range of a friendly punch. “Did you hear about the kid in our class that killed himself?” He saw Brenda Winburn, looking angry and haggard, maybe numb from the pretense that she didn’t know a thing, because by now Blassenheim would certainly be dropping in from time to time at the apartment of Kate Swisson when her husband was away, or stopping in at the practice room, because in the wide-open sea, goodness of heart was not enough. Maybe nothing was enough. “Hi, there,” Blassenheim would say, grinning and slouching. “Hi, Alan!” Batting eyelashes. He’d go in, slightly reddening, astonished at his luck, and Kate Swisson would jump up happily and close the door. “Look at you!” adjusting his collar, just to touch him. What might he have said to the boy that would have protected him? More careful attention to the Symposium, perhaps? Beware of fly-bottles! Mickelsson saw Brenda Winburn sitting—her long, muscular legs crossed at the knees—in the learner’s seat at his office, dark fire in her eyes, Mickelsson at the window, stretching his deadweight arms out to the sides, palm up. “What can I tell you? It’s a stupid world.” Phil Bryant drawing him aside in the cafeteria: “Pete, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Jessie. Things look bad. Did you know?” “Things are bad,” Mickelsson would say; “things are crap.” It wasn’t true, of course. Only here in the swirl of things. Only if one was, like Mickelsson, a sore-head. “Denn bei dir ist die Vergebung.” (Herr Bach.) He imagined John Pearson, upright as a figure of stone, the dog sitting six feet away, watchful, patient of the wasted time, his mind still on rabbits. It was of course true that he had no real choice but to get up, go to work, earn the money he owed the I.R.S. or had given away in advance to Ellen, who scorned and hated him. (Not true either. More rant. Hatred was an achievement of the will none of them was up to.)

He sat up, as tired as if he hadn’t slept at all, put his legs over the side, and set his hands on his knees, momentarily baffled by how cold it was. The fire in the woodstove must have burned away, and the furnace had failed to switch on because the oil had run out. He’d bounced four checks on Benson Brothers; they probably wouldn’t refill his tank until he paid. “Too much,” he said, and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Be reasonable!” He scowled. Today the talking-with-God game was not funny. When he touched his chin he felt bristles days old. He lay back in the bed, too weak of will to stand, and pulled the covers up over him. What could they do if he didn’t go in? There could be no doubt that he was slipping. Unable to feel, unable to function; living, as if there were nothing more mundane, in a house inhabited by ghosts more vital than himself. He listened for some sound from them, the old woman on the everlasting treadmill of her rage, the old man everlastingly baffled by it. Mickelsson too was trapped in it: he had dreamed again of how the old woman had shot the old man and he’d slid slowly down the roof, bleeding. His buttons made a scraping sound on the shingles, and as he fell he was mumbling. In the dream, the old woman had turned and looked at Mickelsson.

It was three in the afternoon when he opened his eyes again. The phone was ringing. He let it ring several times before it came to him that it might be his son; then he got up, crossed the icy floor in his bare feet, and took the phone from the hook. “Hello?” he said, guarded.

“Pete? Is that you?” It was Jessie. The softness of her voice shocked him, as if she were calling from a house full of burglars.

He nodded but said nothing, trying to think. It crossed his mind that he really might, if he wished, say nothing—as she perhaps had done, that time when the phone had rung and the caller had chosen not to speak. If he said nothing she would be hurt, maybe shocked, would perhaps send someone out to see him, or even come herself (not likely; none of it was likely). In the long run, would it really be all that bad? It was not true, from a certain perspective, that he was crazy. He was saner than anyone—had fallen out of the world of illusion: love, interesting work, hope for the future. … He felt that he was beginning to freeze already, standing naked in the ice-cold room. They would find him standing on one foot, a statue, his right foot tucked behind his left knee.

“Peter?” she asked.

“Hello, Jessie,” he said. It surprised him only a little that he spoke. Habit of good manners. These things die slowly. His voice had tears in it.

“Peter, are you all right?” She sounded downright gun-shy. No doubt she knew, then; whether or not she was aware of it.

“Not so good, I guess,” he said. “You?” He breathed very carefully.

“I’m fine.” She paused. “Not so good, I guess. I guess you must’ve heard that they’re firing me.”

“No I hadn’t.” The shock took a moment to register. He tried to imagine her face. He was biting his lips hard, tasting blood.

“Well, not exactly firing me,” she said. “Blickstein made a deal. I had to yell at the president and threaten to sue the state before he’d knuckle. He’s putting me in adult education—giving me a raise to take the sting away. And of course there’s the appeal.”

“Ah,” Mickelsson said, “you’re appealing!”

“Not me, really.” She gave a laugh. “Committee of my friends. Actually, Dan Levinson’s running the thing. I guess I have