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

left hand as he finished a cut. “I find myself glancing into mirrors or store windows, sizing myself up, experiencing a brief little flare-up of self-satisfaction. At times, often after a conversation with Jessie at the university cafeteria or in the hallway that runs past both our offices, I am inclined to think myself a handsome devil, no more gone to pot than other men my age, my red hair still quite striking, in point of fact, though admittedly rather odd, yellowing out and unkempt, the freckles on my fat nose and this heavy, flattened forehead sort of merrily boyish.” He tapped his forehead dramatically, then returned his hand to the frame-piece he was cutting. “In a shirt or sportcoat I still look passably athletic, it seems to me: broad shoulders, big chest—so long as I hold my stomach in. It’s only in a trenchcoat or overcoat that I look definitely boxy, not to say rotund.”

The curtain moved, Luther peeking out. Mickelsson struck a pose, then went back to his sawing.

“We’re neither of us spring chickens, Father—Jessie and myself—though it’s true that she’s beautiful, perhaps right now at the peak of her beauty, and she’ll no doubt look younger and healthier than I all her life.” He frowned, losing his place, saving himself in the nick of time from sawing along the wrong pencil line. “All the same, I think I could fairly be called, given my height, broad shoulders, et cetera, an imposing sort of man.” As the end-piece fell to the floor he tapped his chest with his left hand. “No woman need be ashamed to be seen with me.” He sighed, studied the next cut, and began sawing. “Such is my extraordinary self-confidence, at times.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Alas, more often, gazing at this same form, what I see is a blotched, shaggy monster, red of face, as if I were always angry, or a drunkard. I’m a rather heavy drinker. Did I mention that?” He rolled his eyes up toward the confessional. “And I’ve come to be increasingly aware of another disagreeable feature: my back has become rounded. Father. It’s somewhat gone to fat. My eyes are what a former student of mine, a macrobiotic, called ‘sanpaku,’ white showing under the irises, you know, which gives me a kind of septic, jaded look. When this mood is on me, needless to say, it seems to me impossible that any woman, even Donnie Matthews, could conceivably be fond of me. And indeed she is not fond of me, of course.” He waved the hand that held the saw, dismissing hope. “One more of her Fellini freaks.”

“This is a very long confession, my son!”

“I know. I hope you’ve had supper.”

A weary sigh, then a belch.

“At times, concerning Jessie,” he said sadly, “my thoughts turn rather dark. It’s clear, I think, that both of us are playing a morbid psychological game, consciously or unconsciously toying with one another—to put it in its best light, offering brief comfort—because neither of us is entirely prepared to meet the future. She loved, with whatever reservations, her dead husband; I, insofar as I love anyone, love my dear, lost wife. Down in the underground gloom where the light of the brain dims out, we both, I suspect, know that each is, to the other, safe. Not that that can be entirely true: if it were, I would have no problem, now, would I? Clearly my heart, whatever the state of hers, is to a baffling degree divided.” He held up the frame to the opening. Not perfect, but planing would redeem it. He said, “In my worst moods, it’s this that I hold against Jessica: I do not want her to pretend to love me if she doesn’t, in fact, because only if I know she truly loves me will I be able to confront the possibility that I truly love her.”

“There can be no doubt of it, my son. You are bedevilled.”

“God knows! I’ll tell you my worst fear. I wonder if, if I were to propose to her, she’d draw back in revulsion, revealing that all she has said and done has been just play or, worse, charity.”

“Only Christ has charity, my son.”

“Maybe. In any case, if she has been acting out of charity, I couldn’t blame her. Her marrying me would be imbecile from every point of view. She’s well-off. I, on the other hand, even if it were not for the alimony I’ve already offered my ex-wife, and even if I manage to straighten out my past, even if I should be able to rid myself of Donnie Matthews, as I hope and pray I’ll do—not that it won’t cost me plenty, in the short run—I, as I was saying, am a miserable pauper. Jessie is fancy, very refined—even counting her odd distaste for poetry. I, on the other hand, am a slightly cleaned-up country oaf. I have to wince, thinking of that concert we went to—I haven’t told you about that, I think, but never mind. I made a fool of myself, muttering, destroying my neighbors’ enjoyment. Even those mutterings that fortunately remained inside my head make me wince when I remember them—big redneck farmboy sitting there soberly reasoning with himself, the meaning of music is so-and-so, such-and-such—as if music, in any admissible sense, had meaning—while all those easily sophisticated people, even the kids, like my student Alan Blassenheim, less than half my age but trained in good Long Island schools, or maybe private schools, I wouldn’t know … at any rate exposed to music of the classier sort … all those people sat back and simply heard what was there and knew as if by nature when to laugh or cry. Sometimes, after an experience like that, it occurs to me to wonder if it might be simply that I’m stupid.”

“All of us are stupid. No help for it. Worthless, steamy filth—”

“I know, I know. In any event, it seems highly unlikely that Jessie