Read Online A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T. M. Wright
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because he had money.”
“I have money, too. Not as much as Art does, it’s true—”
“And because he liked to hit me.”
“He hit you?”
“With his fist. When he got angry.”
“Christ, I had no idea, Phyllis.”
“He got angry once because his team lost the Super Bowl. He threw me across the room, and then he hit me. Three times. Twice in the face. And then in the stomach. He had to take me to the hospital.”
“My God, I never realized Art was like that, Phyllis. I mean, when he was married to Stacy—”
She cut in, “I remember the hospital. It was on the Lower East Side. St. Ignatius. I remember it smelled bad. I remember it was noisy. And I remember I hurt.”
I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead.
“I remember I hurt,” she repeated. She was speaking in a dead, husky monotone. “I never hurt like that before. Not like that. And I knew that Art had done something bad to me. Something no one was ever going to be able to fix.”
I grinned at her, though she wasn’t looking at me. I said, “Well, thankfully, Phyllis, they did —”
“I heard them say that he’d broken my jaw and that he’d ruptured my spleen, too.” I noticed then that she was walking very stiffly, as if she were in pain; I asked her if she was all right, and she ignored me. “They said my spleen had to come out. ‘It’s got to come out,’ they said. So they took it out. And then I heard them say that I had lost a lot of blood, too much blood.” We were closing on the bus stop; there were a half-dozen people clustered at it, and one of them, a young black man smoking a cigarette and wearing a gray sports jacket and black scarf, who was hugging himself for warmth—which I thought was odd, because it wasn’t a cold evening—looked over, smiled, and nodded.
Someone else at the bus stop said loudly, “There it is,” and pointed. I looked and saw our bus a block-and-a-half away. “We’d better hurry up, Phyllis,” I said, and walked faster. She kept pace with me. She said, “Too much blood. That’s what I heard them say: ‘Too much blood.’ And I remember looking down at myself and thinking, ‘Gee, that really is too much blood …” The young man in the gray sports jacket and black scarf tossed his cigarette down, smiled and nodded again. It was then that I realized he was nodding at Phyllis.
“Phyllis?” I said. “Do you know that guy?”
She wasn’t listening to me. She was still talking about St. Ignatius, and though she was keeping pace with me, she was still walking very stiffly and was still speaking in that awful, dead, husky monotone. “I saw them put the I-V bags up. I wanted to yell at them, ‘Hey, that’s not going to do any good.’ “
I heard the bus behind us, closing fast; we were a good fifty feet from the bus stop. “We’d better run, Phyllis,” I said, and began jogging toward the stop. I soon realized that Phyllis had fallen behind. I looked back.
She was trying to jog. She was trying very hard. But she was keeping her arms straight and stiff at her sides. And her knees were not bending correctly as she ran; they were bowing slightly outward, as if her thigh muscles had become very weak, and the only connection between her thighs, knees, and calves was in the bones themselves. And she had her head heldhigh, too, so her chin was jutting forward, and a pathetic, tight-lipped, wide-eyed look of grim determination was on her face.
I stopped jogging at once.
She caught up with me. I put my arm out so it fell across her chest and so my hand was clutching her left shoulder. She stopped. “Phyllis …” I began.
The bus pulled up to the bus stop. The small crowd of people started getting on.
“You okay, Phyllis?”
And she answered, her voice a long, shallow wheeze, “I don’t think I’m used to the exercise, Abner. Forgive me. Please forgive me. It’s the cold air—”
“What’s to forgive, Phyllis?”
She said nothing; she looked
“I have money, too. Not as much as Art does, it’s true—”
“And because he liked to hit me.”
“He hit you?”
“With his fist. When he got angry.”
“Christ, I had no idea, Phyllis.”
“He got angry once because his team lost the Super Bowl. He threw me across the room, and then he hit me. Three times. Twice in the face. And then in the stomach. He had to take me to the hospital.”
“My God, I never realized Art was like that, Phyllis. I mean, when he was married to Stacy—”
She cut in, “I remember the hospital. It was on the Lower East Side. St. Ignatius. I remember it smelled bad. I remember it was noisy. And I remember I hurt.”
I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead.
“I remember I hurt,” she repeated. She was speaking in a dead, husky monotone. “I never hurt like that before. Not like that. And I knew that Art had done something bad to me. Something no one was ever going to be able to fix.”
I grinned at her, though she wasn’t looking at me. I said, “Well, thankfully, Phyllis, they did —”
“I heard them say that he’d broken my jaw and that he’d ruptured my spleen, too.” I noticed then that she was walking very stiffly, as if she were in pain; I asked her if she was all right, and she ignored me. “They said my spleen had to come out. ‘It’s got to come out,’ they said. So they took it out. And then I heard them say that I had lost a lot of blood, too much blood.” We were closing on the bus stop; there were a half-dozen people clustered at it, and one of them, a young black man smoking a cigarette and wearing a gray sports jacket and black scarf, who was hugging himself for warmth—which I thought was odd, because it wasn’t a cold evening—looked over, smiled, and nodded.
Someone else at the bus stop said loudly, “There it is,” and pointed. I looked and saw our bus a block-and-a-half away. “We’d better hurry up, Phyllis,” I said, and walked faster. She kept pace with me. She said, “Too much blood. That’s what I heard them say: ‘Too much blood.’ And I remember looking down at myself and thinking, ‘Gee, that really is too much blood …” The young man in the gray sports jacket and black scarf tossed his cigarette down, smiled and nodded again. It was then that I realized he was nodding at Phyllis.
“Phyllis?” I said. “Do you know that guy?”
She wasn’t listening to me. She was still talking about St. Ignatius, and though she was keeping pace with me, she was still walking very stiffly and was still speaking in that awful, dead, husky monotone. “I saw them put the I-V bags up. I wanted to yell at them, ‘Hey, that’s not going to do any good.’ “
I heard the bus behind us, closing fast; we were a good fifty feet from the bus stop. “We’d better run, Phyllis,” I said, and began jogging toward the stop. I soon realized that Phyllis had fallen behind. I looked back.
She was trying to jog. She was trying very hard. But she was keeping her arms straight and stiff at her sides. And her knees were not bending correctly as she ran; they were bowing slightly outward, as if her thigh muscles had become very weak, and the only connection between her thighs, knees, and calves was in the bones themselves. And she had her head heldhigh, too, so her chin was jutting forward, and a pathetic, tight-lipped, wide-eyed look of grim determination was on her face.
I stopped jogging at once.
She caught up with me. I put my arm out so it fell across her chest and so my hand was clutching her left shoulder. She stopped. “Phyllis …” I began.
The bus pulled up to the bus stop. The small crowd of people started getting on.
“You okay, Phyllis?”
And she answered, her voice a long, shallow wheeze, “I don’t think I’m used to the exercise, Abner. Forgive me. Please forgive me. It’s the cold air—”
“What’s to forgive, Phyllis?”
She said nothing; she looked
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