The Two-Knock Ghost

by Jeff Lombardo

  “I remember them, but I don’t know that I would remember how to play them.”

  “I don’t think I would remember how to play them now either. That had to be fifteen to twenty years since we played those games. I’ll bet Mom would still know how to play Samba and Canasta.”

  “I’ll bet she would,” I said, missing Christine again and feeling nostalgia about the multitude of vacation days we played those games as a family.

  “But here’s what I like best of all, Dad. From the time I first told you that I liked auto racing, you started buying me little toy cars—Matchbox cars at first, lots of them, remember?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you started me on my favorite collection of all, my Tootsie Toy Cars that were made in Chicago. I remember that when I left home I had sixteen of them. They’re difficult to find. But after over ten years of being away from home, I’ve increased that collection to twenty-seven cars, trucks, tractors, and trailers. I love that collection. And when I look at it, I think of how you started it for me and how we would go to auctions, antique stores, second hand stores, and flea markets looking for all kinds of collectible cars and those gosh darn hard to find Tootsie Toy cars from Chicago and how we laughed and hooplaahed whenever we found one.”

  “I’m almost laughing now when you remind me of those times. They were a lot of fun, weren’t they?”

  “They sure were, Dad.”

  There was a two-second pause in our conversation before Shawn said, “Hey, Dad, guess where I’ve got my Tootsie Toy collection featured?”

  “In your living room up above the fireplace?” I guessed.

  “In my office at the shop. I have nine each on three different staggered shelves. I’m looking at them right now. They fit in really well here. They’re happy to live here. I spend much more time in this office than in my living room.”

  “Thanks for sharing that story with me, Shawn. It actually gives me more strength to face some of my future challenges. But I want to ask you one last time. Was there anything I did when you were growing up that hurt you significantly in any way? I really need to know.” I became silent and the air between us was dead for several seconds. I could almost feel Shawn thinking, reflecting on the long body of years which comprise a childhood. I remained silent, respecting his contemplative space, wondering what he would finally share when he breached the dead air.

  “Dad, there was only one thing that you ever did that I thought was a little strange. It was how consistent you were about going into your bedroom to work on your client notes. You could be in there for hours. After 7:00 p.m., we hardly ever saw you. We’d all be watching TV or doing our homework in the kitchen or living room and you would be in your bedroom working, never a TV or a radio on. I do remember that after I was about eight years old, you would pour yourself a tall glass of rum and Coke with lots of ice and carry it into the bedroom with you. Is that the real reason you went into the bedroom, Dad, to drink?”

  “I’d like to think it wasn’t,” I said a bit shamefully, “but I’m not totally sure anymore. I always thought I was going to work on my client notes for my next day of work.”

  “But you know, Dad, there were lots of Friday and Saturday nights when you went in there too.”

  “I hadn’t realized that,” immediately acknowledging in the moment he said that, that here was a definite way I had hurt my kids and maybe Christine. Right away I wished I could go back to those hundreds of nights and refrain from going into my bedroom and sit instead in the living room and watch TV or play with the kids. How many times I had smelled popcorn cooking in the kitchen and not left my bedroom to share it with my family. I was just beginning to feel sorry for myself when my son spoke.

  “But you know, Dad, if there was something special going on for us kids at night or on a Saturday or Sunday—a sporting event, a recital, a play, a debate—you would always be there. I remember that sometimes Mom would have to work but your schedule was more regular and I can’t ever remember a single important event of mine that you ever missed. I’m too young to remember all of Lena’s and Robert’s events, but I’ll bet if I ask them, that they’d say you were always there for them too.”

  I felt a little better, but not much, because my children were now three for three in telling me they thought it was odd that I spent so much time in my bedroom at night. I asked Shawn if he could think of anything else that might have hurt him and he said, “Definitely not, Dad.” We chatted for a few more minutes. He told me about his current race car and all the problems it had on a daily basis. His tone of voice was subdued and perturbed about that. Then he told me how many hot chicks followed him around the circuit and his voice was upbeat and joyful about that.

  “Dad, I’d better get back out there into the shop and get back to working on that Chevy before some of the guys cop an NA toward me.”

  “What’s an NA?” I asked curiously.

  “Negative attitude, the opposite of what it sounds like that you’ve got going on these days.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, Shawn. Go ahead, get back to work. I promise that I’ll call you more quickly than I ever have before. I’m making that commitment right now.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too.”

  After we completed our call, I made a commitment within myself. I would keep the same promise about calling more quickly than I ever had before, for all of my children. They deserved it. And they deserved my more consistent best from now on.

  Three calls. The same three answers. I was forced by the responses to go deep within myself to figure out what it was that pulled me into that bedroom night after night, year after year. No matter how deeply I searched my mind, the only conclusions I could come to was that I went in there to work, to better the relationships I had with my clients, to help to better their lives, to help their oft tumultuous lives to become more manageable. I was certain that carrying my drink into the bedroom was not my primary reason for going in there, but merely a byproduct of my always feeling that I had to go in there to work.

  I switched my focus to the creation of my new routine. I would run every morning—I mean jog, because at this point that was all of which I was capable. I would try to walk about twenty minutes during lunchtime. I would go to AA meetings almost every night and I would do my thinking for my clients in the car on my way to the Serenity Club, transpose those notes at dinner and try to avoid my bedroom as much as possible as I tried to figure out what had been luring me in there all these years at the expense of my family. I also decided that I’d begin watching TV so that when I talked to Christine I could carry on a coherent conversation with her about what she liked and didn’t like and why.

  I was slowly trying to create a new life. That’s what new routine was. That’s what I had told clients hundreds of times. It’s what I truly believed. It was time for me to put my beliefs into practice.

  The few days between Monday when I called my son and Wednesday when I drove to my new psychologist’s office passed by fairly uneventfully, except on Tuesday, I drove my paunchy self the three or so miles to Lake Seminole Park to jog on their paved trail. It was beautiful there, trees, a wonderful view of Lake Seminole from much of the park, a lagoon which featured an occasional alligator sunning on its banks. The trail was clearly marked; walkers and runners to the right; cyclists and roller skaters to the left. I had already been running for a few days and I’ll bet I had already lost a pound. Besides, I had decided to cut back on the carbs, especially spaghetti and go for high protein. That ought to knock off a few pounds, if I kept jogging. That Saturday I decided to jog the two-mile trail. It took me thirty-three minutes to complete it. I was considerably worn out from the heat and my effort, but I decided to walk the two miles after I jogged it. That took forty-five more minutes. I was happily beat after those two joyful ordeals and glad that I had made the decision to walk over to the drinking fount
ain in front of the men’s bathroom and drink as much of the lukewarm water as I could stand.

  Sunday I jogged on Madeira Beach. I parked in the public parking lot at 146th and Gulf Boulevard and jogged all the way to the bridge at John’s Pass. It was my first jog on the beach since I had been in Florida—maybe eight months. When I reached the rocks at the sand’s end, I did a U turn and headed back to where I had started. When I arrived there, I took off my tennis shoes, walked into the warm late May water and took my first Florida swim as a resident. It was a weekend of firsts. I realized while I was swimming in the calm morning salt water, that I had not swam in the community pool at the Beaches of Paradise either. As I wondered why not, I realized that I had become a little introverted and reclusive since I had moved away from Christine. That fact was in evidence nowhere more than where I lived. The Beaches of Paradise had everything there—dances, dinners, pancake and sausage breakfasts, Bingo, bowling, golf, shuffleboard, a library, outdoor barbeques, a large club house, pool tables, everything designed to bring people happily together. But not me. I wanted no part of it. I merely wanted to live there so I could move out of there and move back where I belonged, with Christine. I wondered if several residents there might have thought that I was stuck-up or at the very least somewhat aloof or shy. But I couldn’t begin to know the answer to that question because in the more than four months I had lived there, I didn’t know anyone well enough to have the first clue as to how they thought about anything.

  CHAPTER 15

  WEDNESDAY CAME QUICKLY, but not easily. By the time I finished work and took myself out to dinner before driving to see the psychologist, I hadn’t had a drink in over a week. I also had not hung out in my bedroom to do client work in almost the same amount of time. I had gone to six consecutive days of AA meetings, had spoken again about my problems with alcohol, had seen and talked with Toby three more times, and had visited my favorite tree once and prayed there for the health and happiness of my kids, Christine, and my becoming a better man. I had dreamed about the devil twice since I had made the appointment with my new psychologist and the Two-Knock Ghost had knocked intrusively within three of my dreams—the two of the devil and one where I was in my office with my new psychologist who looked to be exactly like the actor of the same name. Those knocks had especially knocked me off-kilter because I had just met my new psychologist—the famous actor—had found him exceedingly gracious. In my dream I was about to ask him for his autograph when the ghost knocked twice. How rude, I thought. What a punk. Between the devil and the Two-Knock Ghost, I could hardly have a pleasant dream anymore. One or the other would infiltrate my wonderful moments with their unique brands of terror. But tonight I would begin to address those issues as I drove the last mile to the psychologist’s office. I looked forward to the day when those nightmares would no longer invade my sleep. Within the last three blocks before the office, I thought that it would be super if I could go back home to Christine without the baggage of the dreams of the devil and the Two-Knock Ghost. After having them, I would always wake up feeling an emotional drain that was equivalent to a hangover. I would be able to let the effects of the dream dissipate quickly. Although I’d never had a dream about the Two-Knock Ghost while I was at home with Christine, I’d had several about the devil. Each time I had them I felt those lingering effects of the dream detract from my ability to be happy in the present moment. And so many of those present moments were ones that I shared with Christine, who deserved nothing less than my best from moment to moment.

  In three more minutes the car was parked on the north side of the building at 8601 Fourth Street North. That building was one of a handful of sights in St. Petersburg where patients could go for kidney dialysis. But in the multi-floored building there were a variety of other office configurations, which included lawyers, new growing firms and several other small to medium sized businesses.

  I took the elevator to the third floor, noticing that the hallways were painted a drab gray over an equally drab gray rug. It was a no frills utilitarian hallway. I opened the door to the office and entered. There she was again, the pleasant Dianne with the invitingly smooth southern drawl.

  “Good evening, Dr. McKenzie,” she said, flashing a thirty-two-teeth smile.

  “Welcome to your first visit with Dr. Banderas.”

  “Thank you,” I said, appreciative of her kindness.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. I immediately wanted to sit on the front porch of an old southern plantation, share a glass of iced tea with her, and talk about anything she wanted.

  “The doctor is reviewing your introductory notes right now. I’ll let him know that you’re here and he’ll buzz me in a couple of minutes, as soon as he’s ready to see you.”

  She smiled again and I took that as my cue to have a seat in the waiting room a few feet from her desk. Since I didn’t have a clipboard with all kinds of paperwork attached to it, I took more time than I had the first time I was there to look around the office. It was at first glance a tremendous upgrade from the hallway. There were three large potted plants that rose from the floor to a height of about five feet. One, I was certain was a rubber tree because my mother had one for years that was almost identical. Another was a lush green ficas, rich with leaves. A third was a small elephant ears plant, the kind that I had often seen outdoors in Florida, but was seeing now for the first time as office decor. On the table was a bouquet of pretty mixed flowers, the kind you could buy for about $3.50 at Publix. Neatly staggered on the table around the red vase with the flowers were a variety of about thirty magazines, including seven or eight Psychology Today. Dianne also had a red vase with a bouquet of different flowers on the far right hand outer corner of her desk next to several pictures of her family. It was an uncluttered office with just the right amount of plant life to make a client feel as if they were in a relaxed, comfortable environment. About the time I was thinking my last thought about the office environment, I heard Dianne’s buzzer go off.

  “Dianne, I’m ready now. Could you send Dr. McKenzie in please.”

  “I will, sir,” she said with utmost professionalism.

  I was already standing and moving toward his door by the time Dianne said: “Dr. Banderas is ready to see you now, Dr. McKenzie.”

  “You remembered.” I chuckled.

  “That’s what I get paid to do here,” she joked back. She sprang from her chair and opened the door to her boss’s office.

  As soon as she did that, I noticed the person behind the desk rise out of his chair and step toward the door to greet me. It was Dianne who spoke again.

  “Dr. McKenzie, meet Dr. Banderas.”

  When Dr. Banderas walked his last two steps to shake my hand, Dianne left the room and closed the door behind her. I almost giggled uncontrollably again, but stifled it, thankfully.

  Dr. Banderas was the polar opposite of the famous actor. He was five feet two, stocky, with a full gray and black beard that was extremely well groomed. His eyes were the darkest of browns and large. They were friendly eyes, kind and wise eyes. I could tell these things immediately without reservation.

  His head had lots of curly black hair, but only on the sides and in the back. He was missing a large oval-shaped portion of hair that extended from his forehead five inches to the back of his head where the hair started growing again. From the middle of his forehead to the sides where the hair grew there was a two inch gap of hair. He looked a bit like a monk in an expensive suit. As far as actors, he looked more like Danny DeVitto than Antonio Banderas.

  As he extended his hand to shake mine, he said with a twinkle in his eyes, “Not quite what you had in mind, Dr. McKenzie. Am I right?” He shook my hand as I answered, “You nailed it, sir.” A smile illuminated my face as I spoke.

  He was extremely easygoing as he finished the handshake and walked back around the desk to his chair.

  “I get that all the time when I first meet people.
However, most people get used to me rather quickly.”

  I was still standing as he seated himself in his plush leather chair.

  “Have a seat, Dr. McKenzie, either on the couch or in the chair, wherever you feel more comfortable.”

  I chose to sit in the chair. I was fascinated by the looks of the man before me and I wanted to look at him squarely in his gentle eyes, but the plants and flowers in the room were distracting me. They were everywhere. It was as if I’d just landed in the middle of a tiny, well-manicured jungle island.

  “Kind of hard to ignore the surroundings isn’t it, Dr. McKenzie?”

  “It is,” I said, feeling more comfortable in the moment to look away from Dr. Banderas and scan the room. Every color of the rainbow was represented multiple times within the bouquets that adorned the office and in the variety of growing plants that he had.

  “I hope you like it, Doctor.”

  “You may call me Robert, if you like.”

  I had never seen a room like this that was packed with plant life. It was beautiful and serenely comforting.

  “I feel relaxed here, almost like I’m on vacation,” I said, still gazing at the multitude of plants.

  “I wish I was more knowledgeable about the names of plants and flowers,” I said.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” the little man said in an inviting voice that was nearly devoid of an accent, except for a slight lilt that was reflective of a Spanish speaking past.

  “Over time, I will share the names of my plants and flowers with you.”

  “That’s a deal,” I said, as I began to feel as if I was in a safe environment.