Ghost Story by Peter Straub Read Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Straub
course he would not admit to it; but that it could be seen at all was a revelation to Ricky. "I'm in a little doubt about the reasoning," Sears said, "but if it would make you happy I suppose we could write to Edward's nephew. We have his address in our files, don't we, Ricky?" Hawthorne nodded. "But to be democratic, I'd like to put it to a vote first. Shall we just verbally agree or disagree and vote like that? What do you say?" He sipped from his glass and looked them over. They all agreed. "We'll start with you, John."
"Of course I say yes. Send for him."
"Lewis?"
Lewis shrugged. "I don't care one way or the other. Send for him if you want."
"That's a yes?"
"Okay, it's a yes. But I say don't drag up the Eva Galli business."
"Ricky?"
Ricky looked at his partner and saw that Sears knew how he was going to vote. "No. Definitely no. I think it's a mistake."
"You'd rather have us go on as we have been going on for a year?"
"Change is always change for the worse."
Sears was amused. "Spoken like a true lawyer, though I think the sentiment ill becomes a former member of YPSL. But I say yes, and that makes it three to one. It's carried. We'll write to him. Since mine was the deciding vote, I'll handle it."
"I've just thought of something," Ricky said. "It's been a year now. Suppose he wants to sell the house? It's been sitting empty since Edward died."
"Faw. You're inventing problems. We'll get him here faster if he wants to sell."
"How can you be sure things won't get worse? Can you be sure?" Sitting as he had at least once a month for more than twenty years in a coveted chair in the best room he knew, Ricky fervently wished that nothing would change—that they would be allowed to continue, and that they would simply tease out their anxieties in bad dreams and stories. Looking at them all in the lowered light as a cold wind battered the trees outside Sears's windows, he wished for nothing more than that: to continue. They were his friends, he was in a way as married to them as a moment ago he had considered he was to Sears, and he gradually became aware that he feared for them. They seemed so terribly vulnerable, sitting there and regarding him quizzically, as if each of the others imagined that nothing could be worse than a few bad dreams and a bi-weekly spook story. They believed in the efficacy of knowledge. But he saw a plane of darkness, cast by a lampshade, cross John Jaffrey's forehead and thought: John is dying already. There is a kind of knowledge they have never confronted, despite the stories they tell; and when that thought came into his well-groomed little head, it was as though whatever was implied in the knowledge he meant was out there somewhere, out in the first signs of winter, out there and gaining on them.
Sears said, "We've decided, Ricky. It's for the best. We can't just stew in our own juices. Now." He looked around the circle they made, metaphorically rubbing his hands, and said, "Now that's settled, who, as Lewis put it, is on the griddle tonight?"
Within Ricky Hawthorne the past suddenly shifted and delivered a moment so fresh and complete that he knew he had his story, although he'd had nothing planned and had thought he would have to pass; but eighteen hours from the year 1945 shone clearly in his mind, and he said, "Well, I guess it's me."
2
After the other two had left, Ricky stayed behind, telling them that he was in no hurry to get out into that cold. Lewis had said, "It'll put blood in your cheeks, Ricky," but Dr. Jaffrey had merely nodded—it really was unseasonably cold for October, cold enough for snow. Sitting alone in the library while Sears went off to freshen up their drinks, Ricky could hear the ignition of Lewis's car grinding away in the street. Lewis had a Morgan which he'd imported from England five years before, and it was the only sports car Ricky had really liked the looks of. But the canvas top wouldn't be much protection on a night like this; and
"Of course I say yes. Send for him."
"Lewis?"
Lewis shrugged. "I don't care one way or the other. Send for him if you want."
"That's a yes?"
"Okay, it's a yes. But I say don't drag up the Eva Galli business."
"Ricky?"
Ricky looked at his partner and saw that Sears knew how he was going to vote. "No. Definitely no. I think it's a mistake."
"You'd rather have us go on as we have been going on for a year?"
"Change is always change for the worse."
Sears was amused. "Spoken like a true lawyer, though I think the sentiment ill becomes a former member of YPSL. But I say yes, and that makes it three to one. It's carried. We'll write to him. Since mine was the deciding vote, I'll handle it."
"I've just thought of something," Ricky said. "It's been a year now. Suppose he wants to sell the house? It's been sitting empty since Edward died."
"Faw. You're inventing problems. We'll get him here faster if he wants to sell."
"How can you be sure things won't get worse? Can you be sure?" Sitting as he had at least once a month for more than twenty years in a coveted chair in the best room he knew, Ricky fervently wished that nothing would change—that they would be allowed to continue, and that they would simply tease out their anxieties in bad dreams and stories. Looking at them all in the lowered light as a cold wind battered the trees outside Sears's windows, he wished for nothing more than that: to continue. They were his friends, he was in a way as married to them as a moment ago he had considered he was to Sears, and he gradually became aware that he feared for them. They seemed so terribly vulnerable, sitting there and regarding him quizzically, as if each of the others imagined that nothing could be worse than a few bad dreams and a bi-weekly spook story. They believed in the efficacy of knowledge. But he saw a plane of darkness, cast by a lampshade, cross John Jaffrey's forehead and thought: John is dying already. There is a kind of knowledge they have never confronted, despite the stories they tell; and when that thought came into his well-groomed little head, it was as though whatever was implied in the knowledge he meant was out there somewhere, out in the first signs of winter, out there and gaining on them.
Sears said, "We've decided, Ricky. It's for the best. We can't just stew in our own juices. Now." He looked around the circle they made, metaphorically rubbing his hands, and said, "Now that's settled, who, as Lewis put it, is on the griddle tonight?"
Within Ricky Hawthorne the past suddenly shifted and delivered a moment so fresh and complete that he knew he had his story, although he'd had nothing planned and had thought he would have to pass; but eighteen hours from the year 1945 shone clearly in his mind, and he said, "Well, I guess it's me."
2
After the other two had left, Ricky stayed behind, telling them that he was in no hurry to get out into that cold. Lewis had said, "It'll put blood in your cheeks, Ricky," but Dr. Jaffrey had merely nodded—it really was unseasonably cold for October, cold enough for snow. Sitting alone in the library while Sears went off to freshen up their drinks, Ricky could hear the ignition of Lewis's car grinding away in the street. Lewis had a Morgan which he'd imported from England five years before, and it was the only sports car Ricky had really liked the looks of. But the canvas top wouldn't be much protection on a night like this; and
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