Ghost Story

“Yeah!” Sims began to show an alarming quantity of enthusiasm. “I’d like to record for a start, and then the video element—”

  “Do you see that man over there?” Ricky nodded in the direction of Sears James, who more than ever resembled a stormcloud in human form. It looked like Freddy Robinson, now separated from Miss Moore, was trying to sell him insurance. “The big one? He’d slit my throat if I did any such thing.”

  Milly looked shocked; Stella lifted her chin and said, “Very nice meeting you, Mr. Sims,” and left them.

  Harold Sims said, “Anthropologically, that’s a very interesting statement.” He regarded Ricky with an interest even more professional. “The Chowder Society must be highly important to you.”

  “Of course it is,” Ricky said simply.

  “From what you just said, I’d assume that the man you just pointed out is the dominant figure in the group—as it were, the honcho.”

  “Very astute of you,” Ricky said. “Now if you’ll forgive me, I see someone I must have a word with.”

  When he had turned his back and gone away only a few steps, he heard Sims ask Milly, “Are those two really married?”

  5

  Ricky stationed himself in a corner, deciding he’d wait things out. He had a good mostly unobstructed view of the party: he’d be quite happy just watching things until it was time to go home. The record having come to an end, John Jaffrey appeared beside the portable stereo and put another one on the turntable. Lewis Benedikt, drifting up beside him, seemed amused, and when the sound began to issue from the speakers, Ricky heard why. It was a record by Aretha Franklin, a singer Ricky knew only from the radio. Where on earth would John Jaffrey have obtained such a record, and how long ago had he done it? He must have bought it specifically for the party. This was a fascinating concept, but Ricky’s deliberations on it were interrupted by a succession of people who joined him, one by one, in his corner.

  The first person who found him was Clark Mulligan, the owner of the Rialto, Milburn’s only movie theater. His Hush Puppies were unaccustomedly clean, his trousers pressed, his belly successfully contained by his jacket button—Clark had spruced himself up for the evening. Presumably he knew that he had been invited for his relation to show business. Ricky thought it must have been the first time John had had Clark Mulligan in his home. He was glad to see him; he was always glad to see him. Mulligan was the only person in town who shared his love of old movies. Hollywood gossip bored Ricky, but he loved the films of its golden days.

  “Who does she remind you of?” he asked Mulligan.

  Mulligan squinted across the room. The actress was standing demurely across the room, listening to something said by Ed Venuti. “Mary Miles Minter?”

  “She reminded me of Louise Brooks. Though I don’t suppose Louise Brooks’s eyes were green.”

  “Who knows? She’s supposed to be a damn fine little actress, though. Cropped up just out of nowhere. Nobody knows anything about her.”

  “Edward does.”

  “Oh, he’s doing one of his books, isn’t he?”

  “The interviewing is nearly done. It’s always difficult for Edward to say good-bye to his subjects, but this time it will be especially traumatic. I think he fell in love with her.” And indeed, Edward had jealously joined Ed Venuti, and managed to interpose himself between the banker and the little actress.

  “I’d fall in love with her too,” Mulligan said. “Once they get their faces up on the screen, I fall in love with all of them. Have you seen Marthe Keller?” His eyes rolled.

  “Not yet, but from the photos I’ve seen she looks a lot like a modern Constance Talmadge.”

  “Are you kidding? How about Paulette Goddard?” And from there they went happily on to speak of Chaplin, of Monsieur Verdoux, of Norma Shearer and John Ford, Eugene Pallette and Harry Carey, Jr., Stagecoach and The Thin Man, Veronica Lake and Alan Ladd, John Gilbert and Rex Bell, Jean Harlow, Charlie Farrell, Janet Gaynor, Nosferatu and Mae West, actors and films Ricky had seen as a younger man and had never ceased youthfully to cherish, and the fresh memory of them helped to dampen the recollection of what a young man had said about himself and his wife.

  “Wasn’t that Clark Mulligan?” His second visitor was Sonny Venuti, Edward’s wife. “He looks terrible.” Sonny herself had changed over the past few years from a slender, pretty woman with a lovely smile to a bony stranger with an uneasy, dazed expression permanently fixed in her eyes. A casualty of marriage. Three months before she had come into Ricky’s office and asked what she had to do to get a divorce: “I’m not sure yet, but I’m definitely thinking about it. I have to find out where I am.” Yes, there was another man, but she would not name him. “I’ll tell you this, though, he’s good-looking and intelligent and he’s as close to sophisticated as you can get in this town.” She had left no doubt that the man was Lewis. Such women always reminded Ricky Hawthorne of his daughter, and he had led her through all of her options gently, outlining all the steps, explaining everything carefully and succinctly, though he knew she would never return.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, entirely.”

  “I talked to her for a second.”

  “Yes?”

  “She wasn’t interested. She’s only interested in men. She’d love you.”

  At the moment, the actress was talking to Stella, not ten feet away, which seemed to undercut Sonny Venuti’s statement. Ricky watched the two women conversing without hearing their words; Sonny went on at some length to explain why the actress would love him. The subject of these remarks was listening to Stella, she responded, both women were lovely, cool, amused. Then Miss Moore said something that visibly confounded Stella: Ricky’s wife blinked, opened her mouth, snapped it shut, patted her hair—if she had been a man, she’d have scratched her head. Ann-Veronica Moore, trailed by Edward Wanderley, went off.

  “So I’d watch myself,” Sonny Venuti was saying. “She might look like a little angel, but that kind of woman loves to turn men into hash.”

  “Pandora’s Box,” said Ricky, reminded of his first impression of the actress.

  “What? Oh, never mind, I know, it’s an old movie. When I came to you that time you mentioned Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy twice.”

  “How are things now, Sonny?”

  “I’m trying again, Jesus, how I’m trying. Who can get a divorce in Milburn? But I still want to find out who I am.”

  Ricky thought of his daughter, and his heart twisted.

  Then Sears James joined Ricky in his corner. “Privacy at last,” he said, putting his drink on a table and leaning against the bookshelves.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “An appalling young man tried to sell me insurance. He lives across the street.”

  “I know him.”

  Since they were in total agreement on the subject of Freddy Robinson, there was nothing more to say. Eventually Sears broke the silence. “Lewis might need help getting home. He’s been a bit bibulous.”

  “Well, after all, it’s not one of our meetings.”

  “Hmm. I suppose he might pick up a girl who could drive him home.”

  Ricky glanced at him to see if he meant this personally, but Sears was merely surveying the party blandly, obviously bored. “Did you talk to the guest of honor?”

  “I haven’t even seen her.”

  “She’s highly visible. I think she’s over—” He lifted his drink in the direction he had seen her, but the actress was no longer there. Edward was talking to John, presumably about her, but Ann-Veronica Moore was no longer in the room. “Keep an eye on Edward. He’ll find her.”

  “Isn’t that Walter Barnes’s son standing by the bar?”

  Though it was now long past ten, Peter Barnes and a young girl were indeed by the bar, and the waiter who had relieved Milly of her duties was mixing drinks f
or them. Doctor Jaffrey’s housekeeper had clearly not had the heart to send away the teenagers downstairs, and the bolder ones had invaded the upstairs party. The piano music which had replaced Aretha Franklin abruptly ceased, and Ricky saw Jim Hardie juggling several record albums, trying to decide which was least out of date. “Uh, oh,” he said to Sears, “we have a new disc jockey.”

  “That’s it,” Sears said. “I’m tired and I’m going home. Noisy music makes me want to bite someone.” He moved massively away. Milly Sheehan stopped his progress and spoke agitatedly to him. Ricky guessed that she was in a tizzy over the sudden appearance of the teenagers. Sears shrugged—it was not his problem.

  Ricky wanted to go home then, but Stella had begun to dance with Ned Rowles, and soon several of the wives had enticed their husbands to that part of the room nearest the record player. The teenagers danced energetically, sometimes almost elegantly; the adults looked foolishly imitative beside them. Ricky groaned; it was going to be a long night. All had begun to speak louder, the barman mixed a half dozen drinks at a time, moving an upended bottle over a row of ice-filled glasses. Sears reached the door and disappeared.

  Christina Barnes, a tall blonde with an avid face, appeared by Ricky. “Since my son has managed to take over this party, how about dancing with me, Ricky?”

  Ricky smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t be a gentleman, Christina. I haven’t danced in forty years.”

  “You must do something pretty well to hang on to Stella all these years.”

  She’d had about three drinks too many. “Yes,” he said. “You know what it was? I never lost my sense of humor.”

  “Ricky, you’re wonderful. I’d love to give you a backrub one of these days and see if I could find out what you’re made of.”

  “Old pencil stubs and out-of-date law books.”

  Clumsily she kissed him, hitting the edge of his jaw. “Did Sonny Venuti see you a couple of months ago? I want to talk to you about it.”

  “Then come to my office,” he said, knowing she would not.

  “Excuse me, Ricky, Christina,” said Edward Wanderley, who had come up on Ricky’s other side.

  “I’ll leave you men to your private business.” Christina went off in search of a dancing partner.

  “Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?” Edward’s broad face was boyish, anxious.

  “Miss Moore? Not for a little while. Have you lost her?”

  “Damn. She just vanished.”

  “She’s probably in the bathroom.”

  “For twenty-five minutes?” Edward rubbed his forehead.

  “Don’t worry about her, Edward.”

  “I’m not worried, I just want to find her.” He stood on tiptoe and began to look over the heads of the dancers, still grinding his fist into his forehead. “You don’t suppose she went off with one of those awful kids?”

  “Couldn’t say.” Edward slapped his shoulder and went rapidly out into the room.

  Christina Barnes and Ned Rowles appeared in the vacuum Edward left at the edge of the carpet, and Ricky went around them to look for Stella. After a moment he saw her with Jim Hardie, obviously declining an invitation to learn the Bump. She looked over at him with some relief, and separated from the boy.

  The music was so loud they had to speak directly into one another’s ears. “That’s the most forward boy I’ve ever met.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I looked like Anne Bancroft.”

  The music abruptly stopped, and Ricky’s reply carried over the entire party. “No one under thirty should be allowed to enter a movie theater.”

  Everyone but Edward Wanderley, who was quizzing a hostile Peter Barnes, turned to look at Ricky and Stella. Then the ever-hopeful Freddy Robinson took the hand of Jim Hardie’s girlfriend, another record fell onto the turntable, and people went back to the business of being at a party. Edward had been speaking softly, insistently, but Peter Barnes’s aggrieved voice floated out a moment before the music began: “Jesus, man, maybe she went upstairs.”

  “Can we go?” he asked Stella. “Sears left a while ago.”

  “Oh, let’s stay a while. We haven’t done anything like this in ages. I’m having fun, Ricky.” When she saw his crestfallen face, she said, “Dance with me, Ricky. Just this once.”

  “I don’t dance,” he said, making himself heard over the din of the music. “Enjoy yourself. But let’s go in about half an hour, all right?”

  She winked at him, turned away, and was immediately captured by gangsterish Lou Price, to whom this time she succumbed.

  Edward, seeing nothing, rushed by.

  Ricky walked around the edges of the party for a time, refusing drinks from the barman. He spoke to Milly Sheehan, who was sitting exhausted on the couch. “I didn’t know it would turn out like this,” Milly said. “It’ll take hours to clean up.”

  “Make John help you.”

  “He always helps,” Milly said, radiance touching her plain round face. “He’s wonderful that way.”

  Ricky wandered on, at last arriving at the top of the stairs. Silence from upstairs and down. Was Edward’s actress up there with one of the boys? He smiled, and went downstairs for the quiet.

  The doctor’s offices were deserted. Lights burned, cigarettes had been stamped out on the floor, half-filled cups stood on every surface. The rooms smelled of sweat, beer, smoke. The little portable record player in the front room spun on, the needle clicking in the empty grooves. Ricky lifted the tone arm, put it on its support and turned the machine off. Milly would have a lot of work down here the next morning. He looked at his watch. Twelve-thirty. Through the ceiling came the thumping of a bass, a tinny echo of music.

  Ricky sat in one of the stiff waiting-room chairs, lit a cigarette, sighed and relaxed. He wondered if he might help Milly by beginning to straighten up these downstairs rooms, then realized that he’d need a broom. He was too tired to go scouting for a broom.

  A few minutes later footsteps woke him out of a light doze. He straightened up in his chair, listening to someone opening a door at the bottom of the stairs. “Hello?” he called out, not wanting to embarass an illicit couple.

  “Who’s that? Ricky?” John Jaffrey came into the front waiting room. “What are you doing here? Have you seen Edward?”

  “I came down for the quiet. Edward was rushing around trying to find Miss Moore. Maybe he went upstairs.”

  “I’m worried about him,” Jaffrey said. “He looked so—so taut. Ann-Veronica’s dancing with Ned Rowles. Couldn’t he see her?”

  “She vanished a while back. That’s why he was anxious.”

  “Oh, poor Edward. He doesn’t have to worry about that girl. She’s good as gold. You should see her. She’s absolutely lovely. She looks better than she has all night.”

  “Well.” He pushed himself out of the stiff chair. “Do you want help finding Edward?”

  “No, no, no. You just carry on. I’ll find him. I’ll try the bedrooms. Though what he’d be doing there—”

  “Still looking, I expect.”

  John wheeled around, muttering that he couldn’t help but worry, and went back through the consulting rooms. Ricky slowly followed.

  * * *

  Harold Sims was dancing with Stella, holding her tightly and keeping up a steady stream of talk into her ear. The music was so loud that Ricky wanted to scream. Nobody but Sears had left, and the young people, many of them now drunk, whirled about, hair and arms flying. The little actress cavorted with the editor, Lewis was talking to Christina Barnes on the couch. Both were oblivious to the presence of sleeping Milly Sheehan, not eight inches away. Ricky wished profoundly that he were in his bed. The noise gave him a headache. His old friends, Sears excepted, seemed to have lost their minds. Lewis had his hand on Christina Barnes’s knee, and his eyes were unfocused. Was he really trying to seduc
e his banker’s wife? In the presence of her husband and son?

  Upstairs, something heavy fell over, and only Ricky heard it. He went back out onto the landing and saw John Jaffrey standing at the top of the stairs.

  “Ricky.”

  “What’s wrong, John?”

  “Edward. It’s Edward.”

  “Did he knock something over?”

  “Come up here, Ricky.”

  Ricky went up, growing a little more worried with each step. John Jaffrey seemed very shaken.

  “Did he knock something over? Did he hurt himself?”

  Jaffrey’s mouth opened. Finally sounds emerged. “I knocked a chair over. I don’t know what to do.”

  Ricky reached the landing and looked into Jaffrey’s ruined face. “Where is he?”

  “The second bedroom.”

  Since Jaffrey did not move, Ricky went across the hall to the second door. He looked back; Jaffrey nodded, swallowed and finally came toward him. “In there.”

  Ricky’s mouth was dry. Wishing that he were anywhere else, doing anything but what he was doing, he put a hand on the doorknob and turned it. The door swung open.

  The bedroom was cold, and almost bare. Two coats, Edward’s and the girl’s, were lain across an exposed mattress. But Ricky saw only Edward Wanderley. Edward was on the floor, both hands clutched to his chest and his knees drawn up. His face was terrible.

  Ricky stepped back and nearly fell over the chair that John Jaffrey had overturned. There was no question that Edward was still alive—he did not know how he knew it, but he knew—yet he asked, “Did you try to feel his pulse?”

  “He doesn’t have a pulse. He’s gone.”

  John was trembling just inside the door. Music, voices came up the stairwell.

  Ricky forced himself to kneel by Edward’s side. He touched one of the hands gripping Edward’s green shirt. He worked his fingers around to the underside of the wrist. He felt nothing, but he was no doctor. “What do you think happened?” He still could not look again at Edward’s distorted face.

  John came further into the room. “Heart attack?”