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

up, nothing on his ears, a white silk scarf wrapped twice around his neck and tied in front, and a formal, no doubt once-expensive black coat that considerably increased his already prodigious bulk. He looked more impressive than comic—a graying Russian prince on a formal visit. In the coat he seemed almost literally as wide as he was high; the top of his hat came to the middle of Peter Mickelsson’s chest. “Buon giorno,” he said, and moved his left hand in the faintest possible suggestion of a wave.

“Come in,” Mickelsson said, and laughed at the buon giorno, hardly knowing why. In all this time, he’d never gotten a clearer image of Lawler as brilliant, frightened fat boy, ready to turn at the slightest hint of scorn or danger and flee. His galoshes were so perfectly buckled, below the flaring, tucked-in pantlegs, it looked as if his mother had done them.

“I hope you’re not in the middle of something,” Lawler said. His voice had such refinement you almost didn’t notice. Years ago he’d studied in Cambridge, in the days of Russell.

“Heavens no, do come in!” Mickelsson said. He reached out, took Lawler’s left hand, and drew him a little toward the door, nodding encouragement. “What a pleasant surprise!”

Lawler smiled like a fat girl unexpectedly complimented, started through the door, then remembered his galoshes and, looking horrified by what he’d almost done, stopped to bend over and take them off. It was difficult work, on account of all that bulk, and in the end, sheepishly grinning, he straightened up again and unbuckled one of his galoshes with the heel of the other—at which point Mickelsson at last overcame his fear of offending and bent down with a laugh, saying, “Here, let me help you with that.” Lawler accepted his assistance gratefully, breathing “Thank you, thank you!” slightly winded by his efforts. Then Mickelsson led him into the house and took his coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. As he carried them to the closet, Lawler stood beaming, admiring the wallpaper in the livingroom—it was through the livingroom door that he’d entered—or perhaps gazing through the wallpaper, lost in ironic thought.

Mickelsson asked, dusting his hands as he returned, “What brings you way out to Susquehanna, Edward?” and then added, before Lawler could answer, “Can I get you something? Coffee? Glass of wine?”

“No, no. No thank you,” Lawler said with a laugh and a wave, then apologetically patted his belly. “I’m afraid my stomach’s all acid, today.”

“Let me offer you a Di-Gel, then,” Mickelsson said, and reached into his pocket. “I eat them like candy, myself. Acid stomach all the time. I suppose it’s the gin.”

“Gin will do that, alas,” Lawler said, and nodded, as if distressed to find Mickelsson a fellow sufferer. “I never touch it anymore.” He held out his small, plump hand, cupped to receive the Di-Gel, looked at it for a moment as if uncertain what to do with it, then popped it, as if greedily, into his mouth. He looked admiringly at the Christmas tree Mickelsson had not yet taken down, then for a place to sit, half his mind elsewhere; at last it came to Mickelsson that the man was afraid none of the furniture would bear his weight.

“Here, have a seat,” he said, crossing to Lawler and indicating the couch. “Sit here by the fire, where it’s warm.”

“Good, thank you,” Lawler said, his face lighting up with exaggerated relief. He moved obediently to the couch, turned around, taking several steps in place—like a hippopotamus, Mickelsson thought—then carefully lowered himself, his left hand on the arm of the couch. “There!” he said, and beamed like an Oriental. He folded his small hands in his lap. Mickelsson drew up a chair and sat, then got out his pipe.

“So,” Lawler said, as if something were now resolved. “I’m glad to see you’re well.” When Mickelsson raised his eyebrows, Lawler explained, rather bashfully, almost prissily, evading Mickelsson’s eyes, “You weren’t in school, you see, and considering everything that’s been … in the papers, all the trouble in the world—well, I’m a nervous man anyway, as I’m sure you know. When your phone didn’t seem to be working I just … thought I’d come out.”

“How good of you!” Mickelsson said, slightly puzzled. “I thank you for your concern.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing.” He poked tobacco into his pipe.

Beaming, eyes closed, Lawler slowly passed his right hand through an arc in front of his chest—a little like the blessing of a Buddha. “Don’t mention it! I must say, it’s a pleasure to see your arrangements.”

The cat appeared at the kitchen door, wide head tipped, then decided to come and settle, sulky, not far from Mickelsson, between him and the fire.

“I’ve been putting too much time into it,” Mickelsson said, “but it’s refreshing, working with your hands now and then.”

“You did all this?” Lawler asked, tilting his head. For an instant something like panic showed in his eyes, no doubt the book man’s horror before the mysteries of artisanry.

“The painting and wallpapering, yes, and the sanding and staining of the floors,” Mickelsson said, as modestly as he could manage. “Did that for the whole house. You should’ve seen the place when I moved in! The diningroom was the worst“—he pointed toward the closed diningroom door—”I had to tear out the walls in there, put up sheetrock.”

“My goodness,” Lawler said. He shook his head, looking around.the room with interest, running his eyes along the moleboard, the window casements, the moulding that framed the ceiling. “Goodness,” he said again, shaking his head, tapping his fingertips together on his belly. “I take it it must not bother you, then, living way out here. Well, I’m a coward, of course, myself. I read about fires, murders, mysterious goings-on. … But I suppose it’s no safer in Binghamton—that chemistry man you mentioned, murdered right there in his Ziiingroom. …” He got out a large white handkerchief and