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

careening with ideas—thanks to Donnie Matthews (he’d finally remembered the last name he’d written on her check). Even when he was deep in thought about what he was writing, the memory of the girl was all around him in the air, and for all his weight and furious concentration he felt as if he were floating. He must see her again—he’d decided that even before he’d left her. Once, picking up his week’s supply of Di-Gels at Reddon’s Drugs, a scent drifting over from the rack of perfumes, colognes, and nailpolishes had caught him unawares and he’d believed he might have heart failure. He’d hunted through the bottles, trying to discover which scent it was that so powerfully brought her back to him, but before he could isolate it his nose had become confused. He wished he’d stolen something from her—a hankie; even a button would have served. She filled his writing with power and life. It was a strange and wonderful effect. Sometimes he would stop and, dreaming of her, would masturbate.

“You hear me all right?” Finney asked.

“I can hear you.”

“Good, good. I went over the settlement you proposed and they were very professional about it. They didn’t laugh.” Finney laughed, explosive. Mickelsson could see his chair yawing back precariously, his fat left arm flying up in the air as if inviting an audience to laugh with him. “They were brilliant, in fact, considering it takes three of ’em to figure out who should go pee. Ha ha! They listened to that dream-scheme from Candysville, offering the lady the Taj Mahal if it’s not too much trouble for her, otherwise you could give her the Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge, and after it’s over they have the alligator balls to look solemn, as if maybe it’s not enough.”

After Finney’s pause had lengthened for a moment, Mickelsson brought himself to ask, “What did they say?”

“Well, the lady lawyer—Lincoln, that’s her name, no shit—she folds her hands like she’s in Sundayschool and she looks very concerned. You offer your former spouse, free gratis, for just existing—a dubious virtue, all things considered—the house and the car and fifteen hundred a month, which is more than you make, if you’ll come out of the clouds for just a second and think it over, more than you make after taxes, not to mention the taxes you forgot to pay last year—”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Just playin with ya, kid. You’re offerin her more than you make, that’s the point, plus house, plus car, books, paintings, records, swimming pool—and your wife’s lawyer is very concerned that your wife might not be able to get by on that.”

Mickelsson sighed and, to keep himself from reading over what he had in the typewriter, covered his eyes with one hand. “Why not?”

“Well, you know how it is these days,” Finney said. “Kids in college, no scholarships—why should they need scholarships? Rich professor’s kids, right? And all the lady’s expenses, not to mention her friend’s—she sent me a breakdown; I’ll slap it in the mail. Heat bills, travel expenses, food and clothing, liquor, car repairs, doctor bills, life insurance—hundred thousand dollars on you, that’s how much she values you; I bet it makes you proud!—but of course she can’t pay it, where’d the little woman get money like that?—also lawyers’ fees, three of ’em, gotta be well-protected. Put it all together it comes to about double what you offered her, champ; otherwise no dice.”

“That’s crazy.”

“What the fuck does she care?” He laughed.

Mickelsson could see him, self-consciously chortling, blue eyes smouldering, angrier at his client than at his client’s ex-wife—not without reason, from a lawyer’s point of view.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Mickelsson said.

“Cancel the offer, the whole ball of wax, that’s my advice. The money you’ve been sending her, don’t send her another thin dime, drive her ass into court and let the judge decide.”

Mickelsson sucked his lower lip in. “Maybe I should give her a call,” he said, “try to reason it out.”

“Do that. Good luck to you!”

There was a pause.

“Probably not such a hot idea,” Mickelsson admitted. He leaned forward onto his elbows. After a moment he said, “I just don’t see why she doesn’t take it. She must realize it’s fair—more than fair—and the best I can possibly do.”

“That I doubt she believes,” Finney said. “What did you make on the speakers’ circuit—three, four hundred a night?”

“That was years ago, when I had a book out and people had heard of me.”

“So write a book. You forget how to type? And what about those summers? June, July, August you just sit on your can, go live in some fancy hotel in the Adirondacks and watch the birds and bees, maybe paddle a boat around and try to find some late Redskin ass. You could be doing your duty as a father and ex-husband, maybe get yourself a job with the merchant marines, a little highway construction. Take some inches off.”

“That’s bullshit, Finney.”

“Isn’t everything, ole pal? Listen, don’t yell at me. Lady’s got a right to dream, understand? And you gotta admit you invited it. You offer her the moon and a ton and a half of fingerpaints, no wonder she wants you to throw in a rag to wipe her hands on.” He laughed again. When he laughed, Mickelsson remembered, Finney’s face would begin to shine. One of these days he’d have a stroke.

“I just want to do what’s fair,” he said. “It seems to me she shouldn’t have to move to a smaller house or even cut down on expenses all that much. If she’d just be reasonable—”

“By what standard, Professor? You got a book somewhere tells you what’s reasonable and what’s not?” Mickelsson could see him bending forward in his chair, leaning on his desk, picking up a pencil, getting serious. Finney was breathing harder now, his belly crowding his lungs. “Maybe you found someplace in the Bible that tells you how much the Lord allows? Believe me, you’re dreaming! Two years