Mickelsson's Ghosts (107 page)

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 you, Peter.” She glanced at Blickstein. “Shel, leave him alone.”

“No no! Good heavens, no!” Mickelsson said. “Believe me, I don't blame you!” He looked around. “What a wonderful party!” Then, leaning toward her, making his face tragic, “I really must talk to you alone for a minute. Is it possible? Don't tell me no. Dearest lady, I
pray
you!”

Levinson drifted nearer, hands in coatpockets, eyebrows forming a solid wedge.

Jessie threw a look around, checking her troops. The dean and Tillson watched intently. Tillson had put down his glass, on his face a tortured, pitiful expression. His left hand consoled his right. Now Mickelsson saw Blickstein's young friend on the couch, Professor Warren's wife, beside old Mrs. Meyerson. Both of them stared at him. The young woman's face was electric. There were dark circles under her eyes, but otherwise she seemed well, even radiant. It crossed his mind that she might be an ally. She would have heard by now about Lawler's arrest. Mrs. Meyerson was licking frosting off a napkin, looking up furtively, hoping she wasn't being watched.

“I take it this is the get-up you put on for your episodes?” Jessie said in his ear. “Do you really feel you need it?”

“Please let me talk to you,” he said. “I stand before you a humble suppliant.”

“Jesus Christ,” she said. She pushed her hair back angrily. “Mickelsson, you
ass.”

“Please, Jessie, little bird, gentle thrush—”

“Either you're crazy and I should call the police, or you're the most shameless, devious—”

“Please,” he said, and, surprising himself, burst into tears.

“This way,” Jessie said suddenly, and seized his hand firmly, as a boy would.

“Jess—” the dean said warningly. His hand closed more tightly on Mickelsson's elbow. Jessie gave him a look, and after an instant the dean's hand opened and he bent his head, like a barber finished with a job. Tillson came up and spoke into Jessie's ear. She shook her head, gazing as if from a great distance at Mickelsson, reaching back, holding Mickelsson's hand. She said to Tillson, “No.” She slammed her smile at him and after an instant he backed off like a servingman.

The dead man handed Mickelsson his drink. Then Mickelsson continued down the hallway with Jessie, walking in a foggy dream, swaying a little, courtly. Behind them, Edie Bryant held her arm out, preventing anyone from following. In the bedroom, he closed the door behind them and released Jessie's hand to click the lock. Jessie met his eyes, her face like polished steel, then decided to look away. The room, after the livingroom, was unnervingly quiet. Jessie's stillness alarmed him.

The bed was piled high with coats, remains of a zoo's worth of animals—sheep, mink, otter, seal. … (Bryant would not like that.) She stood beside the bed, furtively brushing at the sides of her eyes with two fingers, looking around for a place to sit. At last she sat on top of the coats and covered her mouth and nose with her hands, breathing deeply. A shudder ran through her shoulders; her eyes settled on Mickelsson. Then she was still again.

“Jesus, if you could
see
yourself,” she said.

“I feel fine!”

“You feel fine.” She glanced at the locked door. Now she lowered her hands from her mouth and looked hard at the floor. Her shoulders drew inward.

He remembered the martini in his hand. “You want a sip?”

She looked up at him, then reached up and took the glass. He used the occasion to pull off his scarf and coat. After she'd sipped, she swallowed hard, as if the gin had burned her throat. She looked at his hands, then handed the glass back.

He smiled, then asked, “Did I tell you I saw the picture of you in the paper?”

She jerked her head away, then quickly wiped her cheek and shook her head. “What do you want?” she asked.

He said, “Come live with me and be my love, and we will all the pleasures prove—”

“Stop it!” she cried.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, quieting herself. “Thank you for your … affection. I have a party to attend to.” Now her two hands were pressed to her knees. Her eyes were clamped shut.

He crouched down in front of her, tears blinding him, and put his right hand on her two hands. “Jessie,” he said, “it's true that the get-up is a fraud. But the craziness is real. You have to help me. If I had my way, I'd come to you as the perfect lover, flawless golden lion. …”

“Go home,” she said. “Peter—” She drew in breath, then said softly, shaking her head a little, “Go fuck yourself.”

“I can't,” he said.

Her hands closed tightly around his. “It was you, wasn't it,” she said, “the one who looked in at us, in Geoffrey's office.”

“It was an accident. Anyway, I've done something much worse.”

“I'm sure,” she said.

“I murdered someone, Jessie,” he said.

She stared at him.

He said, “Would you like another drink?”

Seconds passed. Then she reached for his glass.

Slowly, deliberately, Mickelsson began to lift the coats off the bed and lay them on the carpet, neat as a launderer.

She said, “What do you mean? What are you telling me?” She did not think to hand him the glass back, placing it instead on the bedside table.

He sat down beside her. “If you don't hold me in your arms, Jessie …”

She hesitated, then put her arms around him. As if on second thought, she closed them around him tightly. He closed his arms just as tightly around her. Without his quite knowing how it happened, they were lying side by side, the coats she'd been sitting on pushed off onto the floor. He held her still more tightly, pressing his lips to her throat. She was saying, “What are you telling me? Are you crazy? Who did you murder?”

“Whom,” he corrected.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said. Her embrace loosened, then tightened so that he could hardly breathe. He kissed her throat, then the notch of her collarbone, then nuzzled toward her breasts.

“Peter, what are you
doing?”
she whispered. “Peter! Stop that!”

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.