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

sublimation of that first sweet shit-love. Mickelsson knew that Rifkin was wrong; philosophers had understood since Butler that psychological egoism was false. Against all Rifkin’s philosophical backwardness, Mickelsson held up, like a cross against a vampire, the image of McPherson among his student-disciples, and also another, older image: his father standing against the sun, coppery-headed, a heavy black and white calf slung across his shoulders.

Mickelsson rolled over on his back on the couch, as if to turn away from the argument, and covered his tear-filled eyes with his forearm. That was where the image had come from, in paintings and books, of Satan cringing from God’s light: from real human experience like his own, certain knowledge of inherent defect or self-betrayal. From somewhere came the thought of his mother, living with cousins now, for the most part staying in one room—lace curtains on the window, a bright red and yellow quilt on the bed, a highly polished mahogany chair and desk where she sat to write, in her slow, trembling hand, preparing her Sundayschool lessons. He had thought the room, the one time he’d visited her there, a wonderfully bright and pleasant place—but of course it was only because she was that, even now, shrunk to dwarf-size and bent almost double. “Well, of course sometimes I miss the house,” she had said, and had smiled at herself indulgently, as one might at the foolishness of a child. Only now did the full force of what she’d meant come through to him—the big old farmhouse shell, not unlike this one, rotting away on its hill. All those years, more than a century, it had been full of life, but now, because there was no one left to want it—except her, his mother, a being as supererogatory as the house—it must sink back into Nature, as everything sank back, dead children, Michael Nugent, those huge white-elephant hotels in the Adirondacks. …

Abruptly, as if it were the couch that was sending him these painful thoughts, he threw his heavy right leg over the side, then his left, and with difficulty sat up. He rubbed his forehead with both hands, his teeth clenched together, then leaned forward and carefully stood.

He searched the room for some help or distraction, but there was nothing. It came to him that the whole room was subtly composed of threes—three pictures on the walls, three chairs, three cushions on the couch, three plants. …

He thought of going up to the bedroom and lifting weights for a while and started indecisively in that direction. Just ahead of him, in the kitchen, the phone rang. He decided to ignore it, but at once found himself moving—rather quickly, considering the shakiness of his legs—to answer it. It would be Jessie; he knew it as surely as if he’d already heard her voice. Guilt washed over him.

“Hello, Pete?” she asked.

“Hi.”

“Are you all right? Your voice sounds strange.”

“I’m fine, Jessie,” he said. “Little in the doldrums, maybe.”

“Are you drunk?”

Her bluntness made him smile in spite of himself. “I haven’t been drinking, but it’s a good idea.”

“It’s just that your voice sounds funny,” she said, still suspicious.

“I know. You mentioned that.” He wedged the receiver between his cheek and shoulder and sorted absently through the papers on the counter, mostly unopened mail.

“Poor Peter,” Jessie said, suddenly all affection and concern, her voice as comforting as her touch would be if she were here. “It must be an awful time for you too. All those Santa Clauses with their laps full of kids … the Christmas music …”

“It will pass,” he said. “Have you heard from the Garrets, Jess? Did Mabel get out of the hospital?”

“They brought her home day before yesterday. She’s fine. Lots of tests. Nothing.”

Belatedly he registered the phrase “an awful time for you too.” He could summon up no image of Jessie and her dead husband celebrating Christmas, or the two dead children. He tried to think of something to say. Nothing came.

“You know Mabel,” Jessie was saying lightly. “She’s not a talker. I told her about the ghost you saw. She just looked at me. You know that way she has, like any minute all your flesh may disappear and she’ll be staring at a skeleton. She hates it when people talk about her gift … or whatever. I guess she thinks we think she’s crazy. Maybe she thinks so herself. Now that I’ve told her about your ghost, she’ll think you’re crazy too.”

He thought a moment about whether or not to tell her, then said, “I saw him again—or rather them. Plain as day, this time.”

“What?” she said. “You’re kidding!”

“I don’t think so.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked sharply. “What happened?”

He told her about the old man and the angry old woman, the wadded-up hankie, how they’d walked through the room he’d stood in, as solid as himself.

“Mickelsson, you’re moving out of that house,” she said.

He smiled, his gaze focused on nothing. “Like hell I am!”

“Why not?” He imagined her blazing eyes. “Listen, I’m coming out there!”

“Fine,” he said, “terrific. But don’t think I’m moving. I worked hard on this place.” He smiled more fiercely, domineering, as if thinking she could see him. “When shall I expect you?”

The line was silent for two or three seconds.

“Jesus,” she said at last. Her way of giving in.

The wave of pity came an instant before his understanding of it: Jessie, the grinning, overconfident warrior, suddenly overwhelmed by her department’s Commies. Bitter pill that he too should be defeating her—and so easily, at that. He thought of Donnie Matthews, sex kitten par excellence, now suddenly, to her astonishment and indignation, caught in Nature’s snare.

The silence lengthened. His guilt mounded higher and darkened, like an approaching thunderhead. He must think of something to say to her. Really, of course, he must do something. Move against her enemies.

Donnie Matthews’ angry face, at the periphery of his vision, distracted him.

Jessie asked abruptly—he imagined her jerking her chin up, sweeping her hair back with one hand—”Have you