Mickelsson's Ghosts John Gardner (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📖

the letter with the name Bauer in the upper left-hand corner, and a Florida address. This time he recognized the name at once as belonging not to some professor he’d forgotten but “the doc.” According to the postmark, the letter had come nearly two months ago. He opened it.

She was planning to be in Susquehanna in late October or early November, she wrote. She had business, a legal matter that he might perhaps have heard about—she believed there had been some mention of it in the papers—and it had occurred to her that she might perhaps drop in on him in case he’d run across any problems in connection with the house—questions she’d failed to anticipate, difficulties she, after fourteen years in Susquehanna, might be able to help him resolve. If he wanted her to visit, he should write to her sometime soon at her Florida address.

Mickelsson read the letter through again. It was hard to imagine what sorts of “problems in connection with the house” she had in mind. But on one score at least, the letter relieved him. He had not just imagined seeing her last night—almost scattering atoms of the doc and her car (himself and his own car as well) from Susquehanna to Montrose. Today, according to his desk calendar, was October 27th. It was apparent, then, that she really had been up at his house, or somewhere nearby, and had been frightened by something. Useless to try to puzzle out what could have frightened her, knowing as little as he did.

No sooner had he told himself that it was useless than he knew he was mistaken and reached for the phone. He finally got hold of Jessica not at her office but at her house.

“Jessica,” he said, “this is Peter Mickelsson.” He put his voice on intense polite. “I hope I’m not calling you too early?”

There was a pause, then she laughed. “Peter, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I was just afraid I might have—” He thought about her question, imagining her look, then suddenly, throwing caution to the winds, asked, “Do I sound as bad as that?”

Again she laughed, this time thoughtfully. “First you tell me ‘This is Peter Mickelsson,’ ” she said, “and then you ask me, at half past nine in the morning, if you’re calling me too early. You know I get up with the sun.”

“I guess I forgot.” He glanced at his watch.

“So what is the matter?” she asked.

“It’s really nothing,” he said, and got out his pipe, set it on top of the pile of mail, and began to hunt through his drawers and pockets for matches. “I just need to ask you a question you may possibly know the answer to. Also”—he paused, then again took a chance—“I need to tell you I had a wonderful time last night.”

“Thanks. I did too, mostly. What was the question?”

He stood up to open the file-cabinet drawers and look for matches there. “You remember mentioning that Dr. Bauer—the woman I bought my house from—was being sued for malpractice? Do you remember the name of the people suing her?”

Waiting for her answer, he momentarily forgot his hunt for matches.

She said, “I don’t think I ever really noticed the name. I could find out, if it’s important.”

“Could you try?” he asked, and, abruptly remembering, returned to his hunt.

Jessica asked, “Where are you—in your office? How long do you plan to be there?”

“Another thirty minutes, then I have class. When it’s over—it runs for an hour—”

“I’ll get back to you before that,” she said. “Bye.”

“Thanks, Jess,” he said. “I can’t tell you how—”

She’d hung up.

Magically, matches appeared in his shirt pocket. He lit one and hurriedly raised it to his pipe. Sugar, he thought, and abruptly smiled. Crazy bastard! He thought of the big old-fashioned couch in Tillson’s office, how sometimes when you went there Tillson would be lying on it with his shoes off, his hand on his forehead in the gesture of some nineteenth-century heroine. With his suitcoat off, his suspenders loose on his white shirt, gray bags under his eyes, so dark one might have imagined he had lupus, he looked like a doll that had been meant to be comic, one of those apple- or potato-people, but had somehow come off unfunny, obscurely depressing, Rumpelstiltskin not destroyed by his own anger but merely beaten, dwindling toward old age.

Five minutes later Jessica called back. “Hi. Listen, the name of the girl who died was Deborah Vliet, but the people who are suing are her parents. Her maiden name was Sprague.” When Mickelsson said nothing, she said, “Hello?”

“I’m here,” he said. “I guess you caught me off guard. Sprague’s the name of my ghosts.” He half laughed.

“Ghosts?” she echoed; then, remembering: “Oh, that. Mickelsson, could you possibly divulge what this is about?”

“Tell you when I see you,” he said. “Have to make another phonecall now—at least I think I do. You wouldn’t know where these Sprague people live?”

“I imagine with a little detective work—”

“Never mind, I can do it.”

“All right,” she said, less than satisfied. If she was still full of questions, she contained them. “I’ll see you right after your class, OK? You’ll be there?”

“Sure,” he said. “Good.” By the time he got to good-bye, she’d hung up.

His second call he made to his neighbor John Pearson. The phone rang and rang. Just as Mickelsson was about to give up, the old man answered. He’d been out in the yard; something about a ram who’d hanged himself trying to break through an American-wire fence. When Mickelsson was able to get around to his question, the old man said, “Shore I know where they live. Right up the road about a mile and a half from me. They’re my next-door neighbors except for one place between, Dudaks’. Course I don’t see much of ’em. Odd bunch. Wouldn’t be suing the doc if they wasn’t. Tell the truth, I’m surprised they ever heard about lawyers. But you know how it is. People on Aid know