Goodlow's Ghosts (18 page)

Rebecca smiled nervously, her gaze alternating between the woman's playful gray-blue eyes and the big, bulky purse. "I wanted to open it," Rebecca said. "I mean, who wouldn't? You tell someone not to do something, and that's precisely what they're going to want to do."

"Certainly," said the woman, and her playful smile broadened a bit. "It makes perfect sense. And I think that I may even believe that you did not look in the envelope. It makes no difference whatever if you did or didn't. We hired you to become involved with Mr.
Goodlow
for a reason, of course. And now that he has, as they say, gone the way of the dinosaurs, your usefulness has come to an abrupt end." She withdrew a small
calibre
pistol from her purse and pointed it at Rebecca's head.

Rebecca held her hands up, palms out, at chest level. "You really don't have to do this," she pleaded. "Honest."

"Oh," said the woman, "but I really do. And I'll tell you why." Her smile grew flat and merciless. "Because I
like
it." And she fired.

~ * ~

Halfway up the stairs to his office, the young, red-headed boy behind him, Ryerson had looked back and seen the boy give way to the man.

And now, Ryerson could see him as a whole person. He wondered if it was how Sam could see himself. He asked, "How do you see yourself, Sam?"

"As a lost soul, Ryerson," Sam answered.

"Oh."

"But that was neither the extent or the intent of your question, was it?"

"It suffices."

"Some say the world will end in fire," Sam intoned, "others say in ice. But from what I know of desire, I hold with those who favor fire, though ice is nice, and will suffice." He smiled. It was the biggest, most self-satisfied and toothy smile that Ryerson had ever seen.

"Robert Frost," he said.

"Is it?" Sam said. "It just came to me, as if someone were whispering in my ear. Who reads anymore?" His smile flickered and was gone. "His name was Matthew, yes, I remember, it returns, echoes, recapitulates, rehashes. Matthew. He who sneezes."

"You talked to him on the phone?"

"Yes."

"And you gave him some message? Do you remember the message, Sam?"

Sam shook his head. He looked miserable. He said, his gaze on the ceiling, his big hands flat on the arms of the winged-back chair, "People are beginning to whisper to me, Ryerson. They're whispering to me right now, even as I speak, even as I ... listen, listen, I hear them, little,
anonynous
whispers, like the sounds of children playing in closed rooms. Ryerson, who
knows
what message I gave? Can I speak, can I tell?"

"Don't fade away just now, Sam—"

"Ask a cloud not to evaporate, a breeze not to die, a memory not to be lost, Ryerson, listen, listen, listen, hear them? Hear them? The whispers! It is all poetry, anonymous poetry, like the comingled songs of morning birds ... Oh, God, God, this is so very embarrassing, to wax rhapsodic about ... about heaven. Matthew, yes, I gave him a
mes;age
, I told him this."

Silence.

"Told him what?" Ryerson asked.

"I sing the body electric—"

Silence.

"You're reciting poetry, Sam."

"It's kind of a Zen thing."

"Matthew?" Ryerson coaxed.

"'I need to speak with Ryerson
Biergarten
,' I said. 'Do I have the right number?'

"And Matthew said, 'Yes, this is the
Biergarten
residence. My name is Matthew. I'm Mr.
Biergarten's
assistant.'

"And I said, 'Good. Tell Mr.
Biergarten
it's urgent, tell him to call me. My name is Sam
Goodlow
. My number is 396-0161. Please tell him it's a matter of life and death. Tell him to meet me at Sledge's Restaurant, tomorrow, at 8:00 P.M.'

"And Matthew said, 'That's Sledge's, tomorrow, at 8:00. I've got it, Mr.
Goodlow
. And may I tell him what this is about?'

"And I said, 'Just tell him there's someone I want him to meet. Someone I need identified.'

"And Matthew said, 'Identified. Yes. I see.' And he sneezed.

"I said, 'God bless you,' and he said, 'Thank you.'"

"You've got quite a memory, Sam."

"I was five years old. Five. A long, long time ago. Never. And I was in kindergarten, and there was a little girl I was interested in. Her name was Terry Lee Davis—oh what a cute thing she was, Rye, and I came up to her after school one day and I said to her, 'Hi, my name is Sam. Will you be my girlfriend?' And she giggled the way five-year-old girls do.

"I was eight years old, and I had a cat whose name was Cat. That was my father's idea. Cat. Stupid, I told him. Cat for a cat. He didn't care. He thought he was clever. He wasn't. I didn't want to tell him.

"I was fourteen, I was horny, I was horny, and I was dancing with a girl who was fourteen. Her name was Samantha. Sam and Samantha. I thought it was perfect. I put my hand on her ass while we were dancing. It was a school dance. Ninth Grade Hop. We were all dressed like stiffs. I put my hand on Samantha's ass and she let me keep it there a few seconds. Then she stepped away and looked angry and slapped me.

"I was four years old. It was my birthday. There were my Mom and Dad with their huge smiles because I was four and it was my birthday. As if no one had ever turned four. Only their son.

"I was twenty-six. My father died.

"I was thirteen. Masturbating for the first time. Late bloomer. Finding ecstasy.
I can do this to myself
, I thought.

"Fifteen. Lost in the woods.

"Thirty-one. Broken heart. Oh Leslie, Leslie, what a time it was . . ."

Ryerson listened for a long while without interrupting. He grew sad because he thought that he was hearing a life winding down, was watching a candle going out.

The headline on page two of the
Boston Herald
read:

MAN TELLS BIZARRE STORY

Fredrick Barnard, 85, was never a religious man, at least not until three days ago, when, he says, he walked smack dab into and then right through his cellar wall, and found himself in another world.

According to Mr. Barnard, that world is the place that the rest of us refer to as Heaven, The Other Side, The Afterlife, Nirvana. But it is not, Mr. Barnard claims, anything like the place most of us have come to believe in. In some ways, Mr. Barnard says, it is a place of nightmares. But it is also, "a place of great peace and contentment, where we have a chance to experience again, and as often as we like, the happiest moments from our lives here on earth."

His daughter, Hanna Beckford, goes a long way to corroborate his story…

~ * ~

"Yes," said Matthew Peters nervously, "I remember. Someone did call." He nodded. "And yes, I remember that his name was
Goodlow
. If you say that it was
Sam
Goodlow
, then that has to be what his name was. He might have said Samuel, but I don't think so."

Ryerson sighed. "For God's sake, Matthew—" He fought back his anger. "Do you remember where you put the damned message, at least?"

Matthew nodded again. "I hope it wasn't very important, Mr.
Biergarten
."

"It was."

"Oh. I'm sorry." He nodded to indicate a telephone table in the foyer, went over to it, opened the drawer, took out a folded sheet of yellow notepaper, and handed it to Ryerson.

Ryerson unfolded the piece of notepaper and read, "
Goodlow
. Sledge's. 8:00 P.M., June 5. Important! Need someone identified." He stared at the words for a long while; they were a real, tangible connection between him and the living Sam
Goodlow
. They seemed more real, in fact, than the spirit of Sam
Goodlow
himself.

~ * ~

Jenny
Goodlow
stood in the center of her brother's office and said aloud, "Where are you, Sammy?" The phrasing of the question was very odd, she realized, because she had never, in their adult lives, called her brother "Sammy." It had always been "Sam," except when they were small children. Perhaps that was why she called him "Sammy," now. It made him more childlike—in an odd way, it made him seem more accessible. Perhaps she was calling to the spirit of the child in him, which, she thought, would come to her easily, and enthusiastically.

~ * ~

Sam
Goodlow
was in a wide, sunlit meadow and he was naked. Around him, honeybees foraged noisily among the wildflowers which grew in a crazy-quilt abundance here.

There were trees all around at the far horizon and he could see them well—each leaf, and each vein in each leaf, the topography of the bark.

His life was with him in the meadow. He could touch it, smell it, see it—the images were as real as his awareness of them. They danced sensually about him, at once teasing and mocking because they were so temptingly just beyond his grasp.

He felt caressed by these images, and slapped by them, pushed by them, tugged by them. They made him cold and they made him warm. He felt as if he were on a stormy but benevolent ocean, in this meadow, surrounded by the images of his life.

He had evolved since the first moments after the Lincoln Town Car had run him down, since he had come into this new . . . awareness. And he knew that he was evolving, now, that he was changing, that he was becoming something he never was, and had always been.

Sam
Goodlow
. Stocky and baby faced, the infant beneath the rounded exterior.

That man was dead. Perhaps not physically (that had yet to be proved), but in every other way that mattered.

Here he was, naked and looking very white and out-of-shape in this sunlit meadow.

Then he was no longer in the sunlit meadow.

He was in Ryerson
Biergarten's
office, and a big man he thought he recognized was there, too, tearing the place apart.

~ * ~

It was just like the old woman not to tell him what the hell he would be looking for, the big man thought. Her and her damned penchant for secrecy.

Penchant
, he thought, and smiled. Good word. He had always been good with words.

He threw open a desk drawer that he had already looked into a half-dozen times. The drawer contained a couple of pens, a
Swingline
stapler, a snapshot of an olive-skinned woman with dark hair, a notepad with complex, geometric doodles in red and green ink around the edges of the pages, but no writing, some paperclips, and a stick of Carefree cinnamon gum. The big man scowled. Same shit he had looked at before. He picked up the stick of gum, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. He scowled again. It was stale.

"What the hell am I looking for?" he whispered.

You'll know when you find it
, the old woman had told him cryptically.

"It's a Zen thing," he heard.

"Huh?"

"It's a Zen thing. Don't concentrate on anything, just
do
it!"

The big man glanced quickly around the room. The voice seemed to be
omni
-directional. "Where are you?" he demanded.

"I might ask you the same question, my friend."

"What
is
this shit!"

"Wait, wait—I know you. We've never met, it's true, but I do know you."

"Show yourself,
goddammit
!"

Silence.

"I said show yourself!"

Nothing.

~ * ~

Sam didn't believe that he would always be a kid, and he thought that this was a very adult way for a kid to be thinking.

These years were years he knew he would look back on later in his life, when he was in his twenties, his thirties, his forties—when his body started falling apart and his life began drawing to a close. These years and these memories would form a kind of exquisite cushion for him as death drew near.

For now, it was wonderful just being a kid, wonderful to be able to run as far and as fast as he wanted, and never tire, wonderful to be able to eat practically anything and not grow fat, wonderful to have all those years
ahead
, to look forward to all the baffling and enchanting experiences that people had as they grew. Love. Career.
Being
whatever it was that he would eventually turn out to be.

He wondered only briefly how he had come to think all this on such a gorgeous day, the kind of day when his young head was usually filled with nothing at all, when his body enjoyed the warm air, and the heady smells of this place, and, if he concentrated on anything, it was only on what shapes the clouds were forming.

"Show yourself," he heard.

He glanced about, through the tall grasses that surrounded him.