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

knew he meant to do it, Mickelsson got out of the Jeep, snatched up his cane and the box containing Jessie’s gloves, and went briskly up the walk.

“Well, well!” he said, “it seems I’ve come on the right night.” He could smell the man’s cigarette.

“Yes you have,” the man said. There was nothing in his eyes, and the movement of his mouth did not seem to mesh with his words. “I was afraid you’d decided you shouldn’t come in.” He smiled. He had surprisingly crooked teeth. His voice, like a dream voice, made Mickelsson’s bowels go weak.

For four heartbeats Mickelsson said nothing. Then at last he said, “You’re Buzzy, I take it?”

Again the man smiled. His face, Mickelsson realized only now, was decayed, horrible. The flesh had fallen away from the bone of his nose. “I am. Yes.” He bowed.

“Jessie has spoken of you often,” Mickelsson said. “She misses you terribly, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

The dead man nodded, his look noting and forgiving the fatuousness. “Shall we go in?”

“I don’t suppose,” Mickelsson said, flexing the fingers of his gloves, “there’s any reason for us to try and … talk?”

“Talk?” the dead man asked hollowly, and put his hand on Mickelsson’s elbow—ice ran up Mickelsson’s arm—“why should we stand around and talk?”

Mickelsson nodded. “Will she be angry at my barging in like this?”

The dead man studied him gravely, what remained of his mouth drawn to the left; then he asked—mouth unmoving—“How should I know?” With a gentle pressure on his elbow, he floated Mickelsson toward the light.

Jessie, when she opened the door, head lifted, stared at him in amazement, her smile frozen. She was unnaturally awake, like a deer, a hind. She seemed five years older, thinner, grayer, the flesh beginning to loosen from the bone. She looked from his foolish, fixed smile to the wooden box he’d immediately thrust into her hands, then to his red coat, then back at his face. A wince fixed itself around her eyes. At last, by an act of will, she forced back her smile. “Mickelsson!” she said. Clearly she couldn’t see the corpse of her husband at Mickelsson’s side, gazing indifferently around the blurry, aqueous room. She read the words on the box, Jessie’s Gloves, wonderfully ornate, and she laughed, then blushed. She put the box on the table by the door. Mickelsson leaned his cane beside it. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s very—nice.”

He caught her right hand in both of his. “Listen, Jessie. I know this is rude. I sat outside awhile—” He laughed and nervously looked past her, giving a nod to her assembled guests, then looked back into her face. He wished he’d taken his leather gloves off. With great self-control, he said, “I came to make certain protestations. If you’d like, I could go down on one knee.”

“Don’t you dare!” she said, widening her eyes. He saw that she was trying to make out whether or not she would need help.

Tillson drifted near, the fingertips of one hand pressed to his heart.

“I’m not crazy,” Mickelsson said. “I’m just faking because I’m scared. I’m not drunk either. Smell my breath.” Before she could pull away, he leaned close to her and breathed. Tillson stopped five feet off.

“For the love of Christ,” Jessie whispered, then searched his face, stretching her mouth as if to laugh, then went expressionless. She too pressed her fingertips to her heart. “Were you planning to come in?” she asked, clearly undecided about whether or not she would let him. She stole a glance past her shoulder into the room. He saw young Levinson in the distance, eyeing them.

“I was. To make a long story short,” he said, “I love you.”

She put both hands to her face, fingertips at the temples. The corners of her lips began to tremble. “All right come in,” she said. “But watch yourself!”

“I want to marry you,” he said.

Now she did laugh, trying not to, and covered her mouth with one hand. She looked at him. “You got a real sense of timing, Mickelsson.”

Edie Bryant burst from nowhere. “Peter!” she exclaimed. “See! The conquering hero comes! It’s Peter Mickelsson!” Then she too froze, smiling and staring.

Then Blickstein was beside Edie Bryant, pushing past her and even past Jessie, stretching out both hands to embrace him, maybe wrestle him. “My God!” he cried, grinning. “Pete, you son of a gun!” His hands closed firmly on Mickelsson’s elbows, biting in hard, and his face came forward, teeth bared like a chimp’s.

“Hi!” Mickelsson said with a grin. (With a smile? With a manly grin?) “Work, work, work!” He winked. He locked his knees, preparing to break Blickstein’s hold.

The decayed, waxen face of Buzzy Stark leaned close and said, “I’ll get you a drink. Lemon twist?”

“That would be lovely,” Mickelsson said.

Jessie, at the dean’s shoulder, jerked her eyes up to Mickelsson’s face, then looked at where Buzzy had been just an instant before.

Mickelsson remembered his hat and gently struggled to free his right elbow from the dean’s grasp. The dean would not let go. Mickelsson snapped free, gave Blickstein a little jaw-tap, open-handed, and—while the dean stared, astonished—managed to remove the hat, then the gloves, and dropped them on the table beside his cane. Blickstein caught his arm, squeezing hard, grinning again, eyes wide. Mickelsson thought of breaking free and flattening him, but smiled. Jessie came close, pushing in beside the dean, on her face an angry, determined look, a bright glow, almost flame.

As if she were herself a ghost, Mabel Garret appeared from nowhere, smiling at him like a cat, a forest-green light coming out of her, and a smell of burnt wood, then moved her eyes toward where Buzzy Stark, was floating through the crowd toward the liquor cabinet. For an instant it seemed to Mickelsson that the room was empty except for Mabel Garret, Jessie, and the dead man.

“Hello, Mabel,” he said.

She slid her eyes toward Jessie.

Jessie said suddenly, “I know it must really have pissed you off that I didn’t invite