A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright Page B

I was being made the brunt of some stupid joke, that she and Art had cooked the whole thing up between themselves just to rattle me. Lord knew why.
    And yet I did call to have the locks changed. It was a kind of sideways affirmation of my fear and my ignorance, I realize now.
    I knew that the only rational thing for me to do was to find another place to live. I also knew that I wouldn’t do that either, because if I did, I’d probably never see Phyllis again.
    I was lovestruck, you understand. I still am. And I was scared, too. And still am. And I think I knew that something very, very profound was happening to me. A transformation. A metamorphosis. As if I were a bottom-dwelling, all-but-blind fish who was very slowly and steadily bringing himself up into the light.
     
    The advance check for the photo book arrived that afternoon. I went to my bank, on East 44th Street, deposited most of the check, pocketed some of it, and had a celebration lunch at a place called Marty’s, on East 50th and Third Avenue. This was my first book, and I thought a celebration surely was in order, but the food—several bowls of what was purported to be homemade oyster stew, a crème-de-menthe parfait, and three glasses of scotch—began churning about in my stomach shortly after I left the restaurant, and by the time I got back to the apartment was just about ready to make its second appearance.
    I sat in one of the dining room chairs, put my head down, close to my knees, clasped my hands, closed my eyes, and fought back the nausea. I’m very good at that kind of thing. Sometimes I can actually will pain to stop, if it’s not awfully severe, and nausea, too, and after a few minutes my stomach calmed. I made my way to the bedroom, lay face down on the bed, and, before sleep came, noted the faint odor of damp wood, Phyllis’ odor, on the pillow.
     
    I called St. Ignatius Hospital early that evening. I tried the Admitting Office first, got transferred to the Emergency Department, and ended up talking to a Pakistani doctor named Mubarek, who told me that, “Indeed, yes, a young woman named Pellaprat, a tall black woman, sir, was admitted here, on December 10th. I was not working in the Emergency Department, you see; I only read the report the next day.”
    “Do you remember who worked on her, Dr. Mubarek?”
    “Could I ask, please, your interest in this young woman?”
    “I’m with the police,” I told him. “I’m working with Kennedy Whelan, in the Homicide Division.”
    And Dr. Mubarek said, “Then you know that name, of course, sir.” He paused very briefly, then went on, “Isn’t that so?” And hung up.
    * * *
    At times it is imperative that we grab hold of something that seems real, something that has mass and weight, something that can cut, something mechanical, soulless, gauche, temporary.
    We need such things when we feel certain that we are going to be caught up, suddenly—or already are caught up—in something exquisite, and eternal. Like death, or love. Or both.
    And we need such things because they can help affirm for us that we are, ourselves, soulless, gauche, and temporary. Sure it’s a lie; I know that it’s a lie, but it’s how most of us make it from one day to the next.
     
    I tried to get hold of Kennedy Whelan. I couldn’t. “He’s on an assignment,” I was told, so I asked whom I could talk to about a recent accidental death.
    “What exactly did you want to know?” I was asked. It was a Detective Sergeant I was talking to—a woman named Spears. She was pleasant and efficient, and I got the idea right from the start that she wanted to pump me.
    “I’d like some information about the victim, if that’s possible,” I told her.
    “Yes, sir. I’m sure we can accommodate you on that. Could I ask what your interest is in this case, please?”
    “Yes. She was a friend. A close friend.”
    “Of course. And your name is?”
    I hung up and left the apartment almost immediately.
    I’m not quite sure