by John Gardner
He went to the refrigerator for more ice, then to the cabinet under the stereo, and made a second large martini, then wandered back to the study to look over his writing. All the interior of the house was gray, like the gloomy, fading afternoon, but his study, where the bills were, seemed the grayest room of all. Outside his window the birdbath was coming apart in flakes, like the treasures of Venice, and the large, orangish roses had been shaken and shattered. Rain was still falling, a lead-gray, luminous mist.
At last it came to him that, though his eyes had been going over and over the typewritten sentences he’d been working on, his mind remained stubbornly fixed elsewhere. His hand went to the telephone receiver: he would call Information and get Donnie Matthews’ number. But then he changed his mind and drew his hand back. He leaned his elbows on the desk in front of the typewriter, rested his chin on his interlaced fingers, and closed his eyes, shutting out the stack of bills, trying to think. The instant his eyes closed he realized he was slightly drunk. No wonder, of course. He hadn’t eaten all day. He would go down to the restaurant in town and get supper. He switched off his worklight, pushed back his chair, and got up. He carried his drink with him to the hall, where he meant to get his raincoat, then changed his mind and went into the bathroom to wash and shave, then to the bedroom for a clean shirt—surprisingly frayed at the cuffs, but the best he had—a relatively unwrinkled ascot tie, and his dark blue sportcoat. (Two buttons were missing, but no one would notice if he remembered not to button it, which he would, since the coat had grown too small.) When he was dressed and had looked himself over in the mirror, he went downstairs again, finished the drink, put on his hat and raincoat and took the cane from the umbrella stand. He had no umbrella, but no matter. The rain, as if to please him, had stopped.
He locked his doors carefully—thinking of his visitors—then walked carefully, stepping between puddles (he had no rubbers), to the Jeep. It was now nearly dark. The house, when he switched the Jeep lights on, was all rough elbows, frowning eyes.
After he’d parked the Jeep on Main Street, in front of the bank, directly across from those who watched the intersection from their old wooden bench (he did not feel inclined to salute them, this time), Mickelsson, succumbing to a sudden impulse, turned west toward Reddon’s instead of east toward the restaurant, hesitated for a moment in the doorway, then, swinging his cane, moved quickly past the battered mailboxes and up the stairs. “I’ll just ask her if she’s had supper yet,” he said to himself, “or if perhaps she’d like coffee.” He began, whispering, to rehearse what he would say. “Evening, Miss Matthews. Remember me?” The stairway was full of cooking smells and the tinny noise of television sets. At one of the landings a woman’s voice cried out, startling him out of his daydream, “How many times I got to tell you, Robert?” Mickelsson slowed his step, at first out of alarm, then from interest in learning what it was that Robert kept forgetting; but the whining voice that answered was far away, another room perhaps, and the woman, when she spoke again, had moved farther from the door. He continued up the stairs. Halfway up to the next landing he stopped, with his hand on the railing, to catch his breath. He could see her white plastic rose.
He had knocked several times before he was willing to believe she wasn’t in. Even now it would not be accurate to say he believed it. He had thought, not quite consciously, that all reality had been magically on his side: the fact that he hadn’t eaten, so that it was necessary (more or less) that he come into town; the fact that the rain had opportunely stopped. … He put his mouth close to the door and called, “Donnie?” With his ear against the wood he knocked again. He stepped back quickly and glanced past his shoulder as the door to the apartment behind him opened. One eye and half of a dark, splotched face looked out. He nodded and touched the brim of his hat. For three or four seconds the eye went on staring. Then the door creaked shut.
At the restaurant, just after he’d given his order to the waitress, a voice at his shoulder said, “Professor Mickelsson! How’s everything going up there?”
When he turned, raising his head, he saw and, after an instant, recognized Tim’s boss, Charley Snyder. The man was spiffied up, downright distinguished-looking, suit and tie under the raincoat, big white grin on the darkly tanned face. For some reason it hadn’t until now dawned on Mickelsson that the man was more than commonly well-off, though of course he’d seen those Snyder Realty signs everywhere and had once heard Snyder joked about: someone, one morning at the Acme Market, had been telling some out-of-towner how Marie Antoinette, hoping to escape to America, had bought up thousands of acres of northern Pennsylvania. The woman at the cash-register had winked at Mickelsson and said, “Just like Charley Snyder.” He had laughed, of course, but he understood now, seeing Snyder dressed to the nines, that the joke was more true than not. The man had a large onyx ring on one finger. His raincoat and the suit underneath looked like something in an ad from The New Yorker.
“Hello, Charley,” Mickelsson said, and reached up his hand to shake Snyder’s. “Care to join me?” He tilted his head, indicating the unoccupied chairs.
“I could do that, if it’s not any trouble,” Snyder said, giving him a brief serious look.
“By all means!” Mickelsson said. “Good to see you!”
“I’m meeting some friends here,” Snyder explained, looking toward the door, then back at Mickelsson. He began to take off his raincoat. “We usually meet over at Dobb’s Country Kitchen, but some of us thought, well, you know. Support local business.”
They both laughed. Snyder folded the raincoat carefully and hung it over the back of a chair, then seated himself next to Mickelsson. “I’ll just have coffee,” he said to the waitress, who had appeared with her pad from nowhere.
“The coffee’s really terrible,” the waitress said.
“I don’t mind,” Snyder said, and smiled.
Mickelsson watched her swing away, moving past empty tables to the louvred doors into the kitchen. It was no doubt true that the coffee was terrible. Its slightly scorched smell filled all the restaurant.
Snyder leaned forward onto his elbows. His cufflinks—onyx, like the ring—blinked. Mickelsson, smiling back into Charley Snyder’s smile, was aware of ambivalent feelings. He was a hard man to dislike—even, despite his business, a hard man to distrust—but Mickelsson, tonight at least, with the thought of Donnie Matthews not far back in his mind, felt irritation at Snyder’s easy handsomeness. The man made Mickelsson feel as overweight as he was, and worse yet, as homely. Mickelsson smiled, realizing what a figure he cut. His face was puffy. Even in his prime, before it had begun to turn yellow and iron-gray, his hair had been too carroty to be anything but odd, and it had never been trainable. His neck was like a bull’s, his shoulders so large as to be slightly grotesque, an effect increased by his habit (he saw this moment, with the heightened clarity that comes of too much gin) of choosing suits too small for him. He couldn’t even feel a comfortable intellectual superiority. Snyder was at peace with the world, and evidently rich. He knew his business at least as well as Mickelsson knew his. Like water in some old-time torturer’s chamber, gloom was rising in Mickelsson, threatening to drown him. He smiled more intensely to dispel it.
“Well, what do you think?” Snyder asked. “Is the old house haunted or not?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Mickelsson said.
The man glanced up at him, as if surprised that he should hedge.
“What’s the story on this man Warren?” Mickelsson asked.
Snyder interlaced his fingers on the tabletop and looked thoughtful. “I doubt that there is any story,” he said. “He came down and made some kind of study of Susquehanna—for all I know he was interested in the history of railroads. Maybe he was in folklore. He was as nice a man as you’d hope to meet. Nothing strange about him, just an ordinary professor. Good-looking, young … I’ll tell you my theory. The whole thing’s socio-economic.”
Mickelsson waited, eyebrows arched.
> “Most of the people in this town, or anyway the people I deal with, they’re as middle-class as anybody. But we’ve got more than our share of poor people, and the thing about the poor is, they compensate, if you follow what I mean. Holy Rollers, lower-class Catholics … When life disappoints them, they improve on it. You know what I mean: Heaven, all grievances redressed. But also other things. They make up for their lack of real social power with imaginary power. Witchcraft, strange legends people whisper to one another—” His right hand made a faint, dismissive gesture. “I don’t blame them. I’d probably do the same, in their circumstances.” He sadly shook his head. “Well, anyway, when that man Warren died, it was a godsend for people like that, you know? Rumors began to circulate on the kinds of questions he’d asked—probably most of them he’d never actually asked or even thought of—and little by little his death became a proof of, well, the power of the Devil. Something like that. My own opinion is, he happened to be murdered, up there in Binghamton, and it had nothing to do with Susquehanna.”
Mickelsson said, “I understand he asked a lot of questions about my place—the Sprague place.”
“I imagine he must have. It’s the best legend we’ve got.”
Mickelsson nodded. “Just about the only legend.” He smiled.
“Well, no, not really.” Snyder stopped, looking up at the waitress, who’d appeared with his coffee.
She set it down carefully. “You’re sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll be eating later, when the others come.” He looked at Mickelsson. “Do you want coffee? It’s the best in Susquehanna.” Snyder and the waitress exchanged smiles.
“No thanks,” Mickelsson said. “I may have some after I eat.”
“It’s almost ready,” the waitress said.
“Fine,” he said, and nodded.
She left.
“So go on,” Mickelsson said. “There are other legends—besides the one about my house?” He blushed, embarrassed about calling the place “my house.”
Ruefully, Snyder smiled. “You mustn’t judge Susquehanna by what its crazies think.”
Mickelsson waved as if to say, “Never dream of it.”
“Well, we have a man that can fly.” He raised his hand like a policeman signalling Stop. “No broomstick,” he said, “pure will.” Suddenly he grinned. “That’s all I can tell you. It’s interesting, of course—strange and amusing. But it would give you the wrong idea about this place, take my word. You want to know what we mainly do here in Susquehanna? We try to bring in industry. It’s no pipedream. Really isn’t. We’re on a main railroad line—even Scranton, it’s just a side-line—but trains do go through Scranton. If Reagan’s elected … I don’t mean to talk politics—”
Mickelsson waved away objections.
“Well, as to your house,” Snyder said.
The waitress arrived with Mickelsson’s open roast-beef sandwich. Meat, soggy white bread, potatoes; all covered with brown-gray gravy.
“I’m sorry,” the waitress said, “did you order a salad? I didn’t bring you a salad, did I?”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I did order a salad, yes. Maybe if you could bring it later—”
“I’m sorry. You wouldn’t believe how confused things are tonight!”
The tables were still mostly empty. Snyder smiled.
“Later will be fine,” Mickelsson said. He thought suddenly, with terrible lust, of Donnie. He glanced at his watch. With his fork poised to plunge into the mashed potatoes, he said, glancing over at Snyder, “You don’t mind?”
“Eat, for heaven’s sakes,” Snyder said. “I’d join you, but since I’ve arranged with my friends—”
Mickelsson ate. After a minute he abruptly put down his fork and asked, “Do you have many thefts here in Susquehanna?”
“Never,” Snyder said. “Literally. Drive up and down your road, you’ll see signs on farmers’ stands telling you how much pumpkins cost, or squash, whatever, and nobody there, just a basket full of money. Nobody steals a nickel. It’s a funny thing, in fact. Tourists come through, from New Jersey and so on. They don’t even steal. Why do you ask?”
Mickelsson cut into his roast beef. After a moment he said, “Somebody broke into my house.”
“You’re kidding!”
Mickelsson shook his head.
“Did you call the police?”
“Well, no—” He shrugged.
Somehow it seemed to him that Snyder knew the whole story, or at least understood why he’d chosen not to call the police.
But Snyder chose to feign innocent indignation, or at any rate so it seemed, at first, to Mickelsson. “You should have called them! How come you didn’t? What did they get away with?” He was angry, his eyes hard-looking, more slanted.
“Nothing, really,” Mickelsson said. “They pretended to steal my liquor and tobacco, but actually they didn’t.” He explained the details—the smell of liquor in the sink and toilet bowl, the bottles in the ditch behind the barn, the cartons of cigarettes in the weeds down by the pond. He’d never found the pipe tobacco.
Charley Snyder studied him as if he couldn’t believe that Mickelsson was telling the truth. The waitress arrived with the salad. Neither of them looked up at her. At last Snyder said, “I’d certainly call the police if I were you. Doesn’t sound healthy at all.”
“Why would they do it, though?” Mickelsson asked. “And who would do it?”
Snyder got out a cigarette, paying such close attention to tamping it and lighting it that there could be no doubt that he was baffled.
“Are you a Mormon?” he suddenly asked.
“No.” He remembered his food and began to eat again.
“Ever write about the Mormons?”
“Never.”
Snyder sucked deeply at his cigarette. Nervously, Mickelsson got out a cigarette of his own. “I don’t say they’re behind it,” Snyder said; “I don’t say anything. For all I know, what you smelled might just be some kind of chemicals. We’ll get that, now and then. But say it was your whiskey. If you or I were to work over a house—looking for something, or whatever we might be doing—and try to lay the blame on kids, by stealing all the liquor and tobacco …”
“We wouldn’t throw them away,” Mickelsson suggested. “Whereas the Mormons—”
“That’s it,” Snyder said. He frowned at some new thought. “On the other hand, if somebody wanted to lay blame on the Mormons—”
“It was pure luck that I found the cigarettes and bottles,” Mickelsson said.
“Maybe,” Snyder said. To Mickelsson, the man looked shifty all at once. He dragged on the cigarette, then quickly blew out smoke. He said, “There’s an alternative theory. It really was kids, and after they’d drunk up a certain amount they got panicky and threw away the rest and hid the bottles.”
“And the cigarettes?”
“Maybe they were afraid to take them home—thought they could hide them and come back and smoke them when it was safe.”
“Maybe,” Mickelsson said.
“Why not?”
“That’s true. Why not?”
“It’s easy to hate the Mormons,” Snyder said. “They’ve got a strange idea of history. Nothing’s more offensive to the ordinary mind.”
“Maybe,” Mickelsson said, half smiling at the odd idea.
“Well, anyway—” Snyder said, and hastily scraped ashes off his cigarette.
The front door opened and several people came in, well-dressed, like Charley Snyder, though none of them quite up to his style. A chinless, otherwise quite pretty woman was the apparent leader. She looked around the room, head lifted, dark coppery hair grandly falling. When she saw Charley Snyder she pointed at him, turning to speak to the others. The whole group floated, smiling, toward the table where Mickelsson and Snyder sat. They might have been schoolteachers on a visit to New York City, or Presbyterian elders coming in for tea after a meeting. Mickelsson went on poking in his food.
<
br /> “Ah, here are my friends,” Snyder said to Mickelsson, at the same time raising his hand as if imagining they hadn’t yet seen him.
“Oh?” Mickelsson said.
“As I mentioned,” Snyder said, “a lot of Susquehanna is solid middle-class. These people you’ve been getting stories from …” He grinned, then drew the ashtray toward him and meticulously crushed out his cigarette. Then he rose from his seat, moving back the chair with his left hand, and, taking a step toward her, kissed the chinless lady on the cheek. They talked and laughed, the whole crowd of them—six or seven—soon becoming part of it. Tall, distinguished bright-eyed birds with glossy feathers. Mickelsson concentrated on eating, giving them a chance to move on to a table of their own. He was still a little sullen from the two big martinis, and for other reasons too he was hoping he wouldn’t get trapped here. But inevitably Charley Snyder made introductions. Mickelsson rose, with his mouth full, his left hand patting his mouth with his red paper napkin while his right reached out to shake hands with one, then another and another. He did not listen to the names.
A man with a long nose, a black moustache, and a sunken mouth said, “Peter Mickelsson. I heard you’d moved here. Aren’t you the one that wrote—”
Mickelsson endured it all nobly. He adjusted once again his idea of Susquehanna. They were as clever and lively as middle-class people anywhere—teachers, owners of small businesses, dentists. … They were moderate of voice, earnest; one could imagine them at meetings of concerned citizens. They were meeting tonight, it seemed, to discuss once more the long-stymied possible renovation of the decayed stone depot to make it a shopping mall and theater center. There were various possibilities—a grant from the Appalachian Regional Conference, help from hud, certain private philanthropists in Philadelphia. The small, bony, very businesslike woman who’d at once filled him in cocked her head at him, no doubt sizing him up for usefulness.
