A Manhattan Ghost Story Read online

  “Of course you do,” she whispered.

  I turned my head away slightly.

  “Is something wrong, Abner?”

  I felt myself slip into her. “No,” I whispered, and added, my voice suddenly very husky and very pleased, “Hell, no!”

  AFTERGLOW

  “Want to play Yahtzee with me, Abner?” She had thrown one of Art’s robes over herself and was walking just ahead of me, toward the dining room.

  “I think I want to sleep,” I answered.

  She chuckled. “Of course you do, Abner.”

  “That was quite a workout.”

  She stopped. She was still in front of me, her head turned away; she said, “Want to do it again?” and she sounded eager, which gave me a little boost.

  “I can’t,” I told her. “I wish I could; I really wish I could, but I can’t.”

  She turned her head slightly, so I could see her profile. She grinned. “All wrung out, Abner?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Shot your wad?”

  “That’s right. Shot my wad. Sorry.”

  “Couldn’t get it up with a rope, huh?”

  “I don’t know. In a little while, in an hour or two, maybe.”

  She turned her head farther, glanced down, nodded.

  I glanced down. I was wearing blue bikini briefs, and they weren’t doing much to cover my erection. I grinned, surprised. Phyllis grinned. She looked up at my face; “Hold that, please,” she whispered.

  “Sorry,” I said. I felt my erection begin to fade.

  “Hold that, please,” she repeated. A quick laugh erupted from her. And then another, and another. She turned away, went into the dining room. Her laughter now was continuous, and loud. I stayed put. I listened to her laughter continue. I remember thinking that it was like listening to a bad laugh track being played over and over again.

  It could have continued for a couple of hours, although logic says it could only have been a minute or two. But I remember watching the darkness fade beyond the window; I remember hearing my clock radio switch on; I remember hearing someone in the apartment above get up and use the toilet. And I remember hearing her laughter over all of it. Even after I knew that she’d gone.

  At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965

  When the candles were lit and the cat’s skull properly placed between us; we were seated Indian-style in the center of the mausoleum floor, the plastic bag of Mallo Cups beside Sam—and after our fit of hysterical laughter was done, I said, “You think there’d be any spooks here anyway, Sam?”

  And he said, “They don’t like to be called spooks, Abner. It’s disrespectful.” A small, lopsided grin came and went quickly on his lips. “The proper word is spirits. Spirits, Abner, okay?”

  I fidgeted; the concrete floor was hard and cold and my cheeks were going to sleep. “That sounds like bullshit, Sam.” It was the first time I’d said anything like that to him, and it made me instantly uncomfortable.

  “It’s not,” he said. One of the candles went out. There were six of them, all arranged in a circle around the cat’s skull. Sam relit the candle very quickly, shook the match out, tossed it to one side, whispered, “Demon’s breath did that, Abner.”

  And I protested, “I’m not a little kid, Sam—I’m almost as old as you—and I don’t believe in demons.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I believe in spooks—I believe in spirits.”

  “Do you?” he asked. “Do you really?”

  I thought about that, and at last I answered, “I don’t know for sure. I guess not. I don’t know.” And the same candle went out. I nodded at it. “What is that anyway, Sam?—Is that some kind of trick candle or something?”

  “No,” he said.

  I smiled. “You’re fulla shit, Sam. Admit it.”

  “Maybe,” he answered. He took the box of kitchen matches out of his pocket, lit one, touched it to the candle. “Demon’s breath,” he whispered.

  “Shit!” I said aloud.

  “Demon’s breath did that.” He was still whispering; I could barely hear him. “My breath did that.”

  “What’re you—still trying to scare me, Sam? It won’t work.”

  “My breath,” he said again. He grinned. “Gotta have some nourishment.” He reached into the plastic bag, withdrew two Mallo Cups, unwrapped them, tossed the wrappers aside, popped one, then quickly the other of the Mallo Cups into his mouth. He touched the bag. “Want some, Abner?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Good stuff, Abner.”

  “Not here, Sam.”

  “Oh,” he said, and glanced about. “Sure.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In Manhattan: January 14th, 1983

  I showered; I shaved. Then, at 8:30, I went out to breakfast at a little Greek restaurant near Lexington Avenue and East 75th Street. It was small; the tables were small, the chairs straightbacked and uncomfortable—but the eggs were cooked in real butter, and the whole wheat bread was real whole wheat, the fresh-squeezed orange juice real fresh-squeezed, and the service was excellent. There are ten thousand places like it in Manhattan.

  And when I was just about finished and was pushing some remnants of egg yolk across my plate with a piece of toast, a good-sized cockroach scooted across the top of the table and disappeared around the underside. I leaned over, looked under the table, saw that the cockroach had stopped several inches from the edge of the table and was sniffing around with its little antennae. I straightened, lifted my knee reflexively into the spot where the roach was, heard the roach crack, heard it hit the grimy tile floor. After a moment I looked at where I supposed it had fallen, but saw nothing. I ordered more coffee, lingered over it, thought about the photo book, about Phyllis, about how great it was to be alive, and working, and falling in love.

  I had an appointment with Serena Hitchcock that morning at 10:00. So, at 9:30, I went straight there by bus from the restaurant.

  “Sit down, Abner,” she said, and nodded at the armless, steel-framed chair in front of her desk. “God, you look awfully tired.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I feel tired.” I sat, took the signed contracts from my coat pocket and handed them across the desk. Serena took them, gave them a quick once-over. “No problems with these, I assume, Abner?”

  I shook my head. “No problems.”

  “And that July deadline is okay?”

  “I’d have preferred a few extra months, but I can do it. I’ll just work a little harder, sleep a little less. I’m looking forward to it, Serena.”

  “Good.” She smiled pleasantly and set the contracts aside. “We’ll get you your advance check as soon as possible, within a week I hope; it’s got to come out of Chicago—?

  “That’s fine, Serena,” I cut in. “I’m not starving.” Which was true, thanks to my father’s life insurance policy; it hadn’t left me independently wealthy, but it had made it possible for me to worry about things other than money.

  “Good,” she said. “We wouldn’t want you to starve, now, would we?” She put her hands palms-down on her desk; it was a signal that I should leave. I stood.

  She said, “You really do look tired. You’re not coming down with something, I hope.”

  “No. I don’t think so, Serena. I had … a long night.” I tried in vain to suppress a big, shit-eating grin. I said through it, “I didn’t get as much sleep as I needed to, I’m afraid.”

  She nodded, said, “Uh-huh,” and stuck her hand out. I took it. “Well, Abner, it’s good to have you on board. I just know that you’re going to give us one hell of a book.”

  “Sure I am, Serena.” I paused, went on, “Serena?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there a man working here, maybe an editor, I don’t know—he’s in his forties, his middle forties, handsome, I suppose, and he wears a gray, pinstriped suit—”

  “A suit, Abner? No one wears a suit.”

  “No one?”

  “Of course not. These ar
e liberated times. We wear what is comfortable; we wear what we can work in. Look at me, for instance.”

  I did. She was wearing designer jeans and a white, shortsleeved blouse. She looked casual. “Uh-huh. You look pretty good, Serena.”

  “Do I?” She sounded pleased.

  “Sure. You look … informal.”

  “Informal?” Her tone changed.

  “I mean, you look …” I was stuck.

  “You mean I look ‘good’ and ‘informal,’ Abner?”

  “No.” I smiled an apology. “I mean you look … very attractive.”

  She grinned. I realized that she was toying with me. “No one here wears a suit, Abner. Not any more. Our accountant used to, all the time—the same damned suit every day, a gray pinstripe. It got pretty threadbare, I remember. They buried him in it, which probably pleased him.”

  “They buried him in it, Serena? You mean he’s dead?”

  “Yes, Abner.? Another grin. “At last report.”

  “Oh, of course,” I murmured. “I’m sorry.” I nodded at the contracts on her desk. “About a week, you say then, on the check? It has to come out of Chicago?”

  “Maybe two weeks, Abner. It depends on what side of the bed those people get up on, I’m afraid. If there’s a problem—”

  “No, no problem. Thanks.” I shook her hand again, turned, went to the door, looked back. “I should have something to show you in a few weeks, Serena—by the end of the month anyway.”

  “Good, that’s good. I’m looking forward to it.”

  I opened the door. I heard: “Abner?”

  I looked back. “Yes?”

  “Get some sleep, okay?”

  “I’ll try to,” I answered. I liked her maternal tone. “I really will try to, Serena. Thanks for your concern,” I added, and then I left.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  January 20

  These are the things I knew about Phyllis Pellaprat from our first week together at Art’s apartment: I knew that she was intelligent, that she was incredibly sensuous, that she liked to play Yahtzee—Christ, she liked to play Yahtzee—and I knew also that she was not a romantic. This disappointed me because I am a romantic; I have always been a romantic—the words I love you fly easily from my lips. And when I said to her for the very first time, “Phyllis, I love you,” her reaction was not what I had hoped for.

  I said it to her after lovemaking, a couple of days into our relationship. I thought that that was probably the best of times to say I love you; I figured that most people said it then. So I said it to her. When the screeching and sweating and fun were over and we’d become civilized human beings once again, I whispered, “Phyllis, I love you.” I wasn’t sure that I meant it; I was sure that I would mean it, in time, which is all that really mattered.

  She was straddling me. She liked to straddle me. I liked it, too.

  I felt her stiffen up.

  “I really do, Phyllis,” I added. It was dark in the room. She likes to make love in the dark. I don’t. My hands were on her upper arms, and I could feel her muscles go taut and her knees close hard on the lower part of my ribcage, which began to hurt at once.

  She growled.

  No, it wasn’t a growl. It was a hum. A low, ragged hum. I thought for a moment that she was going to sing again, as she had our first night together, but she didn’t sing. Her knees continued to close hard on my ribcage.

  “That hurts, you know,” I said.

  She continued humming.

  I slipped out of her then. “You don’t want me to say ‘I love you,’ Phyllis?”

  Her knees closed harder.

  I was having trouble breathing. The pressure her knees were putting on my ribcage was in turn putting pressure on my diaphragm.

  “You can cut that out now, Phyllis,” I managed, and pretended to chuckle.

  That’s when she stopped. And it’s when I got angry.

  “Christ, Phyllis! Jesus Christ—you act like I insulted you. Christ!” I massaged my ribcage.

  She got off me, stood at the side of the bed for a moment, with her back turned. She laughed a low, soft, quick laugh; it sounded just like it was coming from another room.

  I remember it gave me a chill.

  “Aren’t you even going to apologize, Phyllis?”

  “I don’t give apologies anymore, Abner. I’m through giving apologies to anyone.”

  “Oh,” I said. I didn’t want to fight.

  She left the room then. I stayed in bed, massaging my ribs, and felt very confused for a long while.

  Upon reflection, I don’t believe that I loved her that first time I told her I loved her. I believe that I wanted her, but not that I loved her. She didn’t seem quite vulnerable enough, and that—vulnerability, or at least the pretense of it—is something I’ve always enjoyed in a woman.

  I actually began loving her, I think, two days later, when she brought her parents over to meet me.

  They were there, in the apartment, seated with Phyllis at the dining room table when I got home from a day’s shooting in Central Park. I saw that they’d been eating something that looked like crumb cake—a small slice of it was left in a pie tin on the table.

  Phyllis’ father was a tall and awkward-looking man. His skin was a light gray-brown in color, and he was, I guessed, well into his sixties. He had large, round eyes set in a huge, skeletal head that seemed to bob slightly, and at random, as if the connection at the neck were weak.

  Phyllis’ mother was much like Phyllis herself. She was tall, though not quite as tall as her daughter, and exquisite-looking, with just the whisper of age around her eyes and mouth. She spoke in a low, soft voice that was fully as sensuous as her daughter’s and also without a trace of accent.

  Phyllis said, as soon as I came in, “Abner, these are my parents. This is my mother; her name is Lorraine.” Lorraine said hello and smiled pleasantly. “And this is my father, whose name is Thomas.”

  I came forward, extended my hand. “Hello, Mr. Pellaprat.” He stood, took my hand; his grip was very strong.

  “Hello, Abner Doubleday,” he began. He spoke at a level that was close to a shout, and I guessed that he was hard-of-hearing. “How are you?” He grinned a huge, toothy grin.

  “Cray,” I corrected. “My name is Abner W. Cray.”

  “Yes,” he said, grinning wider. “Abner Doubleday. Hello.” He let go of my hand and sat down again.

  I pardoned myself then, to use the bathroom and to put my camera gear away. When I returned ten minutes later, Phyllis motioned me to sit at the end of the table opposite her. I did it. She said, “I wanted you to meet them, Abner. I wanted them to meet you.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding at Lorraine Pellaprat and then at her husband. “Of course. I’m really very glad to meet you both.” The odor of damp wood was very strong. I supposed that it was a kind of family odor—something all of them shared.

  Mr. and Mrs. Pellaprat were dressed nicely, she in a well-cut herringbone-tweed pants suit, and he in a dark blue suit, which was clearly not something off-the-rack, and black, highly polished wingtips. Phyllis had put a fussy white blouse on, and a knee-length, black pleated skirt and beige sandals. I thought they were a good-looking family, if just a tad stiff.

  Lorraine Pellaprat told me, “We’ve been having a little snack,” and nodded at the pie-tin, which was now empty.

  “But it’s all gone,” said Thomas Pellaprat. “So I’m afraid we can’t share it with you, much as we’d like to.”

  “You wouldn’t enjoy it anyway,” Lorraine said. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  I nodded at her plate, which had some remnants in it. “Crumb cake?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” she answered, and a little pleased smile creased her mouth. “Crumb cake. Our own recipe.” Her smile broadened quickly, then quickly flickered out.

  “You are a photographer?” Thomas Pellaprat asked, almost at a shout. “Tell me, please—why do you do that?”

  “I’m sorry?” I answered. His
question confused me.

  “Why do you take photographs, Mr. Doubleday? Why do you take photographs? Is it to capture the past?”

  “It’s my job—”

  “Because if it is to capture the past, Mr. Doubleday—”

  “Cray, please. Not Doubleday. I know that the two sound pretty much alike.”

  “Then you do not need a camera for that,” he finished, ignoring my interruption. “And what does a camera give you anyway? It gives you images; it gives you illusions.”

  “Of course,” I began, “but they are fairly true illusions—?

  “Like our crumb cake,” he cut in, and smiled his huge, toothy smile, which seemed to announce loudly that he was suddenly very proud of himself.

  Lorraine looked over at him, her face blank. And Phyllis looked over at him, too.

  “Like the crumb cake?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

  Silence.

  “Phyllis?” I coaxed.

  She turned to look at me. So did her mother. And then her father. Their mouths opened a little. Their eyes seemed to be in a kind of twilight, half in sleep.

  And I felt suddenly as if I were all alone in that room.

  “Phyllis?” I coaxed again, and I studied her face. I thought, strangely, that the beauty had gone out of it, that it seemed somehow flat, unresponsive.

  That’s when I said it the second time, out of desperation, I think. “Phyllis, I love you!”

  It got no reaction.

  I said it again. “Phyllis, I love you; I do love you.”

  Her mouth moved. I heard words come from it—these words: “Do you love me, Abner?”

  I felt a smile flicker across my lips. “I do love you, Phyllis.” It was as if my words could pull her back from some abyss. “Oh, yes, I do love you, Phyllis.”

  She said it again, as if she were pleading with me. “Do you love me, Abner?”

  And I said, “Yes, Phyllis, I do love you—” And I heard: “Oh, you must come and see us, Mr. Doubleday.” I shifted my gaze. Lorraine Pellaprat was smiling very broadly and pleasantly at me. “You must come and see us, Mr. Doubleday, very soon.”