still here."
They had always called it a sideboard, although it was actually a dressing table minus its top. It had always made a convenient place to put serving dishes if the table was full, though they had filled its three wide drawers with underground comics and magazines rather than tablecloths and linen napkins.
"Table's gone, though," Frank said, examining the dining room suite with its woodgrain formica top. "I liked that old metal table. Made me think I was at my grandma's house."
"Then you'll be happy to know I've got an exact copy downstairs. All we have to do is haul it up."
The kitchen had changed the least. The sink was the same, a hulking expanse of yellowed porcelain that nearly filled one side of the small room. Next to it was a white metal cabinet with an assortment of mismatched drinking glasses and unbreakable dishes. The refrigerator had square corners instead of the soft curves Woody had remembered and hoped for, but it was all right. After all, everything couldn't be perfect. Dressed up or not, the people would still be in their forties, living denials of the illusion Woody wished to perpetrate.
"Still no shower," he said as they looked in the bathroom. Then he turned, walked around the short wall that separated the bedroom from the kitchen and bath, and entered the bedroom, to find that the beds he had bought at Sid's were nearly identical to those in the room. He should have realized it. Frames were sturdy. Only mattresses and springs needed to be replaced. Good.
Fewer things to carry up and down the stairs. Even the dressers looked the same.
The three beds were in the same positions they had been decades earlier, two with their heads against the inner wall, the third with its side against the outer. He heard Frank in the bathroom, pulling open the door to the medicine cabinet, so he sat on the bed in the place where he had slept, where he and Tracy had first made love, and wondered if it was the same bed. There was no way to know. Certainly not the same mattress after all this time.
But still, he lay down, put his cheek against the smooth material, breathed in very gently to see if some trace of her remained, yet fearing that he would inhale some other, unknown, unpleasant scent instead.
There was only the aroma of cheap aftershave, and he sighed and rolled over, staring up at the flyspecked ceiling that had greeted him on so many bright mornings of his life.
"Still a dump, isn't it?"
Woody turned and saw Frank leaning against the door frame. "Yeah," Woody said. "But it was our dump."
Frank looked around the bedroom. It didn't take long. "So what do you think of it?"
"I think," Woody said slowly, "it seems haunted."
"That's . . ." Frank searched for the word. ". . . projecting, don't you think? Haunted by who?"
"You know," Woody said, watching the ceiling. “By Keith. By Dale . . ." He took a shallow breath, then said it. "Tracy."
"Is that what this is all about?" Frank said after a pause. "Tracy?"
Woody shook his head. "No. It's . . . nostalgia, that's all. I'd just like it to be the way it was—just for one night. And if I'm lucky, I might get enough inspiration out of it to make some music." He hopped off the bed and patted Frank on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to go freaky on you, okay? Now, enough nostalgia for a while. Let's get haulin '."
Woody buried the ghosts in his work. Together he and Frank brought the furniture down the stairs and into the bookstore, then carried up what Woody had bought from Sid's. By the time they took a break for dinner, the heavy work was finished. All the furniture and boxes were in the apartment, and they began to put up posters, arrange rows of books, and set up the stereo. They searched their memories for the small details that would make their re-creation as authentic as possible, recalling that they always kept magazines here, a pile of records always lay there, there had sat Woody's pipe rack, and there in the corner Frank's
They had always called it a sideboard, although it was actually a dressing table minus its top. It had always made a convenient place to put serving dishes if the table was full, though they had filled its three wide drawers with underground comics and magazines rather than tablecloths and linen napkins.
"Table's gone, though," Frank said, examining the dining room suite with its woodgrain formica top. "I liked that old metal table. Made me think I was at my grandma's house."
"Then you'll be happy to know I've got an exact copy downstairs. All we have to do is haul it up."
The kitchen had changed the least. The sink was the same, a hulking expanse of yellowed porcelain that nearly filled one side of the small room. Next to it was a white metal cabinet with an assortment of mismatched drinking glasses and unbreakable dishes. The refrigerator had square corners instead of the soft curves Woody had remembered and hoped for, but it was all right. After all, everything couldn't be perfect. Dressed up or not, the people would still be in their forties, living denials of the illusion Woody wished to perpetrate.
"Still no shower," he said as they looked in the bathroom. Then he turned, walked around the short wall that separated the bedroom from the kitchen and bath, and entered the bedroom, to find that the beds he had bought at Sid's were nearly identical to those in the room. He should have realized it. Frames were sturdy. Only mattresses and springs needed to be replaced. Good.
Fewer things to carry up and down the stairs. Even the dressers looked the same.
The three beds were in the same positions they had been decades earlier, two with their heads against the inner wall, the third with its side against the outer. He heard Frank in the bathroom, pulling open the door to the medicine cabinet, so he sat on the bed in the place where he had slept, where he and Tracy had first made love, and wondered if it was the same bed. There was no way to know. Certainly not the same mattress after all this time.
But still, he lay down, put his cheek against the smooth material, breathed in very gently to see if some trace of her remained, yet fearing that he would inhale some other, unknown, unpleasant scent instead.
There was only the aroma of cheap aftershave, and he sighed and rolled over, staring up at the flyspecked ceiling that had greeted him on so many bright mornings of his life.
"Still a dump, isn't it?"
Woody turned and saw Frank leaning against the door frame. "Yeah," Woody said. "But it was our dump."
Frank looked around the bedroom. It didn't take long. "So what do you think of it?"
"I think," Woody said slowly, "it seems haunted."
"That's . . ." Frank searched for the word. ". . . projecting, don't you think? Haunted by who?"
"You know," Woody said, watching the ceiling. “By Keith. By Dale . . ." He took a shallow breath, then said it. "Tracy."
"Is that what this is all about?" Frank said after a pause. "Tracy?"
Woody shook his head. "No. It's . . . nostalgia, that's all. I'd just like it to be the way it was—just for one night. And if I'm lucky, I might get enough inspiration out of it to make some music." He hopped off the bed and patted Frank on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to go freaky on you, okay? Now, enough nostalgia for a while. Let's get haulin '."
Woody buried the ghosts in his work. Together he and Frank brought the furniture down the stairs and into the bookstore, then carried up what Woody had bought from Sid's. By the time they took a break for dinner, the heavy work was finished. All the furniture and boxes were in the apartment, and they began to put up posters, arrange rows of books, and set up the stereo. They searched their memories for the small details that would make their re-creation as authentic as possible, recalling that they always kept magazines here, a pile of records always lay there, there had sat Woody's pipe rack, and there in the corner Frank's