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

When he opened his eyes he saw that she was staring at the ceiling. Light came from her skin.

Outside the room there was not a sound.

“Listen,” he said, unbuttoning her blouse, “I’m glad you reminded me. My mother may have to live with us.”

“I said stop it!” Jessie whispered, stopping his hands. Her eyes were wide, as if with terror. Panic stirred in him. For an instant he was aware of his heart thudding, booming like a drum; then it came to him that it was her heart. She changed her mind and let his hands continue with the buttons.

“My mother’s old, you see,” he said. “Lonely—” His panic increased. “Also, my son’s come home.”

She rocked her head from side to side, her arms still holding him tight. “Jesus,” she said.

His hands stopped. “You don’t love me?”

“Are you crazy?”

His shaking grew violent.

She raised her head, eyes still wide open, wary, staring as if in amazement, then kissed his cheek—quickly, twice.

She allowed him to raise her torso and remove her blouse, then her brassière. He mouthed her left nipple.

“Do you realize, you crazy bastard,” she asked, “that there are people out there? Do you think they don’t know what we’re doing?”

“Listen,” he said, unsnapping her skirt. We’re, she had said. The room was full of ghosts, none of them very solid yet, some with their hands to their jaws, looking thoughtful, some grinning obscenely, some timidly looking away. The sky outside the windows glowed, then darkened.

“The thing is,” she whispered, “… don’t, Mickelsson! Wait! Do we love each other? And whom did you murder? What’s happening?”

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” he said.

“Don’t!” she said angrily and raised her fist to hit him, then stopped herself.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Christ, that’s not the point,” she said. “That’s never been the point.”

As he kissed her she gave him her lips only for an instant, then drew back, looking at the door. “God damn it,” she said, “I’m not finished.”

He waited.

“You’re crazy,” she said. “I have to think about that, Peter! You have these episodes—and even fake episodes—”

“All the same, I protest to you enduring love,” he said.

A knock came at the door, loud and astonishingly close, and Gretchen Blickstein’s voice called, “Jessie?”

Jessie listened, going still all over, then called, “It’s all right.” In the silence that followed he felt her holding her breath.

“Oh, Pete,” she whispered then, and—as if on second thought—wrapped her arms still more tightly around him.

“Jessie?” another voice called.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Believe me, it’s all right.”

Buzzy Stark’s head and left shoulder came easily through the shiny panelling of the door. His lightless eyes carefully did not look at them. “I’ll deal with it,” he said.

“Was that—?” Jessie began.

There was a knocking at the door, urgent.

“Just a couple of minutes,” Jessie called. From her tone, not even God could have guessed what was happening.

Carefully, Mickelsson eased her skirt and pantyhose down over her beautiful hips, her regal dark and silvery patch of hair. Astonished, the fingertips of his right hand traced her ilium. His nose hovered close to her armpit, ravished. There was a rumbling sound. Beyond the nearest window, just visible against the night, bones were tumbling onto the lawn, clattering in the street, booming like falling boulders, dropping out of nowhere.

Quickly, as if the world had gone unspeakably weird, Jessie sat up, breasts dangling, and began the unbuttoning of his shirt, the unhooking of his belt-buckle, unzipping of his fly. Gently, with a crazy smile, she drew his stiff penis out. Beyond the farther window, blood was falling, swooshing and boiling as it hit. From high in the night overhead came silvery human laughter.

“All those people right outside the door,” she whispered. “Jesus! I don’t believe it!” Eyes sparkling, smiling wildly, she lay back for him.

“Ah!” cried Mickelsson, shoving himself in.

“Sweet Christ!” she whispered, eyes snapping shut. Her head rocked from side to side, then tensed. Her pelvis thrust violently, consuming him. He couldn’t have pulled out if he’d wished.

Now the bedroom was packed tight with ghosts, not just people but also animals—minks, lynxes, foxes—more than Mickelsson or Jessie could name, and there were still more at the windows, oblivious to the tumbling, roaring bones and blood, the rumbling at the door, though some had their arms or paws over their heads—both people and animals, an occasional bird, still more beyond, some of them laughing, some looking away (Mormons, Presbyterians), some blowing their noses and brushing away tears, some of them clasping their hands or paws and softly mewing, shadowy cats, golden-eyed tigers (Marxist atheists, mournful Catholics) … pitiful, empty-headed nothings complaining to be born. …

A Biography of John Gardner

John Gardner (1933–1982) was a bestselling and award-winning novelist and essayist, and one of the twentieth century’s most controversial literary authors. Gardner produced more than thirty works of fiction and nonfiction, consisting of novels, children’s stories, literary criticism, and a book of poetry. His books, which include the celebrated novels Grendel, The Sunlight Dialogues, and October Light, are noted for their intellectual depth and penetrating insight into human nature.

Gardner was born in Batavia, New York. His father, a preacher and dairy farmer, and mother, an English teacher, both possessed a love of literature and often recited Shakespeare during his childhood. When he was eleven years old, Gardner was involved in a tractor accident that resulted in the death of his younger brother, Gilbert. He carried the guilt from this accident with him for the rest of his life, and would incorporate this theme into a number of his works, among them the short story “Redemption” (1977). After graduating from high school, Gardner earned his undergraduate degree from Washington University in St. Louis, and he married his first wife, Joan Louise Patterson, in 1953. He earned his Master’s and Ph.D. in English from the University of Iowa in 1958, after which he entered into a career in academia that would last for the remainder of his life, including a period at Chico