A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright

Because she is not Phyllis Pellaprat.”
    “Yes, I realize that.”
    “I’ve got to go now.”
    “Can I have your number, Art. In case I need to get hold of you?”
    “Sure, Abner. I’ll see that you get it. Good-bye.” And he hung up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
    I called Stacy’s home in Bangor immediately. Her mother answered.
    “Hello, Aunt Jocelyn,” I said. I sat in a dining room chair near the phone. “It’s Abner.”
    “Hello, Abner.” She sounded strained, as if she didn’t want to talk. “What can I do for you?”
    Jocelyn Horn and I never got along. She guessed right from the beginning how I felt about her daughter, and I knew that she harbored deep-seated feelings of anger and resentment toward me because of it. She also thought I was a tad perverse; Stacy was my cousin, after all.
    “I’m calling from Manhattan, Aunt Jocelyn. Could I talk to Stacy, please?”
    “No, I’m afraid you can’t,” she said.
    “She’s out?” I asked.
    “No. She’s away.”
    “Oh? Away where?”
    “Abner, Paul and I have been discussing you.” Paul is Stacy’s father, Jocelyn’s husband.
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And it’s not that we don’t like you, Abner. We do. I do, anyway. And I think Paul does, too. He’s never actually said that he does, but he’s never said that he doesn’t, either.”
    “What are you driving at, Aunt Jocelyn?” She’s the kind of person who has lots of very firm and very well-thought-out opinions, but who also finds it extremely difficult to express them. She needs to be prodded. “Just tell me what you’re driving at, okay?”
    “What I’m driving at, Abner, is you and Stacy.”
    “What about me and Stacy?”
    “My God, Abner—My God, what if she were to get pregnant?”
    “You’re not making any sense, Aunt Jocelyn.”
    “The world’s already full of idiots, Abner. It doesn’t need any more of them.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Aunt Jocelyn—”
    “And it’s not that I don’t like you. I do like you; so does Paul—you’re my sister’s boy, so you’re really a part of me, sort of, in a way—”
    “Could you just tell me where Stacy is, Aunt Jocelyn?”
    “And I think the real problem is you , Abner, and this … unseemly attraction you have—”
    “Is she in New York? Just say yes or no, Aunt Jocelyn. Yes or no.”
     “I can’t tell you where she is; I won’t tell you where she is, Abner. Paul and I have been discussing this, and Paul and I have come to the conclusion—”
    I hung up, an act which I regretted at once because I liked Jocelyn (despite her opinions of my relationship with Stacy, opinions which were essentially true and good and moral), so I redialed her number, waited for two rings, and hung up again. I’ve never liked confrontation very much.
     
    Phyllis came in then. She came in very quietly, snuck up behind me, and put her hands over my eyes. “Guess who?” she said, sounding playful.
    “Art called,” I told her.
    “Art?” She kept her hands over my eyes.
    “Your former boyfriend. Art DeGraff. The guy who owns this apartment; you remember him.”
    “Art DeGraff?” She kept her hands over my eyes.
    “Uh-huh. He called and we had a good long talk.”
    “Did you?” She sounded unconcerned; her hands stayed over my eyes. I put my hands around her wrists; her skin was cool, the muscles taut.
    “Please,” I said, “take your hands away.”
    She didn’t. “I hate him,” she said. “I will always hate him.” Her hands tightened. “He should be punished for what he did to me.”
    “Phyllis, please—” I tried to pull her hands away. I couldn’t. “Phyllis, what in the hell are you doing?”
    “Guess who?” she said, in exactly the same playful tone she’d used a minute earlier.
     “I don’t know,” I answered, trying for a tone of deadly seriousness. “I really do not know.”
    “Yes,” she said. “How could you?” And she laughed. I tried again to pull her hands away, but in vain. “Phyllis, you’re hurting