“Only through God,” Mrs. Stephens said.
“Then it is not possible,” James said, looking defiantly around the table.
Sam puffed his cigar and frowned. Passchendaele? They were all crazy. Now they were all quiet, staring at South—maybe he’d get an ovation now, for whatever he said. Sam frowned and looked at James’ old-fashioned collar, at the neck of Mrs. Stephens’ dress, at Miss Thompson’s flapper’s dress, at Mr. Frye’s—Mr. Ladd’s—all of them were dressed as if they were going to a costume party. He felt a chill and looked at Dr. French, who was looking at him; Dr. French, who had killed—who South said had beaten a man—and never been caught. Sam swallowed and looked away.
From the hall came the murmur of a large group of people, one of whom was a woman with a high-pitched laugh.
“Finish,” Miss Thompson said to South.
Dipping in and out of the general crowd noise came the sound of stringed instruments tuning, the moan of woodwinds.
Mrs. Stephens folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. The others looked to South.
“It is not enough to align oneself against other views,” he said. “It is not enough to be subjective.” He took a sip of water.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked.
“No,” South said, his glowing face confronting Sam. “No, sir, I am not. My God!”
Sam’s eyes widened; for an instant he wanted to put his cigar out in South’s livid face.
Ladd and Frye turned to the door. The murmuring increased, the tuning instruments grew loud.
“Let’s go,” Miss Thompson said, standing up. “He’ll be here any moment, if he’s coming, and I want to be out there when he arrives. Besides, we talk all the time, but we never dance.”
South put his hand out to Sam. “Wait a moment after they go,” he said. “Just a moment, if you please.”
The guests stood up and Miss Thompson opened the door. The hallway was crowded with people in evening wear, their black suits and the dark brilliant blues, purples, and reds of their gowns twisting together, streaming toward the main hallway. Miss Thompson let out a loud happy cry, as someone might jumping into a cool lake on a hot day, and disappeared into the movement, followed by the other guests. Dr. French, the last one out the door, looked back, smiling, and pulled the door shut behind him.
“I can’t stay for a party,” Sam said.
South shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. His head hung forward. “Sam,” he said, straightening in his chair. He closed his eyes and puffed his cigar.
“Yes,” Sam said. He felt tight in his chest and wanted to leave.
“You said before we were interrupted—before we came in to supper—that you do not believe in God.” South’s eyes opened.
“I said I didn’t know,” Sam said.
“Is that different from not believing?”
“Maybe not. I don’t know. Who is it that Miss Thompson wants to see? Who’s coming?”
“Are you not happy to be here, Sam?”
“I don’t know,” Sam answered, too quickly, jerking his head around.
“So, what do you make of all this?” South asked, gesturing vaguely at the room.
“Everyone seems very interesting,” Sam said. “And the club is very nice.”
From the hallway the murmuring had gotten louder. Someone laughed, called for the singing of the Internationale, and was booed heartily.
South exhaled smoke. “Well, it is good of you to come,” he said bitterly.
“Look, I’m sorry if I was rude,” Sam said. “This has been a very strange night, and I’m tired. I have to get home.”
“To see Mrs. Atlee,” South said.
Sam frowned. “Excuse me?” he asked.
“Mrs. Atlee,” South repeated, his eyes closed. “Your grandmother. Step-grandmother, to be precise. She is doing fine now.”
“So she is a relative of yours,” Sam said. He couldn’t remember mentioning her name. He sipped water. “You talked to Robin? Why didn’t you tell me that up front?” South laughed. “That is a long story,” he said. “But no, I have not talked to Robin.”
“Ok, well, that does it for me,” Sam said, standing up. “I have no idea what—who these people are. I’m going home.”
“What happens when you die, Sam?” South asked.
Sam rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know,” he said, hoarse.
“Is there not God, Sam? Do you not see Him in everything? Do you think it possible that life—that the end of life may not be the end of being?”
Sam shivered. “I don’t know. I’d like to think—I don’t think so,” he said.
A smile curled the edge of South’s mouth. “But it’s a possibility you’ve considered—that death may not be the end for everyone?”
“I do—I do wonder about that,” Sam said. God and ghosts, he thought.
“So you’ve had a bad feeling come to you as if on a gust of wind, when there was no breeze?” South asked. “Or a good feeling that someone you lost was with you? You’ve stood at the edge of an old graveyard, looking for something?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said.
“I submit to you that you have found it here,” South said. “It may not be what you had hoped for—it is not what any of us had hoped for. But here we are.”
“I don’t follow you,” Sam said. “When you told me Dr. French had—did you—I mean, did he—”
“If there is more than physical life, would you want to know about it?” South asked, leaning back. “I am not speaking metaphorically. Think of energy, hopping filaments of energy, and God is every one. Death is not necessarily the end. Some people—for some people, energy remains. I don’t know how to explain it more fully than that. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Filaments, Sam.”
“How do you know?” Sam asked.
“Everyone in this room tonight is dead, Sam, and, in truth, they are very little closer to knowing about God than you are.”
More melodrama from South, Sam thought, calling them all “dead.” Why not just say they were immovable, stupid, stubborn; why not just say they’re tired, or trapped in their lives, or worn out. Life did that to people and if it happened to you you just had to make a change, that’s all. Maybe it was hard, but there it was.
“They—we—are not supposed to contact the living—the ‘locals,’ as you are known. It is very rude, you all have enough to think about. But in this case it was essential.”
A knock sounded on the door.
“Sam, I may be able to rest soon,” South said. “Thanks, in part, to you. I hope I am. I would like to see your step-grandmother before I go.”
“She’s very sick,” Sam said. “But she’s your—what, aunt? I can’t stop her from seeing you if she wants to.”
The door opened and a fleshy man in a charcoal suit appeared. His eyes, clean gray as mist, held Sam but he spoke to South.
“Ahh, Mr. South,” he said. “I felt certain I would find you here.”
“And I felt certain you would come, Mr. Gowen,” South said.
Gowen smiled. “I trust you and Mr. Morgan will be joining us for the ball?”
“Yes, one last time,” South said.
“Do you think so?” Gowen asked, adjusting the cuffs of his white shirt. “Be that as it may, I am glad to have you here. I will see you inside.” He bowed to each of them and withdrew, the noisy, colorful stream in the hallway parting to make room.
“Who was that?” Sam asked. “How did he know my name?”
“An acquaintance of mine,” South said. “I’m afraid my esteem for your work has preceded you, as you have no doubt noticed. “Now, before we join the—the revelers, if you will, three minor points. First, I shall call on Mrs. Atlee with you on Tuesday evening next. Second, Miss Thompson was killed in a car wreck in 1927, Mrs. Finley by poison in 1956, Dr. French was a suicide in 1906—I could describe the rest, but there is no point, is there? Finally, believe in God, Sam. I know no more than you but I feel more, a
nd I feel God in everything. In the objective, Sam. In discipline, in faith.” South’s voice faltered. He stood up.
Sam felt he couldn’t move. So it is possible, he thought. Possible.
From the hallway came the sound of the orchestra starting a waltz.
“Time is a living concept,” South said. “None of us knew we’d end up this way, and none of us want to be like this. We hear rumors of angels. We hope.” He closed his eyes and his skin turned to faintly blue ice. “Will you come on Tuesday?” he asked. “Please. Do not refuse this last, small request.”
Sam stood up. “Ok,” he said. Life had just changed, he realized, in a way he could not understand immediately. If South were telling the truth—Sam shivered and frowned. Then what? What to do? Something different, for sure—if everything had changed—but what?
“Good,” South said. “Now, won’t you join us for the ball?”
“No,” Sam said. “I need to go home.”
“Very well,” South said. He held the door for Sam.
The crowd in the hallway had thinned. They passed a group of young cigarette smokers, the boys self-consciously reserved, the girls giggling in colorful dresses; a group of heavy bald men; a young couple, the woman in a gown from the first decade of the twentieth century and the boy in a shiny suit with a thin tie, clinging to each other in a corner. In the ballroom an enormous chandelier sparkled over the center of the parquet dance floor. An orchestra dressed in evening wear began a waltz at once steady and sad. Couples danced smoothly; on the refreshment tables along the right hand wall large crystal bowls of dark punch and matching rows of crystal glasses had been put out on immaculate, bright white tablecloths. People gathered, sipping, laughing, watching the dancers; women in 18th-century gowns accompanied by men in powdered wigs and silk britches mingled with stiff Victorians in corsets and figures dressed in all manner of 20th-century style, from flappers dresses to polyester leisure suits. The faces fluctuated, fading, smiling: teeth and laughter, groans and sighs and, from somewhere, sobbing.
“Jesus,” Sam said.
South started across the floor in the direction of the refreshment table. “Are you sure you won’t join us?” he asked.
Sam shook his head. The noise of talk and music and laughter surrounded him.
“Until Tuesday, then,” South said, bowing, backing into the crowd, fading between dancing couples.
Sam walked quickly to the coat check. The old woman smiled at him and the butler handed him his overcoat. South had to be crazy, of course, but Sam realized his body was utterly tense—the hair on the back of his neck was up, his heart was beating fast. Images from the evening jumped in his mind: an opaque eye, a smile, the way Miss Thompson’s skin had seemed to flutter before him. He had been amongst the dead, he thought; he felt sick to his stomach and angry about something but he couldn’t think what. Filaments, he thought. Energy. How did this change things? He couldn’t think. All those angry people. How had South put it—rage.
Sam rushed out the door and down the steps, breathing the cold air, feeling wet snow on his face. As he started across the black wet street a hand gripped his shoulder.
“What?” he demanded, turning, shrugging off the hand. He confronted a wide slouch hat, small eyes, and a thick, hanging moustache.
“Mr. Morgan,” McParland said.
“Yes?” Sam asked.
“I, sir, am James McParland. I believe I can help you with your troubles. I have something I would like to show you.”
“What?” Sam asked. “I don’t have any troubles, thank you.”
“Maybe I used the wrong word. You’ll excuse me. I would like you and Mrs. Fisher to see it together.”
“Alice?” Sam asked.
“Please,” McParland said. “I will contact you to set up a convenient time. Good evening.”
Sam stood under a street lamp, snow gathering on his head and shoulders, watching McParland disappear over the lip of the hill. What had changed, he wondered. Nothing. There was the night, the snow; Mrs. Atlee was at home, in her bed, dying. A taxi passed slowly, and Sam waved to it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ed Revealed
Alice hung up the phone and scratched her cheek. She reached a plastic container from the cabinet above the dishwasher and put the leftover spaghetti from the pot in it. She put the pot in the sink and filled it with soapy water, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and picked up the phone.
“Hey, Viv, it’s me.”
“Hey, Hon. Hang on a sec.”
Alice heard muffled talking, voices raised. She poked a finger through a hole in her sweatpants.
“Hey, I’m back.”
“Hey. Sam just called, I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh, Hon. Hang on, let me get a cigarette. Ok. What’d he say?”
“He wants me to go in town right now to meet him.”
“Uh-oh. Ok. For what?” Viv said through an exhale.
“I don’t know. I told him I didn’t know.”
“Where’s Ed?”
Alice paced. “I wish I smoked,” she said.
Viv laughed. “Yeah, it fixes everything.”
“Jesus,” Alice said.
“Listen, where is Ed?”
Alice chewed her thumbnail. “Some meeting,” she said. “He stayed late.”
“Look, Sam is a friend of yours, right? I mean, that’s it. That’s it. Has he tried to talk to you since you asked him not to?”
“This is the first time.”
“Then it’s important. Go see him.”
Alice went into the living room and stared at the TV over the heads of her kids.
“The kids,” she said.
“I’ll come watch the kids,” Viv said. “Then really nothing can happen, cuz if you stay out too long I’ll kill you.”
“I don’t know,” Alice said. She went back to the kitchen and sat at the table. Where was Ed, anyway? He’d been home on time for a week after their talk, and then this again. One night she had even put on some lingerie, lit candles—but of course everything couldn’t just get fixed, all the feelings couldn’t just be there again. But with her arms around Ed she had felt sad at how little she’d felt.
“Talk, Hon,” Viv said.
“I don’t know,” Alice said. “I just—Ed and I tried—I—seeing Sam once wouldn’t mean I wasn’t focusing on Ed, right?”
“Look,” Viv said. “Ed is your husband. All you’re doing is going in to town to see a friend. You’re a good wife and a fantastic mother. If you feel—”
“Jesus, Viv,” Alice said quietly. “I feel awful—I feel like a failure. But I don’t feel like I want to fix this, you know? I feel like I try so hard to locate some old bit of what Ed and I had, to build on it, you know? And I can’t. I can’t.”
“Oh, Sweetie,” Viv said.
“Where is Ed?” Alice asked. “Where is he, Viv? That night he talked me out of believing—God, how stupid am I? And for one week he stops it, then he’s gone again, every other night.”
“I’m coming over,” Viv said.
“No, Viv, you don’t—”
“I’m coming over,” Viv said. “See you in a minute.”
“Thanks,” Alice whispered. She put the phone down and went into the living room.
McParland was sitting as straight as he could, his legs crossed.
“I don’t understand at all,” Sam said.
They were in red leather armchairs. Across the dark, low-ceilinged room a pair of businessmen sat at the bar, eating peanuts, drinking cocktails.
“Please, Mr. Morgan,” McParland said. “A few more minutes.”
Sam looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. “I don’t get who you are,” he said.
“I’m a private detective,” McParland said. “You called Mrs. Fisher?”
“Yes. Half an hour ago. I told you that.” Sam looked at his watch again.
“And she is coming?”
“Yes. I think so. I told you that, too.”
&
nbsp; “Good,” McParland said. “Then let us relax and enjoy the calm of the moment, shall we?”
Sam sighed and loosened his tie. He saw McParland’s moustache move, as if above a smile. Why did he want Alice there? Sam shouldn’t have agreed to call her. A private detective—must’ve been hired by Alice’s husband. Well, fine, then, he couldn’t have discovered anything because there was nothing to discover.
“I recommend a drink,” McParland said.
Sam nodded and McParland gestured to the waitress, who leaned on one hip while they ordered. She brought them two glasses of whiskey and ice.
I should just get out of here, Sam thought, sipping. How would he explain McParland to Alice? She was coming and he wanted to see her; if this was about her husband, they might as well face it together. Things couldn’t be worse between them, anyway; she was married and didn’t want to talk to him. Imaginative teenagers and romantics believe in fate in these things, but it was all more random than that, timing and luck and human beings making decisions. So you learn not to store too much feeling and to unpack it slowly and to hope for the mathematical impossibility of someone showing up at some random moment, unattached and willing, who fits with you.
“Do you believe in fate, Sam?” McParland asked.
Sam frowned. Did he believe in God, did he believe in fate—first South and now McParland. He ran his fingers over the leather on the arm of the chair. Something about the way McParland was sitting, still and tucked into himself, his legs crossed, annoyed Sam.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a stupid question.”
“Really?” McParland asked. “For thousands of years, men have asked this question, and you find it stupid. How so?”
“Because either it exists or it doesn’t, belief has nothing to do with it.”
McParland nodded. “But belief effects how you live, don’t you think?” he asked.
Sam stood up and paced. The dim room was low and warm around him. A middle-aged couple came down the stairs from the hotel lobby.
“What is this about?” Sam asked, stepping toward McParland.
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 24
