by Nancy Thayer
The amazing thing to John was that Willy didn’t seem to care whether or not her work sold. She was pleased when she got letters or phone calls raving about her work, but she forgot about the praise instantly; that didn’t matter. Her pleasures didn’t come from outside. It was all interior, all in the work itself. She was satisfied with her work and didn’t care if it sold.
So of course it sold. It won high praise. Willy was written up in newspapers, in magazines. And Willy did bother to cut out the articles, intending to put them in a scrapbook, but only this week, when they were packing, John came across them, covered with coffee stains, stuck between some old letters.
Willy’s parents were dead before John met her, but he learned from what she told him and from what he could glean from friends of the family that her family had been one of those lucky, eccentric, wealthy, educated, fascinating families that finds everyone outside of the family just a little uninteresting. So there was bred in Willy, John thought, a kind of gentle, unassuming snobbery. Willy was so self-sufficient. So self-satisfied. So content. John never doubted that Willy loved him, and yet he often wished he could break through that serenity of hers somehow, that he could make her look at him not with her clear, peaceful gaze but with the fierce glare of need he felt he often directed at her.
“Well, I think you should think seriously about it before leaving,” John said now to Erica. “It’s a hard thing to do; it’s like stepping off the planet into outer space. But then you’re young, Erica. It’s been years since I’ve really tried to paint. Since I’ve even thought seriously about what I would like to paint. I’ve been too busy with other things. Now I’m bound to be rusty. And of course, I’ll miss Boston, the action, the agency—”
“Will you really, old boy? Miss all of us, that is? How touching!”
Donald Hood came up behind John just then and wrapped his arm around John’s neck. Partly a gesture of affection, this also served to stabilize Donald, who was already pretty well sloshed and found John a convenient hold in a wavering world. Donald was the artistic director at the agency, a likable man even when breathing scotch in one’s face.
“Of course I’ll miss you, you old lush,” John said. Then realizing just how unsteady Donald was, he turned, aiming himself and his friend toward the dining room. “I’m starving. Let’s get something to eat.” He looked back at Erica, grinning to excuse his rudeness. She smiled back, understanding. Everyone in the office took care of Donald.
John’s entry into the dining room got everyone else headed for the table, and soon the room was crowded with people leaning against the walls, plates in hand. There were almost thirty people at this party, and everyone but Anne and Mark and Willy worked at the advertising agency known in Massachusetts as the Blackstone Group. When Anne said she wanted to give the Constables a going-away party, John had made up his guest list and realized that all his friends—except for Mark, who was a lawyer, and Anne—worked at the agency. And Willy realized that the only friend she really cared about leaving was Anne, and so she didn’t bother to invite anyone else, not the managers of the various stores that sold her embroidery work or the various friends scattered around the city whom she had known for years but rarely saw. Besides, she liked the idea of this party being especially for John, a real and symbolic good-bye.
Harrison Adder, the president of the Blackstone Group, came up to Willy as she sat on a wing chair by the living room window, her plate next to her on a side table. She had just taken a bite of buttery corn bread, which crumbled deliciously in her hand and down her front, and Harrison leaned down to give her his usual patronizing, pretentious kiss. Harrison was good at this, at catching people with crumbs on their mouths and bosoms; he loved being elegant and superior. White haired, impeccably dressed, slender, he always made Willy feel like a cow next to a gazelle, and Willy sensed that he enjoyed this—so he was not the true gentleman he seemed.
Willy gulped down her corn bread and wiped her mouth, brushed her bodice with her napkin. “Harrison, hello,” she said. “Won’t you join me?” She gestured at the companion chair on the other side of the table. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, yes,” Harrison said, pinching up his trousers as he sat so that the crease stayed put. “Very pleasant meal. When do you and John actually leave, dear?”
“The movers come tomorrow, and we’ll spend the night here with Anne and Mark,” Willy said. “Our boat reservations are for the day after tomorrow.”
“Quite a change,” Harrison remarked, watching Willy carefully. “Must be quite an ordeal for you.”
“Oh, I don’t think ordeal is the right word at all!” Willy exclaimed. “This is really an adventure, Harrison. I’m excited! I’m looking forward to it all.”
“I’m so glad, dear,” Harrison said. “Tell me about your new home. I’ve been to Nantucket, of course.”
Willy was careful as she talked. She was never sure what it was that Harrison wanted from her. John had told her many times to be wary of him, for like many elegant men he had a bitchy side to him. As president of the Blackstone Group, Harrison was perfect in almost every way; his smooth elegance, his old-money style, won clients over easily. And he was a fine executive, good at finances and at dealing with his employees. But he always seemed to be trying to score points off his best people, John included, in some kind of unspoken game to which only he knew the rules.
“It’s a lovely old house,” Willy said. “Greek revival style, with steps up from the sidewalk to the front and back doors. Shingled, of course, you know Nantucket and its gray shingles—oh, Harrison, would you excuse me? Anne is clearing the table and setting out dessert, and I really should help her.”
“Of course, my dear,” Harrison said, rising. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You know, you could add a log and stoke up the fire,” Willy said. Never capable of telling anyone off, she had become good at smooth escapes. “That would be so nice of you. It’s been neglected.”
She scurried off into the kitchen, plates and glasses in her hand. At the sink, with running water obscuring their words, Willy said to Anne, “That man! Have you talked to him? He’s like Satan, I swear, all polished and silky on the outside but full of malevolence beneath. I don’t know how John managed to work with him all these years.”
“At least he puts on a pleasant front,” Anne said. “You should meet Mark’s newest partner in the firm. He’s brilliant, everyone says, but so caustic, so aggressive, always ready for a fight. It’s just part of the rat race, isn’t it, putting up with these people.”
Anne and Willy cleared the dining room table of the main course and took their time in the kitchen cleaning up. Two other women at the party, a receptionist and a copywriter from the agency, came into the kitchen with plates, gravitating to where the women were. The four stood around discussing clothes and periods and Anne’s pregnancy. Erica did not come in; she always made it a point to stay away from women and kitchens.
“We’d better get the dessert and coffee out on the table,” Anne said at last.
The chocolate mousse, trembling on its silver platter, the fresh fruit, arranged in a pretty pattern and sprinkled very lightly with powdered sugar, and the silver pots of coffee and decaffeinated coffee were set out on the long dining room table. Once again the party moved back into the dining room, and conversation slowed as everyone ate. Willy and Anne moved around the two front rooms, setting out trays with liqueur glasses and a selection of after-dinner drinks that glistened like liquid emeralds, rubies, and topaz in their bottles. The fire blazed in the living room, throwing off dancing lights, and Anne and Willy stood together a moment, smiling at each other, appreciating the splendid moment. Laughter came from the dining room, and then the sound of conversation picked up, and people began drifting into the living room, jovial now, replete.
“This is a lovely party, Anne,” Willy said.
Anne looked at Willy, and her smile faded. “Something’s going to happen tonight, Willy,” she
said.
“What?” Willy asked, startled.
“Nothing bad—I don’t think,” Anne said. One of her guests was approaching her with open arms, wanting to give her a big hug of thanks for the delicious meal. Anne looked back at Willy. “Just be prepared,” she said. “I think it’s okay.” And then, to the man who was hugging her, “Oh, Scott, I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
Willy moved around the room slowly, puzzled. John came up behind her and put his arms around her. Willy was a tall woman, and John, short for a man, could just nestle his chin into her shoulder.
“Having a good time?” he asked.
“Lovely,” Willy said. “John—” she began, wanting to tell him what Anne had said, but she was interrupted.
All the lights in the house went out at once. It was as shocking as being slapped with cold water. The receptionist shrieked once, and one man rumbled, “What’s going on!” It was a few seconds before everyone’s eyes could adjust to the dim and flickering light thrown off from the fireplace and jack-o’-lanterns.
Harrison Adder’s distinct voice rang out: “Looks like you’ve lost your electricity, Mark. Where’s your fuse box?”
Mark said, “In the basement. John, come help me, will you?”
John suspected a setup immediately, since his friend was clear across the room. But he cheerfully left his wife’s side and went out to the hall with Mark, intending to follow him down the hall to the door to the basement.
Instead, he stopped in his tracks, startled, for an instant half-afraid. Coming down the dark hall toward him was a glowing ghostly head that bobbed a good ten feet above the floor, nearly hitting the ceiling of the old Victorian house. The air was filled with strange whirring sounds interrupted now and then by low, malicious, gleeful laughter. The thing that approached him had glowing green eyes and a glowing, wavering green mouth.
The party had come to the wide double doorway that led into the hall, and now someone from that group screamed.
“Jesus!” Donald Hood shouted. “What the fuck’s that thing?”
A high, spooky “whoooooo” filled the air. Here and there in the party nervous laughs broke out. The firelight from the living room could not illuminate the dark hall, and while everyone knew this had to be a trick, the effect was still eerie.
“Whoooooo,” the thing said again, its voice mournful. Then, “John Constable,” it said, drawing each syllable out like a howl. “John Con-sta-ble—”
The tall glowing thing had halted by the door under the staircase at the back of the hall. It was far enough away that John could not yet make out exactly what it was. He knew it was a joke of some kind, but he was uneasy, unsure what was expected of him.
“John Constable, I want you,” the thing said.
“John,” Willy said, and pushed through to his side. She put her hand on his arm.
Always a good sport, John laughed, although there was more than a little of the boy whistling in the dark in his bravery. “I’m John Constable,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Follow me,” the ghostlike creature said, and turned.
John could just make out, through the darkness, the wavering dark length with the glowing head retreating down the hallway. Nervously, John followed. It helped to know that Willy was right behind him, and right behind her, he sensed the rest of the party coming along. Everyone was so quiet; that scared him, too. There was no laughter; there were no catcalls or dares yelled out. Just the rustling noises of so many people coming behind him in the dark.
The ghost, or whatever it was, turned the corner, disappearing through a door into what John knew to be Mark’s study.
Everything had been changed here. Mark’s desk had been pushed into a corner, and the large oak-paneled room was filled now with folding chairs. Tall candles sitting on the fireplace mantel and windowsills illuminated the room enough so that John could see a large projection screen set up at one end of the room.
The creature had retreated behind a high Chinese folding screen in a back corner. Its eerie glowing head bobbed just above the screen.
“Take a seat, everyone,” the thing said, its voice deep and commanding now. “Especially you, John Constable. Take a seat in the front.”
It was odd to be in this room, which was as familiar to John as his own study at home, odd to be in it when it was so strangely arranged. But John took a seat at the front of the room, and Willy sat next to him, once again putting her hand on his arm. Strange noises—creaks and groans and mad laughter and whispers—filled the room, obscuring the noise the other guests made as they cautiously filed in and took seats in the folding chairs. It was odd how pervasive the ghostly noises were, as if they came from the house itself, as if this large, old, powerful secret-filled house had found its voice.
“Do you know what this is, John?” Willy asked in a whisper. They both could hear people around them asking one another similar questions.
“No,” John said. “Some kind of joke, I’m sure.”
“It’s creepy,” Willy said.
John put his arm around Willy and pulled her to him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s just some kind of foolish trick. This is a party, remember?” He tried for lightness in his voice, but it came with difficulty in this dark room where the candlelight flickered and the glowing ghostly head bobbed and waved, its eyes and mouth now flashing, now dimming, now gleaming.
“Is everyone comfortable?” the creature asked in its sonorous voice. “Are you comfortable, John Constable?”
“I’m comfortable,” John replied, going along with it all.
“Then I will present you with your own special show,” the ghost said. “John Constable—behold your life!”
A familiar mechanical noise began, a gentle hum. John turned and saw Harrison Adder at the back of the room, bent over a slide projector. Ominous music filled the air, organ music in a minor key.
The screen at the front of the room filled. In great crooked dripping black letters on a red background the words read:
JOHN CONSTABLE:
THE GHOSTS OF HALLOWEEN!
The slide projector clicked, and the music changed to sweet notes from a violin, perhaps Vivaldi. The screen now read:
THE GHOST OF HALLOWEEN PAST
JOHN CONSTABLE COMES
TO THE BLACKSTONE GROUP
There was a click, and then a picture flashed on the screen, bright with colors, fitting perfectly with the pleasant music. It was a shot taken when John had first joined the Blackstone Group; in fact, it had been used by the agency as promotional material for their group. The center of the picture showed John seated at a high worktable, pen in hand, sketching out a model kitchen. A long-haired pretty young female artist leaned over one side of the drawing board, her pencil pointing at the top of John’s sketch, and Harrison Adder and Donald Hood leaned in from the other side. Harrison’s hand was on John’s shoulder. It was the perfect picture of friendly artistic collaboration.
“Yay!” Donald Hood yelled, and began clapping. His drunken hearty shout broke the tension in the room, and everyone else began to clap and shout out hoorays.
The projector clicked: more dripping black letters against red.
THE GHOST OF HALLOWEEN PRESENT
JOHN CONSTABLE REMAINS
AT THE BLACKSTONE GROUP
The music changed now to a swift-moving upbeat rock song. The slide projector clicked, and on the screen was another shot of John, this one taken quite recently, without his realizing it. Looking at it, John thought he knew who had done it and when: Erica, when she was messing around in the office one day with a camera, mugging it up, saying it had no film, pretending to be a fashion photographer.
In this shot John was wearing a striped button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was leaning back at his desk, relaxed and smiling, talking to Donald Hood and two other men, accountants with the firm. His dark brown hair was mussed slightly, falling down over his forehead, making him look younger than his thirty years, and he ra
diated good health, good looks, and happiness.
John grinned to see himself. It pleased him to see himself looking so handsome.
“Aren’t you something!” Willy whispered to him, squeezing his arm.
The clapping and shouting and cheering continued in the rest of the room. “All right, John!” someone shouted.
The slide projector clicked.
THE GHOST OF HALLOWEEN FUTURE
JOHN CONSTABLE LEAVES
THE BLACKSTONE GROUP
The music changed drastically now, to funereal tones of dark organ and slow drums, storm music, orphan music, death music.
A picture flashed on the screen. There stood a man who looked like John, with the same hair falling over his forehead. This John Constable was slouching on a sidewalk, dressed like a bum, wearing clothes ragged and torn and three sizes too big for him. His dark hair had gone gray; it was shaggy and dirty, hanging in unkempt lumps around his head. His face was white except for the black circles around his eyes, and his posture had changed; he was shrunken, stooped, and bent. Next to him on the sidewalk was a sign: Portraits and Landscapes One Dollar. Around his feet and leaning against the brick wall were several paintings and sketches, all tattered at the edges, all amateurishly done, stick figures, flat perspectives, jarring colors. There was a hat on the sidewalk with coins in it. It was a portrait of an artist in ludicrous defeat.
John felt as if someone had just kicked him in the stomach. Willy clutched his arm. “John!” she said. The room went silent around them.
“Shit, man,” Mark exclaimed from somewhere behind them in the dark.
A sick sinking feeling filled John, as if a fortune-teller had just prophesied his ruin.
He felt cursed by this picture, this vision of him as an artist on his own. He wanted to rise and smash his fist through the screen.
But before he could do so, the slide projector clicked.
White letters on the black screen read:
GHOST OF HALLOWEEN FUTURE,
