“Now, about Liz,” said the apparition, in the tone of starting a speech.
“Quite happy with her new husband,” George murmured, and picked up the paper again.
“More than one can say for you, eh? That was a mistake, George, a big one.”
What was, Harrietta? George felt warmth rise to his face. Anger? Shame? George had had a girlfriend, Harrietta, for two years, and Liz had found out about her. It had happened almost simultaneously, Liz finding out because of a blabbermouth secretary in his office (George had managed to get her sacked on other grounds), and Harrietta asking George if he would, ever, divorce Liz and marry her. George had said yes to Harrietta. After all, they had got on well in bed and out, Harrietta had a brain, and George and Liz had only one offspring, a grown-up son who was married and doing well in California. When Liz found out about Harrietta, she asked George if he wanted a divorce, and he had said yes. The ironic thing was that Harrietta had then decided she didn’t want to get married, after all, and Liz after only three or four months had met a recently divorced man in some kind of molasses-importing business and married him. George had met Liz’s husband, Ed Tuttle, a couple of times, a really decent man, full of goodwill, and with an old-fashioned courtesy of the kind that George thought had died out. Yes, Liz had come out all right. And George, piqued by Harrietta’s attitude, had broken with her. Harrietta wanted independence, didn’t need any money from him, and adored her P.R. job with United Artists. Both Liz and Ed wanted to be friendly. It was George who kept his distance. Liz and Ed lived in a small town north of New York City, but in easy commuting range.
“You can’t face them,” the apparition said, interrupting George’s thoughts. “You’re the loser, alone in life—no Harrietta now to have secret midnight suppers with. . . .” The voice faded out.
George felt a stab in his breast, and it lingered as an ache. Yes, he’d lost. There were some compensations for living alone, but very few. George disliked preparing meals for himself, or even dining out alone, and felt especially lonely Sundays. He and Liz had often gone to a museum or a film Sunday afternoon, had had tea at a hotel or the Russian Tea Room, then a quiet evening at home and a snack before bedtime. That had been nice. But bedtime—George might as well have been sleeping with his sister or brother in the last decade of their marriage. It was almost embarrassing to look back on.
“Have another cigarette.”
George had been looking at the silver box on the coffee table, thinking that if he took one, the figure would reproach him. George opened the box, hesitated, then decided not to smoke.
“Then I will.”
Had George really heard it? George saw a translucent hand take a cigarette from the box, and reach for the table lighter. George heard its click.
“. . . not your conscience,” said the faint voice, “just you. You think I’m your good side? Have you got one? Ha!—But I think we’ve had some fun, don’t you? In our long life?—Remember Maggie?”
George wasn’t going to stand any more of it. He stood up, drank off his coffee, and walked to his right (which happened to be away from the figure) toward the hall which led to the bathroom. George took his cold shower, gritting his teeth, every muscle rigid, hating it. Then he scrubbed down hard with a towel. A brisk walk, that was what he needed. Thank goodness he’d done the supermarket shopping yesterday after work, because he wasn’t in the mood for that boring chore. George shaved with his battery razor, and dressed in rather a hurry, because he felt that his recent tendency to slow up and daydream might have caused the vision. George was convinced it was a vision. What else? He didn’t believe one bit in ghosts, or the supernatural, and when he read articles on extrasensory perception, it was with skepticism, a desire not to believe rather than to believe.
The ghostly figure did not reappear as George went to his door to leave, and George did not glance about for it.
Out in the sunlight, he felt free and safe. The honk of taxicabs sounded pleasant, reassuring. The sight of a black miniature poodle defecating in the gutter, leash securely held by a young woman, seemed normality itself. He breathed deeply, and felt physically rather fit. Hadn’t he taken off about four pounds since Liz’s departure? Yes. Now, as for girls, women—pretty absurd at his age. Maybe not absurd, but he couldn’t act as if or pretend he was thirty any longer. If one of his friends or business associates introduced him to an interesting woman who was free, that was another matter. Free for an affair, maybe, free for marriage, even. That wasn’t impossible, no.
“No?”
The voice in his ears had been his own. Rather that of the vision, but quite as clear as he had heard it at home. George quickened his steps, then slowed to the pace at which he had been walking before. He was not going to look over his shoulder. Funny to imagine the fellow—himself—striding along Fifth Avenue in pajamas and a dressing gown! Of course he might be wearing exactly the same clothes George was wearing now: a beige glen plaid suit and a blue polo neck sweater. George thought of other things. Monday was going to be hellish, with a conference in the morning starting at ten and another in the afternoon on the same subject, the Polyfax Company. Polyfax made plastics in all shapes and sizes, and had a Canadian branch called something else. What? They had been easing their profits by messing up their tax declarations, claiming Canada as source, or America when the situation demanded. Freer, Leister, and Foreman had had to go back over three years of Polyfax’s tax reports.
“Polyfax, Polyfax,” said George’s own voice in his ear, in a mocking way.
George paid no attention. Best to go over the xeroxes again tonight, then another glance tomorrow evening, so he’d be well briefed for Freer Monday morning. “Must do the best for them—within the law,” old Henry Tubman Freer always said, unnecessarily, as if thinking to himself. George would have preferred to have a date for that evening, and remembered he’d declined an invitation from Ralph Foreman, their younger partner, to come to dinner tonight and meet a young man who was interested in joining the firm. So be it. George turned around and walked back in the direction of his apartment.
The vision did not appear that evening. George had been apprehensive, thinking it more likely that visions appeared at night. Silly and childish to think that.
Sunday morning, rather a duplicate of Saturday morning, brought no apparition, either. George felt better. Around noon he prepared his frozen chicken, which he had begun thawing at breakfasttime. He lunched, then rang his son George Jr. at three P.M. It was a Sunday ritual that George would telephone between two and three.
“G-wamp!” said the baby voice at the other end.
George heard his son’s hearty laugh, and George Jr. continued, “Trying to teach Georgie to say ‘grampa.’ He can say it, but I think he’s rattled by the telephone.—Want to say hello to Mary?”
Of course George did. Mary sounded energetic and cheery as usual, informed him that the sun was shining, that they were going to set up their new croquet wickets on the lawn later that morning, that Georgie was cutting another tooth. . . .
When George hung up, he felt a thick silence surround him, as if a dream had suddenly ended—noisily. There was such a thing as noisy silence, wasn’t there? For a few minutes he had seen and heard the sunshine of California, the sound of forks and spoons clinking against breakfast plates—almost—the babbling of a year-old baby, the laughter of his son, a man happy with his wife.
He started to take a cigarette, maybe the ninth of that day? Then he did not. He was afraid he might conjure up the apparition again, smoking also. And Maggie. Why had the—what should he call it?—brought up Maggie, of all people? That story, finished thirty, no, exactly thirty-three years ago, when George had been eighteen. He’d done the right thing. Yes. With his father’s help—money—to be sure, but still the right thing. He had been in love with Maggie and she with him, no doubt about that. And he had got Maggie pregnant, despit
e their both trying to avoid it. Marriage had been impossible. She wouldn’t have put up with four more years of university for him. Would she have? No, Maggie was a simple girl, had been. A juvenile affair, that. . . .
This was a weak moment, George realized. He stood up, again thought of a cigarette and refused it to himself. Coffee, yes, and another swat at Polyfax. Be strong. George went to his kitchen to warm up the coffeepot.
His counterpart stood with back to the sink, dressed just as George was now in dark gray trousers, house slippers, the blue cashmere sweater. “Be strong. Ha-ha. You’re your same old self.” The apparition was smoking a cigarette, exciting both envy and shame in George.
“Out of my sight!” George said, and swung his right arm in a backhanded blow that would have caught the vision in the side of the head, if it had been solid.
The apparition ducked and laughed boyishly.
Had George touched something, even faintly? He was not sure.
“I see you’re in a foul mood. Happy day to you!” said George’s likeness, and strolled out of the kitchen.
George took an aggressive step toward the retreating figure, hands stretched out in the manner of a subway guard about to shove a last passenger into a crowded train. George felt nothing against his hands, and when he blinked, he saw nothing.
But the figure did not appear again that day, and by ten P.M., George was feeling better, even cheerful. He had gone over Polyfax, watched a little TV, listened to a Beethoven concerto on his record player as he defrosted his refrigerator and cleaned its interior. Nothing but an illusion, that duplicate of himself! George lay on his back now on his long sofa, thinking, daydreaming. It occurred to him, however, that all life was an illusion—of progress, of achievement, a fact obscured by absurd and constant movement—meeting appointments and deadlines, all the silly business of what the human race called “work.” George had achieved—what? A respected business reputation and money. Money in the bank and in investments, which Liz had declined to share when they divorced. She had accepted some maintenance at first, and had given even that up when she married a year ago. He and Liz owned a cottage on Montauk Point which they had seldom used, but now Liz said it might be “his and hers” together, since they could always find out when either of them wanted to use it, and not conflict. George had been there only once since their divorce, and then merely to collect a few books and records and personal items. Money, yes, to do what with? His son was doing well, and didn’t need his money. George Jr. was a lawyer, too. By the time he went to bed, George had thought himself into a vague depression. But at least the vision did not come back, even when George smoked his twelfth cigarette in bed.
Palmer was dying, there was no doubt an envelope among his letters addressed in Liz’s handwriting. He opened it as he waited for his bus down Fifth Avenue. Liz invited him to dinner tonight, Monday, and gave him Ed’s office number (which George had somewhere) so he could arrange to meet Ed for the drive up.
. . . I know you don’t like making quick decisions, so I thought I’d write you, and you should get it Sat. or Monday morning anyway. Please try to come, as Ed’s son Willie is here for a few days recovering from broken ankle he got playing basketball. He is eighteen now. I think you methim once. . . .
George put this out of his mind, or at least half out of his mind. He had to concentrate on Polyfax that day. George intended to telephone Ed just before three P.M. and decline politely, but the thought that his image, the apparition, might reproach him for cowardice kept intruding during the morning Polyfax conference. If the vision returned, mightn’t he throw it at George that he hadn’t had the guts, the civility to accept a dinner invitation from his former wife and her husband, who were really quite kind without overdoing their friendliness?
George rang Ed at two forty-five that afternoon and accepted with pleasure.
“Oh, good! Liz’ll be pleased,” said Ed with the usual smile in his voice. “Can you meet me at my garage, then, Forty-ninth and Sixth? Kammer’s, it’s called.”
George said he would. He had met Ed at the garage once before. When George left his office, he walked two blocks north in order to buy a bouquet of multicolored carnations from a little old lady who was usually on a certain corner with her pushcart, weather permitting.
“How’re you, sir?” said the old lady, all bundled up in sweaters and cape as usual.
George gave her double the price of the flowers. Many a time he had bought a bouquet on the way to see Harrietta, after phoning Liz to tell her he would be working an hour or so late.
By seven that evening, Ed and George with his bouquet were walking up the stone steps to the Tuttle house, which had four gables and a chimney now smoking against the darkening sky. Ed and George had conversed pleasantly during the thirty-five-minute drive. Ed’s son Willie, his only child, was doing well at Columbia, but was a bit reckless, Ed thought, hence the basketball accident.
“Hello, George! So happy you could come! Ed phoned and told me.” Liz kissed George on the cheek, pressed his hand. “Oh, thank you. Aren’t these lovely!” she said, taking the bouquet. She wore a brown satin dress, and her ample breasts bulged against it. Her brown hair looked fluffy and shining, as if she had just been to the hairdresser’s. She radiated happiness as she led George into the living room, one hand extended behind her, but not really reaching for George’s. “You remember Willie, don’t you, George?”
George did. Now Willie sat with plastered foot extended toward the fire, and said politely, “Evening, sir. Can’t stand up so well because of this. But I will,” he added, pushing himself up on the arms of the upholstered chair.
“Don’t bother yourself, Willie! How are you—otherwise?” George shook the tall boy’s hand, smiling, and steadied Willie until he had sat down again.
“Quite well, thank you, sir.”
Liz served drinks, Manhattans for her and Ed, scotch and water for George. He smoked a cigarette. The conversation was easy, with a few laughs. George was conscious of the heavy Tuttle furniture, a bit rustic, no doubt already installed before Liz’s advent. Her touch was probably the plain dark yellow drapes at the windows. George leaned forward to pick up his drink, then he looked at Liz, who was talking. Standing just to Liz’s left was the specter—himself—now with slightly mocking smile, nodding his head as if to say, “Stupid ass, I suppose you think the evening’s going fine?”
A few drops of George’s drink spilled on the waxed coffee table, and George at once whipped out his pocket handkerchief.
The gesture snapped Ed out of his happy trance, and he said, “Oh, that’s nothing, George!”
George looked at Liz, and past her, and saw that the vision was not there now. Also he had not heard the voice, only imagined the words. He was sure of that. It was all bound to be something inside his own head—like buzzing ears.
“Something the matter, George?” asked Liz.
“Not at all,” said George. “Just clumsy today.”
“Busy day,” said Liz, inviting him to say more on the subject if he chose.
“I don’t want to talk about business,” said George with a smile. “It’s the month of May. We might talk about vacations—something pleasant.” He glanced at Willie. College kids always took an interest in vacations.
They did talk about vacations. The Montauk house, which Liz and Ed said they’d like for the third week in June, if George didn’t want it then. George said he did not want it then. Then Venice: Liz and Ed and Willie were taking a boat from Naples which cruised to Sicily first. . . .
George half listened. Dinner. George feared the reappearance of the vision, wondered too if Liz sensed something odd about him tonight, because she knew him so well. They adjourned to the living room for coffee and brandy. Willie walked with two short crutches. The dessert had been Liz’s homemade chocolate cake topped with ice cream.
“Y
ou’re looking well, George,” Liz said as he was leaving with Ed for the train station. Ed had offered to drive George to Manhattan, but George wouldn’t hear of it. “Keep well, dear. We’ll see you again soon, I hope.”
Was Liz trying to make him feel better? George thought he looked all right, but he knew he had not been in the best of form.
Less than an hour later, George was home in his apartment, alone. Or was he alone? He seemed to be. But how long would it last?
It lasted almost a week. George had made no special resolutions to himself by way of keeping the specter at bay, and indeed wouldn’t have known what kind to make. On Saturday around noon, just as George got home with a cart full of groceries that he hoped would last the coming week, he saw his own figure, again leaning against the kitchen sink rim, and dressed in old green corduroys, tweed jacket, desert boots, just as George was then. George blinked, his body went rigid, but he began to unpack his purchases as if the vision were not there. George neatly set the new sack of coffee at the back of a shelf, causing him to pass within inches of the standing figure.
Don’t you say good morning?
George thought he had heard that. George did not reply. Seeing a new bottle of Haig on a shelf, George took it down and gave the top a twist. Irritation made George say out loud, “I suppose you’ll . . . chide me if I take a drink?”
“No, no, might do the same myself. Have done many a time.”
The bottle chattered twice against the rim of the glass as George poured. He was not deranged enough to offer the specter a drink, but would not have been surprised if the bottle had moved from the table and a glass had been reached from the drainboard. This did not happen.
“Ha-ha,” said the specter mirthlessly.
George left the kitchen with his drink in hand. Ha-ha. Well, hadn’t he often laughed at himself in the same manner? For taking a drink at noon when he had intended not to take one before six P.M.? And why take that so seriously? Neither Liz nor any doctor had ever told him he drank too much. Was it that he had nothing else to worry about?