Ghostly

by Audrey Niffenegger

  ‘The bartender gave me the ring back, wrung out his rag, and said I shouldn’t wear it.

  ‘When I asked why not, he blushed. He said that it was probably just superstition, but in Greek culture they believed the dead were attached to objects they’d interacted with, and that when you wore their things you attracted their spirit.

  ‘He walked to the end of the bar. Added, “Plus, you look stupid wearing a man’s ring.”

  ‘So I stuck the ring in a drawer and forgot about it.

  * * *

  ‘I didn’t think about Syracuse much. I was busy taking classes, reading books. The economy was depressed—in the square, boutiques stood empty. But people still came down from Canada to go to the mall. The park nearby had a lot of rapes in it, but only at night. It was pretty, and had a rose garden.

  ‘I sometimes saw the homeless guy, who I assumed lived with my neighbor—he was always wearing the same khaki pants and blue checkered shirt, sitting in the lawn chair reading papers or tomes—but he spoke to me only once after the day I moved in. He’d been sweeping the neighbor’s driveway. I might have been staring at him, because the hair on his big head was so wild and curly, and he looked funny pushing a broom in khakis. Possibly I was lonely. When he saw me watching him, he smiled and said, “How’s the writing?”

  ‘I said, “Fine.”

  ‘He said, “Good.”

  ‘He indicated the broom: “Doing a little yard work. Tom expects everyone who hangs around to pitch in.”

  ‘I didn’t think sweeping a blacktop was work, but I nodded.

  ‘The guy pushed the broom brusquely. Dust flew into the air. Then he walked over, asked where I was from, where I went jogging, what books I liked. Eventually, he offered, “I’ve been working on my manuscript.”

  ‘ “That’s good,” I mumbled.

  ‘ “It’s about my life,” he said.

  ‘I said I bet it was interesting. I guessed it was about hopping trains, carrying food sacks on sticks, whatever hobo stuff hobos did.

  ‘ “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “But I’ve had interesting jobs.”

  ‘I nodded, asked where he was from.

  ‘ “Nebraska,” he said.

  ‘I had little interest in the Midwest, which I thought of as a wasteland of flat-faced, goiter-ridden white people. He didn’t look like a Midwesterner, not with his olive skin and nearly black hair. He’d folded his muscular arm across his chest, and was peering inscrutably at my apartment’s porch. He was standing quite close to me, I realized.

  ‘He said, “You ever been?”

  ‘I shook my head.

  ‘ “It’s beautiful,” he said. Then he added that his fiancée, the best girl in the world, was there, and that he was returning soon.

  ‘I felt irrationally peeved and blurted out, “If you really like her, why are you here and she’s there?”

  ‘He looked down at his scuffed shoes, and his cheeks reddened. He explained that there were things he “had to do” in Syracuse, but that he was going back once he finished his work. He hoped she’d wait for him. He smiled at me and said, “Do you think time and space matter?”

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to say, it seemed such a stupid question.

  ‘ “Yes,” I said.

  ‘He smiled. “Then maybe they do,” he said gently. “For you.”

  ‘He pulled a photograph from his pocket. It was color, but so faded that I couldn’t see an image—just a form.

  ‘I said she was pretty.

  ‘For lack of better topics, and because I’m interested in these things—how people develop emotions and make the absurd decision to spend their whole life with one probably actually disgusting and not very intelligent person—I asked how they’d met, and he told me that she was a freshman in high school when he was a senior, and that she’d been dating his younger brother. His eyebrows lifted “You can’t tell by looking at me,” he said, “But my brother has blond hair and blue eyes. I’m the dark one in my family.” He frowned. He’d had to do a lot of work to get his fiancée away from his brother, he said, because she’d found his brother incredibly handsome. When I asked what he’d done, he said, “Oh, just the usual: took her out a lot, invented surprise-adventure treats, and told her a lot of bad jokes. Persistence.”

  ‘He peered off into the woods behind my house.

  ‘That was the last time I saw him.

  * * *

  ‘When Paul graduated from the program, he said he might move to D.C. and work as a reporter. I was devastated, because I’d imagined he would stay in Syracuse. When I suggested it, he looked away. He said since I didn’t plan to be with him long-term there was no reason for him to stay.

  ‘I’d told him frankly, when it came up, that I had no interest in marrying him. I had no interest in marriage at all. I suppose that, like many people, I lacked a good model. Marriage seemed a bad deal: the man cheated, and the woman got fat. Also, I’d never met anyone I liked enough to want to marry; also, I wasn’t attracted to Paul.

  ‘I knew I was selfish to want him to stay, just to help me with my work. But whenever I wrote a story he knew whether it was good or bad, and, when it was bad, he told me exactly how to fix it. Also, I’d never had the kind of friendship and support I got from him.

  ‘We stood in my dining room. He asked me, point blank, if I wanted to be with him long-term. I knew that if I said “No,” or “Not sure,” he’d leave.

  ‘I hesitated.

  ‘He turned away.

  ‘I panicked.

  ‘ “Wait,” I said.

  ‘My mother was cold but whenever she wanted someone to do something for her she gave gifts.

  ‘Paul waited.

  ‘I went into my bedroom and grabbed the tourmaline. The stone sparkled. I had some jewellers’ boxes, and I slipped the ring in one. I brought the box to Paul and held it out.

  ‘I said that I’d been meaning to give it to him, as a symbol of my fondness for him, and that I hoped he’d stay.

  ‘He seemed impressed. He put it on. He said he’d stay.

  ‘I suggested we get a nicer apartment. But Paul decided that he liked my flat. So he moved into the pink house.

  * * *

  ‘Paul quite smoking weed. He swore off Taps and spent days in the second bedroom—now his office—but his novel never progressed. He had taken a position working in the warehouse at the air-conditioner factory in town, and he complained that it took all his energy. But he also stayed up every night until 4 A.M. watching movies, and each morning when I opened the freezer I found that a large carton of Breyer’s ice cream that had been full the night before was now half empty. We went on walks together during which he didn’t speak, or else ranted about the crooked Republican government. When his mother called, he didn’t pick up. I guessed that his pot-smoking habit had masked depression; or that living with me depressed him; or that depression was the inevitable result of living in Syracuse.

  ‘He claimed he was “fine”; but sometimes he said his head hurt, and that he couldn’t concentrate; however, this seemed natural for a writer. We seldom had sex; but that was natural, I guessed, for a couple who’d moved in together.

  ‘I’d thought Paul and I were similar—agnostic, liberal. But one afternoon, a few months after moving in, he asked how many men I’d slept with in my life. I trusted him, so I gave an honest answer. That is, an honest estimate. He’d never said he thought having sex was immoral, so I was shocked by his response: he wiped his brow and said, “Really?” Then his eyes glistened. I was concerned. It was his birthday and we’d invited friends over for the evening. I’d baked a cake, and guests were about to arrive.

  ‘I asked what was wrong, “Are you O.K.?” I said, and tried to hug him.

  ‘Abruptly he said he had to go buy beer for our guests. I said I’d bought beer; he answered that I hadn’t bought enough. When our guests arrived, Paul hadn’t returned. Eventually, someone reported that he was at the bar, on a bender.

  ‘I fo
rgave him for that night, or he me—but I felt betrayed. I’d seldom experienced such revulsion directed my way, and I felt vulnerable, as I had when I was a child. I saw him now as I had initially— his face and body so viscerally pink, like underdone pork loin.

  ‘When I stopped sleeping with him, he didn’t seem to care. I thought he’d cheat on me, but he left the house now only to work at the factory.

  ‘I thought he’d leave. But he didn’t. I’d published some stories in national magazines—almost entirely because of his encouragement, plot ideas, edits, and, often, insertions of missing paragraphs—and Paul soon informed me excitedly that I was now eligible to apply for tenure-track teaching jobs. I must apply, he said. If he could, he would. It was an honor, the chance of a lifetime.

  ‘All year, Paul had worked and paid our rent. Because of this, he said, he’d been unable to write. If I got a tenure-track job, I thought, I could support us, and Paul could finish his novel. So I applied for jobs. Paul organized the whole thing, printing out the list from the M.L.A. Web site highlighting ads I qualified for, and circling the best positions.

  ‘To please him, I applied to schools in Ohio, Utah, Iowa, and even Minnesota. But not Nebraska—I wouldn’t go there, I said.

  ‘ “But it’s the best job,” he said. The teaching load was low, the salary high. So I applied.

  ‘Ultimately, I got several offers, but the job in Nebraska was the best.

  ‘When the time to move came, we hadn’t slept together in a year. I told Paul we should break up. To my surprise, he asked me to give him another chance. He’d change in Nebraska, he said.

  ‘In the end, I acceded, because I was afraid to move to Nebraska by myself. Even If he’d become unfamiliar—morose, silent, unable to read—he was familiar— his scent, body, posture, gestures, voice. He was my friend.

  ‘But in Nebraska we grew further apart. Paul loved the friendliness of the people and the fields and trees. I hated the flatness of the Nebraskans’ faces and of the terrain. He’d studied the town’s layout before we moved, scoured rental ads, and chosen a stone “worker’s house” for us that I found ugly and he adored. The university gave him classes to teach, and he loved doing it; I saw teaching as a job. Evenings, we walked along the low, sluggish river that cut through town. The river was brown and smelled of industrial runoff and dead fish. Mosquitoes swarmed along the levee, and as we walked we dripped sweat. Sand islands in the river had signs with skulls on them that read, “Toxic, No Fishing,” and on larger ones old men sat in lawn chairs, rods in the water. I found this tragic. Paul said mildly, “People need to eat.”

  ‘He taught his classes, I mine. He worked in his home office, I in mine. We slept in the same bed like brother and sister. Sometimes he offered me a back rub or touched my shoulder in the night, and I rejected him. I’m ashamed now.

  ‘He stacked neighbors’ wood for fun, swept their driveways. There was one old woman down the block whose lawn he mowed for free, and whose weeds he trimmed. Only now can I see how terrible my attitude was, but I told him that he didn’t need to play grandson to every prairie hag. He reprimanded me calmly, saying he did it because he liked doing it, and wanted to. She wasn’t old, he said; she wasn’t even sixty.

  ‘Only once did he seem his former self—he read a book and talked to me about it. It was a true-crime novel. He bought—but failed to read—biographies, histories, pop science. His head hurt too much, he admitted, to read.

  ‘I almost never went into his office, because I respected his privacy. But one time I did, and I saw a piece of paper that said “KILL YOURSELF” in black letters, taped to the wall above his desk. When I told him I’d seen the sign and was concerned, he laughed and said it was a joke. “Don’t go in my office,” he said.

  ‘He still stayed up watching movies most nights. Once, he told me that he’d written a novel but it was worthless, and he’d thrown it out. I know now that various things cause depression, But, at the time, I was baffled; he seemed so different.

  ‘We lived in Nebraska for two years. Once, we had it out. “I see the way you look at me,” he said. He wasn’t stupid. He knew I’d “settled.” Did I ever think maybe he’d settled for me? I was critical, self-righteous, and a jerk. I was no beauty. There hadn’t been many options in Syracuse for him, either, he said.

  ‘ “You were engaged,” I said.

  ‘He blinked. Flicked his ear as If brushing off a fly. “True,” he said.

  * * *

  ‘I still recall the last time we had sex, because it occurred in an odd way. He touched my shoulder in the night, and, as usual, I rolled away; I don’t want to disgust you with sordid information, but, because it sticks in my memory and is potentially relevant to the story, I have to say. A minute later, I was pushed onto my back and held down; I told him to cut it out, and he ignored me; he was slender, but a boxer, and much stronger than me. It’s going to sound like a terrible romance novel, but he forced me, held me down, looked right at me the whole time, and basically made me want things I didn’t even know I wanted. It was a different style, I guess you could say. Anyway, I was half-horrified and half-exalted afterward, thinking that my whole life had changed, thinking, Maybe this could work, our lives could change, we could be happy, I’ve been such a fool this whole time. I was thinking these things when he said casually, lying apart from me now, “That was for him, by the way.”

  ‘I was still catatonic, and unsure what he meant, when he added, “Because he still likes you, even though you’re being such a cunt.”

  ‘I lay there for a minute.

  ‘I said, “It’s not O.K. to call me a cunt.”

  ‘He settled onto his side and looked at me calmly, fully naked, completely unembarrassed. “You’re right,” he said. He added reasonably, “It’s also not O.K. to be a cunt.”

  * * *

  ‘When I said we should separate, his first words were “I want the house.”

  ‘He also said, when I asked, that I couldn’t have the ring back. It was tacky of me to ask. He gently pointed that out.

  ‘I left Nebraska; he stayed.

  ‘I moved to Brooklyn. I heard through acquaintances that he continued to teach, and also got a job at a foundry. For years I thought of him as a failure. A debacle. I don’t know why I judge people this way. He didn’t publish. I saw pictures of him on Facebook with various younger women, possibly students. I was glad he was dating.

  ‘After I moved to Brooklyn, I started substitute teaching at private high schools. One needed a gym teacher, and so I became one.’ She shrugged. ‘I realized I liked being a gym teacher. I wasn’t writing. The truth is, without Paul’s help I can’t finish a story. I dated now and then, men I liked well enough, no burning love. It’s only recently—’ the woman looked up and brushed her hair behind her ear; her skin was plump, but when she smiled tiny lines appeared under her eyes—‘that I fell in love and understood what people mean when they talk about wanting to be with someone forever.’

  ‘What happened?’ the fantasy writer asked.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know if he loves me.’

  The guests fidgeted.

  ‘Last fall,’ she continued, ‘I went to Paul’s Facebook page and saw a picture of him with a woman: she had a wrinkled face, watery blue eyes, and gray hair. In the picture next to her, Paul’s face looked larger. He was thirty-five; his arms gripped the woman tightly. She was probably sixty. I recognized her: it was the woman who’d lived down the block from us in Nebraska, whose lawn he’d mowed. That surprised me. But they looked happy. So I thought, Well, they get along. The profile—it was his profile photo—said “Married, to Erendita Dantine.” ’

  The woman got up and cleared some plates, then sat down.

  ‘I make too much out of nothing, maybe. But here’s the end: though I’d published nothing in years, I was invited to Syracuse to give a reading. The morning after, I walked to my old neighborhood and knocked on the door of my former apartment. When a young woman answered, I said I
’d lived there once, described the doorknob’s turning in the night, and asked if anything similar had happened to her. She didn’t know what I was talking about.

  ‘I had time before my flight, so I went to Taps. The owner’s son was still bartending, though his face was beefy now, and he had a paunch; his old dad was with him. I ordered a vodka-soda and chatted. Neither of them remembered me. Eventually, I said I used to live nearby, in the pink house, where a man had died.

  ‘ “Otensky,” the owner said.

  ‘I remembered that the bartender had said his father knew him well; I asked the owner to tell me about him.

  ‘He told me what I already knew: that he’d been a regular. That he’d come to town to work at the FitzPatrick plant, but once he saved enough money he was going back to where he was from. The owner paused. “Midwest somewhere. Oklahoma, Wyoming …”

  ‘I said, “Nebraska?”

  ‘That was it, he said. “The guy had a cute fiancée. Showed everybody her picture. Came here to make quick dough, go home, and buy her a house.” But there was an accident; the man’s crew was exposed to dangerous levels of radioactive chemicals. The victims were offered treatment, but the guy declined. “Maybe he was smart,” the owner said. “The other guys still died.” He’d heard from locals who’d visited them in the hospital—the skin slid off their faces like putty.

  ‘I asked the owner what the guy was like before he died, and the owner said that he only came in a couple of times after the accident, but that he said something about finding a way out. He’d seen medical doctors, naturopathic doctors, homeopathic ones, and finally a Santería. Said he paid her up the wazoo, and that they’d worked out a special deal with the universe. He said he’d gotten permission to do something extraordinary.

  ‘I asked what the thing was; he shook his head.

  ‘The owner’s son walked outside to smoke.