A Manhattan Ghost Story Page 19

  “Stacy’s back in Bangor by now,” I answered.

  She stopped walking. “You mean she’s not in New York anymore?”

  I nodded. “She left this morning.”

  A quivering little grin broke out on her lips. She held her free hand out to me and indicated the suitcase I was carrying. “Then I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, do you, Abner? Give me that please.”

  I gave her the suitcase. “Don’t you want to get something to eat anyway, Aunt Jocelyn?”

  “No. I’ll eat here. Good-bye, Abner.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Good-bye.” And she turned and walked away from me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Phyllis was buried in a gritty, little cemetery in Brooklyn, between McDonald Avenue and Van Sicien Street. On one side of the cemetery, there was a small tailor’s shop which smelled of fresh ironing, and on the other side, a wholesale toy distributor. Dozens of cheap, pastel-colored stuffed animals, most of them faded by the sun, had been set up precariously in the toy distributor’s window, and they gave the whole area, including the cemetery, a tacky and impermanent look.

  It was a Friday afternoon, two days after I had last seen Phyllis, that I went to where she was buried. I think there were fifty headstones, no more. Most of them were quite old, several dating from the late 1700s, and most of them were in bad repair.

  Phyllis was pretty easy to find. She was toward the back of the cemetery, near a high, brick wall topped with spikes of black wrought iron.

  She hadn’t been given a headstone. She’d been given a small, rectangular piece of greenish metal—like a miniature of the ones used for roadside plaques to commemorate battles or landmarks—which had been set flat into the ground not too long ago, because the earth around it looked as if it had been very recently turned.

  The piece of metal said merely this:

  PHYLLIS PELLAPRAT

  1958-1983

  I wept when I saw it. I wept quietly, with my hands at my sides and my head down a little. I enjoyed myself. I don’t believe that I’ve ever enjoyed myself quite as much. I enjoyed myself because it was confirmation. It was release. It—that piece of greenish metal—was an invitation.

  Find me, it said. I am here, or here, or here. I am!

  A maple tree, small and bare of leaves, stood at the back of the cemetery, near the wall. While I wept I became aware that a man was at the other side of the tree, with his back turned. I could see his shoulders—one on each side of the tree—a right leg in brown corduroy, from the knee down, and a right elbow pointing at the toy distributor’s east wall, as if the arm were bent, the hand at the mouth. I saw a small, ragged cloud of smoke appear, and then another.

  “You Art?” I heard. It was a young man’s voice, and it had an intimidating bite to it.

  I answered, “No, I’m not.”

  “You sure?” Another cloud of smoke appeared, and dissipated instantly on a sudden breeze.

  “My name is Abner,” I said. I had stopped weeping, but I could hear that my voice was quivering from its after-effects.

  “Abner?” said the young man with his back to the tree. “What kinda name is that? Ain’t no one named Abner. You fulla shit, my man!”

  “No,” I said, “I’m not.”

  “How you know Phyllis?”

  I said nothing.

  “I asked you how you know Phyllis?”

  And still I said nothing. I was not in the mood to be intimidated.

  He chuckled. “You pretty hot stuff, you think? You pretty hot stuff?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I think you think so.” Another cloud of smoke appeared, hung near the tree a few seconds, then wafted off in several directions on the still air. His elbow went down, then his hand; he let his cigarette fall close to his foot, where it smouldered in the wet, matted grass, letting off a continuous stream of smoke. “You think you hot stuff because you fuck her. Ain’t that so?”

  I said, “Are you trying to make an issue of a dead woman’s sex life?”

  He chuckled. “Sure, Art. Everyone else does. You fulla shit, you know that?”

  “I’m not Art.”

  “You are.”

  “No. My name is Abner.”

  “You here, you Art! I don’t need no convincing my mother didn’t raise no dummies.”

  I took a deep breath. I was losing my patience, and I did not want to lose my patience. I was enjoying myself too much. I said again, “My name is Abner,” and added, “Abner Cray. And I love Phyllis Pellaprat very much.”

  He chuckled again. To my right, someone came out of the toy distributor’s front door and looked over at me. He was a big, balding, overweight man in his late fifties or early sixties, and he was dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt and black slacks. He said, his voice high-pitched, a little nervous. “You got some kinda trouble here?”

  “No,” I said.

  The man behind the maple tree said nothing.

  The fat man said, “You got some business being here, then?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “No.” I paused a moment. “No. It’s my business.”

  The fat man seemed to think about that. Then he shrugged. “Sure enough,” he said, and waddled back into his office.

  The man behind the maple tree chuckled again. “You know what he’s gonna do?”

  “No,” I said.

  “He’s gonna go and call the police. He been robbed, you see. So he’s gonna go and call the police—he’s a very nervous man.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “And that don’t bother you?” He seemed vaguely amused.

  “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

  “Fuck, you is really hot stuff, ain’t that right, my man?”

  I said, “You’re beginning to annoy me.” It made me feel very masculine, so I said it once more. “You’re beginning to annoy me,” and added, “quite a lot.”

  He chuckled again. “You know I’m gonna take care of you?!”

  It was a statement clearly designed to scare me. It succeeded. “Jesus!” I breathed.

  “We’re all of us, all of us, gonna take care of you, Art. Not right here and now. That’d be stupid. But we are gonna take care of you!”

  “Jesus!” I said again. “I am not Art DeGraff. Christ, you wanta see some ID or something?!”

  He chuckled.

  I hurried on, “My name is Abner Cray. I’m a photographer. I came to New York to do a book. I met Phyllis Pellaprat and I fell in love with her.” He chuckled again. I went on, “I know Art DeGraff. He used to be my best friend. And I know that he killed Phyllis; he told me he killed her, and he told me that it was an accident.” I paused; I could hear the strain in my voice and I wanted to suppress it. I continued, “You have no reason at all to want to kill me.” I stopped. I thought I sounded pretty convincing.

  The man behind the maple tree said, “Didn’t say nothin’ about killing you, Art. You dead—big deal! Lots and lots of people are dead, Art, and lots and lots of people ain’t, too. It’s the ones that ain’t that get the most scared, you know what I mean, Art? You ever been scared? Yeah, you been scared. And you know what scares you the very most, Art? I’ll tell you. It’s not knowin’ that scares you the very most. Not knowin’ when, or how, or if they’s gonna be pain, or how much they’s gonna be, or if it’s ever gonna end, or if you is ever gonna go back home again and get some rest. Put your feet up. Watch the fuckin’ TV. Relax, have a fuckin’ beer or two, and drift. Know what that is? Know what drifting is, Art? Sure you do. It’s feeling nothin’ and being happy and thinkin’ you got everything all taken care of. You wanta piss, you go an’ piss. You wanta grab a bite to eat, you wanta play with yourself, you wanta read the sports page, hey, you do it. You know? You do it! But what if you can’t do none of those things, Art? What if you can’t do none of ‘em? Like you’re in jail, you know? You ever been in jail, Art? I been in jail. L
ike you wanta go a couple feet that way, you can’t. You wanta go a couple feet this way, you can’t. You’re stuck. You can’t do much of anything. ‘Cept piss in the toilet they put in the cell with ya. And eat the bologna sandwiches they give ya. Like bein’ in jail, Art. Only the walls are a lot closer; they get right up next to ya and they squeeze hard. And they don’t look nothin’ like walls neither. They got faces, you know, and they got hair and fingernails, and they don’t smell too good nor listen too good neither, ‘cuz they is way past listenin’. And they got ya, Art! Like you’re their little dog, you know. They got ya and where they go, you go. You got no choice. That’s what’s scary. It sure would scare the holy shit outa me, Art. It surely would. You think about it. You just think about it a little bit. Think about it a lot, Art.”

  I clenched and unclenched my teeth. I cursed beneath my breath.

  The man from the toy distributor’s came out his front door again. He was smiling an odd, crooked smile. “You’d better haul ass!” he said to me.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  His smile broadened. “I said you’d better haul ass. You’re gonna have some people here asking you some questions pretty quick!”

  I looked at the maple tree. The man behind it was gone. I looked at the fat man, mumbled something to him about just minding my own business, that I was harming no one. And he smiled his crooked smile while I spoke, and when I was finished, he came forward a step or two, into the little cemetery, said, “Why don’tcha just leave ‘em alone, okay?” hesitated, said again, “Why don’tcha haul ass?”

  And I did.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Back to Art’s apartment, where I sat at Art’s desk, in the living room, and made another list:

  1. The man is black.

  2. I’d guess that he used to be a friend of Phyllis.

  3. He smokes. Should go back and check the brand—might be something exotic.

  4. He wears brown corduroy pants, and he

  5. Does not speak well.

  6.

  I put nothing down for number 6 because that’s when Art came into the room. I guessed that he’d been in the bedroom, sleeping—he was wearing his blue robe and made a show of stretching as he came in.

  “Hi, Abner,” he said.

  My mouth hung open for several seconds before I could speak. And when I did speak, it was a curse:

  “Goddamn you, Art—you son of a bitch!”

  He smiled thinly, came over to the desk looked at what I was writing. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a list,” I said.

  “Yes, I can see that.” He picked it up and appeared to read it over. “Someone you know, Abner?”

  “No. What are you doing here, Art?”

  “I live here, remember.” He smiled again. It grated on me because it was the kind of smile which said loudly that he thought he’d put something over on me. “You’re being awfully hostile, Abner.”

  “Of course I’m being hostile.” Hot, unreasoning anger was welling up inside me, and I pushed it back, with effort. “You’re a real shit, Art.”

  “We’re friends, Abner. Aren’t we friends?”

  “Fuck you!” I nodded at the list in his hands. “That man wants to kill me. Would you like to know why he wants to kill me?”

  Art put the list down in front of me on the desk. His smile vanished; He said nothing.

  “He thinks I’m you, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “He was Phyllis’ friend, and he wants to kill me because he thinks I’m you!”

  Art still said nothing. He went to a kitchen cupboard, withdrew a can of ground coffee and looked back at me briefly, no particular expression on his face. He opened the coffee with an electric opener on the counter, set the can aside, and stood for a moment with his hands flat on the counter and his head lowered. Then he said, his voice low and apologetic, “You’ve been having a pretty miserable time, haven’t you, Abner?”

  I didn’t answer him.

  He took a percolator out of a lower cupboard, removed the basket, set it on the counter. He went on, “Phyllis had quite a few friends. I didn’t know all of them, only a few of them.” He ran water into the percolator, put the basket inside it. “None of them liked me, I guess.” He plugged the percolator in. “That guy—” he nodded to indicate the list on the desk, “—is just trying to scare you.”

  “I don’t think so, Art.”

  He smiled thinly again, but this time it was a smile of impatience. The smile vanished; a look of intense earnestness came over him.

  He asked, “Did you find out who the woman was, Abner?”

  I answered, “Yes. She was Phyllis.”

  He shook his head slowly, sadly. “No, Abner. No, no. She was not Phyllis. You know she wasn’t Phyllis because Phyllis is dead. I killed her, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m aware of that,” I said.

  He nodded at the coffeepot, which had begun to perk. “You want some of this.”

  “No,” I answered.

  He sighed. “I really did think we were friends, Abner. I thought we were pretty damned close friends, in fact.”

  “We were.”

  “Uh-huh.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe, glanced at the percolator, then back at me. He had that look of earnestness about him again. “Have you seen anyone, Abner?”

  “Seen anyone?”

  “Yes,” he explained. “About this fantasy you’re having.”

  I picked up the pen and filled in #6 on the list:

  Art says he was not acquainted with most of Phyllis’s friends.

  I said to Art, “I wish it was a fantasy.”

  The coffee stopped perking; Art poured a cupful.

  “It is a fantasy, Abner. And if you believe it, you’re nuts.”

  I sighed, stood, went to the fireplace, got the photograph that Phyllis had shown me a month earlier, brought it back to Art, shoved it under his nose. “Is this Phyllis, for Christ’s sake? Is this Phyllis Pellaprat?”

  He looked at the photograph for only a moment, then turned away, his cup of coffee in hand. “Yes,” he whispered, “it is.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Phyllis Pellaprat is the woman I shared this apartment with, Art. And she is the woman I fell in love with.”

  “No, Abner.” He shook his head slowly. “No,” he repeated. “Phyllis is the woman I killed, goddamnit.” I heard no malice or anger in his voice, only regret, sadness, and resignation. “She’s the woman I killed.” A very short pause, then: “Did I tell you that it was manslaughter, Abner?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “You did.”

  He shook his head again. “It wasn’t. It was murder.” A quick, nervous smile.

  I sat heavily at the kitchen table, leaned back in the chair.

  Art said, “Did you hear what I told you, Abner?”

  “I heard.” I stood, went to the desk, got the pen and my list, brought it to the table, sat down, and wrote:

  “7. Art says it was murder, so of course the little bastard is after me.”

  Art looked at the list again, appeared to read #7, said, “You don’t care, Abner?”

  I shook my head briskly. “No, Art. I don’t care. Tell me why I should care, and I will.”

  “You don’t even want to hear how it happened?”

  I turned my head away from him. I said nothing.

  “I have to tell you how it happened, Abner.” A short pause. I felt him touch my arm very lightly. “I want to tell you how it happened.”

  Still I said nothing.

  “I beat her up,” He said. There was a small tremor in his voice, as if he were on the verge of chuckling. Anger began to mount inside me again. He repeated, “I beat her up, Abner. I don’t know why; I’m not sure why. Some men are like that. They beat up women. I used to beat Stacy up.” I clenched my teeth. “Not a lot. I beat her up twice. I mean, I hit her twice. Several times. I got her black and blue. I broke one of her teeth; she had it capped—” I grabbed f
or him, but I was too slow. He backed away, grinned. “I don’t like myself any more than you like me, Abner,” he said.

  “Why’d you come back here, Art?”

  Another grin. “To give myself up.”

  “How wonderfully magnanimous,” I said, paused, went on, “But why?”

  He shrugged. “Guilt,” I think,” he said. “Guilt can work wonders, you know.” He paused, then added, “And fear, too.”

  “Fear? Fear of what?”

  Someone knocked at the front door. Art glanced sharply at it. His hands began to shake first—some of the coffee sloshed out of the cup and onto the floor—then his arms and his mouth began to shake. “Jesus!” he whispered. “Jesus!”

  I smiled. “I’ll get it, Art.” It occurred to me then that I had grown to hate Art, that as much as I loved Phyllis, I hated him. I wanted desperately to see him hauled away. “I’ll get it,” I said again, and stood. He stuck his hand out so his palm was flat on my chest. “No, Abner. Please. Let me.” He was pleading with me. I sat. “Sure, Art.”

  He went haltingly to the door, his cup of coffee still in hand. He grasped the knob. There was another knock, louder and sharper than the first, and it spooked him, he stepped back. Then, apparently, he screwed some courage up from somewhere, because he reached out suddenly and yanked the door wide open.

  It was Kennedy Whelan. He had a cigar in his mouth, and his hands thrust into his suit pants pockets. He said, “Hello, Mr. DeGraff?”

  Art nodded. Some more of his coffee sloshed out onto the floor.

  Whelan took the cigar from his mouth, held it near the middle of his Chest as he talked. “I’ve got a warrant for your arrest on a charge of second-degree murder …”

  Art fainted.

  I was glad to see it happen. I laughed, in fact.

  Whelan looked over at me and barked, “Clam up, Mr. Cray.” I quieted. Whelan leaned over Art—who’d collapsed so he was on his back, with his left arm close to his body, and his right arm out, toward the inside of the apartment, his legs bowed, feet together. He looked pretty ridiculous, too, because his robe had come open. “Help me with him, would you?” Whelan said, and put his arms under Art’s arms. I went over, took Art’s feet, and together, Whelan and I carried him to the couch.