Phantom

by Thomas Tessier

  "Dave," Michael said. It was his middle name.

  "That's a nice solid name," Vy said. "I find names fascinating, don't you? My first husband was named Orlando and everybody called him Or, which sounds funny but actually suited him very well. He could never figure out what kind of person he was going to be or what he was going to do. He was a kind of human or, stuck between all kinds of alternatives and directions, never knowing which of them to take up. He was an or all the time I knew him. Probably still is, the poor bastard."

  The more Vy talked, the less Michael wanted to hear. He asked just one polite question-—"Do you live in Lynnhaven?"—and that was all Vy needed to grab the conversational reins.

  "Lynnhaven's a funny old town," Vy said. "Cute and dumb, you know? It's kind of nice, I suppose, but it sure isn't the liveliest place in the world. In fact, it's pretty darn slow when you come right down to it."

  Michael nodded agreeably. There was no point in telling her that was one of the reasons he liked the town.

  "I've been thinking of leaving," Vy went on. "But I don't know where I'd go, that's what's keeping me here. I've been like this for the last six months—how's that for indecision? Ever since Ralph died. Maybe I'll go to Arizona or Oregon, I hear they're still real natural. But then, I remember reading something about the Mafia taking over Arizona. I guess it's only a matter of time." .

  She's not shady, Michael decided. She's just a birdbrain. Now it seemed to him that, yes, this was a silly little excursion he was on. He had a wife and son and plenty of booze at home, so what was he doing in a nameless joint like this? What was he looking for? Nothing, really. Just a pleasant walk, a beer in a local bar and another pleasant walk home. That was enough. Enough to remind him of what he was lucky to have. The world was full of bruised souls and stunted personalities, like Vy and Ted and those potted plants over there. People with not a whole lot going for them. Even Linda, his own wife—where would she be without him? She was a good person, and full of love, but could she hold herself together alone if she had to? Did she have the necessary inner strength? Michael wondered. Of course, Ned would be there, but a child can be as much a drain as a help. If anything ever happened to Michael, Linda would need all the help she could get. Including, eventually, another man. She just wasn't the kind of person who could make it alone. Perhaps Michael should increase his life-insurance coverage, so that Linda would have plenty of cushion if the unthinkable ever came to pass. You can never be too secure.

  " ... on the rebound," Vy was saying. "So Bruno and I got married, just like that. That's the kind of people we were. But the whole thing lasted only one week. We went to Haiti for our honeymoon, which was handy because you can get a divorce there too, pronto, which we did. Don't ask me why, who knows about marriage? It's a funny business, that's all I can say. Anyhow, I found out later that Bruno was running guns into Nicaragua and he got very rich. Just my luck. He sold guns to both sides, all sides—that's the beauty of free enterprise. But what a way to make a living. I finally understood why he was such a nervous guy."

  Vulnerable, Michael thought. Yes, that was one part, a large part, perhaps, of what had attracted him to Linda. She was one of life's vulnerable people. She needed to be looked after and protected. She was his special project for life, and just thinking about it gave Michael a good feeling inside.

  "Funny the things you think of when you're in a bar with strangers," Michael said absently. "Things that never occur to you at any other time or place."

  "You're telling me," Vy agreed.

  Michael looked at the woman again. Not bad, really, he had to admit. Something of a good shape there, too. He might almost find her attractive. If he thought about it for a while.

  Good thing he was a happy man.

  * * *

  9. Under the Half Moon

  Before bed.

  Sitting by the window.

  He and the spa were a film playing over and over again in his mind.

  Then the scarecrow moved in the light of the half moon.

  Broomstick arms, first one, then the other, swung around to wave and point.

  At Ned.

  * * *

  10. Linda

  She was waiting for a sign.

  Her husband thumbing through the latest issue of Business Week? Her son quietly watching "Buck Rogers" on TV? The slosh and hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen? No, none of these.

  Linda thought the problem might be that she was still overly romantic. Too much Wordsworth in college, or something like that. You could spend a lifetime waiting for a sign that the ideal, the idyllic, the dream had begun. But it would never happen. Even when every circumstance seemed to be right and the dream within your grasp .... How hard it was to close your fingers around it. Memories? You could try to cast them in a magic light, but at the same time you knew they were only ordinary.

  But Linda was waiting for another kind of sign. One that would herald the arrival of trouble. It was not something Linda looked forward to, but neither was she so foolish as to assume it would never come. Having only one child heightens your awareness of dangers. The sign, if and when it came, could mean anything, but what she feared most was illness. Although Ned seemed to be a perfectly healthy boy he could be carrying her own physical weaknesses in him like a time bomb.

  There are many myths and misconceptions about asthma. Friends in Washington had told Linda she was crazy to move to the shore, that the damp sea air would kill her. Go to Arizona, they urged her. But asthma affects different people in different ways, and Linda had learned the hard way that a dry atmosphere was much more likely to trigger an attack in her. Even here, in Lynnhaven, they had to have humidifiers on both floors of the house. Another annoying notion was that asthma was purely a mental problem. She had lost count of the number of smug people who had nodded sagely and recommended a good psychiatrist to her. Of course, stress influenced it, but asthma was still a very real physical affliction. The sanest, most well-adjusted people in the world could suffer devastating attacks. But the most distressing misconception was that asthma developed in childhood. If that were true Linda could have begun counting the days until Ned would be safe. A few more years and he would be into adolescence. But asthma could and did surface at any time in a person's life. In many cases it didn't emerge until one was fully adult. So, every day that passed with Ned in good health did offer some relief for Linda, but also seemed to renew the threat. You can never be sure, you can never be safe.

  And asthma was only one of many possibilities. A child might suffer and die from a million different things. Drugs and street violence might have been left behind in Washington (at least, she hoped so), but Lynnhaven was still something of an unknown quantity, and it would be a mistake to regard it as a true sanctuary. A cut from a rusty fish hook, a cut so small Ned wouldn't even mention it, could bring on tetanus.

  Linda recognized the old trap and once more pulled herself out of it: the more you worried about things, the more things you found to worry about. And down that road lay the twin pitfalls of fatalism and paralysis. Linda knew that the proper attitude was one of vigilance.

  Michael was so calm about these things. They didn't seem to bother him at all. She would like to be that way, to be able to take each day as it came, naturally and competently. That's what Linda had always admired about her husband, even years ago when he had still had a lot of boyishness about him. It was a measure of competence she felt all too lacking in herself. Nor was Michael one of life's sleepwalkers. He knew who he was and what he was doing, and he built his life on that foundation. It was a sense of certainty that Linda clung to, even if it did infuriate her at times.

  Maybe the trouble was that she and Michael seemed to have so little time together alone. The last time they had been away by themselves was—God, five or six years ago, when they had left Ned with his grandparents in Buffalo and gone to Montserrat for a week. Since then, not even a hasty overnighter in a Maryland motel. Yes, it would definitely be good for them to
get away for a while. But it was not going to happen this year, she knew. They had already spent a lot of money on the house and there was still a good deal of work to be done.

  They had come a long way, she and Michael, since the days when they'd been students together at Boston University. From there they'd gone to Pennsylvania, where Michael did graduate work. Then Washington, the exciting adventure that, somewhere along the line, had downshifted into everyday life. Linda hated to think of her old art history texts, dusty now and packed away in cartons in the cellar. She couldn't remember the last time she had gone to an exhibition or picked up a new art book. With Michael, the change could be seen in the way he had taken to the dull security of his government job; he no longer talked about moving to one of the prestigious private firms, much less branching out on his own.

  It's called life, Linda reflected. Sooner or later, one way or another, you have to strike a truce and settle in.

  Now, Lynnhaven. The move from the city. A whole house, not just an apartment. Four acres of land. The next rung on the endless American ladder that goes-where? Maybe that's what it's really all about: the movement, the semblance of change that eventually took the place of change itself. But how could Linda fault it? What more did she want?

  Friends. Now that she thought about it, Linda wondered if she hadn't really been speaking about herself when she told Michael that Ned needed friends. Here she was with a child to watch over and a marriage as comfortable as an old chair—but no neighbor close enough to do things with, to talk to, no friend of her own.

  In Washington there had been acquaintances, other wives and some good neighbors in the apartment building. But the move to Lynnhaven had reduced contact with those people to occasional telephone calls and vague promises at both ends of the line to get together soon. Is something happening to me? Linda wondered. Do you suddenly become old and boring when you move from a city to a small town? One thing she knew for sure: when you move you lose touch in many ways.

  Even with Janice, and that was perhaps the most distressing part. Janice Roberts was Linda's best friend in Washington, and yet in just a few months it seemed they were becoming strangers to each other. They still talked on the telephone, but the conversations now tended to be short and newsy-almost to the point of being impersonal. It was worrying, but Linda tried to convince herself that they were just going through one of those temporary lulls that occur in all relationships once in a while.

  Linda and Janice knew each other from college in Boston, but their friendship didn't really blossom until they met again by chance in Washington. Janice had landed a job with a small but up-and-coming public relations firm and had settled into a tiny apartment on the fringe of Georgetown, not far from where Michael and Linda were living. As well as being old schoolmates, the two women complemented each other in certain ways. Janice was living alone and making a career for herself, while Linda was married and looking forward to raising children. It was a friendship remarkably free of tension or competitiveness. Linda and Janice were both happy with their own situations, and so they were able to admire each other's strengths and abilities without envy.

  In Washington Linda and Janice did things together regularly, whether it was visiting a gallery or seeing a new film or play, or simply meeting for lunch and a bit of shopping. Even after Ned was born they were still able to get around almost as often as before, since Michael didn't mind taking care of the infant for a few hours on a week night or a Saturday afternoon. And Janice would baby-sit from time to time so that Michael and Linda could go out together. Michael and Janice got along well enough. Although he thought she was somewhat pretentious and she found him rather stuffy, there was no antagonism between them.

  But now—what was happening to Linda that was changing her friendship with Janice? Since the Covingtons had moved, the two women had seen each other exactly twice. That in itself was not too surprising, as Janice's work kept her quite busy and Linda had more than she could handle between Ned and the new house. No, there was something else, the tone perhaps, of those two encounters, that bothered Linda.

  The first time had been shortly after the move, when Janice came to Lynnhaven to inspect the place. She thought the house and site were wonderful, and she stayed for most of the afternoon. The two women chatted comfortably over wine and pate and coffee and pastry. There had been no awkward silences or strained moments; it had been an easy, pleasant occasion, like many others they had spent together. Yes, and ... ? Linda remembered. A few minutes before she went back to Washington, Janice had looked around and said, "Well, you really are here now." But it wasn't so much what she had said, nor even how she had said it that stayed with Linda. It was the look in Janice's eyes, an expression that was there for a brief instant and then gone. Even now, a couple of months later, Linda couldn't say what it meant. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps she had imagined it. And yet, it stayed with her.

  Not long after that they saw each other again. It was a Friday, Linda remembered. She had called the office to say that Michael was sick and wouldn't be to work that day. Actually, he was fine and just wanted a three-day weekend. That freed Linda and she immediately decided to go into Washington. Janice had to be at a reception at noon, but she was able to sneak away early and meet Linda for a quick bite of lunch and a drink. They had a little less than an hour together but it seemed longer, Linda recalled unhappily.

  "How was your reception?"

  "Terrible, which means good," Janice said. "Full of lecherous cops and ambitious young congressional aides."

  "What was it for?"

  "Teflon-coated bullets."

  "You're kidding." Linda smiled, but then she saw that Janice was serious. "Why—"

  "Believe me, you don't want to know."

  The conversation moved in fits and starts for the next half hour, going nowhere. Janice seemed not tired but weary. It was strange, and it made Linda feel self-conscious. All of a sudden she realized she didn't have much to say. It was as if a vacuum had formed over the table between them, and they could do nothing about it. Both women felt relieved when it was time to go.

  "Are you all right?" Linda asked as they stood outside the restaurant.

  "Sure. Why?"

  "I don't know. You look like you could use a vacation."

  What a terrible thing to say, Linda thought. But it was too late, the words were already spoken.

  "I probably could," Janice admitted. "How about you? How are you doing out there in the sticks?"

  Linda recalled answering: "Oh, fine."

  On the way back to Lynnhaven she tried to reason her way out of her melancholy. Just one of those days. Two people in off-moods. Janice working too hard. Me not yet fully adjusted to my new environment. Et cetera. Blah blah blah. Fine? Pretty good? Okay? So-so? Or ... what?

  Since then she'd had no desire to go back in to Washington, but she did hope Janice would come out to visit again. Their friendship was too solid to shake apart in a little turbulence. But she knew now that Janice could not solve her problems for her. Linda had known how easy it was to feel invisible in a big city; since moving to Lynnhaven she had learned that a person could be equally alone in a small town. And the only one who can do anything about it, she told herself once more, is you.

  Linda looked up from her cold tea and unopened magazine.

  Had she heard something, or was it just her imagination? A voice. Ned was talking to someone. Linda left the kitchen and went quietly through the dining room. She saw Ned standing at the far end of the living room. He was looking straight ahead at nothing.

  "Who were you talking to?"

  Ned wheeled around, startled by his mother's presence.

  "Nobody."

  "I thought I heard you talking just a minute ago."

  Bright afternoon sunshine poured through the wide window and Ned moved to step out of the glare that only increased his discomfort.

  "No .... I guess I just read something out loud from the newspaper." He pointed to the comics page lying
open on the coffee table. "That's all."

  "Are you all right, Ned?"

  "Sure."

  "Well, don't forget. Your father wants you to do some weeding in the garden."

  "I know. I'll do it later, when it's cooler out."

  Ned went upstairs to his room. Linda refolded the newspaper and then wandered back into the kitchen. Out loud? Yes, Ned followed the daily strips and he had stacks of comic books in his room. But reading them out loud—that just didn't seem like Ned's style. Ned loved to read; he took after his father in that respect. Michael, in the absence of anything better to read while sitting on the toilet, would study the labels on bottles of disinfectant or shampoo. Once he had emerged from the throne room denouncing skin cremes as an extravagant waste of petroleum products. But Ned was the kind of boy who could sit reading for hours on end without making a sound. He never even laughed at those comics, let alone read them 'out loud.

  Don't go making something out of nothing again, Linda reproached herself. What did it matter if Ned was reading out loud, or even holding an imaginary conversation? Kids do that all the time. Not only is there nothing wrong with it, but sometimes it's even good for a child, all the books said so. But Ned was almost ten and he'd never done it before. At least, not as far as she knew ....

  She could talk to Michael about it, but—was there really anything to talk about? He would listen, as he always did, attentive, sympathetic; concerned, but in the end he would say: What did you hear? No single word. Not even a syllable to ponder. Nothing. It's nothing.

  And he'd probably be right, Linda thought. She'd just have to be more alert. The important thing was to be prepared if her son was ever threatened, prepared to do whatever was necessary to ensure his safety. She would protect Ned. She would die for him, if it came to that. No question.