Read Online A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: T. M. Wright
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Doubleday. Phyllis will show you the way.”
They rounded the table together and started for the door. Phyllis stood. I stood. Phyllis took my arm and led me to the door with them.
“Tomorrow, then,” Lorraine Pellaprat said.
“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow.”
Thomas Pellaprat extended his hand; I took it. “Good to meet you, Mr Doubleday.”
“And you, too, Mr. Pellaprat.”
“Until tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Of course you are.”
They left the apartment. Phyllis and I stood in the doorway together and watched as they walked to the elevator. We watched, smiling, as they waited. And,’ at last, when the elevator came, they waved, and we waved, and the aged man who had been working the elevator a week earlier—and whom I hadn’t seen since—stuck his head out. “Hello, sir,” he said to me. And I nodded at him and said, “Hello.”
I am not going to try and make you believe that what follows is a love story. Because it’s so much more than that.
When I hear the words love story , I think of Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Woody Allen and Diane Keaton, Taylor and Burton, Streisand and Redford. I do not think of Abner W. Cray and Phyllis Pellaprat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965
I asked Sam again, “Is that some kind of trick-candle or something, Sam?” because it went out a third time, and he relit it.
“Could be,” he said. “But it ain’t.”
“Then what keeps blowing it out, for crimey’s sake?” I shifted a little on the cold cement floor because my legs had started to go to sleep.
“Spooks and demons,” Sam answered.
“I don’t think I believe in demons, Sam. I don’t even know what a demon is. And maybe I believe in spooks, and maybe I don’t, but I sure don’t think they’d hang around here.”
“Who’s to say?” he asked. “Not me and not you, that’s for certain.”
We were both seated cross-legged on the floor.
Sam lifted one cheek then, and a long, noisy fart came from him. He looked pleased.
I waved at the air. “Jees, that stinks.”
“We can light ‘em,” he said.
“Shit,” I said.
“Light the old demon farts.” He chuckled. “Light the demon’s breath!” He chuckled again, though lower in his throat, as if to himself. “Demon fire!” he whispered tightly.
“I wanta leave,” I said.
“I have demon fire in my shorts.”
“You’re being real stupid, Sam.”
He reached out, stroked the cat’s skull very slowly and lovingly. “You’re a nice cat, Flora,” he said several times as he stroked it. “You’re a nice cat, Flora.”
“You’re giving me the creeps, goddamnit!” I said.
“You’re supposed to have the creeps,” he said. “We’re sitting in here with a bunch of dead people, so you’re supposed to have the creeps.”
“I wanta leave,” I said again.
“Go ahead.”
“I mean it,” I said.
“No, you don’t. You don’t mean it.”
And he was right. I didn’t mean it.
In Manhattan, January 23, 1983
It was a little past 7:00 when Phyllis and I left Art DeGraff’s apartment to catch a bus for her parents’ home on East 95th Street. She seemed very excited, and I realized that it was the first time we’d been out of the apartment together.
She had dressed warmly—although it was an unseasonably mild evening—in a stylish, white, waistlength mink coat (“Fake,” she told me, “but don’t let on.”), a mid-calf-length green dress, and white, knee-high boots with stacked heels. She looked very sexy.
“You look sexy as hell, Phyllis,” I told her. We were walking east on East 79th Street, arm in arm.
“Thank you, Abner.” She seemed pleased. “Tonight is very special.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think so, too.”
“They didn’t like Art.”
“Your parents, you mean?”
She nodded. “They didn’t approve of him. Because he was white.”
“I’m white, Phyllis.”
“And
They rounded the table together and started for the door. Phyllis stood. I stood. Phyllis took my arm and led me to the door with them.
“Tomorrow, then,” Lorraine Pellaprat said.
“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow.”
Thomas Pellaprat extended his hand; I took it. “Good to meet you, Mr Doubleday.”
“And you, too, Mr. Pellaprat.”
“Until tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Of course you are.”
They left the apartment. Phyllis and I stood in the doorway together and watched as they walked to the elevator. We watched, smiling, as they waited. And,’ at last, when the elevator came, they waved, and we waved, and the aged man who had been working the elevator a week earlier—and whom I hadn’t seen since—stuck his head out. “Hello, sir,” he said to me. And I nodded at him and said, “Hello.”
I am not going to try and make you believe that what follows is a love story. Because it’s so much more than that.
When I hear the words love story , I think of Ali McGraw and Ryan O’Neal, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Woody Allen and Diane Keaton, Taylor and Burton, Streisand and Redford. I do not think of Abner W. Cray and Phyllis Pellaprat.
CHAPTER TWELVE
At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965
I asked Sam again, “Is that some kind of trick-candle or something, Sam?” because it went out a third time, and he relit it.
“Could be,” he said. “But it ain’t.”
“Then what keeps blowing it out, for crimey’s sake?” I shifted a little on the cold cement floor because my legs had started to go to sleep.
“Spooks and demons,” Sam answered.
“I don’t think I believe in demons, Sam. I don’t even know what a demon is. And maybe I believe in spooks, and maybe I don’t, but I sure don’t think they’d hang around here.”
“Who’s to say?” he asked. “Not me and not you, that’s for certain.”
We were both seated cross-legged on the floor.
Sam lifted one cheek then, and a long, noisy fart came from him. He looked pleased.
I waved at the air. “Jees, that stinks.”
“We can light ‘em,” he said.
“Shit,” I said.
“Light the old demon farts.” He chuckled. “Light the demon’s breath!” He chuckled again, though lower in his throat, as if to himself. “Demon fire!” he whispered tightly.
“I wanta leave,” I said.
“I have demon fire in my shorts.”
“You’re being real stupid, Sam.”
He reached out, stroked the cat’s skull very slowly and lovingly. “You’re a nice cat, Flora,” he said several times as he stroked it. “You’re a nice cat, Flora.”
“You’re giving me the creeps, goddamnit!” I said.
“You’re supposed to have the creeps,” he said. “We’re sitting in here with a bunch of dead people, so you’re supposed to have the creeps.”
“I wanta leave,” I said again.
“Go ahead.”
“I mean it,” I said.
“No, you don’t. You don’t mean it.”
And he was right. I didn’t mean it.
In Manhattan, January 23, 1983
It was a little past 7:00 when Phyllis and I left Art DeGraff’s apartment to catch a bus for her parents’ home on East 95th Street. She seemed very excited, and I realized that it was the first time we’d been out of the apartment together.
She had dressed warmly—although it was an unseasonably mild evening—in a stylish, white, waistlength mink coat (“Fake,” she told me, “but don’t let on.”), a mid-calf-length green dress, and white, knee-high boots with stacked heels. She looked very sexy.
“You look sexy as hell, Phyllis,” I told her. We were walking east on East 79th Street, arm in arm.
“Thank you, Abner.” She seemed pleased. “Tonight is very special.”
“Yes,” I said. “I think so, too.”
“They didn’t like Art.”
“Your parents, you mean?”
She nodded. “They didn’t approve of him. Because he was white.”
“I’m white, Phyllis.”
“And
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